"Just
kick my ass." The line which titles this fledgling
column comes from Marty Pufkin, the sycophant publicist
from the movie This Is Spinal Tap, portrayed
by that noted thespian and David Letterman
orchestra leader, Paul Shaffer. However, I must add
that the context in this instance is substantially
different: while Pufkin was begging for a heiny kick
as masochistic payment for his utter incompetence,
I'm pleading with the local rock 'n' roll community
to deliver unto me a metaphorical butt-booting. What
I'm looking for is revelation, epiphany or catharsis--a
pleasant surprise among those legions of local bands
that think imitation--please, no more groups that
sound like Nine Inch Nails, Pearl Jam or Dave Matthews--is
the sincerest form of flattery... or, key to success.
Musicians unafraid to take chances or buck trends are
the ones that earn my admiration and, consequently, get
rewarded with a little ink. One such band that recently
surfaced with a bang is The Real Pills, a quartet
of suit-and-tie-wearing lads from the far reaches of Idaho
that relocated to Portland to seek greener career pastures.
Quite often a band that decides to add a sartorial edge
to their stage show does so in order to mask some musical
deficiency. Not so with The Real Pills. Their turbo-charged
60s-informed garage rock is the genuine article, driven
by flailing drums and soulful, action-packed vocals. Obviously
these guys have an affinity for both brutal proto-punks
like The Sonics and somewhat more melodically inclined
noise boys like The Flamin' Groovies. Needless to say,
this isn't music that has a snowball's chance in a microwave
of being even remotely commercial, but The Real Pills
shake it up for all they're worth every time they take
the stage. If you're looking for a good time, The Real
Pills are easy to swallow.
Crack
City Rockers is another band that prides itself on
motoring under its own power without a thought given to
which way the winds of style are blowing. The Crack City
contingent are by no means the "hottest" musicians in
town, nor are they a particularly polished ensemble. Yet
CCR (not to be confused with Creedence Clearwater Revival!)
ALWAYS go out on a limb during a performance. Whether
it's singer Eric Gregory rolling around on the floor,
free associating declarations of love and bitterness while
his guitar feeds back, whines and eventually falls over,
or the rest of the band blasting away behind him amidst
a flurry of sweat and warm beer residue lashing about
like an unexpected rain storm, this is one band that makes
certain every note's expended, even if its a clinker.
Gregory is a disciple of the Lou Reed/Richard Hell school
of face-down-in-the-gutter poets, who forge a tough relationship
between their uncontrollable desires (LUST!) and the mean
streets around them. On songs like "Hey World" and "I
Know What Cities Know," Gregory is a defiant but wounded
character looking for a healing love while trying to keep
his wits and his defenses in good working order.
In both cases, what we have here is rock without the slightest
whiff of artifice, something we're in short supply of.
For bands that actually love music, it's a matter of necessity,
the need to vent the demons that drive you and not a series
of calculated career moves. It's like looking for a true
Christian--one that prays and performs charitable acts
because they are truly inclined to do so, as opposed to
a hypocrite consciously working towards a heavenly reward
(sorry for waxing metaphysical).
Peace.
