Live Report:
The Damned
Axis, Boston

How can a band that rules by anarchy and chaos be tighter than a duck's ass? Well, if you get to see the Damned during this year's Grave Disorder tour, you'll know the answer. 

The Damned have been at it for 25 years but they are forever young in enthusiasm and style. Their energy level was high, but not for a moment erratic. The dirty punk rock songs began and ended as clean as a whistle. Lead vocalist Dave Vanian's charisma was in overdrive, his moves were sharp and sexy, and his voice was never better; rich, steady and full. Patricia Morrison's deep bass anchored the machine gun guitar lines supplied by our friend Captain Sensible, while Pinch's drumming and Monty Oxy Moron's keyboards tied it all up in a "Neat Neat Neat" package.

The set was a pleasant surprise, deftly blending the old and the new. Grave Disorder, the latest release was represented well by songs like "Democracy" and "Thrill Kill" while long time fans went wild when the band swung into old favorites like "Love Song", "Neat Neat Neat", "Eloise", and the first punk rock song to hit the British charts, "New Rose". When the slam-dancing neo-punks and 40-somethings alike clamored for "Smash It Up", the band readily complied. 

And no Damned gig would be complete without the show stopping encore and traditional Captain Sensible wardrobe change. Shirtless and resplendent in a sheer pink tutu with lovely black bikini undies showing through, decked in a pink bob wig topped with a pair of white fruit of the looms, the Captain pranced through the encore like a tripped out Flamingo after one too many pints and a dodgy vindaloo.

If you do one thing to celebrate autumn this year and give yourself a well-deserved break from the depressing world climate, go see the Damned. You'll dance like a maniac, laugh like hell, and never, ever regret it in the morning. 

The Damned wind up the US leg of their tour on November 3rd and head off to Europe, terrorizing audiences until Christmas.

Live Report:
Pigface /gODHEAD/Gravity Kills
The Roxy, Boston

GODHEAD's sinister Jason Miller decides to EAT the mike.

OK, I know this is supposed to be a gig review, but I just have to rant a little on this one. Boston has done it to me again. The city has been taken over by E-popping dance music controlled zombies created by greedy club owners. Right. The club owners are greedy because they need to rake in the receipts for 2, 2, 2 nights in one. Yes, kids, if a club hosts a rock show, doors open at 6, bands go on at 6:30, and you are rudely thrown out by 10 so they can reopen for the dance crowd.

This is ALWAYS a bad thing, but this night it was worse, and it will unfold during the review.

I got to the Roxy at 7 hoping to miss the queue, but instead, found that the doors hadn't even been opened yet, and no one knew why. Upon entering the club, pissing off some youngsters behind me who were labeling people as "aging industrialists" by getting in on Martin's guest list, I bought an over priced beer and scoped the crowd for Martin while waiting for gODHEAD to take the stage. 

Not being too familiar with them, and not knowing what to expect was actually a blessing, because I was already kind of pissed off. When they took the stage, I was immediately struck by the stage presence of Jason and The Method, but really drawn in when I experienced the deft blending of industrial rhythms, gothic manner, and expert melodies executed by a flawless vocal. That combined with a captivating light show sold me. gODHEAD have a new fan. 

Between sets, I finally spied Martin and went to thank him for the spot on the list. He was nervously shifting his weight from left foot to right in a bizarre jaunty dance, his hands and fingers were already bandaged (Boston was only their 3rd date) which I noted with some enthusiasm, because I figured it showed that he was still an absolute FORCE on the drums, and I would not be proven wrong. When I asked him what was wrong, he told me that the band had only just arrived at 9 PM and that he had no idea it was going to be such an early show. Martin was not happy. He didn't look mad, but rather sad, and a bit nervous, since I assume they had absolutely no sound check and somewhere along the line time would need to be shaved from their set and people may be angry.

Anyway, Gravity Kills took the stage, and I really am not going to waste much space on them since I find them contrived, formulaic and boring. Yes, they did "Guilty" from the soundtrack of the film 7, but still. ZZZZZZZZZZ. The singer's repertoire consists of pop star poses and middle American prime time imitations of rebellion. Again, zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. 

