Guitar Center Fell In Love With A Drummer

The Guitar Center’s 2009 Championship Drum Off’s moved this year to the Wiltern and that wasn’t the only moving on up they did. The contest with the $25,000 cash prize also featured a Tommy Lee headlined Bezerk spectacle, including performances by Max Weinberg (from both Bruce Springsteen and Conan O’Brien fame) playing in tandem with his son Jay, Chad Smith (RHCP), Matt Sorum (Guns & Roses), Sully Erna (Godsmack), Frank Zummo (Street Drum Corps) and more.

The top five contestants vied for the grand prize by performing a five minute set, judged by a panel of highly accomplished drum celebrities including Peter Erskine (Steely Dan), Taylor Hawkins (Foo Fighters), Drew Hester (Foo Fighters / Joe Walsh), Thomas Lang, Jason Sutter (Chris Cornell), Kenny Aronoff (John Mellencamp / Sessions Legend), John Tempesta (The Cult), Tony Royster Jr. (Jay-Z), Nisan Stewart (Jamie Foxx / 50 Cent) and Ray Luzier (Korn).

While the votes were tallied, the evening veered from touching:

Guitar Center  inducted drum icons Billy Cobham and John Bonham into Guitar Center’s Drum Legends  and then Jason Bonham drummed in time to footage of his dad, the legendary John Bonham of Led Zeppelin.

To the downright bizarre:

Tommy Lee chased around a midget who jumped out of a trash can while Sully Erna rappelled down the scaffolding keeping a beat…

It truly was the Ringling Bros of drummers, and the ringmaster, Stephen Perkins, kept pulling more and more acts out onstage.

I managed to wrangle some one on one time with Jason Bonham before his amazing performance, as well as Drum Off judge Kenny Aronoff, who had just finished playing the Kennedy Center Honors the week before, in tribute to Bruce Springsteen.

Both Jason and Kenny eschewed the dreaded drum solo, which was amusing considering the set up of the entire event. They both also stressed the importance of being in a band and of working together with other musicians. Hear that music people? Can’t we all just get along?

I also sat down with this year’s winner, Ramon Sampson.

19 year old South Africa native and Tennesse citizen, Sampson competed last year but came back again this year and grabbed the grand prize package worth more than $40,000.

Ramon, who started drumming at the age of one (total slacker, right?), says he’s first going to  buy himself some wheels, probably in his favorite color, lime green. Then he’s going to roll down the windows and play some Michael Jackson in tribute to one of his favorite artists.

You can check out my renegade video here:

Ramon’s winning performance can be viewed here. He’s pretty amazing:

Wolfmother Serves Epicenter Festival A Cosmic Egg, Sunny Side Up

The host hazy and dusty race tracks are not the normal habitat of wolves. No, I picture wolves living in the misty mountain hops of vampire infested forests up in Northern America. But I wasn’t interested in spotting your average wolves. I was jonesing to see the kind of hard rock wolves who are native to Australia’s open plains. Wolfmother. They will do just fine in Pomona’s Fairplex.

I kidnapped my British friend, Som, and we headed south, outside the comfortable political and social strata of Los Angeles county. for KROQ’s Epicenter Music Festival. This being the inaugural year, they nabbed headliners Tool, Linkin Park and Alice In Chains but upon arriving, it seems that not even metal/grunge/rock juggernauts could overpower an economy on life support. Of course there are always those with disposable incomes, or meth labs in their basements…

As the backstage area slowly filled with Monster energy drink abusers of all types, the gifting suite filled up with ear plug hawkers and a laser tag course (with air rifles) was constructed in the massive media/artist building. I was quickly and succinctly shot in the face by a man in a Return Of The Jedi shirt, who was on a laser shooting spree while carrying on a cell phone conversation. C’est la Pomona vie.

The dusty field slowly became dotted with barrel-chested men in black Tool shirts, Street Sweeper Social club were adequately received, save for a few boos lobbed at them when they made political statements about sending troops overseas to fight in Iraq. You’re not in Los Angeles, anymore, Morello. Click your Hollywood heels three times. These men like their guns. And my guess is they don’t want you to kill their grandma with healthcare options.

