Bleeding Neon

Five-sixths of Theory of Flight with The Fist. Photo by Michael Gaskell / MG Studio

My assault on the local music scene continued last week with a Las Vegas Weekly article about up-and-coming sextet Theory of Flight, whose Dishwalla-meets-30 Second to Mars sound is propelling the band to the next level.

We met for an interview in the green room at the House of Blues before a local music showcase featuring Theory of Flight. The guys were super-accomodating, very honest, earnest and passionate about their music and continued to reinforce just how great most of our local bands can be. In the last month or so, I’ve interviewed a number of groups — all male-dominated, sorry to say, which might be a topic for a future article — and surprisingly, there hasn’t been a douchebag among them. For the most part, these guys get along fabulously, work harder than they play and actually support other bands. I’ve been looking for some drama, but honestly, it’s hard to come by.

I’m optioning a few local acts to profile next for the Weekly, but I’ll be taking a brief detour for my next assignment; however, I’m not telling you about it until the story’s done. I know, I’m such a tease. In the meantime, you have been keeping up with The Utopian webcomic, right? Shit’s about to get heavy.

Would you trust this creep when he says "close your eyes?" I DON'T THINK SO, PALLY.

Thursday: Went to see Anthony Cools at the Paris Las Vegas Hotel & Casino, home of the world’s largest Eiffel Tower that isn’t the Eiffel Tower. Cools is one of those stage hypnotists whose shtick is making allegedly hypnotized audience members do lewd and ridiculous things on stage like disrobing, performing faux sex acts and generally acting like asses. However, despite the predictable and questionably authentic antics, I couldn’t help but actually enjoy myself. And worse, I believe I acquiesced to “going back” at some point after leaving the show Thursday night. What.

Friday: Opened escrow on a house. No biggie.

Saturday: Attended the Vegas Magazine Sixth Anniversary Party at Pure nightclub inside Caesars Palace. I have gone to the Vegas mag anniversary parties every year since 2006, and until this year, they were always held at large, outdoor venues: Green Valley Ranch Resort’s pool in 2006, Mandalay Bay Beach in 2007 and the Palazzo Hotel & Casino’s pool in 2008. These events were typically massive gatherings, involving (at alternating times) daredevil motorcyclists, a live scorpion pit, go-go dancers inside giant floating bubbles, a graffiti wall and, sadly, an American Idol finalist.

Pretty much all you need to know about Saturday night.

But perhaps as an indicator of our weak (but recovering? Right, Obama? Yeah?) economy, this year’s fete was scaled back considerably. First, it was in Pure, which I typically despise. But apparently it’s not such a horrible place when it’s filled with people you know and like as opposed to wall-to-wall d-bags. Secondly, there were no death-defying stunts, pools or annoying singers to be found anywhere. But there were models in fluffy pink wigs, Pussycat Dolls dancing and, supposedly, Vegas mag cover girl Heather Graham hiding somewhere among the masses.

Most importantly, thanks to an equally scaled-back guest list, there were plenty of easily accessible bars serving free drinks and, well, within a two-hour period I may have had more than my share. OK, so a few of us had more than our respective shares. And I may have stumbled out of the club, past the throng of waiting suckers–er, clubgoers–and had to be driven home due to a certain lack of brain-body coordination. But I guess that’s to say, “Thanks, Vegas Magazine for getting me sh*tfaced. Happy anniversary!”

Sunday: Band practice. Working on a cover of Helmet’s “Unsung.” Realizing how bad of a drummer I am. The rest of the band ran through the song without me and they sounded pretty good. Then I came in on the drums and OH MY GOD WHO LET THIS MAN JOIN A BAND DOING ANYTHING OTHER THAN PLAYING THE SKIN FLUTE MAKE THE NOISE STOP PLEASE HELP.

"Dios mio! My fingers are motherf*cking possessed!" Photo by Erik Kabik | Retna (www.erikkabik.com)

Later that night, as if to destroy my fragile musical ego even further, we headed to the new Joint inside the Hard Rock Hotel, Casino & Den of Debauchery Even On a Sunday to check out “Supernatural Santana: A Cash Grab on One Man’s Lifetime of Music Featuring Unknown Singers Performing his Greatest Hits.” Yes, Santana is the first rock band to hold a residency at the Hard Rock’s revamped venue, and … hell, it’s Santana. Carlos and his band churned out the songs we all know and love — “Oye Como Va,” “Black Magic Woman,” Maria Maria,” etc., etc.  — as well as a few lesser-known tunes that surely only hardcore Santana fans know from one of the man/band’s 36 albums. But despite the music — and band’s — age, Santana poured as much passion into this material as if the songs were days old and not decades old. Sure, the imagery of doves, pivotal moments of hope throughout the last century and the changing face of Carlos Santana was all a bit schmaltzy, but even Carlos’ occasional mini-speeches about love and God and whatnot couldn’t break the rockin’ vibe inside the Joint, even if at times it felt like a church revival.

Oh, and assuming last night wasn’t a lark, the verdict’s in: The new Joint is a goddamned better venue by leaps and bounds than its predecessor. I mean, I already reported on its improved visual appearance, but after actually experiencing a live performance there, I can honestly say that the Pearl (inside the Palms Resort & Whatever) has sonic competition — though the Pearl’s seating arrangements are still far superior.