Finally Pigface takes the stage. The show starts out with the great Chris Connelly doing a couple of solo numbers with an acoustic guitar. Then, the backdrop comes down and the entire band is a whir of energy. Meg Lee Chin defies definition. Where does all that power come from? Her vocals were storming and her presence was gargantuan. Chris Connelly floored me by doing Sunset Gun (A Damage Manual song) and when the band launched into Addiction, I went through the roof. Suffice to say, I was up front, directly in front of the PA, and dancing from beginning to end. But above and beyond it all, it seemed as though the show only lasted a minute. With Pigface, you always want more, can never get enough, but I knew from past experience, we got gypped out of a lot of hijinx and spur of the moment performances that would later become treasured memories. Oh, well, I hope New York's show made up for Boston's, and those of you who are still waiting for them to come to your city, enjoy them for me! For the brief moment I saw them, they were an aging industrialist's idea of heaven.

Live Report:
Daniel Ash
The Paradise, Boston

You know how you tend to feel like something is a bit amiss when you see a member of your favorite band do a solo tour? Well, I've never felt that way about Daniel Ash. I have seen Bauhaus and Love and Rockets countless times and love those two projects to death, but I gotta admit, I think I prefer seeing Daniel solo. Maybe it's the fact that I don't have to split focus. David J and Peter Murphy demand as much attention and admiration, but my eyes always lock on Daniel as he executes those inimitable guitar moves. 

Daniel's latest solo material stands on its own and it's as good as any of his past band and solo compositions, but tonight we got the best of both worlds. He began the set with pieces from the new CD Daniel Ash, launching into "Come Alive", "Trouble" (the track used in the film American Psycho), and "Walk on the Moon"; the latter is as lovely live as it is on record. True to his word, Daniel interwove the set with Love and Rockets pieces. "Sweet F.A." rolled along gently as he played a beautiful 12 string acoustic, and "Mirror People" showcased the pounding bass lines and razor blade guitars he is so famous for. A few in the crowd got their energy noticeably kicked into gear when he launched into my least favorite L&R song, "So Alive", but the passion and thoughtfulness of American Dream struck a chord with absolutely everyone on the floor, again played on a beautiful 12 string acoustic.

But the highlights really were the Tones On Tail pieces. My all time favorite, "Christian Says", did not disappoint -- played flawlessly on a Fernandes Sustainer along with an e-bow, that little middle eastern riff went on into infinity and sliced me open from the base of my spine to the top of my head leaving me tingling all over. "Go!" and "OK This Is The Pops" resurrected the pogo briefly, and looking around I noticed that baby Goths and disgruntled old bastards alike were drenched in salty sweat. The other pieces that sent me to the moon were Bauhaus' "Slice of Life" -- eerie and blue, it came off without a hitch and sent me spiraling back to the old days of melancholia mixed with haughtiness as practiced pose… and of course, I literally purred when he went into the cover of "Spooky".

Soaked in reverb, complete with the echo-laden finger snapping track, Daniel's "Spooky" is more reminiscent of Dusty Springfield's rendition than the original Classics IV piece. It's icy cool, yet loaded with sex. Influenced by Dusty, but totally Danny.

Daniel's singing style is quite unique and vocally he was in good form, although I thought his energy grew as the night went on. True to his zodiac sign (Leo) he alternately purrs and growls and never is pitch-challenged. I was surprised that he sang the choral part at the end of "American Dream", and was pleased that he did it ever so well. The only hitch in the night was that the bass wasn't as up front as it should have been. I was thinking that very thing when Boston bass guitar legend White Bob (ex Flail, Women of Sodom) asked me if it was just him, or if the bass was a little too low for a Daniel Ash gig. I concurred, and simultaneously, Daniel asked the soundman to pump it a couple of times. Daniel's pronouncement confirmed Bob's suspicion. 

Now for the visual… Daniel is still long and lean; dressed in black from head to toe, wearing outrageous moon-walker platforms and some wild retro shades, he worked perfectly with the lighting which alternated between sharp shafts of pure white beams to ice blue wash. He is dichotomy itself, staying at the very front of the stage to remain connected to his audience yet at the same time lost behind ant-like bulbous shades and communing with his guitar. The white shafts of kundalini light bounced off the smooth round curves of his guitar sometimes, others, off of the chrome of the drums to bathe everyone in sharp shock shadows, giving the evening a complete sensory experience. 

If you can catch any of the remaining shows, I recommend that you do so. Seeing Daniel Ash is an experience that doesn't wear off quickly. You get to keep company with someone who has been part of some of the most influential bands of the past twenty years and also view firsthand a supreme artist at work. No one has a relationship with a guitar like Daniel Ash. No one.