As Som sought out his friends in the band, Hollywood Undead, I managed to spot an Australian red backed wolf, in fact the leader of his pack. Andrew Stockdale and I sat in the back of the artist tent, near where the caterers were inexplicably serving up tray after tray of hot brussel sprouts…By the way, really? Brussel sprouts? How is that a rock n roll food? Like Linkin Park is gonna come rolling through and say “Oooh I’m gonna eat the crap outta those brussell sprouts!” But I digress…

Andrew and I lounged amidst the stench of rockin’ brussel sprouts and talked about his return to sunny LA, where the band had recorded their latest release, Cosmic Egg. Andrew wholeheartedly admitted that the October 13th drop date was a nod to my birthday. He knows better to disappoint me. I mean, he does live in the land down under, but LA is like his second home so he does have to worry about making me unhappy. And how did he feel about being back in his second home?

“I do like LA. I’m interested in all the different sides to it.”

Yeah, we know. Our city can be just as bi-polar as it’s inhabitants.  That’s why we self medicate or meditate. And speaking of our namaste ways, what of the folklore that Cosmic Egg was named after some crazy yoga pose Andrew found himself in?

“Yeah, I think it was some resting pose, I’m not sure. It could have been the fetal pose. It must have been a tripped out instructor for sure.”

Tripped out sounds about right. But the Cosmic Egg is also a Hindu symbol often used to describe what we call the big bang theory. Did that factor into naming the album?

“I was interested in something I read about black holes being the end of time but now they think they’re the beginning. So it’s the end of the beginning. Or, it’s a new universe. If that makes sense. I didn’t even know all that was behind the name when I heard it. I just thought it sounded cool!”

With all the talk about the beginning and the end of the universe, and 2012 quickly approaching, anyone who is still following he Mayan calendar would be getting a little uneasy. So is this the end of days? Or is the cosmic egg cracking open something wonderful and new?

“When I first started writing songs, there were a lot of environmental issues in the press and we did shows for lower emissions. So, some of my songs are about the end of the world. You know: ‘The sun’s getting closer! We’ve got to change our ways!’ But I’m glad there are only one or two songs in there like that. One of the songs is called ‘The Violence Of The Sun’…there’s nothing hippie about it. It’s this burning mass of destruction. The environment is violent. Evolution is violent.”

As out discussion starts to get farther from mysticism: (star showers, wolves, and eggs) and further into science and the temperature of the earth’s core, Andrew gets uneasy and balks.

“I don’t want to be overly intellectual about it.” He pauses and adjusts his grey vest. “Not that I could be.” He adds, laughing.

Well, then it seems that he’s come to the right place. I don’t want to generalize but after watching Boots Riley and Tom Morello get booed, the field outside seems to be a giant mass of duh being stirred up with beer and energy cocktails. Since when did it become uncool to be smart? Was it dummy pimps, like Palin, who made the intellectual a dirty name?

“You don’t have to be dumb,” Andrew starts out carefully, “but I think it’s important to be instinctive and expressive and have passion. That goes a long way. And not being too strategic too. I saw this thing on Picasso. He wanted to get one of his mistresses pregnant so she’d be less intellectual and more in tune with life.”

Point taken.  Intellect and instinct both have their place. And I am hereby doubling up on condoms. Just in case.

As his band mates begin to shuffle by and get ready to head toward the stage, I ask Andrew if he’s seen It Might Get Loud. He hasn’t yet, but we talk about Jimmy Page and Wolfmother’s big date, opening for Led Zeppelin when they were inducted into the Rock And Roll Hall Of Fame. I point out that they are most likely the last band to ever do so and that the pressure would drive someone like me to drink.

“I sat in the backstage area and played that solo (Communication Breakdown) about fifty times before we walked out there. The bizarre thing is that James Brown was there to induct himself and he looked over at me and I gave him a little wave and he waved back. He died the next day. It’s amazing. It’s like he stayed alive just for that.”

