Early nineties alterna-giants, Toad the Wet Sprocket have returned after an eight-year hiatus, and we were happy to catch them for a performance at Sayreville NJ’s Starland Ballroom, known to you old-timers as the Hunka Bunka Ballroom.

Opening band the Sixers set the mood for this sell-out audience of mild-mannered soft-rockers by orienting their songs and chit-chat to nostalgia for the recent collegiate life from which everybody seemed to have just returned. There were some mature—really mature—spectators in their—what?—40s and even 50s. Mostly, however the well behaved late-20s crowd identified with talk of recollections about beer swilling contests at school and exchanging stories about ducking the bully in the highschool yard. To end it off, and before Toad’s turn on the stage, the Sixers finished with a cover of the song that has become the anthem of that particular sub-culture, Neil Diamond’s 60s hit “Sweet Caroline.”

Toad the Wet Sprocket’s frontman Glen Phillips has been performing and recording solo work in the interim with backup of a band called Nickel Creek, so after opening with Toad masterpiece “Something’s Always Wrong” and hitting many of the Toad standards like “Crowing” and “Stupid” he sent the band on an offstage break while he performed his solo stuff including the memorable “Darkest Hour” and a cover of Huey Lewis’s “I Want a New Drug.”

After a third solo piece, the rest of Wet Sprocket returned to the stage to perform the beloved “Walk on the Ocean” and the disturbing “Hold Her Down.”
They still sound great, they still touch the heart and the soul with their characteristic twangy, splashy guitar, countrified cadenced rhythms, heavy hearted lyrics and Philips’s lilting vocals. Yes, he’s ten years older, and his voice a trifle deeper, less agile, but still deliciously mellow and full of sincerity, innocence and resignation. They ended with “Fall Down,” a driving but somber expression of anxiety and disillusionment. We ran out of energy so didn’t stay for encores

Mars Volta /Roseland / May 6
By Doktor John

Mars Volta, heir to the mounting interest generated by the defunct parent band At The Drive-In, assailed a capacity crowd at Roseland with a merciless wall of truly unbearable noise for two consecutive hours. I know why they didn’t host an opening band. They didn’t want to put the audience in the mood for music.
Instead what we heard were a handful of barely recognizable songs from their two CDs interspersed with the most useless, obnoxious white noise imaginable, rendered at criminally loud decibel levels.
This is the second time I’m seeing them, and I should have learned my lesson from the stupefying first Roseland appearance last year, and from the bewildering lack of music on their latest CD. What are we, the public shelling out good money for? To be punished and have out ears damaged for the sake of hearing huge screeching bursts of non-rhythmic, non-melodious noise unworthy to be the sound track of a schlock science fiction movie?
Mars Volta seems to have drunk in the enthusiasm of critics based on their promising first CD De-Loused in the Comatorium, and the undeserved welcome that the second, Frances the Mute received for its eclectic inclusion of elements of jam, hard-core, emo, Latino, experimental and electronica despite its flaunted lack of musicality . If you sit and listen to it with a stopwatch you’ll notice it’s about 20% music and 80% obnoxious meandering racket.
There was one redeeming aspect to the show, besides being able to occasionally catch a recognizable song or two. The psychedelic backdrop was lit with the most absurd and sometimes disturbing hallucinatory images while the sextet of musicians worked their instruments with the aerobic vigor of Olympic athletes.
Remember the tale of the emperor’s new clothes? Emperor parades around naked, claiming to have dressed in such fine clothes that anybody with refined taste can see them. If you can’t see the fine clothes it’s because you’re inferior.
Well that mentality is the only way I can comprehend the enthusiasm for Mars Volta’s latest effort. Not only the mobs of credulous youths packing large venues and buying tickets to see them on eBay for five times their face value, but the critics, disc jockeys and corporate music industry promoters who insist that they hear something of value in this kind of presentation seem to be afraid to admit that the

After three disappointing CDs in the past five years. Peter Murphy has come back with a fine album that is strictly in the rich style that he has been developing ever since the breakup of his seminal band Bauhaus. “Unshattered” contains eleven tracks characteristic of Murphy’s development since he went on his own and has the potential to undo the damage done to Murphy’s fan base by the last prior album ”Dust” —a poorly-received but highly-accomplished effort in which he abandoned the rock idiom in favor of entering the Near Eastern genre.

