Show notes

First band—no name. Forced? Post-nuggets. Hlaway through set.

This is the Detroit I miss. They could be any number of opening bands for the sights or SRC or Dirtbombs or Come Ons or Paybackds or Wackswings. Sharp power pop. Lead signer looks like Jason Schwartzman without nose.

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The Makeout Party:

Bassist looks like a yearbook photo from 1982. Poodle.

Charming twee punk. Elvis Costello. Remind me of Rants.

Trebbly and bouncy. C86? Listen. Ramones if they wanted to meet your parents. Richman—later Richman. Pop Project too.
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Non-ironic call for birthday suits in banter. Mic out oh no!

n Sound like the Jame without any punk attitude. No Tube Station. Or unrestUnrest.
“Not political, but that’s like complaining about the lack of tits on a horse.”

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We’re on song five, I think. OK, but the first band was better. It’s a flurry of upfront dancing, like the high school everyone imagines after they know what hip is.

--The soft, sensitive vocals give the impression, tied up with the previous note, that they’re playing at being younger than they are, like Saved By The Bell actors.

--All in pants so tight, ‘70s tight, but the bassist is the only one with a sizable cock showing. Explains his pinched banter voice though. Sounds like Emo Phillips. Gets the girls dancing though.

--Wish they had a lead guitar.

--Then they say “we haven’t played it in foreverver—inagoddadavida!” and launch into a stop-start guitar part with verve and they’re fucking on! Then it ends.
Raspberry

--The girl with the camera only wants photos of the bassist.

--Teenbeat! Tiger Beat! Air Miami!

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DJs between sets. All the cute girls do The Roach from Hairspray.
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Fucking garter socks from the son-of-a-bitch in argyle golf shit. You ain’t bringin’ that back.
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The breakdown of formal America=people can only freak dance.

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Luckily, drunk driving is not a crime in LA.
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The DJ playing bullshit does enforce my Detroit rock chauvinism.
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Rolling blackouts, no vocals all backbeat=awesome.

This is the kind of music that needs to be live. It needs the rattle and hum and dancing (not so much the persistent feedback). But this fits in exactly with what’s been Djed: the Sonics.
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And puss out second song.

Still second song—as soon as you notice yourself going deaf, every song is “Do I want to put my hearing into this?”
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Third song—I really do believe the chick with the big tits is gonna fuck the blonde guy with Jew nose. He’s been jealously guarding her as she flits around the dancefloor, grinding on everyone. He’s got that groping desperation, though.

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“Seriously, LA, this is the Rolling Blackouts. It’s ridiculous, what’s going on… in society. The Rolling Blackouts!” interstitial from club owner.
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Country rock tune w/swing. Second guitar part finally. This is where they could use feedback washes to help ‘em not sound like the Meat Puppets. When he hits “ALRIGHT!” stretched out and broken, that’s where they could go. Don’t stop now!
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Amy and I gotta start a band to kill corny LA fux.
(Not a song)
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Next song after country above = Stones “Let’s spend the night together”+The Who’s “Can’t Explain.” See, where other folks knock ‘em for theft, I love BRAZEN. Also, early Stipe vox sometimes. Stopped the dancing though.
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Speed to velocity=derivative.
--Kinda a mediocre mid-tempo with a spot of marching (I dunno 4-4 bah bah bah bah w/pauses staccato? Up and down bass, minimal backbeat, same melodies vox+guitar+bass.
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Big tits is dancing again—relaxed, Police groove, but not skabeat (guitar counterpoint goes “ska.” Also, this song = great, simple hook. Up and down. B-side. Excellent harm?
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Reggie the Renegade Alligator “Crocodile Tears” calypso beat totally New Wave Joe Jackson morning papers? Sunday papers?
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Big tits is dancing with Newsies cap girl. Hot. Jew nose is dancing with newsies cap. Not hot.
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Compression wars to live=no dynamic range. Pushing all to max always. Yes, lead guitar part!
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Another song, but I barely notice until it’s halfway through. There’s a Sheffield woman, two over from me. Not even as high as my nipples. Ad still a hipster Joan Jett mullet. The crowd’s given up.
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Fuck yeah, like Jet but right, couldn’t even write during.
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That Jet thing comes through again on the choruses—maybe LA version of garage rock? Very polished vox, but polished to garage. “You know you hate it” is chorus. Golden Earring freakout outro.
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And we’re out.