REVIEW: BLACKOUT - WE ARE HERE

I recently had the privilege of seeing Brooklyn’s own psychedelic doom trio Blackout open for Naam and Radkey over at Saint Vitus, and was thrilled to see they have an album coming out soon. While I’m 90% sure their moniker refers to a state of devastating intoxication, on the off-chance they refer to the sunlight-blocking curtains I had to mention that I absolutely approve. As a former insomniac who lived on a vampire’s sleeping schedule for over two years, blackout curtains are my second favorite invention (following the machines that press gummy candies into delightful shapes).

Rumbling into town with the transcendental “Indian,” Blackout remind me a bit of YOB or Acid King in spirit, or Windhand if they were fried in leftover burger grease and liquid PCP. Blackout’s brand of doom is less inclined to conjure woodland spirits with majestic occult hymns than it is to drink a keg of Brooklyn Lager in fifteen minutes flat and turn the empty barrel into an oaky bong. A dirty rock’n’roll energy swaggers into the fray about halfway through “Amnesia,” and that’s where the album really hits its rebellious stride. This raucous attitude is especially prevalent on “Columbus,” which sounds like a severely tranquilized convergence of Melvins and Sleep’s Holy Mountain, and the superb closer “Seven.” The rhythms are occasionally a little stiff, but when they kick into mid-tempo there’s a noticeable increase in comfort and confidence. Blackout may be massively informed by the crunchiest forms of doom, but at its smoky core it’s a rock record that lights blunts over desert campfires, guzzles rye whiskey from a motorcycle gas tank, and happens to be really fucking heavy.

The previously mentioned “Seven” is a 9+ minute rocking slog through a quagmire of peyote-infused swamp water. The track is a hydroponic garden of groovy, burly riffs that take a break from smashing bar stools in pub fights for a trippy interlude. They end the song chewing on a lean, mean riff for a solid three minutes, because it’s god damn tasty enough to warrant those three minutes. While there are some droning qualities to We Are Here, it’s explored organically and never feels tedious.

The band’s performances are solid, avoiding distracting technicality in favor of letting the song’s breathe and prowl on their own. From Christian Gordy’s vocals that feel like a sonic projection of an out-of-body experience, to Taryn Waldman’s steady, dependable percussion, to Justin Sherrell’s enormous bass tone, Blackout are definitely more focused on crafting a gigantic sound than technical wizardry. To me, that’s how doom should be: Creating music so massive you can’t fathom its source. I’ll definitely pay to see Blackout play again, and after you creeps give We Are Here a listen I hope you’ll be there headbanging next to me with a brew in hand.

Listen to 3 of the 6 songs off We Are Here over at Bandcamp at this very moment, and see how the healing powers of rock’n’roll turn your day from dogshit to delightfulfuntimebestdayever:  http://blackout666.bandcamp.com/

And keep up to date with upcoming shows and merch over on their Facebook page:  https://www.facebook.com/BlackoutNYC

CONCERT REVIEW: CARCASS and IMMOLATION

Carcass

Saint Vitus in Brooklyn, a venue perhaps too cozy (despite being the headquarters of the New York metal scene) for titans like Carcass and Immolation. The tickets sold-out in less than ten minutes, and thanks to my buddy Ellie (whose Noothgrush back patch made her the belle o’ the ball), I was able to snag a ticket. After getting a new drink special (Storming the Castle: One Newcastle pint and a shot of Jameson Black) I perched at the front of the stage like a gargoyle.

I saw Immolation play at the Decibel Magazine Tour this past summer, but they treated the crowd to several new songs off their upcoming album, as well as “God Complex,” which they played live for the first time. Ross Dolan (vocals/bass) pre-emptively apologized in case they “fucked up.” Fucked up they didn’t. It took half a song for drummer Steve Shalaty to warm up, but once he got locked in the whole band worked together like an efficient killing machine.

Despite their fantastic performance playing song from their whole discography (though understandably leaning on Kingdom of Conspiracy), the crowd was a bit mild, except for one very vocal audience member claiming to be a fan from the “old days.” Dolan sized him up and replied, “You were born after we recorded our demo.” Closing with a new track called “All That Awaits Us,” Immolation’s new material sounds amazing, with even more drastic tempo shifts and dangerous groove mixed with their signature technicality.

Immolation

A brief intermission where I refuse to leave my spot, enjoying Slaughter of the Soul playing over the Saint Vitus speakers. I eat an obscene number of gummy dinosaurs. Then: Carcass.

“So Williamsburg, I remember when you were just called Brooklyn,” quips Jeff Walker, snarling frontman/bassist of Carcass.

