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By Shaun Anderson - Losing My Edge - 09/26/2006

"Let me get this straight; we're not punk... When someone calls you a punk, it means you're nothin' but a bitch."

This statement, coming from anyone else's mouth besides The Black Lips singer/songwriter and lead guitarist Cole Alexander, would deserve a punch in the mouth as far as I'm concerned. Many around this station will tell you that I am one of punk rock circa-2006 staunchest defenders, and there is nothing more that bothers me in music criticism than the blind dismissal of punk rock by people who only discovered the music they have moved onto through punk rock in the first place -- such as the entire writing staff of Pitchfork, for example. These drunken words in quotations above, uttered about halfway through The Black Lips mind-melting set last Tuesday, summed up something that all of us lucky enough to have bared witness to their awesome spectacle have surely discovered. What The Black Lips are accomplishing in music right now -- on their records and on the road on a nightly basis -- are making every other currently active band in punk rock today (with the possible exception of Fucked Up) look like their collective bitches by comparison. After three full-length records and nearly a dozen singles since getting together as teens in the late 90's, people are finally starting to catch on to The Black Lips' magical brand of modernized pop psych-infused and 60's-inspired garage which they fittingly called "Flower Punk". This is hot on the heels of having just released one of the decade's best albums Let It Bloom less than ten months ago, as well as recently inking a deal with the major label-financed ūber-indie Vice Records. Having missed their two previous shows in Montreal (and having the crushing letdown of their third scheduled show two years prior being cancelled due to negligence among the promoters trying to get them across the border), I was ridiculously excited to finally get to see them play, even if it meant having to see them open for indie hype band Be Your Own Pet, as well as missing an opportunity to see one of the greatest Canadian bands ever Nomeansno play a set just down the street on the same night.

The evening started off well. I arrived just in time to see the notoriously inconsistent hometown purveyors of lo-fi trash punk CPC Gangbangs (with Paul Spence of Fubar fame on guitar and lead vocals) bang out the best set I've seen them play in at least six months. I was starting to think my patience with this band had worn completely thin after seeing them over a half dozen times in the last three years to varying degrees of success, but I think I have been officially swayed back onto their side. Granted, their brand of punk rock isn't exactly rocket science, and I honestly couldn't see them winning too many converts among the crowd that came strictly to see BYOP, but they deserve credit for playing a tight set with minimal ridiculous self-indulgence they can get caught up in from time to time. Their songs –- sort of what you could imagine Crime would have sounded like had they secretly worshiped Hawkwind and Chrome –- stood on their own surprisingly well, and I find myself looking forward to hearing what their forthcoming full-length on Swami will offer up.

Really though, this evening undoubtedly belonged to The Black Lips, who had the whole crowd eating out of the palms of their hands from the first song on, weaving their trashy, poppy, effortless-looking yet incredibly loose-sounding songs through some of the most hilarious and unbelievably great stage antics I've ever seen. Those stage antics are already somewhat of a thing of legend at this point, as they have regularly taken to puking all over themselves, playing guitar with their dicks, and (literally) pissing in their own mouths on stage, among other sorts of ridiculousness. This show was a little less crazy, but it was still amazing to watch Cole perform feats like make out with Ian (their rhythm guitarist), play guitar solos with his teeth, and catch spit balls he was launching five feet into the air back into his mouth, all while not messing up a single part (let alone note) of any song. Add to that the hilariousness of having used their Vice signing advance to add a smoke machine and cheesy 60's lava lamp-style light projector to their arsenal -- not to mention the obligatory brand spanking new guitars, drum kit and amps, of course -- and you have what stacks up to be one of the most viscerally interesting live bands on the face of the earth at this moment. This all would make them about as musically vital as GWAR would it not be for the fact that they are also arguably the best pure garage punk band since the Oblivians and easily, without question, the best pop songwriters working within the punk milieu since the Exploding Hearts untimely demise three years ago. Their command of the room and the energy of their performance was so incredible and awe-striking, many were shocked to learn that their bass player (and author of roughly 30% of their songs) Jared hadn't even made it across the border with them, and was being temporarily replaced by Jeffery Novak from the Memphis punk band The Rat Traps (and husband of one of the Be Your Own Pet members) on their two Canadian dates. When they ended their 35-minute set with the perennial tongue-in-cheek anthem "Freak Out" off of their first album, the whole crowd literally freaked the fuck out, prompting a huge circle pit in the front row, while several members of Montreal's Demon's Claws forced themselves on stage to frolic about, as The Black Lips put the finishing touches on one of the best sets of music I've seen this year. I could have easily put up with another hour of this non-stop greatness, but it was somewhat fitting to see them so effectively set an impossibly high bar to follow; a modern-day throwback to the days of Jerry Lee Lewis' piano-torching sets that no headlining act, no matter how great they were, could ever hope to top.

I honestly felt bad when I left right before Be Your Own Pet's set, but really, what could have topped The Black Lips? On this night -- and probably almost every other night in this day and age -- absolutely no one could touch them, so why even bother?

