May 2009



Skate rock (Think Sublime's genetic material crossed with that of Minor Threat) is a lot like milt. Some people get a mouthful of the creamy white stuff and think, "So this is fish sperm. Not bad!" Other people take a bite, move it around with their tongues, and then say to themselves, "Oh god, I just put fish balls in my mouth." They panic. They look for a trash can, a napkin, maybe some condiments to amend the taste. They crunch up crackers and squirt cocktail sauce directly into their gaping, fishy maws. When that doesn't work, they spit what's left into their hands and shove it in their pockets.

Record Review: Chester French's Love the Future

Washington, DC May 8, 2009 | 8:39 AM Categories: New Releases, Rock/Pop
chesterfrench-300x300.jpgIt was hard to cop a buzz from most of the northeast collegiate bands in the early oughts; the music was by and large unexceptional, and most of the musicians spent as much time in front of an easel--or wrapped around a bong--as they did practicing. But then there were the rumors coming out of Harvard: the college's most convincing band had a retro, jammy thing going on; they performed cheeky pop songs while wearing Bermuda tuxedos; their lead guitarist had a Trey-worthy tone but played with his back to the audience, Miles Davis-style, too aloof or too shy to give a proper rock 'n' roll performance.

A year later, I saw Chester French play a stuffed, sweaty Harvard venue known as the Fishbowl, and the guitarist had transformed. He gamboled about the stage, wagging his tongue at the audience and coining a curious update of the Chuck Berry duck-walk. Shredded, too. Their songs were generally OK, their stage presence above average, their ODB cover insolently upper-crust and a total slam-dunk.


Das Mötørbike: How an imaginary band became a merciless send-up of genre-flogging

Washington, DC May 8, 2009 | 8:31 AM Categories: Genres, Industry
bike.jpgAn occupational hazard in music criticism is the inevitable blurbology: over-hyphenated elevator pitches in favor of a new run of B-sides that "totally could have been A-sides" from a band seemingly defined by the number of genres it inhabits.

This was also the case in college. For example: someone mentions a group called, say, Dr. Pain and the Smooch of Death. "They're pretty cool," this person shrugs. (The shrug is always a warning sign.)

"What's it like?" you ask, bracing yourself.

"Oh, I dunno...it's, like, post-Punk-core with a dash of jizz-rock thrown in," this person will nod. You too will nod, and this person will endeavor to ply you with the grainy tracks in question; if there's weed in the room, you soldier through.


Free Radio Channels