I am running down a deadline and the music I’m listening to while writing has just shifted to Rachmaninoff, so time is ticking away along with the score. For those of you wondering if there is a contradiction when I mention a different act I’m listening to while writing in the text below, there is not. I don’t write the intros at the same time as the body of these columns, or even in the same general mental state. There’s a unique attitude for every task out there, from spreadsheets to postcards, and even though I might find syncretic points between those mediums, I still like to stray and parry.
Oh shit, now it’s Tchaikovsky, and not some of the lovely-dovey stuff, either. It’s all martial forms amid frothing romantic mood swings. In America, it broke containment from the velvet cage of the symphony hall into the primal, pop-eratic landscape the tributaries of which are fed by speakers and subwoofers wielded by feral creatures with access to an ultraviolet rainbow of organics and chemicals. Or so I have observed. Just as climbing mountains or spinning around in circles for long enough is an intoxicating experience, certain music at extreme volumes with dramatic equalization is every bit as psychedelic as the bespoke potions and poisons that gave us drum n’ bass, acid house, warehouse raves, the groovy death-march MKUltra cultural putsch, and the classic works of Aldous Huxley and Willie Nelson.
I have levitated more than a few times over the years in many different places powered by nothing more than my proximity to the speakers. I heard a gong once at the end of a set that blew through a chord built up by a packed stage of musicians, seeming to cause a thunderstorm in its wake. The only drug in my system was grief, which shed its tears with the rain.
Music is so dangerous that it has been caged and defanged since its birth. Like us, domesticated by an ugly violence inflicted by stupid lords. Its raw power has been subjected to commodification and exploitation by a confederacy of the dumbest shitheads alive in every venue where it pops up. And yet it still shifts, strays and parries. And it still fucks shit up. Hallelujah.
Thursday
The Redwood Jazz Alliance presents another promising show at the Arcata Playhouse tonight at 8 p.m. Allison, Cardenas & Nash is a trio of musicians who play bass, guitar and saxophone respectively without the assistance of a drummer, which is both more challenging and freeing than a casual listener would know. There is something absolutely golden about beat-less jazz played by musicians who listen to each other in ways plant life and schools of ocean creatures understand. I’m listening to their latest offering, Triological,while writing this, and it is a masterful tapestry that I can only imagine is fantastic live. Find out for yourself; tickets are going for a sliding scale $15-$20.
Friday
Two shows in Arcata tonight, both featuring veteran acts from either here or abroad, both going down at 8 p.m. Let’s dig further. At the Wild Hare, you will find the local flavors of Barking Dogma,Generational Trauma and Good Time Charlies.Peggy Martinezof Barking Dogma wanted to remind me to tell you that her group will be playing the music of the late, great Kevyn Dymond, and I’m happy to light that beacon, as I am fond of Peggy and find her whole deal quite delightful. The door charge is a mere $5, so roll through.
Meanwhile, the Miniplex is covering the international scene with two U.K. post-punk acts with roots in the Beggars Banquet label era of the first wave British Goth scene. The Bolshoi is now The Bolshoi Brothers, helmed by two founding members of the aforementioned act on the aforementioned label. Tourmates Theatre of Hate were also formidable figures in the dark club scene of the same era and continue to bring that undead thud and reverb to the concrete cave on Samoa Boulevard. If you want to dust off your black and stiff stuff, plunk down $20 for advanced tickets, or $25 at the door.
Saturday
Another free Shanty show on the docket tonight at 8 p.m., with three punk bands from Redding in the Swan Room spotlight. Don’t Care, Furlough Fridays and The Wokemen are all bringing the fury, but there’s a local angle, too. One of my absolute favorite local painters, Jesse Wiedel, will be jamming with the last band. Will his musical chops match his uncanny visual artistic brilliance? Only one way to find out.
Easter Sunday
From Beirut to Havana, and despite all efforts of the forces of cruelty and darkness, He is risen. As before, so again. For those of you looking for something secular to enjoy on this ancient holy day, I’d like to suggest a little musical about another odd character who emerged from a cave. The Weekly World News tabloid first reported on the West Virginia wonder in 1992, and five years later, on Halloween of 1997, the kid’s off-Broadway musical made its debut. You can enjoy a matinee production of Bat Boy: The Musical by Cal Poly Humboldt’s Department of Dance, Music and Theatre today at 2 p.m. It’s $15 or $10 for students and seniors to gawk at the freak and listen to his songs.
Monday
Nothing for tonight came across the newswire in time for my deadline, so you’re on yer own.
Tuesday
The Outer Space is hosting an indie rock show in its all-ages, sober space at 7 p.m. tonight. Traveling bands Simple Shapes from Portland and Poppyfield from Santa Cruz will converge from their respective cities to form a musical quorum with local bands Pennies for Pluto and Lxs Perdidxs for some bopping and strumming ol’ good times. The door charge is a highly negotiable $5-$20, rock on.
Wednesday
I was just the other day talking with my better half about some of the unexpected hit films from that wedge period of time at the turn of the millennium when movies had the since-extinct mix of big studio budgets, fresh I.P., and artistic freedom for visionary directors and their conspirators. One of the highlights of that bright world that was extinguished by post-9/11 venture capital, media monopolies, smartphone attention span annihilation, brain-dulling digital graphics and endless mid-brow scripts focusing on identity and trauma over plot and art direction is the unlikely hit The Cell (2000). An updated Fantastic Voyage into the mind of a serial killer played by Vincent D’Onofrio, director Tarsem Singh explores the visual majesty he would later unfurl in The Fall, along with the late costume designer Eiko Ishioka, who had previously cut her teeth for western audiences with her brilliant, flayed visions in Francis Ford Coppola’s Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1992). This is a wild ride through a lost world of colors and sensations you can see on the big screen at the Arcata Theatre Lounge tonight. Same story: Show up between 6 and 7 p.m., pay $6 to get in, or $10 to leave with a poster. The pre-Lord of the Rings score by Howard Shore alone is worth the money.
Collin Yeo (he/him) wants the feedback to kill the speakers.
This article appears in ‘Everybody’s Gotta Bring Their Skills’.