Live Report:
David J
The Middle East, Cambridge MA

Seeing David J solo has always been a treat, but to see him within days of his old compatriot Daniel Ash is even more so. I dig dichotomy, don't you know? Where David is Apollo, Daniel is Dionysus; where David is softly romantic, sensual and cerebral, Daniel is hard and thrusting kundalini energy. Daniel was dressed in black on Tuesday, David descended on Easter Sunday bathed in white light, white suit, white heat. 

What a nice way to pass a quiet Easter Sunday night. David J, accompanied by drummer Chris and cellist Joyce, played sweetly at The Middle East to a chosen few. It's not as though they wouldn't have liked to see the club packed -- they would have. As a matter of fact, they thought they might see the Paradise (the venue they were originally booked at) filled. But, seeing as Daniel's gig failed to sell out, David was given the shaft and cast out of Paradise only to have to scramble to book at the "Middle". Fancy getting screwed by association. Further salting the wound, there wasn't nearly enough done to promote either gig by the agency that has a clamp down on the Northeast. Hence, the slight attendance at both shows. But that's another story -- one that I guarantee will be addressed in no uncertain terms at another time.

David's new material sparkled and his set was interwoven with gorgeous pieces from his new album "Estranged", along with the older solo diamonds like "Rainbird" and "I'll Be Your Chauffeur". A newer piece called "Goth Girls in California" raised chuckles from the audience, but rather than being simply wry and tongue in cheek, the lyrics were patented David J thought provokers… (to paraphrase) "California Goth girls don't like the California sun"…and summations that dark appearances often disguise softer centers. Lurid songs of the California/Mexico border and heroin addiction provide dichotomy to an Englishman's perceptions of migrating to a new world where the sun always shines. And pleasant surprises in the set were acoustic versions of Bauhaus favorites "Hair of the Dog" and "Who Killed Mr. Moonlight" -- but just when you thought you were being lulled into a safe place, David pounces on you with a very funny, very quirky cover of "Goldfinger"!

The music was acoustic David J in the best sense. His fine cellist made each piece flow moodily and her velvet background vocals provided lovely texture. The percussion was minimalist, yet anchoring, and David was vocally in fine form. He got lovely, deep, rich tones from his Taylor acoustic guitar, which a guitarist friend of mine commented on that evening, saying in an envy-soaked voice, "Yeah, it should sound nice, those Taylors are fucking expensive." 

Seeing David J on a small stage delivering an acoustic set can't be beat, but an artist of this caliber deserves to be seen and heard. It's a rank and foul shame what happened to him on that Sunday… and just to clue you in on how much David cares about his audience and his performances, the day before the gig, he went out into Harvard Square on Brattle Street and performed an impromptu set while his road manager passed out leaflets alerting people that he would be playing after all, only not at the Paradise, but at the Middle East. 

David J's image and the bulk of his material suggests a thoughtful, introspective artist/philosopher, and his live set soothes, eases and sends you into a space that is reverie tinged with deep musings… but dig it: David is also a very funny man, with a sparkling personality and comfortable, intimate stage presence. Oh, and by the way, behind those trademark specs there lie the most beautiful, brown dancing eyes I have ever seen.

Live Report:
Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds
 The Orpheum, Boston

Darkness, light. Joy, pain. Ecstasy, madness. Life, death. Such are the dichotomies in the epic tales of life imparted by Nick Cave. And The Man raised his red right hand to the faithful in Boston on the old day of Beltane, the first of May. 

Neither the simplest of reviews, nor the most complex and soaring of paeans could ever hope to capture the experience of seeing Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds live on stage. The Horned god danced around the imaginary phallic maypole on the stage of the Orpheum this night. His spell cast the adept upon waves of bloody Dionysian passions, while the blind and heretofore uninitiated saw Orphic visions of raw delight for the first time.

The Bad Seeds meld the sounds of violin, drums, acoustic guitar, electric guitar, bass, keyboards, and piano perfectly so that each composition is executed flawlessly, from pounding and coursing to lilting and mesmeric. The maestro himself alternates between lulling the horde into submission while behind the piano, then engaging them in a wild ritual dance, pacing the length of the stage and flailing his thin rack back and forth in a ecstatic rhythm that would rival any fire ritual from any civilization in the world.