Show-casing his rich baritone, he sings and recites mysterious, sometimes enigmatic poetry to the accompaniment of heavily rhythmic, dark and mainly minor-key instrumentals. A few tracks have the harsh, monotonous dissonance that is reminiscent of old Bauhaus numbers, but most songs on this album are profoundly, richly melodious. A couple make odd but sparing use of an accordion or delicate, bent note guitar accompaniment. All entries on this album represent a returning to the beloved style of his best prior discs, “Cascade,” “Holy Smoke” and those albums previous.

What’s to Love: Gene Loves Jezebel?

Gene Loves Jezebel/Albion/ Dec. 10, 2005
By Doktor John

What’s worse than watching a has-been band mercilessly heap disrespect on loyal fans who turned out hoping to recapture the musical pleasure they expected, based on that band’s past performance? You know what’s worse? Fans who eat up that kind of abuse and who shower adoration on the very artists who abuse them.

Fragments of the 1980s semi-Goth trio (quartet? five piece?) band, Gene Loves Jezebel, has been making sporadic comebacks since the late 90s, and appeared at Albion/Downtime (formerly The Batcave) on a Saturday night, this time reduced to a duo, consisting of one of the Aston brothers (who cares which one?) and a very young guitarist, obviously too young to have had any connection with the original, ever-changing ensemble.

Instead of treating the nearly packed house of nostalgia-seeking rockers to reasonable renditions of their well-liked hits, they mockingly performed vapid “unplugged” versions, with neither effort nor accomplishment. A certain level of skill was displayed by the recently-recruited acoustic guitarist, but Ashton’s singing was a disgraceful display of sarcastic talking, giggling, scornful falsetto, comical bellowing and flaunted inability to recall his lyrics.

When Ashton forgot his lyrics, he contemptuously allowed the pitifully loyal audience to sing in his stead. Only a small percentage of the set was recognizable to listeners who, like this reporter, had a casual knowledge of their four or so albums. Personally I would have preferred to have never heard such pathetically empty, flat versions of “Jealous” and “Kiss of Life,” and may never be able to enjoy the recorded version of these and other of their songs in the future. In between songs Ashton grinningly mumbled a snide, unfunny narrative about a sex, crack and his mother. What could be worse?

This pathetic exhibition followed and contrasted with a fine performance by opening band Ninth House, which had earlier put on a supremely entertaining, totally virtuoso presentation, displaying tight mastery of both their own and cover material, as well as sincere commitment to and respect for their audience. In addition to their impressive original songs, they performed a crowd-pleasing, rocking version of the classic “Ghost Riders In The Sky,” that alone justified the price of admission.

CBGB’s Gallery
Sunday, Dec. 12

By Doktor John

A crowd of around 50 or 60 pierced, tattooed and flamboyantly costumed
Goths congregated in CBGB’s Gallery to attend this half-serious celebration of dark
counter-culture hosted by DJ Jason and the lovely Althea.

Opening for the awards ceremony was the band Losing Venus, a quartet of morose rockers. The master of ceremonies was Voltaire, who started off with a solo medley of his satirical anti-folk songs, including the hilarious “Vampire Club” which debunks that sub-set of Goths who role-play at being vampires. Voltaire’s musical performance seamlessly led into an unrehearsed stand-up comedy act. As he announced each category, Voltaire maintained a good-natured, sarcastic attitude that kept us all laughing— even at ourselves!

The honors highlighted the professionals in the NYC Goth scene with trophies and certificates, all in an atmosphere of mutual admiration. There was a panel of â”Celebrity” judges including some renowned DJs, former Miss Gothics and yours truly. There were a great number of categories —some serious, some intentionally silly— for DJs, club promoters, bars, bartenders, bouncers, and for musicians. Last, there was a fashion contest for the most stylishly groomed and attired.

Top winners included Hal and his staff of Albion/Batcave who received a number of awards. Lead vocalist Thera of Folk Fiction took the honors for number one Female Front of a Goth Band, and it was my distinct privilege to present the award for Best Front Man to NJ’s own Myke Hideous. Losing Venus was named Best New Goth Band.

The awards themselves, whether serious or tongue-in-cheek, bestowed on each recipient long-overdue recognition for the frequently thankless efforts that each them have made over the years to create and support this underground community.

It’s fascinating what a discrepancy exists between how sinister these people appear and how civilized and genteel they actually are. Despite the dental fangs, the chrome spikes and the ghoulish make-up, these are mainly well-behaved, talented and artistic kids. They may not have been most popular in school, but they have surely found acceptance in a community that celebrates creativity, nonconformity and every deviant form of personal style. Periodic events such as these enable Goths to express gratitude toward each other for mutually supporting their scene by faithfully coming out to their dance clubs and bars and patronizing the various establishments that cater to denizens of the dark NYC underground.