I had the pleasure of interviewing Walker in the past month for Girls and Corpses Magazine, an article which will be included in their Winter Issue. Walker continued his playful antagonization of the audience by inquiring, “Are the guys from MetalSucks here?” After silence from the crowd: “Didn’t think so. They’re a bunch of poseurs.” Unfortunately he didn’t ask if Decibel Magazine staff was present, or I would have humiliated myself by raising my hand silently like I was in social studies class.

While Walker was having a blast skewering the crowd with barbed words, Bill Steer (lead guitar) was caught between smirking and grinning the whole night. Along with new members Ben Ash (guitar) and Daniel Wilding (drums), they raged through songs from Reek of Putrefaction to Surgical Steel, insisting with a smile they’re playing new stuff because their record label was present. “Wait ten years, and you’ll be calling that a classic,” Walker said after completing their most recent single, “Captive Bolt Pistol.” Kicking out greasy death’n’roll and goregrind in equal measure, the crowd barely had enough room to headbang or mosh without causing constant concussions, but what’s a little brain bruising when it’s CARCASS? Playing with a slideshow of penises plagued by venereal diseases in the background, the band members seemed to have as much fun as the crowd.

“Our last song is off the album you love to hate,” promised Walker. The song: “Keep on Rotting in the Free World” off of Swansong. That track was my first introduction to Carcass, which I heard on an Earache Records sampler when I was in junior high. I discuss this more in my Girls and Corpses piece, but my fondness for that song is undying, and it was an entirely appropriate way to end the evening. Here's the Carcass set list for the night:

Pro tip: Click to enlarge.

While Carcass are only making a few brief stops here in the states, Walker promised a “proper tour” in the Spring. That’s enough notice, so save your pennies, gorehounds.

In the meantime, buy Surgical Steel and support the return of this legendary band. While you’re at it, pick up Kingdom of Conspiracy too. Both of these albums are on my current top 40 list for the year, and come highly recommended.

Surgical Steel can be purchased from Nuclear Blast Records here: http://www.nuclearblast.de/en/label/music/band/discography/details/3075960.3025043.surgical-steel.html

And Immolation’s most recent album is waiting to punch your cerebellum here:

http://www.nuclearblast.de/en/label/music/band/about/71092.immolation.html 

REVIEW: PUMPS BAR

Mister Growl doesn’t yelp, let’s get that straight. Yelping is a sound too sissified to come from my masculine vocal cords. I have been known to yawp, however. My personal “Yelp” ban left me with only one possible course of action after recently visiting Pumps in Brooklyn: Write about the city’s only rock’n’roll strip joint on my metal blog. It’s not like my friends and fellow headbangers would mind, I mean strip clubs have been an important element of rock excess for 30 years. Where would Mötley Crüe be without strip clubs? And where would we all be without Mötley Crüe, besides maybe just a smidge happier and a lot more sober? As a non-ironic fan of clubs, especially ones with character and rock attitude, I will even excuse Crüe’s entire discography if it means one more place like Pumps in the world.

Pumps is tucked away on a dreary stretch of road that Bushwick seemingly doesn’t want to claim, so people started calling it East Williamsburg. There’s broken glass on the sidewalks and foreboding factories leering down at pedestrians until the glow of a neighboring gas station lures patrons closer, like that famous dock light from The Great Gatsby that Baz Luhrmann will recreate using atrocious CGI. The locale is not hip, it’s not fabulous, but it’s the exact quiet walk you need before and after a trip to a strip club to think of The Greater Truths. The ten minute walk (if you have short legs) from the nearest subway is perfect for an internal monologue about how the stigma of these establishments is just a hypocritical view of “evil” capitalism. Truth be told: Strip clubs offer a service. If the service does not interest you, move on. No need to demonize the patrons, the owner, and especially the workers. Everyone’s gotta make a living. I’m lucky enough to make a few bucks writing about metal albums, and those are the cleanest dollars I make. My day job is no better than someone shedding a little clothing to a song off ...And Justice For All.

Which they do at Pumps. I walked in with Metallica’s “One” playing loudly and three topless dancers performing in front of a long mirror, creating the illusion that the venue is twice the size. After the initial M.C Escher mirror mind-trick I was able to take in the layout: A long bar with 2 female tenders sliding drinks to eager customers and one long aisle to walk behind the stool-perched patrons lining the counter with a narrow lap dance lounge separated from the main room by a curtain of beads. Two beautiful motorcycles hang from the ceiling with assorted rock/sports related posters and knick-knacks decorating the walls. The dancers take turns twisting around two poles, leaving one to freestyle against the mirror or on the floor of the platform. There’s a refreshingly blunt streaming neon sign over the bar reading “If you don’t have money take your broke ass home!”