Andrew kind of pauses, lost in the moment. A cameraman tripping over himself in front of us brings Andrew back to storytelling mode.

“Anyway we went and did Communication Breakdown. My monitor on the stage stopped working. The sound was blaring. I couldn’t hear a thing so I thought I just better go for it. It was the highest I have ever sung in my life!”

I start to laugh, picturing Andrew’s already soaring voice reaching the outer galaxies. I mention to him that whales and dolphins across the seas were with him in spirit that day. He made a legion of marine life into Zep fans that day. He smiles at the thought. I think I might have just inspired some album art work or posters for the next round.

Andrew gets ready to rock the Pomonians, but before he does, I ask him one last question. If the epicenter is the point of an underground explosion, what does he think is the next underground explosion about to hit our culture?

“Aw, I haven’t even had time to think about good stuff like that. Easy listening? Bossanova! Like Jose Feliciano? Really beautiful bossanova music.

I tell him he could start the trend today. He’s got a big audience awaiting him with rapt attention.

“Yeah, maybe I’ll bring out the nylon string today.”

If anyone could pull it off, it would be Stockdale, who has managed to bring back a classic rock sound without aping the genre. Luckily for those about to rock out at the Epicenter Festival, Andrew and the wolf crew kept it hard and loud. Mixing some new blue cheer tunes like California Queen and New Moon Rising, with old popular Zep twinged tunes like Woman, White Unicorn and Dimension, the audience roared with a whole lotta love.

credit: Firecloud

The Cosmic egg was cracked and the kids gobbled it up and were left wanting more.

May I suggest maybe releasing a b–sides rarities album? Something with a dolphin on the cover.

Smells Like Unclean Spirit

It’s been 14 years, seven months and twenty two days since Kurt Cobain died. Not that I’m counting. I always loved Nirvana but I wasn’t a crazed fan. I just knew that they blasted open a special place in music for millions of people and are one of the few bands of our era, the grunge era if you will, which will stand the test of time as Important Bands Of Rock.

Kurt on the Nirvana Unplugged MTV special

Sure there are many detractors; those that say they weren’t so hot, those that think they were ripping off my beloved Pixies, those that are mad that Kurt killed himself or hated flannel, or those that think that Dave Grohl’s Foo Fighting is a better sound to pump your fist at. Personally, I think Grohl is in danger of becoming the next Steven Tyler or Anthony Kiedis…which is not a compliment. If he uses the same riff in one more identical sounding, watered down song, then I will have to nominate him to write the movie theme for Armageddon 2.

There was something about Smells Like Teen Spirit which was an undeniable anthem. It pretty much summed up the angst of those who were raised by disillusioned baby boomers, talked down to by older “Greed is Good” 80′s siblings and not quite old enough to count ourselves as part of the clever bohemia which was Generation X.

As most eras and fads do, music recycles. We’ve been going through a somewhat amusing or down right annoying (depending on the artist) 80′s post punk, electro clash revival. Some of it I enjoy. Anyone who takes a Gang Of Four sound and adds a stomp and swagger to it, is fun in my book…but the American Apparel “Let’s Get Physical’, jazzercize crap, and the synthy dance mash ups and bastardizations of Thriller are getting on my last nerve. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so annoying to me if I weren’t old enough to remember wearing that tripe the first time around. I think I knew enough to be embarrassed even back then.

Seriously, not a good look.

So if to everything there is a season, then it makes sense that the Grunge era is coming to the 2000s. Though it makes me shudder to think that I could be rocking out, shoulder to shoulder with kids who weren’t yet in school before Kurt offed himself, I welcome back music with a bite, a growl and a yelp.

Luckily, just in time for some new Nevermind, I was able to see some of the new class of new grunge and gut rock who are coming up through the ranks right now.

