The music of Rising Appalachia seems intent on taking you to places. Places that are off the main roads, overgrown with kudzu, under the lazy glow of june bugs rising from beneath the porch swing. Their regional affiliations are alluded to in the band’s name, and as their set slowly unfolded recently at the 930 Club, they took the audience on a tour of the hazy south east.
In his recordings, Oakland, California’s The Soft Moon, aka Luis Vasquez, sounds distant and submerged, stitching together a mosaic of murky shapes on frameless canvasses. Amidst a backdrop of ominous tones and layered guitars, the heavily treated vocal parts often seem to emerge from the vortex of sound like leaves in an updraft. It’s the kind of technique that works well in the studio, but can be difficult to present live. So as I awaited their set Sunday night at DC9, I was curious to see how it translated to the stage.
Witnessing Of Montreal’s live show, both on this current tour and on tour in 2016, has magnified my appreciation for the band immensely. I happened into their music through hearing tracks in the sets of DJs I admire, and I attended my first show as a bit of a lark. Expecting to see an eclectic sounding indie rock band drop some catchy tunes in an unassuming fashion, I was instead treated to a spectacle of theatrics and mania.
Better prepared for their elaborate production this past Sunday at 9:30 Club, I am ready for immersion in the experience.
The last week of 2017 will be remembered as a cold one. I’m not very fond of winter and I spend most of it grousing. So I found myself, somewhat sullen in mood, entering the State Theatre on the last Saturday before the New Year to encounter — warmth!
I’m not just talking about the toasty temperature of the State Theatre itself; I’m referring to the mood being set by the band on the stage. Dirty Dozen Brass Band (DDBB) had come to Falls Church this evening as part of their 40th Anniversary tour, and they were throwing down a piping hot musical stew of New Orleans Jazz over a bed of sizzling funk that turned this otherwise icy patch of Northern Virginia into summertime on the Bayou.
I don’t consider myself to be a Christmas Curmudgeon; I’m not a hipster Grinch. While I often rise to a level of pretentiousness that rejects many forms of sentimentality, I do embrace the spirit of the holiday season.
Having said that, I will go out of my way to avoid most Christmas music. I’ve got a few faves, but most of it inspires in me the same negative reaction that I feel toward showtunes. But the Reverend Horton Heat very much changed my attitude toward Christmas music at 9:30 Club on Sunday.
I vividly remember the friend who put me on to the music of the Stray Cats 30+ years ago, as he was living the zeitgeist of the ’80s rockabilly revival. I was in Rochester, New York, attending RIT, and he’d come up from Jersey to attend school there as well. He had the greaser haircut, the leather jacket, rolled up cuffs on his jeans, cigarettes under his T-shirt sleeve, and designs on marrying his still virginal high school sweetheart once he got his degree.
The Stray Cats were in constant rotation in his dorm room, and he said to me once, “Y’know, even if this whole rockabilly scene fades away tomorrow, this guy Setzer’s still got a job for life.” He was referring to Stray Cats frontman Brian Setzer’s formidable talent as a guitarist. It was clearly evident back then, even if Setzer’s stylistic trappings were a little different from rock hero contemporaries like Eddie Van Halen or Yngwie Malmsteen.
I suspect the inclusion of Lucinda Williams among my favorite artists stood out a little on my (now deleted) dating profile, buried as it was among a list that heavily favored new wave, electronic, and industrial artists.
The contrast in genres was apparently notable enough that visitors commented on it more than once. But then my appreciation for Lucinda’s music did in fact arise out of a specific set of circumstances, absent which I might not have discovered her at all.