Which takes me back to this being a service. Remember, most services cost money. I don’t know what your job is, dear reader, but I assume you would not do your job for free, unless you’re a lowly intern, which means that you have all my sympathy. Unless you wander into Pumps without the ability or desire to spend some money, then my sympathy dries up like a mummified vagina. There’s no cover, which is awesome and increasingly rare, unless you get some glossy postcard for a Times Square strip club and enter a place before 7PM, which I’m not against but will definitely limit your ability to accurately enjoy the full splendor of any establishment. Beers are $7, stronger drinks are $10 or so. The bartenders live off of tips, as do the dancers. After each song the dancers on stage will stroll around the bar, say hello, and ask for a sign of your appreciation, which is a dollar amount of your choosing, as long as it’s one or above. Some will gripe about this practice, as there’s usually more distance between seats and the stage, affording customers less anonymity and privacy. I personally love it, and it makes the experience more personal and closes that gap between performer and patron. This is a small place to begin with, so it’s not like you’re gonna find a dark corner and camouflage yourself to ogle without detection. Cough up some cash and treat everyone right, which includes polite tipping and staying respectful. Lap dances are available for the standard $20, but the dancers are not topless, which I admit is a bummer. Still, if you want some conversation and friction this is a promising opportunity. You’re also welcome to buy a dancer a drink if you’d prefer more conversation and less friction, and they will usually opt for a $20 glass of champagne. These prices are pretty standard for this industry, so if you’re rolling your eyes at them you have my permission to stay at home and peruse the internet for nudity, which should take an exhausting .6 second Google search.

The staff of dancers is eclectic but leans toward Suicide Girl territory, with body mods abound and Manic Panic hair moving brightly in the black light. Still, if you’re searching for a certain body type or ethnicity they are very likely represented on a weekend night. All of the dancers were very friendly, offering chit chat if it was sought, or vaster discussions about art if you pay for their time. I won’t mention any names (since aliases mutate regularly in this business anyway), but the staff in general were fun and laid-back, cracking jokes about their Catholic roots while Rage Against the Machine blasted in the background.

One extremely talented performer, a dark-haired beauty named Mia, invited me to a Pumps-hosted event later in the week featuring an art exhibit and a burlesque show. I used to frequent Dr. Sketchy’s Anti-Art School over at the Slipper Room, my favorite burlesque joint in the city, so the union of art and burlesque is totally my jam. I will cover Aubrey Roemer’s dynamic work soon as a featured artist on this blog, so stay tuned for that, because it features the Pumps Pin-Ups.

Anyway, I’m one of those annoying guys who is fifteen minutes early for everything, including the art exhibit. The Pumps owner (or manager, unsure which) was kind enough to not only open the doors to me, but give me a drink on the house for being the early bird eating the fuck out of the worm. He then said, “If you were wearing a Pumps shirt I’d have given you two beers.” I was wearing the Down “smoking Jesus” shirt. Frowny face. Still, little gestures like that are what make a business part of the community, and it did not go ignored. The burlesque show was sassy fun, showing off the singing/dancing/teasing talents of the Pumps Pin-Ups with smiles abound. Burlesque is one of my favorite forms of entertainment and they nailed the mischievous, playful tone that makes it so appealing.

I definitely recommend Pumps to anyone seeking a gentleman’s club experience more in line with my own blue collar working attitude. Scores may get all the Yankee players, and they can keep ‘em. Pumps get the rockers and metalheads who stop by Duff’s and Saint Vitus, though the clientele is diverse as well. I see Pumps as a positive life experience, one that discards the bells and whistles of polished, upscale clubs and succeeds with quality talent, personality, and a playlist that rocks harder than any other club in the city. It may not be glamorous and it may not be the Vegas strip, but I know Crüe would approve, and they’re pretty much the Roger Ebert of strip club opinions and insight.

Get more information on Pumps over on their site, including the address and happy hour times (with $4 beers, which is totally solid):  http://pumpsbar.com/

REVIEW: WHITE WIDOWS - S/T

It’s hard to look at releases from Sacrament Music without thinking first of Saint Vitus, Brooklyn’s own headquarters for heavy music that dethroned Duff’s as the borough’s premier metal bar. The venue’s success is absolutely deserved and a testament to both the dedication of their ownership and staff as well as the passion of heavy music fans. After landing a string of impressive acts such as Eyehategod, Torche, and even their own name-sake, the venue has established itself as an essential East Coast destination for every band with true street cred. If you’re a fan of any sort of rock music you will feel like you’re home as soon as you step foot in Saint Vitus. It’s more welcoming than any establishment with black walls has a right to be.

White Widows’ self-titled debut is the second release from Sacrament Music, Saint Vitus’ own record label, and it’s a tough-as-coffin nails slab of metallic New York hardcore that could bruise you with a stare and obliterate you with a single punch. The six track album is an inventive and relentless attack, daring otherwise stationary crowds to just try and remain still while this shit is being played. With members from great live bands such as Primitive Weapons and Goes Cube, this is music that really should be seen on the stage. The mix is great but you can’t replicate the sweat and sway of a rabid audience, no matter how intense the performances are. Vocalist David Castillo is a truly charismatic frontman, skinning the front row raw with his screams and encouraging the masses to show their ugly side.