[Tune in to Losing My Edge Sundays 2pm-4pm and Tuesdays 8pm-10pm.]

By Susannah Hicks - Rock the Plank - 09/07/2006

When I walked into Les Saints, the lights were low and smoke machines were on full blast. The crowd seemed into the hip-hop filler music, as people were dancing and excited for Ratatat and still pumped from the two openers The Envelopes and Panther. Ratatat quietly entered the stage and started to play. The first couple of songs weren’t that exciting; Ratatat’s energy was mellow and calm. This wasn’t expected from their hard-hitting, energy-pumping, rock 'n roll-twisted hip-hop beats that they showcase on their albums. The live set-up involved the core duo of Mike Stroud and Evan Mast with a third touring musician playing with the band. One element that made Ratatat’s show stellar was the mighty projections, a contribution to making many shows great. The artists' black silhouettes intertwined with the psychedelic geometric-shaped projections against the white wall added a great dimension to the show. Aside from the projectons, Ratatat were not impressive for their first couple of songs, but then they started to heat up -- smoking, in fact -- with hard reverberant bass lines and power-charged eletric guitar. The crowd started dancing up a storm, with robotic moves and the Running Man alike. What really intrigued me about the show was that Ratatat played their instruments precisely like on their album. The majority of the songs played were off their most recent album Classics, released in August 2006. They sounded crisp, clear, full, so analogous to their recording quality, which is rare with two-piecers. They integrated their analog instruments perfectly (guitar and bass) with the keys and ended up sounding seamless. Ratatat played a one-hour set with two encores, keeping their dance punk vibe strong throughout the show. All in all, it was a good evening -- aside from the first couple of songs -- and they soon won over the crowd and rocked steadily the rest of the night.

[Tune into Rock The Plank, every Thursday 2-4pm]

By Mikey B - The Lonesome Strangers - 09/10/2006

Arts & Crafts are really starting to clean up around here.

The Toronto-based label that boasts fine acts such as Broken Social Scene, Feist and Stars have acquired yet another stellar band for their growing stable of goodness, the Parisian foursome known as Phoenix.

Word-of-mouth spreads pretty quickly, so once their third studio album (after 2004’s Alphabetical and 2000’s United) had hit the shelves, people were already hearing about that great new French band that signed on to A&C. The album It’s Never Been Like That came out in mid-June and has been on most indie hipsters’ hot lists since then. The first two albums flew fairly low on the indie rock radar, garnering a moderate hit when “Too Young” made its way on the Kevin Shields-inspired Lost in Translation soundtrack. Since then, their sound had sort of evolved into a mish-mash between disco-fused pop and dreamy indie rock. On their latest offering though, the hooks are more evident and the sound now has a semblance to the clean-cut pop of Supergrass and the Strokes. Phoenix, like most other indie contemporaries, might not be groundbreaking, however they do stand out from the rest of the herd of hipsters that have been swarming the music scene as of late.

The crowd was relatively large at 9pm for openers La Rocca, who treated the early birds to a brief fantastic set of heartfelt Britpop straight from the Emerald Isles. Their melodies come off as happy at times, mixed with the sound of the downtrodden vocalist crooning away passionately. It sure as hell isn’t the Smiths, but the formula seems to stick well with these guys.

Shortly thereafter, Phoenix hit the stage and kicked things off with “Napoleon Says” and “Long Distance Call” from their most recent release. Songs from earlier albums such as “Run Run Run” and “If I Ever Feel Better” were thrown in for good measure, and although eight of the 13 songs played were from the new album, this didn’t seem to bother anyone. By now, most people have gotten used to the fact that the live experience is a combined marketing ploy to sell any new album. Sure, most fans will usually complain and beg for the “older stuff” but the truth is, these relatively low-key bands thrive on the new album, the hype and the word-of-mouth, even if they’ve been around for upwards of five years. In this case, the new album is their best, so by show time, there’s no need to dig into the back catalogue, cover songs or provide generic concert-filler.

For the most part, the show stood at around the same high-octane level, with much of the material having a steady upbeat sensation to them. No real ballads or in-between chit-chat, just a lot of straightforward indie rock. My personal highlight of the show was when “Consolation Prize” was played and at the same time, the seven-foot giant obstructing my view moved to the side. The show closed with "North" and "Sometimes In The Fall", both again from the new album.

Now what strikes me odd is that as an objective listener to Phoenix, they really don’t come off sounding like a French band. In the first line of the song "Napoleon Says”, lead man Thomas Mars asks us if “you know your French well?”. Of course, here in "La Belle Pro Express”, we know a little but even the most discerning of Québécois ears wouldn’t be able to pick up even the slightest accent from these guys. The French sound, if any, is completely whitewashed amidst a slew of catchy pop melodies, and that doesn’t bother me in the slightest.

Leave the French to Stereolab and Indochine, they know what they’re doing.

[Tune in to The Lonesome Strangers every Wednesday from 3pm to 5pm.]

