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Bugs Eat Books/ Cars Can Be Blue/ M-Coast/ Oh Ok, Popfest 2006, Little Kings and 40 Watt, 8/10/06

by The Bridge
08/14/2006

I firmly believe in encouraging whatever readership we already have, rather than trying to cater to some other, more elusive demographic. Which is why I am forced to consider chiefly the interests of my loving mother, who said the following: "I read some of all of your articles, honey, but I like the ones about movies the best, because I've never heard of those bands you're always talking about..."

Well, shit. Everything I've written this past week is about local bands she doesn't know from Adam. My most loyal reader, and I'm losing her.

With this in mind, I have decided to sprinkle the rest of my Popfest coverage with liberal doses of Mommy-marketed content. Please bear with me.

My Thursday Popfesting began with the Besties, of whom I heard about half a song, having arrived late. They sounded to be in the vein of what Happy Happy Birthday To Me specializes in, the straight up cutesy-pop one either loves or avoids. The treble tones in Little Kings were ear-piercingly high, so I was thankful that the next act, local three piece Bugs Eat Books, had no keyboards going on.

They did have a wisecracking, frequently self-deprecating guitarist, whose steady stream of riffs (pun intended, with apologies) on pus and the value of his band's recordings kept the audience in a charitable humor, as did their equally light-humored set, which boasted catchy tunes ("Ian Went to New Zealand" was a standout), and a steadily chugging engine of a drummer. If the vocal harmonies were a bit discordant here and there, well, it fit the band's raggedy playground charm.

Speaking of playgrounds, my childhood was a happy time, almost idyllic in its carefree, joyous nature.

After their set, my ears were going into a feverish tinnitus fit, so I took a break. Note to Little King's band booker: maybe you should go for some more bass heavy bands, Ballpeen or something. On second thought, that'd probably be worse. Open some more damn windows. Maybe a skylight.

At about eight that evening, Cars Can Be Blue took the 40 Watt stage, and proceeded to slap the taste outta my mouth. You see, the editor of this here e-rag presented me with a copy of the CCBB's debut LP, "All The Stuff We Do," months ago, when the twosome had just moved to town, and asked me to give a listen and write a review. I took it home and listened to about three songs while flossing my teeth-something I do three times a day without fail, usually right after I eat a heaping plate of brussel sprouts - and I hated it. Couldn't even finish it. Took it back to the aforementioned Bossman and told him the town was too small for me to review the thing. "What if someone they know sees what I wrote? I haven't got anything nice to say." I mean, I'm still looking over my shoulder for angry Dan McCloskey fans (He still sucks and it isn't because he "fucked my girl," as one reader rather hilariously asserted).

But the live set I saw just goes to show you how important decent production is to an album. A sloppy job of it can be as damaging to music as having the works of Baudelaire translated by, say, Pepe Le Pew. You lose so much edge. On their album, CCBB sounded tinny and cloyingly kitschy, a one-trick pony whose one trick consisted of getting on my damned nerves. Live, they are an entirely different animal. Singer/guitarist Becky Brooks has much stronger pipes than the LP led me to believe, and the pair's showmanship and chemistry are terrific, their songs hilarious. Brooks mugs her way through a series of often potty-mouthed, always funny songs (sample lyric: "Choke me with your cock!/Spit it in my face!/Your all I wanna taste!" Believe me, this is comedic gold coming from the bespectacled, bubbly blond) like a latter day Gilda Radner. Singer/drummer Nate Mitchell, meanwhile, has the physicality of Jim Carrey coupled with the eerily intense sincerity of Andy Kaufman. All this, plus the duo covered both the Buzzcocks and the Wu-Tang Clan - no kidding, they tore it up. This would be the taste-slapped-out-of-mouth portion of the performance. We won't even discuss the disco send-up and Mitchell's candy-striped catsuit.

I spent most of the next set - townie favorites the M-Coast (a reworking of the Marshmallow Coast) - sitting at the bar, sipping on a healthy, anti-oxidant full glass of cranberry juice, wondering just what in the hell is wrong with me that I don't get their shit. There are plenty of talented folk in the band, and frontman Andy Gonzalez is reputedly some kind of genius. So why did I find the saga of where my friend bought her new boots far more compelling than actually listening to the band? I mean, I didn't even like her boots. They had these stupid pointy witch toes - I'll never understand why girls like to wear painful shit like that.

For one thing, they (the band, not the boots) didn't seem to have any discernible songs. Now I am perfectly aware that everyone who's anyone has a burn of their new album and thinks it's the bomb diggety. But it all sounded like a bunch of murky indie-wank noodling to me. "It's indie-jam rock," my pal Boots said. I nodded in agreement and showed her my new socks, which will keep my feet warm on winter evenings, insuring that I never catch my death of a cold.

As for local act Oh Ok, I have mixed feelings. I must first confess that I was previously much more familiar with Linda Stipe's current project, Flash To Bang Time, as well as Linda Hopper's Magnapop, than their popular 80's group Oh Ok, whom I had mostly only read about, having been maybe seven or so when they began playing shows. I know a few folks who are adamantly unenamoured of FTBT's shows - one guy claimed that their Popfest set "made my ears bleed." Well, it was at Little Kings, so I blame the acoustics for that particular complaint. But the thing is, both FTBT and Magnapop have a girliepop vibe that you either dig or hate. I, being a big fan of groups like Belly and the Bangles, am all for that vagina-jangle sound (now, is that the most disturbing phrase I've ever written or what?). So I was pleased to see - or hear, rather - that the uniquely organic goth quality that Stipe and her throaty vocals bring to FTBT was also present in Oh Ok's sound. As for Hopper, she continues to behave like a sort of offhand cheerleader/kitten creature onstage, which is alternately annoying and entertaining. She's one of the few performers I can think of that seems to have more edge on recordings than live. Overall, Oh Ok had solid tunes and twice the energy of anything M-Coast did, which worked out to a set that was only occasionally disappointing, at worst.

As their set drew to a close, I realized that it was bedtime and hurried down my well-lit, friendly neighborhood street and went straight to bed. After flossing. G'night, Mom.