Tuddd's Muddd

Miles Benjamin Anthony Robinson at Joe's Pub, August 19, 2008

    Alone onstage just before his set, Miles Benjamin Anthony Robinson mentioned to the crowd that this would be the first live performance with him fronting his new band, "The Family Robinson."  "But don't be surprised," he continued, "if we fuck something up."  Not to be a schmuck, but isn't that kind of the point here?  I mean, if we really wanted to see a band that deals in inspirational, emotive major chord bar rock and is more proficient/less damaged than Miles, wouldn't we all be Hold Steady/Okkervil River/Bruce fans? 

    Having seen Miles Benjamin Anthony Robinson once prior, and enjoying his album quite a bit (#19 on my most recent Best Albums of 2008 so far list), coming into this show I still didn't know what to make of him.  He certainly plays the "junkie confessional" part quite well, and he's certainly inspired his share of hyperbolic press.  (From Daytrotter: "He’s everything that we’re looking for in an indie rock idol.")  And his nomadic junkie past seems ripe for this brand of lecherous voyeurism.  (From the Village Voice: "life definitely handed Miles Benjamin Anthony Robinson loads of lemons (and first names), but he chose Atmosphere's route and painted that shit gold.")  So you'll have to pardon my reluctance to anoint him as the second coming of anything.  Well, at least until he played his set.

    I've written before that MBAR manages to evoke greatness in his songs, and I stand by that: his itchy, bombastic guitar playing reminds me of Neil Young; his mumbly lower register reminds me of Dylan; his tortured upper register bleat reminds me of, uh, Dylan, and his ability to rock out a simple three-chord song to arena-size dimensions reminds me of Tom Petty.  (What was that I was saying about hyperbole?)  The set included favorites from his self-titled debut (including standout "Buriedfed," which kinda reminds me of Okkervil's "This Is Not a Movie or Maybe," and "Who's Laughing") as well as plenty of unreleased stuff "from the second album" (reportedly helmed by TV on the Radio's Kyp Malone) and, wryly, "the third album."  The set's real strength was found in the louder jams which were rocked to the hilt, the four piece Family Robinsons backing him up ably (and, fittingly, shambolically) throughout.  New song "There Will Be Mud" in particular all but brought the house down with its ambling instrumental coda.  Make no mistake: Miles Benjamin Anthony Robinson knows how to rock, pure and simple. 

    So what's tonight's lesson, kids?  When it comes down to it it isn't necessarily authenticity for authenticity's sake that really matters all that much, is it?  Were that the case, your friendly neighborhood Singin' Homeless Dude would have a lot more than a few bucks and change in his cup.  Seriously, who the fuck cares.  On with the music.

   

Catchin' Up with the Blog

    WHEEEEEE!  So, again, it's been a couple'a weeks there since I wrote anything.  What's happened in the intervening fortnight?  Oh, not much, lesseee... oh, yeah, that's right... I went to DC for Labor Day weekend, hung out with friends, enjoyed a picture perfect lovely day walking around the city, spent some quality time with The World's Best Dog, ate and drank heavily... and yadda yadda yadda.  In other words, blacked out hardcore, passed out on a park bench in DC, got robbed, got shoved around by an overzealous cop, broke my ankle, got driven to the drunk tank (but, confusingly, not actually put in said drunk tank), unsuccessfully tried to befriend the guy who was tending the drunk tank, and finally made it back to my brother's vacant apartment by 8 AM or so.  Voila!

    Yes, that's right, I broke my ankle.  Boo fucking hoo.  Fortunately for me, I've broken my ankles so many times that it's pretty much as big of a hindrance for me as, say, a runny nose for most folks; sure, it's annoying, and sure, you wish it would go away, but count your blessings: things could be a shitload worse.

    After my previous entry (the Goes Cube show.  Look below, duh), I saw Beach House with Papercuts at Mercury Lounge.  Good show, and I had started a lengthy review of the show in question, with the eventual aim of the review being establishing that a good show can really make one feel better after a shitty, shitty day.  A lovely sentiment to be sure, but still a bit Hallmark-y for this stinky, gangrene-infested, shit-spattered blog.  Following that, I attended the World War IV metalfest at Europa the next night (I can pretty much safely guarantee that I was the only person who went to *both* Beach House and said mini metal-palooza), where I saw the ferocious Early Man perform for the first time in over a year, and got turned on to At War, a reunited classic metal band from the mid-80s.

    Not much going on after I got back from D.C., mostly self-loathing and beating off.  Only show I went to last week was the release party for the Guilt by Association compilation album, which basically is a collection of "guilty pleasure" cover songs performed by indie artists.  The track which interests me is Petra Haden's a capella version of Journey's "Don't Stop Believing."  Petra's entirely a capella cover of The Who Sell Out was far and away my favorite record of '05, and I saw her (accompanied by the Sell-Outs, her all-female backing choir) last year at Tonic, where they performed side one of said record as well as a bunch of other cool shit -- looking back at my list, that was one of the 20 best shows I saw last year (of about 60 or so).  Anyway, after two irritating sensitive-guy acoustic openers, Petra Haden took the stage with her backing choir, but, unbeknownst to me, this was not to be a full set show like I had seen last year -- this time they did about a half hour.  The material consisted of the first few songs from The Who Sell Out, a song from Ms. Haden's other solo record Imaginaryland which was apparently about getting hit by a car (?!), a Bach piece, "God Only Knows" by the Beach Boys, and, finally, "Don't Stop Believing," which brought the house down.  Nice show, but I drove all the way in during rush hour for what amounted to a half hour of music.  Humph. 

    So far this week, on the 12th I went to see Hull (who I'd previously caught opening up for Big Business and Panthers at Knitting Factory a couple of months ago) at Ace of Clubs, a venue I'd never been to.  Hull's Viking Funeral EP is an absolute must-listen, veering from thrash to Sabbath to post-rock, with some really great bluesy soloing thrown in.  First band, 12 Bars, was decent, and (after experiencing some equipment problems) Hull's set was fantastic.   As I remarked in my previous review of these guys, it's always great when they announce "okay, this is our last song," and 15 minutes later they're still playing.  These guys are all about the mighty metal riff and sewing a bunch of 'em together with all kinds of wacky time signature changes and some brutal pummeling.  I left after their set because the ankle was giving me trouble and there didn't seem to be anywhere to sit.  (I realize this is not a very "metal" excuse.)

    Tonight I have Interpol at MSG, along with some serious drinking with my buddy James.  With any luck, I'll break my other ankle.  RAWK!