Opening for, and one-upping, The Clips last night at the ANZA club, was Small Fame. With hard raining steam-engine vicious bass lines (the kind you would hear in your head while driving all night, getting kicks from coffee and taurine enhanced drinks), I couldn't help but feel as though I was witnessing the rebirth of Deep Purple. This band rocked, in the purest sense of the word.
Unfortunatley, I'm not sure if they always rock: the lead singer/keyboard slammer, Dan Moxon was, if I'm not misinformed, a guest, a standin. He fronts the band Bend Sinister, their namesake from a Nabokov book that I haven't read, nor have plans of opening. If Moxon et al. think they are being clever, with this allusion to a "formative" author, well, I have nothing to say about it.
The Clips were weak in the main. Their inclusion of a trumpet player, and then the subsequent loss of rhythm, an attempt at free form fun, only lessened their indie-points. If my pants are tight, my Vans rough, and my "vertically intergrated" underwear colourful, I want it how others want it: ie. not fake jazz. That should, and can, be found on Wednesdays at The Cobalt.
Space trucking, yeah'er.
No comments:
Post a Comment