Methamphetamines and Killing
Tuesday, May 23
What? Jay Buchanan? A mere 10 nights after we devoured his Lava Lounge gig? Because he's really that friggin' good, that's why! We needed the full-on Jay Experience again, though, for the guy is becoming like a bad, bad habit—hear him, and you'll wanna feel that good for the rest of your life, sorta like slamming the finest Chinese smack every morning before breakfast, only without the pasty skin, recessed eyeballs, social withdrawals, bad shakes, accidental pants-crappings, track marks, severe depression, convenience-store knock-overs and eventual slow, sad death in a seedy motel somewhere in Stanton. Not that we know—we're just saying. Our Jay jones was fed further by his newly acquired three-song demo, which happens to have some of his best songs—like "If You Leave" (not the bubbly old OMD tune, but a rather nasty, scary song about stalking and obsession). Jay played that one, as well as "Satan Is a Woman" (partially about methamphetamines and killing . . . ummm, trust us, he really will make you feel good!) and another where he took out a bottleneck slide and slithered it chillingly along the neck of his Gibson. It was a too-brief, six-song set, abbreviated in order to satiate the restless Record Label Scum in the audience who had oozed down from their office tops on account of Jay's buzz being no longer possible to ignore. We picked those guys out pretty easily, too; that grotesque scent—sort of a mixture of monkey vomit, rancid tuna fish, month-old nacho cheese sauce and kitty pee—seemed to trail them everywhere.
Our picture of Jay is becoming clearer: while it's true that he's for the most part quite mellow, his songs are so strong and self-sustaining that they never sink into that bland, self-indulgent, sleepyheaded mellowosity that people like James Taylor have always wallowed in (how did that shmuck get into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, anyway?). Sign him up then, label people—but you better make sure the words "100 percent creative control" are in that contract somewhere, or we'll hunt you all down and kick your arses.
Hadn't seen Mention around in a while, and we missed them. On this night, they were a sometime five-piece that included a sax player bleating sultry jazzbo grooves, meshing nicely with slower, grindier takes on older Mention tunes like "Avelisha" (which still retained its funky War vibe). They're further cementing their position as one of the area's better jam bands—calmer, more subdued, but that just means they smoldered longer. (A final shout to Vanessa, who tracked our glamorous, award-winning bootie down at this show just to tell us that she thinks we're "awesome." Thanks, Vanessa! The autograph line forms to the left. Only OC Weekly copies will be signed, no instruments, posters or memorabilia, one signature per customer, and no flash pictures, please!)
IT CRAWLED FROM THE MAIL BIN GO FORTH (THREE-SONG EP) Consarned, confusing name changes! Sometimes we need a scorecard. Take the fabulous Fred Wilson FBI, for instance, who changed their moniker to Black Market Radio and then changed it back to merely Fred Wilson, all in a span of what seemed like a week but could've been eight days. They're playing the Hub on Friday night, and you should go see them—though, for all we know, they might've changed their name again. The Go Forth situation is a bit clearer: formerly Go Forth Getters, now just Go Forth. Simple. Clear. Easy. Compact. And, even better, new and improved! The three tunes here are sweeter than anything off their last six-song EP, great rock & roll songs stuffed with radio-ready riffs and petulant, frustrated anger (line from "Head Change": "Get out! Shut up! You're breaking me! . . . Just let me breathe!"—which is basically a variation on what the argumentative young couple living down the hall from us were spewing to each other last Sunday night, except that the lovebirds referred to each other as "stupidmotherfuckinggoddamnbitch!" and "fuckinglazyworthless asshole!"). "Waste of Time" is another nifty, harmonic rant about good lovin' gone bad (or is that bad lovin' gone worse?), while "Suzie" is the disc's real charmer, sprinkled with this infectious, you-must-be-a-corpse-if-you're-not-humming-along "la-la-la" chorus that spools around an unexpected synth effect, draped across lyrics about beauty queens who had it all and screwed it all up. A heartwarming, feel-good CD, then! Well, the music is, anyway.
Send CDs, tapes and the all-important contact info to Locals Only, OC Weekly, P.O. Box 10788, Costa Mesa, CA 92627-0247.
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