Prints by Mark Mothersbaugh

The Fuse Gallery in NYC’s East Village has a definite tradition of presenting the collected works of rock-scene personalities who delve into the visual arts. Fans of wacky New Wavers, Devo, may be surprised—or maybe not—to view the collected art of front man and founder, Mark Mothersbaugh. The exhibit, titled Beautiful Mutants, is running until September 4th at the famed gallery’s location deep inside the Lit Lounge at 93 2nd Avenue.
Mothersbaugh, who hails from exotic Akron, Ohio, and whose weird and ground-breaking, if not very musical band once shocked and bewildered rock fans with jerky, mind-numbing rants like “Whip It” and “Jocko Homo,” has tested his quirky aesthetic sensibility on altering antique photographs. He reports that he was influenced by Rorschach imagery, as you recall, ink blots folded to create those familiar, symmetric stains on paper.

Taking advantage of modern techniques Mothersbaugh alters antique photos, mainly of young people, splitting them down some arbitrary midline and then seamlessly adding the mirror image on the other half of the print. Any tilt of the subject creates a bizarre asymmetry in the final mirror-reflected and conjoined image-halves. Thus the once beautiful child undergoes mutation into a pinhead, or a Cyclops, a multiple-limbed spider-figure, or a disturbing, humanoid abstract design.

The opening night reception was packed with a concentration of New York cognoscenti including hipsters, artists and collectors from both the avant-garde art and rock music scenes, not to mention devoted fans of the band Devo, who had just performed on Central Park’s Summer Stage the previous night.

Polyphonic Spree at Irving Plaza, NYC August 25, 2004
By Doktor John

What does it sound like when two dozen singers/musicians crowd onto the stage at Manhattan’s Irving Plaza and let loose with literally everything they’ve got—heart, soul, sight and sound?

This Dallas-based, pop-choral, multi-instrumental brainchild of former members of Tripping Daisy joyously performed orchestral, emotionally over-the-top, terminally-catchy anthems with insanely positive lyrics between intervals of spacey electronica.

The lead singer and a choir of nine vocalists flung their heads (and their hair) accompanied by a harp, flute, violin, trumpet, trombone and French horn as well as two drum sets, guitars, keyboards and the weirdest of all instruments, the Theremin.

The lyrics may not make a lot of sense, but delivered with shamelessly theatrical sincerity by lead vocalist Tim DeLaughter, they engendered an inescapable feeling of universal love and optimism. The audience was transported into a state of euphoria and swayed like waves in a sea of humanity to the repetition of lines like, “ Hey it’s the Sun and it makes me shine.” The lyrics sound like those sappy, inspirational sayings on posters for sale in the mall, but here they seemed to be intentionally trying to make even less sense.

Although the group appears attired in gospel-choir robes of various pastel colors, and the overall atmosphere is not unlike the frenzy inside a Pentecostal church, there is no suggestion of traditional or institutional religion.

There were solo performances by the flutist, violinist and lead female vocalist, and a dueling drum duet, but front man DeLaughter draws most of the attention with his complex, puzzling persona, portraying a slightly demented, singing motivational speaker who is trying hard to set an example that one can drown out depression, existential Angst (and perhaps bad drug experiences) by chanting proclamations of happiness and love to the accompaniment of clamorous music.

Polyphonic Spree, a synthesis of opera chorus, New Age marching band, gospel choir, 60s love-happening, brass-band and municipal orchestra serves as an antidote for all the dark themes of metal, punk and industrial music, and it represents the polar opposite of everything cynical, violent and explicit that has dominated rock’n’roll for the past thirty or so years.

The new CD, “Together We’re Heavy,” provided most of the material in their hour-long performance which concluded with a friendly romp by band members through the appreciative audience. Encores featured the inspirational hit video “Light and Day” and the heart-warmingly-nutty “Soldier Girl.” Many spectator-participants were left in tears.

Miraculously reincarnated after their demise in 1996 and a painful eight-year absence, the return of Skinny Puppy was joyously hailed in NYC. Ever a fluid organization, ever re-organizing, ever new, the legendary SP has reunited around the central, creative core consisting of cEvin Key and Ogre (a.k.a. Ohgr), having lost Dwayne Goettel in 1996 around the time of their simultaneous breakup and the release of their presumed final album, The Process.