Apollo Sunshine's Sam, multitasking

On a recent trip over to Silverlake, I caught up with Apollo Sunshine who were winding their way across the country in support of one of Rough Trade’s best albums of 2008, Shall Noise Upon. These Boston boys all met at Berklee College of Music. That T stop was once my old stomping grounds back in the beginning days of Grunge, when skateboarding was more something you did to annoy your elders, rather than a multi million dollar sport you could get fat and rich on.

Apollo Sunshine brighten up Spaceland

Apollo’s 60′s style harmonies may hearken to a bit of CSNY, but that is misleading. Once you’re sure you’re in for a night of folk rock, their songs veer from feedback laden rock, to hippie psychedelia to afro beat styled songs which fall somewhere between The Rapture and Ozomatli. They are a genre all their own. In fact, their added percussionist, Oliver, is an incredible addition to the touring band. His drumming calisthenics, not to mention his scratching abilities on the NuMark decks, were a shot in the arm to a crowd that had seemed to have been tied off before they hit the stage.

Which brings me to a tangent…now grouse all you want, but fashion is often part of any music scene. Even the anti fashion of the grunge era was a statement in of itself. I can get behind some Ramonesy heroin addled, ripped jeans and a leather jacket. Yet, I’ve always been more of a fan of the lads who borrow from Adam Ant’s Pocahontis pirate theme or perhaps the fab four’s military duds. I cannot figure out why, for the life of me, so many men today dress like a down home, Kentucky friend version of the Sweat Hogs.

Kotter's Sweathogs: devoid of style

The sweat band, dolphin short, just got back from a tennis workout look isn’t fooling anyone if you’re a pasty hipster. And the Alabama hippie with an ironic mustache or back mountain grizzly beard thing isn’t any woman’s first choice…but we will deal with it. As long as you don’t also smell like you’ve walked here from Alabama and haven’t bathed since you left.

The band on stage had been living in a van for several days…and they looked more kept and clean that the hogs that filed in front of the stage. Apollo Sunshine were working hard for their money, sweating it out under the lights…they had earned the right to smell…not the odious man standing next to me whose only exercise was lifting the large pint of Pabst to his mouth. Come on, guys. Be better for us. Smell better for us.

A whiff of new music was like sonic smelling salts to bring me back to consciousness. Headlining were a new five piece from Athens, Georgia, Dead Confederate, who have been billed as an alt country/ grunge act, whose tracks on myspace fall somewhere between Skynard and Sonic Youth. They have the distinction of being Rolling Stone’s one of six to watch which is either a golden ticket or something that they must live up to, depending on the octane level of their live performance and the staying power of their new release, Wrecking Ball.

Dead Confederate walked out on stage in almost complete darkness and with smoke that could fill the Staples Center, let alone choke anyone standing within the dinky walls of Spaceland. The hazy figures struck a chord both literally and figuratively. Lead singer Hardy howled into the mic a la Cobain, promoting the grunge aesthetic that the song and the lyrics aren’t necessarily the message itself, but the way that the song is delivered IS the message. How else would a song that spoke of an albino, a mosquito, capture the world so strongly? Even Chris Cornell, whom I believe to be a monogamy deal breaker wrapped in plaid, knew that his croon which slipped into a growl was cutting through to the core of both male and female fans alike.

Dead Confederate in a smoky haze

As Dead Confederate powered through their shoe gaze+classic rock songs, it struck me that the scenario was so much like the Smells Like Teen Spirit video, that to not make the comparison would be criminal.

Smells like Dead spirit

Smells like Nirvana spirit

Plus the likeness of the mood, sound and spirit enlivened me to the point that I almost wanted to start a mosh pit…until I realized I was wearing expensive shoes…ah how the grungites have fallen prey to the material world. Have I become that which I used to rail against?

Rah Rah Anarchy!

I thoroughly enjoyed the set and with any indie luck this band will knock My Morning Jacket off their Southern Rock perch, further cementing the return of grunge, with a modern Southern rock twist.

In between my rounds of welcoming the new guard in, I decided to take in a band which was actually there during the first Grunge pass. Growing up in Boston as a Pixies fan was a rock fan fantasy. I even got to meet Frank and Kim after sneaking in to a show, underage. I was a huge fan of Surfer Rosa‘s punky take on the surf guitar twangs. By the time Doolittle came out, my new favorite band was cemented in Ali history. So the Breeders were a nice respite from a gap in Pixies recordings and live shows.

