By Alejandra Loera
By Adam Lovinus
By Gustavo Arellano
By Nate Jackson
By Marcus Alan Goldberg
By Reyan Ali
By Gustavo Arellano
By Nate Jackson
Doom Kounty Electric Chair/Third Grade Teacher at Club Mesa, Tuesday, Jan. 19
So it was Tuesday, and Third Grade Teacher were playing just down the street, and we had such a soopa-doopa whup-ass time at their show at Linda's Doll Hut a ways back, and we had nothing better to do, and it was a free show, anyway, which was perfect because we were broke as hell even though we would have gladly paid money to get in if we had it, and damn this coffee sure is hella strong!
Not like we needed the java to stay awake, though, since Third Grade Teacher belter Sabrina's mucous-curdling, Linda Blair-in-The Exorcist impersonation is basically an aural slap upside the noggin. We didn't get the full-on, writhe-around-the-stage treatment she usually gives-well, it was only a Tuesday-but it's okay; we'll be back again the next time they come down from LA. And so should you! So should everybody! You will all watch closely for their next OC show, or, as Sabrina is so often fond of hollering, SHE'S GONNA THROW YOUR ASS AGAINST A FUCKIN' WAAAAALL! (Bear in mind that Sabrina's a real, honest-to-God third-grade teach. Cool, or what? Please discipline us, oh Great Rock Goddess!)
Third Grade Teacher were so intense that their bass player snapped a string, and Doom Kounty Electric Chair were kind enough to loan them one of theirs. (CAUTION-END OF POSITIVE DOOM KOUNTY REVIEW SEGMENT.) But everything else of Doom Kounty's pretty much blew. Several people we've talked to in the past few months think Doom Kounty are all that, but, jeez, all what?!? There's nothing there! Nothing, we say! This trio just pinched tired old loafs of that regurgitated grunge stuff-basically, a Stone Temple Pilots clone, and who needs that? We could be generous by saying that they did have a bit of the Reverend Horton Heat fire to 'em, but if you're into that, you oughta just wait around for the real Rev to come back. Yeah, we've heard they have quite a little following and all, but sorry, we just can't stick our privates into their glory holes. Were they hard? Yup. Were they fast? Uh-huh. Were they loud? Oh, yeah. Were they anything that anyone hasn't seen or heard a bazillion times before? Nope! And that name-so easy to make light of! Howzabout a change to something even more awkward and pretentious, like, oh . . . Doom Kounty Excruciatingly Painful Disembowelment?
A whole buncha bands at Chain Reaction, Saturday, Jan. 23
Selected minutes from the two-months-late Localer Than EverCD-release blowout. You shoulda been there.
4:44 p.m.: We arrive late. As usual. The Irish Brothers are onstage, covering Johnny Cash. Gonna be a good night. Yup.
5:07 p.m.: The White Liars are blowing out music to wreck trains by. Heavy. They also do a song about their bass player's penis. Classy. Sorta.
5:17 p.m.: Somebody tells us: "That's the great thing about being a writer. No one knows what you look like." Yup.
5:48 p.m.: We find a comfy spot leaning against the Street Fighter II machine during Relish's set. People tell us they're surprised; they thought Relish were all quiet and airy. Actually, Relish can be noisy and fierce-like they are right now. Mass Relish conversions are occurring.
7:05 p.m.: Lo-Fi Champion is expanded to an electric trio. They rule. People talk. Must. Have. Tape. Must. Have. Tape. Must. Have . . .
7:58 p.m.: Someone from a band lathers us up with compliments. "OC Weekly's the shit! Down with Disney!" Yup.
8:15 p.m.: Charley's too-bitchen-for-mere-adjectives rock causes jaws to drop indiscriminately.
9:01 p.m.: Big Saver are much better live than their CD gives them credit for. Flute rock. Yup.
9:37 p.m.: Smear play "Disco Porn"-all Afro-wigged and smoke-machined out-and a "Material Girl" cover. People hoot.
10:10 p.m.: Hordes of people are falling deeply in love with the sweet funk of 00 Soul. It's not hard.
10:39 p.m.: Two people from a band not on the bill tell us that we wrote about them. We nod like we remember, even though we don't. They say friendly "thank-yous," so we guess we must have liked them. Otherwise, they probably would have kicked us in our marble sack.
11:46 p.m.: The Fireants inspire overheard comments of love ("They're awesome! We gotta do some shows with them!") and derision ("That girl is really annoying me").
12:50 a.m.: Overbored piss out a new tune, "Lewinsky Blues." Show over.
12:51 a.m.: We start thinking of bands for the just-approved Localer Than Ever Volume 2 compilation, which will be coming in July. Yup.
Send tapes, CDs, show dates and comp tickets that we'll just turn around and scalp to Locals Only,OC Weekly, P.O. Box 10788, Costa Mesa, CA 92627-0247.
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