John Doe and the Sadies @ the Lion’s Lair, July 28, 2009 – Reverb
From the first plea in their opening cover of Waylon Jennings’ “Stop the World and Let Me Off,” you could feel that last Tuesday night’s set from John Doe and the Sadies at
Weaving through Denver Music, Art, Culture, and Life
From the first plea in their opening cover of Waylon Jennings’ “Stop the World and Let Me Off,” you could feel that last Tuesday night’s set from John Doe and the Sadies at
Black Francis — a.k.a. Frank Black, a.k.a. the leader of alt- and indie heroes the Pixies — is a storyteller. His ability to thread a yarn through rambling, surrealist lyrics is only exceeded by his talent in wrangling pure and simple rock that’s a worthy backdrop for them.
There are some artists that need to be alone, and then there are those that just plain can’t play with anyone else. It’s the latter group that put themselves on stage as a one-man-band — performing with total musical independence, total responsibility.
Jonathan Richman has a deeper affection for the Lion’s Lair than we thought. He played in the tiny Colfax dive-bar a year ago . . .
Portland singer-songwriter Mirah introduced herself at the Hi-Dive Sunday night by saying “My name is Mirah, and I think I’m actually wearing a bra!” In one simple, quirky sentence about a slightly provocative item of clothing, walls of listener/performer separation instantly evaporated, and we felt as close to Mirah as her skin-tight shirt.
The last time I saw Motörhead was with Black Sabbath at the Paramount Theatre, some 10 years ago, and Lemmy looked older then than he did Saturday night at the Fillmore fronting his legendary metal band.
In front of blister-fast rhythms and searing metal riffs, Valient Himself screamed songs into the mosh pit on subjects ranging from how poorly George Bush is handling this country and the Iraq war . . . .
Drew Daniel bounced around his table like an animated mad scientist leaning over his mixing boards, laptops and synths and frantically grabbing, mixing, and manipulating sounds. M.C. Smith sat at his table fingering his synth, and then strumming, scratching and hitting the strings on his guitar. Over their heads played a black and white video of a young blonde Adonis-looking character, masturbating in a hot tub.