Cave takes us from primordial sex and violent heart rages to beatnik cool in a flash. Still and sophist, clad in black, bathed in ice blue light, he intones tales of love lost in postmodern posture while smoking a cigarette. Nonchalant. Hep. Intense. Unpretentious. Nick Cave. 

Pure beat minimalisms flow into plaintive, heartrending ballads, morphing into spaghetti-western apocalyptic omens. Your pulse races and falls, your senses become deluded, and you want to weep with every chord. The violin player, transported by epiphany, speaks in tongues with his bow, and you envision one lone angel, straight out of Wings of Desire, flying up out of the stage floor, straight into the light, and disintegrating, spewing divine blood and grace all over the theater. 

And all the while the band plays on, transporting you to another time, another plane. The full, rich music suggests a barren wasteland where the cracks in the sand yield beads of blood that dot the landscape like Pomegranate seeds. The passion washes through, as wastelands fade to lush green, to snow-tipped glaciers. The Bad Seeds play as if possessed, they play to Pan as if they would die, and all the while Pan himself dances a mad reel to Ares, in tribute to the rape of Aphrodite. 

The light show is sublime, courting the artist to prophesize accordingly, to emote on the cue of the Muses. The light plays upon the audience's senses left dull by concrete, dictatorial boredom, making each spectator, on cue, crack from a rugged shell and spew forth the light of inspiration, which the Master draws from them as a snake charmer pulls the cobra from a simple woven basket.

"Do You Love Me" never sounded so sensual, "Red Right Hand" never so sinister, and "God is in the House" sung on May Day could not help but bring gasps from the reverent. To close with the tender "Into My Arms" left us at once wanting more, but yet never so satisfied. 

We knew we had been initiated by fire and baptized in the ice cold blue, touched by the Red Right Hand of Nick Cave, the Master of mood. 

Live Report:
Syl Sylvain
The Middle East, Boston

Do you want to see a live rock and roll show? Do you want to see real rock and roll played live by real live musicians with a history who know how to play - who have a stage presence - who get the audience moving and singing? Well, do you? I realize that, to some of you, I'm speaking a foreign language, but listen. If you want to move your ass to something live, not on tape nor executed by some guy calling himself a star masturbating behind a turntable, then you should go and see Syl Sylvain. 

Syl Sylvain is a hell of a guitar player. His claim to fame or legend-tag is that he was in the New York Dolls…the band that started punk and killed Glam. The band that spawned the Ramones. Without the Dolls, there would be no American Punk. They are a legend…and they only recorded 2 albums. I bought 3 copies of the first album, because I wore each copy out completely.

Let me tell you, I had a blast tonight. Not only did I hear my influences paraded in a real electric, exciting and NEW way (Velvet Underground, New York Dolls, Johnny Thunders etc.) but I heard new original compositions that had old punk rockers, young twenty-something students, and thirty-something slackers, yelling, screaming, moving, dancing, and singing along. This, I tell you, is not a common occurrence. Somehow, this time, no one was too cool to interact. 

Syl Sylvain, the Elf that he is, in denim from head to toe, with a leopard patterned shirt underneath and blue suede Cuban heeled boots (oh so cool), playing a semi hollow bodied guitar (dirty, gritty, funny, sexy), has the power to get an audience to participate! I found myself with legs slightly apart, knees slightly bent, energy sent down to the floor flooding from my lower back to the soles of my feet, allowing my head to pick up the rhythm and nod back and forth in precise and quick motion… the move that was a precursor to slamming, to thrash, to mosh… all done in rhythm to "Jet Boy", my favorite New York Dolls song… and Syl plays, oh how he plays! On another song about the police, he impishly profanes "Peter Gunn" by running punk riffs over it. On another, he teases the audience by playing a piece of defiance semi acoustically while the drum kit is being put back together again and saying "They used to call that punk rock", and guess what? They were right.

Is this review a jumble? I hope so, because then it will capture the sense of fun, chaos, abandon, spirit of this show. It's true ROCK, the rock we rediscovered in 75-77 after we were convinced it had all gone away. After we were convinced that rock and roll was dead. After we thought no one could write punk garage rock like "96 Tears" or "Pushin' Too Hard" anymore, and learned we were wrong.

You baggy trousered kids, go see Syl Sylvain. You wont need E or any other designer drug. Have a stinkin' beer and a shot out of a dirty glass. Remember kids, yesterday's punk rocker is today's triumphant rebel with punk rocker sensibility. Today's trancer is tomorrow's stock broker. In that, there's NO FUTURE. No future for you.