Another week, another local music story for the Las Vegas Weekly. This time around, I hung out with Left Standing before their CD release show at Wasted Space inside the Hard Rock Hotel. Sadly, the Weekly’s space dedicated to local music coverage is limited, so I had all of 450 to 500 words in which to work. That may seem like a lot, but it’s not. After compiling my notes, I struggled to come up with a decent angle for the article, which had to be a combination interview/show review/CD preview — not something easily done in such a small space.

After letting the story “cool” overnight, I awoke on deadline day with the revelation that the article might best be served by a Gonzo-style, experiential trip through the night at the Hard Rock. I described the gyrating go-go dancers, the wobbling, drunken tourist frat boys, the individual band members and their particular tics, the basketball fans glued to the flat screens … you name it, I threw it in there. Problem was, that put me over my word count before I even finished the second paragraph.

Sigh. Such is freelance journalism.

So I ended up with a serviceable piece that hopefully did the band justice, if not the overall experience. After finding ways to squeeze stories into 200-word boxes for Six Degrees, I’ve gotten pretty good at compressing a whole lot of content into not much space. But it still doesn’t mean I like it.

Before I decided to bang on the skins in an entirely awesome rock band, I played other instruments, including the xylophone, lute, panflute, marimba and, as evidenced by this photo above, the guitar. Specifically, I played wicked rad spooky guitar in Las Vegas’ most successful Gothic rock band, Morgana Athena. The photo above is from a show we played in fall 1998 (?) at the Boston, which was Las Vegas’ version of, um, a crummy Sunset Strip rock bar that for some reason people loved.

Let’s note a few things from that photo: 1. Pj at 145 lbs. Huh. 2. My Hamer archtop. This was a sweet guitar I specifically bought (for $600 no less) for play in Morgana as, um, it was black. Sadly, I wasn’t independently wealthy back in my early ’20s, so I ended up pawning the guitar … for $100. 3. I’m wearing basically the same outfit I wear to almost every As Yet Unbroken gig: White shirt, vest, black pants. I guess it’s a step up from the leather-and-fishnet look of Rahne.

I get a lot of CDs in the mail to review and I have little time to get to all of them. Plus, I really don’t like reviewing things. (Yes, it’s sort-of part of my job. Whatever.) So when I can, I’m going to try to do quick round-ups of the latest music releases to come my way. These are opinion-filled and may actually skirt the actual reviewing of an album, so, um, deal.

The Library E.P.: The publicist for this band tried to sell me on it by promoting the fact that Mark Needham, who worked on a few Killers albums, “produced” the Library’s debut E.P. Well, first, he’s an engineer, not a producer, and second: So what? The Library sounds like Under the Influence of Giants kinda mashed up with Terence Trent D’Arby. I like both those artists. I do not like The Library. It’s uninspired disco-pop with vocals that annoyingly veer into the falsetto range. I can do without.

The Staxx Brothers – We Are The Blaxstonz: I first saw this Seattle-based funk/hip-hop/classic rock ensemble live at Bumbershoot last year and really dug their sound, performance and delivery. After briefly reviewing their set on a music website I used to run, they dropped their self-released first album, 12th Street Blues, on me. I dug it. So I had pretty high expectations for We Are The Blaxstonz.

The new album continues with the blend of bluesy rock riffs, soul singing and rap flow that defines The Staxx Brothers sound, with lead vocals traded off between band leader Davin Michael Stedman and MC Decurrian. But for the first half of the album, the songs miss the mark a bit. While the riff in “1992″ is catchy, the rap in the middle section is clunky. “Almost Got Shot in North Minneapolis” is tight, but its gangsta-land storyline feels out of place. And “Oh Carolina” changes things up with its slow-burn, Southern-fried soul, but still feels lackluster.

However, the band picks things up with the upbeat, irreverent, head-bob-inducing “Name Dropper” and “Game Recognize Game,” which, despite its (presumably tongue-in-cheek) refrain of  “money, cash, hos,” is just the kind of funky jam that got my notice on that sunny day in Seattle last year. Your best bet is to see the eight-piece band live, where your biggest concern will be how hard your ass is shaking — and that’s really the only thing that matters.

Silversun Pickups – Swoon: There’s not a sophomore slump in sight for this Los Angeles-spawned, shoegazey, alterna-rock band. On its second album, the quartet comes on strong with more of its signature quiet-to-loud, rasp-to-wail sound. And that’s not a bad thing. Let’s face it: This is what we all wished Smashing Pumpkins still sounded like: Dreamy, lush, full of youthful yearning — not selling cars.

Silversun is all about subtleties and nuances on Swoon: layered guitars, keyboard flourishes, those everpresent, machine-like drums.  From the jaunty, buzzing opener, “There’s No Secrets This Year,” to the hypnotic, chilly “Growing Old is Getting Old,” Silversun reminds us that there is some joy left in alternative rock, even if there’s not much originality. The frantic lead single, “Panic Switch,” deserves a permanent spot on rock radio. A great band both on record and live, I highly recommend picking up this disc and checking out Silversun Pickups if they come through your neck of the woods.