The Breeders

Tonight the Deal sisters were back at the Wiltern and the music brought me back as if it were yesterday. As a confident adult, I felt a twinge of anxiety and excitement as I listened, the way I did when I first heard them and wasn’t sure what I wanted to be when I grew up or how exactly I’d get there.

My friend Lo and I did feel a bit of homesickness, or era-sickness, staring at the sisters Deal who looked a considerable deal older. So did the crowd. As my friend James mentioned, grunge at twenty is cool, grunge at 40? Well that’s a different story. Long, shoulder length dirty hair on men isn’t nearly as anarchic when there is a receding hairline. Still it was quite charming to see 40 year olds pogoing with abandon once The Breeders launched into their hit punky treat, “Cannonball”. And it was nice to know that as these people got older, they found the value of a good bar of soap. Growing up doesn’t have to be all bad.

Part of my job is to look back and listen to the past so that I may find hope in the future. And stumbling upon The Yelling was a little bit of both.

For those about to Yell, I salute you

If you’re looking for some hard rock mixed in with your grunge then you’ve come to the right place. Though, the Echo was filled with handlebar mustaches, Motorhead t shirts and tight jeans, I took it to be a good omen that one of the t shirts at the merch booth had an iconic print of Alice Cooper on it. Fuckin’ school is out!

Lead singer Nathaniel Cox has the nasal intonation of Kurt but the angst is transformed into the raw energy you’d see from Wayne Kramer, while kicking out the Jams. Despite a lackluster response from the early crowd, The Yelling played hard like Highway Stars. In fact, the guitarist, Robert Davis, reminded me of when musicians used to play with their guitars…you know, the ones who play as if they’re constantly thinking about sex.

The Yelling giving every inch of their love

This music is the stuff of girls who o.d. on black eyeliner and chew on coffee stirrers during home room class. It’s smoky bedrooms with record players and purple bedspreads hung on the wall. Though the grunge comparison is there, they play heavy enough to be mentioned in the same breath as The Sword and Danava, but they have actual songs underneath the heavy riffs and swagger. It’s not all smash and crackle, but it is Zeppy blues and ACDC loud.

Rebel Yelling

Are these newcomers the second coming of Cobain? No, but they don’t have to be. If their only job right now is to unplug the rash of synthesizers and bring loud raucous guitars back to rock, then I’d say it’s a step in the right direction. A good revival isn’t just a retelling of an old era. It should pump new blood into the theme. Yeah, sure things seem a bit the same: one Iraq war traded for another. A stock market crash thrown in here or there plus the promise of hope from a new democrat…but it IS a different era and the music should reflect that.

I just hope that the future sounds from the the kids coming up the ranks will inspire me to rock out and hold up my lighter once again. I hope it inspires youngsters to write in their journals or pick up a guitar for the first time. I hope it inspires people to question authority and not take the television ads at face value. I hope it’s loud howls and yelps and six string poetry will leave an indelible mark on the entire nation…and if change is really coming…if Zeus is really listening to my plea…I hope it might inspire some guys to bathe.

Honest To Prog – The Secret Machines Go Dark.

It’s a bit difficult for someone with a hearing problem, such as myself, to try and explain my love of prog rock to others. Especially when the math rock co-title gets bandied about. Several high school tutors and a SAT prep teacher can attest to the fact that I sucked at math. My brain doesn’t really think in linear terms. I’m bad with numbers, negligent with bookkeeping, and will take twice as long as any normal gimp to put together a piece of Ikea furniture.

So perhaps that’s why the recent faces of current prog rock make me feel at home. Though a verse chorus verse song is easily digested, the meandering and epic songs of Radiohead, Muse and The Secret Machines transport me to a science fiction world where rules of mathematics need not apply.