While the music is deeply rooted in hardcore this is an album rich with stylistic strokes that defy genre limitations (See: the shredding guitar solos on opener “Ace Rothstien,” guest vocals courtesy of Brendan Garrone from Incendiary on “El Marrano,” and the grimy gutter blues on both “Slow Burn” and “Sin Taxes”). White Widows are not one-dimensional knuckle-scrapers, they have a hundred different weapons at their disposal and they are lethally trained with all of them. They also mix speeds to great effect, triggering riots with thrashing punk riffs before slamming the breaks with sludgy breakdowns. Listening to this, I can picture the circle pits forming, the slam of bodies spreading wall to wall, the music possessing someone and encouraging them to dive from an amp stack into the crowd below. As I said before, you can’t always replicate live energy, but White Widows are willing to maim you trying. This album, if nothing else, is all the inspiration someone should need to see this band in person.

Speaking of, they will be playing in Brooklyn this coming weekend (Saturday, 3/09 at The Acheron in Brooklyn), as well as next month (4/20 at the Knitting Factory w/ Black Breath and Mutilation Rites). If you’re in the NYC area: Whatever plans you have that may interfere with seeing one of these shows, cancel them. if you need an excuse tell them Mister Growl will eat your brain-meat if you miss a chance to support this band, because you’re obviously not properly using that organ if you let these chances go by.


Listen to their album streaming now on Brooklyn Vegan: http://www.brooklynvegan.com/archives/2013/03/white_widows_we.html

And follow them over on their Facebook page here: https://www.facebook.com/whitewidowsNYC

REVIEW: VAPORIZER - S/T

In a world where genres are hacked to pieces and stitched back together with hyphens I can easily say that Vaporizer are heavy metal. If you go hunting for sub-genres you will find them, but this is honest metal raised on meat, potatoes, and the wackiest of tobaccy.

Born in (the blackest forests surrounding) Burlington, VT, this quintet has vowed to “worship the weed god” and “party forever,” as their Facebook page reiterates multiple times. This is no trivial quest and lives have been dedicated to far less. The songs on their six track EP are crafted from an immortal love for the deity of reefer, a romance frowned upon in some (or most) states. I mean, who says you can’t love the dried version of a plant? I heard a lady was trying her damnedest to legally marry a roller coaster in Pennsylvania, and I can even appreciate the romance in that.

But this undying Peter Parker-esque adoration for Mary Jane has not at all softened the tales of treacherous woodlands and lethal creatures catalogued on their album. These songs pummel you into the battlefield soil and heal you with just enough melody to build your strength and trample you again. Songs like “Horn of the Narwhal” and “Beast With two Backs” feel like they could put you in a headlock so tight they could pop your tiny little noggin straight off your spine, but they might just give you a noogie and offer you a toke. The songs have muscle and momentum, they gallop into battle and don’t stop to enjoy the scenery. They enchant listeners with equal shares of melodic grandeur, neck-breaking groove and gut-punching ferocity with a true sense of purpose: Rocking you so hard you spill your Switchback Ale all over yourself.

Vocalist Dan Davidson sounds like an ancient warlock driven to the precipice of insanity. His range is impressive, from the gnarliest grunts to raspy shrieks that offer hints of Chance Garnette’s best work with Skeletonwitch. If you didn’t fear a narwhal before, Mr. Davidson will make you shit your britches when the beast appears in their song. I also need to say this band’s merch is gorgeously drawn by their talented drummer, Eli Wood. As a drummer and illustrator, though not nearly as skilled, I couldn’t let that plug squirm away from me. As for the guitars: They cut through cannon smoke and deliver massive hooks that you’ll hum hours after the battle ends. These guys have the chops and ingenuity to write no-nonsense metal anthems that feel totally effortless, when they’re anything but. These songs may not change your life, but they will give you a totally awesome buzz.

In the end, Vaporizer feel absolutely sincere while still playing with a smile on their faces, they’re aggressive without projecting menace. I was lucky enough to catch Vaporizer playing with Vektor recently at Saint Vitus, my absolute favorite haunt in the NYC area. They were playing on Valentine’s Day and while I don’t celebrate this holiday my girlfriend did accompany me for her very first metal show. Even she, who grimaces at the growls and screams of most extreme music acts, came away looking to endorse Vaporizer’s music. I guess if I was forced at sabre-point to pick a genre for Vaporizer it would be Gateway Metal. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

Go listen to Vaporizer immediately at: http://vaporizer.bandcamp.com/
And learn more about these crazy gents at: http://www.vaporizermetal.com/