They appeared before a sell-out crowd of avid fans—Goths, punks and industrial freaks wearing every shade of black and sporting every variety of piercing, tattooing and transgressive attitude.As lights went down, smoke flooded the darkened stage and a 10-foot tall, projection screen flashed disturbing scenarios of infernos, explosions, war and kaleidoscopic images. The eerie strains of “Downsizer,” off their just-released album, The Greater Wrong of the Right, came on like the soundtrack of a horror movie, and the tightly packed crowd of frenzied enthusiasts surged forward. Ogre lurched menacingly on to the stage, in a hideous, ragged costume, wearing a headdress with a proboscis-like elongation, wantonly sprinkling the crowd with (theatrical?) blood.

The first several songs were directly from the new album in order: The rousing “I’mmortal,”then the angry rant “Pro-Test” and the despairing “EmpTe.”
Ogre‘s headdress came off and, they turned to their classic repertoire to the ecstatic delight of the appreciative crowd, exploding with mesmerizing, harshly beautiful masterpieces like “God’s Gift Maggot,” and “VX Gas Attack,” accompanied by appropriate visuals.

There was much in the way of juxtaposing President Bush with Hitler and with newsreel footage of bombings, particularly to the accompaniment of Neuworld (Order), but thankfully it was not all political diatribe. Ohgr‘s antics included nearly suffocating himself with a gas mask, shooting down marching, computer-game figures on the big screen, smearing himself with syrupy red liquid and draping the stage with yellow police-barrier ribbon.

Encores included a studio-perfect performance of their greatest anthem, “Testure,” as well as classics off Too Dark Park and other early albums. By encore time, Ohgr appeared in a fluorescent costume as—what else? — A skinny puppy.
Although the new album alone would certainly have sufficed to provide all material for the show, SP chose to satisfy their worshipful fans with timeless pieces like the beloved “Warlock,” “Inquisition,” and others that were greeted with roars of astonished gratitude and affection from the fans.

SP‘s message of existential angst, maniacal hate, political protest and madness has neither mellowed nor gone stale in this, their 3rd decade. Their ability to join haunting, even rapturously beautiful melodies with violent, electronic, rhythmic noise stands out above anything that has gone on before them. Their unique, inimitable style protects them from ever falling into the tame and kitschy acceptability that has claimed others in the genre.
Click on a link toSkinny Puppy’s website

Good Luck, Good Will!
By Doktor John
Elliott Smith at Lit Jan 29, 2003

Lit, the super-fashionable bar with attached performance space and its subsidiary Fuse art gallery on 2nd Avenue in Manhattan’s East Village is running up an amazing record. In the past year the Fuse Gallery has hosted such internationally-acclaimed artists as H.R.Giger (designer of “Alien”) and Winston Smith. On Wednesday night, January 29, Elliott Smith, poster-boy for indie rock and famous for the sound-track of “Good Will Hunting” made a surprise appearance in the tiny performance space in Lit’s sub-basement. Lit, the well-stocked bar manned by affable and talented vocalist/impresario, Max Brennan and some of the most gorgeous bartenders this side of Coyote Ugly, has a few booths and tables but mostly the patrons stand around and rub elbows. It is a half-level below the sidewalk with the Fuse gallery straight back on the same level.
At the bottom of a well-lit staircase is a long and narrow, subterranean performance space with bare ancient brick walls, arches and cubbyholes—very picturesque. A tiny bar (waitress service only!) far in the back is operated by breath-taking beauties of the tattooed and pierced persuasion.
A crowd of adoring Elliott Smith fans, appearing to be mainly undergraduates, squeezed into this performance space with its underground ambience to see and hear their idol close-up and acoustic. Smith came out looking like he could use perhaps another round of rehabilitation. His unkempt appearance, stringy bangs and unshaven face went right along with slurred speech and the unintelligible mumblings he uttered by way of greeting the crowd.
There was obviously no planned program, so Smith called for requests from the audience, but wound up mostly rejecting those requests on a variety of grounds; but he did mournfully inform the audience of “What I Used To B e” and “This Is Not My Life,” among other favorites.
Despite obvious difficulty tuning his voice and/or guitar, he pleased his appreciative fans with many of his old hits and some newer efforts. Notwithstanding the apparent defects in his technique that night, he managed to impress not only his less-than-critical fans but also this somewhat jaded reporter with innovative, intelligent melodies, skilled guitar playing and depressingly authentic lyrical insights.