Ok, yes, I realize there’s a lot of synthy math involved here. But to me the sound is more like freedom and space; an ethereal musical landscape rather than constrained strains of notes forced to fit in a 3 minute ditty with a hook.

I was an enormous fan of Secret Machine’s Now Here Is Nowhere album. It accompanied me on long road trips up the California coast line and seemed to quell any travel squabbles my boyfriend and I were having.  Their second effort, Ten Silver Drops, while not as beloved to us as their first album, was a psychedelic way to start our Sunday mornings. Tickets for their fantastic live shows, would hang on our fridge, urging us to keep it together until the concert, so we could rock and sway at the show together.

The brothers Curtis and drummer Josh Garza sort of held our relationship together, at least in my mind. I was even once invited by TSM to go to a party with them after a show. I demurely declined, thinking of my boyfriend sitting at home waiting for me…and all of the TSM songs he and I had listened to together. Even when tempting the party girl within, The Secret Machines had solidified the bond with The Boyfriend and me.

But then there was a gap in space rock continuum. The departure of guitarist Ben Curtis panicked Warner Brothers, TSM’s label, creating somewhat of a rift and a recording delay. It also left The Boyfriend and I trying to hold it together with records by Leon Russell, Bowie, and Gang Of Four. Not to mention fighting over Jethro Tull…I’m of the staunch opinion that my home is my haven, and that means it should be a Tull-free zone.

With the wars of the record label, the war in Iraq, and the Tull war on the home front going on, the future seemed bleak. When former fellow Tripping Daisy member Phil Karnats was inducted to support vocalist Brandon Curtis and drummer Josh Garza, TSM was up and running again.

The latest album, the eponymous The Secret Machines, just dropped on my birthday - a sort of cosmic gift for me. Knowing that TSM was released on their new indie imprint TSM Recordings through World’s Fair, made me proud of the lads for getting all mavericky on WBR’s ass. And hearing that the album was supposedly a lot more dark and moody only excited the gothic girl in me that much more.

Upon arriving at the Key Club, we were handed a hot pink pair of 3D glasses. Was this going to turn into a weird Floyd laser show? Though I enjoy prog, I’m not the burn out, black light poster type. The set, designed by Kanye West’s set creator Es Devlin, was being quickly erected with twisted white ribbon tape, winding around the stage like an MC Escher painting. I was beginning to get concerned that there might be a geometry pop quiz after their set.

As the Machines took to the stage, they set up in their usual triangle formation, which allows the audience to focus on each part of the musical blend and gives the drummer a chance to come out from the back of the stage and be heard and seen by crowd.

The lights dimmed to almost pitch dark and I popped my psychedelic shades on. A beam of light bounced off the tape, setting off a blaze of starburst streaks. Smokage was pumped out in mass quantities and gelled spotlights silhouetted the trio against the neon strips of ribbon. I was at a light show all right, but this time no drugs were needed.

Karnats, standing statuesquely in the center, seemed more than up to the task to fill Ben’s shoes. He ripped through crunchy Zeppelin riffs that crescendoed into a mind blowingly loud implosion, perhaps rivaling the now infamous My Bloody Valentine reunion shows.

The fact is, there was very little about the new songs that fell into the ethereal category. No, this was more like the math rock version of Mastodon. It was so loud and crunchy that my friend and I risked admitting we were too old to rock, by moving from the floor -front and center- to seats in the upper balcony. We could still enjoy the multi colored lights with our 3D paraphernalia and our ear drums were less likely to burst.

I’m not saying I didn’t enjoy it. It’s just that The Secret Machines have changed. I guess that is the current climate of the country…no more 2004. We’ve all prog-ressed. The Boyfriend and his Tull records are long gone and nearly forgotten. The nation has come out of it’s reality TV induced coma to get involved with it’s government once again. And the luscious, hypnotic aural landscapes that TSM once painted, are now more of a Goya-esque sound, spiked with punky Gary Numan slivers and metallic Jackson Pollack riffs.

They say it gets darkest before the light…perhaps that means that the TSM future will be bright. Even with out those shades.