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Triple Thick, Martin, Morrell and Fredette The Midway, JP, MA Oct 5, 2019 Brandie Blaze, Crow Follow, Spectramotiv The Lily Pad, Cambridge, MA Oct 12, 2019
Life derailed my laptop last week. When I got it going, I found these stragglers looking for the light of day. Waste not, want not. Triple Thick raised its Hydra head at the Midway Matinee on Saturday 10/5. Mitch and Henry tag-teamed the vocals. They didn’t use their hiatus to integrate synthesizers and a horn section, although there were a few more harmonies than I remember. They tore through Chicken, Back Road, and Bar Crawl. They threw in Dead Moon's, Walking on My Grave. Roky Erikson's I Think of Demons whispered voices into our heads in prep for the band’s upcoming, tip of the third eye, to the man. Roky doppelganger Kenne Highland will handle the voices at Union Tavern on 10/24.
Martin, Morrell, and Fredette deal in pop-rock originals and covers. It's a quick press blurb to orient the reader but it fails to do them justice. Their individual bona fides are impeccable. These guys have a local rock lineage that would challenge the aforementioned Kenne Highland's genealogical myth-making. Martin hits all the genre twists with a pliable, keening tenor. He can pop on, rock out, nail Bachrach and David and still have the bandwidth for a dive into the 3/4 heart of things. Dave Fredette's guitar winds it's way through the setlist’s personality changes from soft strum to velvet spaz - always on the money. He kicks a box and out jumps a blast of synthed up organ that adds another gun to his well-stocked arsenal.
Given the upfront firepower, it's surprising that it's the man in the back, Steve Morrell on drums, who quietly keeps up the demand for attention. His use of dynamics is fantastic. He drops down to a hint of pitter-patter to emphasize the bottom dropping out of a tune and rides the swell up and down before the fourth beat slips away. The next tune he locks into overdrive with snare cracks and cymbal splashes for a Velvets crank fast. On 10/12 Tim Sprague put together a buzzy, eclectic show at the Lily Pad. It was a benefit for immigrant rights at our Southern border. In the introduction, Sprague told a story about how he puts together a show. “(He) checks out recent bills and looks up the bands he doesn't know. He gives them a listen and tries to find something that draws him to the fire". I suspect he singed his eyebrows off with this Lily Pad bill. It’s a great room for this kind of thing, with its boho art space atmosphere, low key staff, and solid sound.
Brandie Blaze is a Dorchester gal decked out in camouflage with a laptop that spits out her hip hop beats. She is missing her usual DJ for the night but she had no problem holding down the floor. She showers the decent-sized audience with sex and relationship politics, mentioned pussy more times than Ron Jeremy in full flight, and got the Lily Pads' mostly lily-white crowd to buck their hips and move their gangly arms. She was tough but big-hearted, confrontational, but nod and wink charming. Big beats. Big voice. Big smile. Big fun. You can find her jams in the usual places.
Crow Follow is up next. Since I'm in the band I can unequivocally say that they were excellent, superb, and galvanizing. Just kidding, they sucked. Just kidding... How the hell do you review a band your playing in? They rock the low thing. They tip the hat to Dana Colley, Tom Waites, the Beat crowd and Albert Ayler. Ms. Blaze jumped up for a little impromptu rapperramma during the tune 54.
Spectramotiv was the wild card of the night. Lead vocalist Bedouin Punk is no holds barred political voice agitating around the blogosphere. She sticks her stake into ground three standard deviations out on the left skew. She doesn't give a fuck what anyone thinks. She has her truth to tell. I wondered how it would translate to the stage.
Live, Lady Bedouin wraps her Fertile Crescent centric and fertile triangle personal politics into a distorted maelstrom of squalling Suicide guitar and sequencer beats courtesy of Andrew Abrahamson and howling bass compliments of Tall Jon. The insistent EMD bleats and beats are wrenched. Lady B spews no-wave vocals. What if Valarie Solanis had an international agenda manifesto and a microphone instead of a typewriter? She bends and contorts herself. She sits, she stands, she arches back, she lurches right and left. She eggs on her guitar player. She dances with death and the crowd. She uses an arresting Arabic Zaghrouta technique on some of her synth program twirled vocals - an unusual sound in these parts. Avant Bedouin Punk. The show crosses borders, boundaries and conventions. Live, the clash of styles is in your face and has a palpable energy. Absolutely not the same old shit. Let's see more of these crazy on paper bookings in the future. They raised almost $400 for the cause.
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