It was Hell's house band playing the Dinosaur last Wednesday. All that's good and decent didn't stand a chance as San Diego Diablo Eric Sardinas played some of the raunchiest, dirtiest blues you'll ever hear, while wearing some of the tightest pants you'll ever see. Women who looked like they were more up on Destiny's Child than Robert Johnson stood before Sardinas wantonly dazed. You could smell the lust in the room. Sardinas strutted the stage, roaring like Johnny Winter and devouring every inch of his charred dobro with hungry hands. It was mesmerizing. It was savage. It was beautiful.
Melt Banana's records are cool, but a little much. Experimentation up to, and past, the brink of being noise can only be taken in small doses. Live, however, the band is amazing. With a guitar that sounded like a ray gun and a female singer who rattled off incoherent Japanese/English lyrics with rat-a-tat speed, the band was intense and fun. The Bug Jar was packed to the ceiling and sweaty as the band pounded out frenetic bursts of truly punk rock. Oh, and a word to the disruptive morons up front: The mosh pit is dead. In fact, it died the day it was named. You can't plan anarchy --- even on the dance floor. Look, I'm all for transgressive defiance and chaos, but I think at this point, moshing misses the point. It has lost sight of the music and has nothing to do with spontaneity.
Oooh la la. I won't even attempt to describe her voluptuous measurements. I simply can't count that high without getting distracted. But Candye Kane is a big, beautiful woman with a big, beautiful voice. She sexily commandeered the Mohawk stage with class, sass, and a voice big enough to fit a woman twice her size. Her onstage banter was rapid fire, her band slick 'n' tight as she wailed the blues. Candye Kane shook me all night long.
Joe Locke vibed mondo cool last Friday at The Montage. With two mallets in each hand, Locke stroked and danced across the chimes like a double-jointed octopus. Whereas most jazz outfits are static and, well, boring to watch, Locke's ensemble was riveting. They forged melody out of thin air that resonated in my bones. At one point, Locke struck a single note, sucked the tone into his lungs, and chewed it, a la wah-wah, before exhaling to our delight and disbelief.
Saw a band called Twat Vibe last Thursday at The Bug Jar. The first few moments of their set were promising; they reminded me of The Flying Lizards. Unfortunately, they circled the drain from then on and, frankly, they sucked. I felt moved enough to boo, hesitated, then let my displeasure be known, my voice cracking oddly like a 12-year-old boy. Guess it serves me right.
--- Frank De Blase