By Jo Satana - 09/10/2006

Sunday September 10 2006 was a special night for concert-goers as the who's who of Montreal’s underground shined their goatees and straightened their favorite pair of boots to kick heels with the elite over at Spectrum for a night of Metal magic. Practically the entire CJLO Loud Rock roster -- freelancers as well! -- came to welcome Mastodon as they thundered through our fair city in support of their new album Blood Mountain (Warner), bringing Boston hardcore punkers Converge and L.A. socialites The Bronx along with them.

Now let me take this opportunity to dispel a common myth about the CJLO crew: we might look cool, calm and composed on the outside, but we are like ducks, baby, and its all frantic below the water. The goal: to ensure timely arrival to the show through carpooling -- to show that we are environmentally conscientious -- while also taking the time for a nice pre-concert cocktail. The result: two stressful hours of heated back-and-forth and childish name-calling resulted in absolutely no initiative to carpool and we all completely missed The Bronx’s set, but having already caught them at a previous venue, I wasn’t too disappointed. In retrospect, our tardiness was mainly due to the fact that we took the time to be properly fed and "hydrated", accompanied by occasional moments of panic catalyzed by the realization that we might miss Converge’s set (apparently a must-see in some people’s books but not really my opinion -- see below). Also factoring in was a leisurely discussion which touched poignant topics such as the use of safety pins to keep T-shirts from falling apart, the opportunistic view that is awarded to the attentive when chicks are putting on their boots and the phenomenon of Cat-Scratch Fever where women, obviously through the transmission of an airborne virus found in cat claws, can’t fight off the urge to attack another female and rip off their clothes.

After our meal, we headed off to the show. Like I mentioned previously, we arrived right at the end of The Bronx’s set. Like the good concert-goers that we are, the next half-hour was spent perusing the merch tables and catching up with fellow collegues/peers as literally everyone from the scene was present and in attendance. Converge took the stage at a timely 8:30 and hardcore madness did in fact ensue. While I must admit that I am unfamiliar with Converge’s catalogue of "classics" and having never seen them live, I decided to mentally prepare myself by checking out the zany two-step dances the kids were doing. Hehe, it sort of looks like moshing -- but not really. Again, before ripping me a new one for my ignorance, I am aware of the huge following (proportionally) that Converge has here in Montreal and I am well-versed in the new-wave of hardcore (which I initially thought started and ended with Hatebreed). I’m glad to see that the kids are coming out to these shows, and it is in fact appreciated that I was able to witness a mixed bill like this one -- a not-so-rare occurrence anymore, but nonetheless refreshing. However, I’m not going to hide the fact that I wasn’t really digging the performance and I’ll leave it to a volunteer with more experience points in this field to fill in the gaps for this part of the review.

Moving forward, there is always a palpable tension in the air when something incredibly satisfying is about to happen: from that tingling sensation you get just before orgasm to the slow trickle of saliva down your chin before a nice meal, we are attuned, as a species, to sense the coming of something special. That is exactly how I felt the moment before Mastodon took the stage. Prior to that instant, thoughts were circling my head about the rumors concerning the band's future: supposedly Warner, after inking the deal with Mastodon, were little impressed with the end product and the band apparently has a lot to prove to a company that cares very little. My theory is that a band’s best way to sell itself when label security is in question is always the success of the supporting live show and not the new album release itself, since record moguls rarely know anything about their public and ticket sales are a better representation of the fan base rather then record sales.

Simply put, Mastodon killed. Any doubt I may have had -- especially after having listened to a streaming version of the new album, a body of work that is a little too easy to get into -- quickly vanished only to be replaced with a strong nod of the head in acknowledgement of that moment when everything comes together as if the pieces where custom fit to assemble. That’s what witnessing Mastodon is like (cheese factor definitely intended). They blew through their set for a crushing hour and a half and left no prisoners. The band is living proof that Metal is still a progressive genre that translates well into a live show, pleasing old Voivoders and speedheads alike. What should be noted about their set, having just seen them perform as the supporting act for Slayer this summer, is that they take risks. The crux of their music relies on complex and precise time changes; the fact that they pulled off every song flawlessly is an attestation to their technical prowess and with little rest between songs, their endurance as well. What I was most impressed with was how effortless they seemed to do it all; anyone who knows anything about how sound is produced was in full attention as it was clear that night that Mastodon is not just some studio band, which is normally the case for prog rockers.

In terms of set list, they basically perused both Remission and Leviathan enough to satisfy the crowd while at the same time, peppering their set with new classics from the just-released Blood Mountain. The show started and by the first few songs, we were treated with "March of the Fire Ants" and the set finished with "Hearts Alive" -- two songs that in my book best describe the entity as it is: a band whose output kicks you in the head as much as it nourishes it.

Mastodon is the sound of Metal for the 21st century; bow your head in shame if you missed this one. Now go clean your room or something.

[Jo "Can I watch you put on your boots?" Satana is a freelance perv.]