The So-Humane Kings of Convenience; Taking to the Stage for the West Memphis Three
You can't help losing your heart to these two gentle, wry Norwegian boys with their acoustic guitars held high and hearts worn even higher. There is such humanity here. There are so many trickling arpeggios and subtle melodies. There is such an understanding of the dynamics of appearing as a folky, quietened duo onstage and what should be done to hold the audience's attention.
Eirik Glambek Boe plays the silent type, the heartthrob and worthy foil to the more gregarious Erlend Oye in his adorable spectacles. Erlend plays the fool, but in such a disarming, charming way?funkily dancing his way through imagined nightclubs on the showstopping closing number "I'd Rather Dance with You"?he's irresistible. When these boys play their hometown of Bergen, where they're rightly venerated as rock gods, the audience are in stitches from the first deadpan aside. Humor doesn't necessarily translate across languages, but Kings of Convenience have an immaculate sense of comic timing. And it doesn't detract one iota from their Simon and Garfunkel-esque interweaving harmonies, either.
Don't think this is a laugh riot, though. These songs are winsome and sweet in their gentle flirtatiousness. Eirik usually starts by picking out a melody line on his guitar, soon to be followed by Erlend, perhaps rounding off the sound with a few carefully strummed chords. Likewise, the vocals: one is high, the other poignantly lower and reflective. Words and noise are kept to a minimum, though the songs are surprisingly intricate. Single and opening track from the marvelously titled 2001 album Quiet Is the New Loud, "Winning a Battle, Losing the War" is only played after a lengthy explanation about how difficult it is to duplicate the recorded sound. The boys are too modest by half. The song sounds excellent live.
This lack of artifice is particularly welcome in a pop music world centered round bombast, where the ability to shout louder and boast more outrageously than the next simpleton is viewed as talent.
Sometimes, the Kings are too understated for their own good. A cover of Tom Petty's "Free Fallin'" is lost on a hip English audience, unversed in the playlists of mid-American (and presumably) Norwegian radio stations. The fact it's the weakest song played tonight in their seven-song set is significant too. Elsewhere, the boys dream about travel ("Cayman Islands"), loneliness ("Riot on an Empty Street") and becoming the new Everly Brothers ("Toxic Girl"). And why not? This is a rare treat, and never less than intoxicating.
Everett True
San Francisco's Benefit for the West Memphis Three was a 10-hour marathon that began and ended with some serious lessons from two very different pulpits. From the preshow screening of the how-the-justice-system-fucks-people-over documentary Revelations: Paradise Lost 2 to Zen Guerrilla's closing performance exorcising some feverishly devilish blues, the benefit schooled us on the long reach of delinquency from mid-afternoon till way past last call.
The reformation took place at Pound-SF, the city's new headquarters for metalheads who refuse to give up the feathered look and feisty rock 'n' rollers looking for some fight songs. The Saturday showcase was designed to create awareness for the "West Memphis Three"?Damien Echols, Jessie Misskelley and Jason Baldwin?who were found guilty of brutally murdering three young boys in West Memphis, AR, in 1993. All three prisoners claim they are innocent of the crime and local authorities refuse to investigate evidence that could possibly exonerate them.
The rallying call for the movement to help these guys rang through the showing of Revelations, but once the lights came back on, the beer-swilling rockers were ready for some live action. There were eight hours left to hear nine bands and it was time to pop the cork on a fine Bay Area selection of bottled-up rock.
Old-school punks Fracas were the afternoon openers, proving Northern California isn't just a stomping ground for a bunch of sloppy ravers sucking lollipops. The band's greasy-haired vocalist paced the stage like a caged rat without his Ritalin, making stabbing gestures to his heart as his band raced into a dagger-sharp hardcore set. After announcing that they were going to play "a cover of a song by a local band," the group launched into a seamless rendition of the Dead Kennedys classic "Too Drunk to Fuck" as beaming ex-Kennedys frontman Jello Biafra wandered closer to the stage. Biafra took the spotlight himself twice in the evening, delivering spoken-word rants against everything from mainstream bigotry to yuppies with cellphones as the crowd talked loudly among themselves.
While the Bay Area underground will always turn out new Dead Kennedys enthusiasts, a serious garage rock resurgence is converting new worshippers monthly. Benefit organizers Three Years Down revved the revival 70s style, sliding the rock down two guitar necks as the five-piece chanted out songs about gasoline and erections. The front stage area was like a "Smells Like Teen Spirit" video, with all the ebony-haired ivory chicks bouncing and singing along with tattooed fists to the sky.
Other standouts from the evening included psychedelic trippers Salem Lights and their cover of the 13th Floor Elevator's classic "You're Gonna Miss Me," Bottles & Skulls' blowout set of raw-throated, 200-mph punk, and redneck rock from the Crosstops. Their horny-truckers-on-cheap-speed set included their crowd-pleasing favorite, "One Track Mind"?with an everybody-sing-together-now chorus of "I'd like to fuck your brains out, don't ya know. I'd like to eat your pussy, lick your titties to and fro." Yee-haw, cowboy!
The small respite from the hard rock came, ironically, from the Supersuckers. The cowpunk favorites pared their lineup down to frontman Eddie Spaghetti and guitarist Ron Heathman on acoustic guitars, and drummer Dancing Eagle on snare. It was campfire time with the 'Suckers, with countryfied versions of the band's anthems like "Born with a Tail," "Dead in the Water" and a cover of the country classic "Peace in the Valley," just like Daddy never sang them?unless Daddy had one too many Jack and cocaine cocktails.
As the band was wrapping up, Spaghetti announced that Zen Guerrilla frontman Marcus Durant was "all fucked up and ready to rock" and the afroed preacher walked onstage to begin his fiery sermon. Standing taller than God himself, Durant and the rest of Zen Guerrilla pulled the heavens through a fence of feedback and shook the weary, drunken mob like a bolt of electricity on a beer-slicked floor. The band's Motor City psychedelic blues sparked the nerve endings of Durants' testimonial vocals. When he wasn't screaming like an asylum shock victim, Durant was howling, roaring and swaggering like an amazon Elvis on too many hits of acid.
Durant doesn't just sing like he's being possessed by all the crazy fucking legends of rock, he gestures like he's being pulled from the underworld as well. He sank into quicksand onstage, holding a quivering hand to the ceiling and shaking his fingers at the audience like you better listen to what I'm tellin' you because this is coming from the man above faster than I can interpret it myself. All this was punctuated by Durant's blurting out a lot of "Thank you, thank you very much. Fantabulous" between songs.
Zen Guerrilla's shows are the closest most of us will ever get to everlasting rock 'n' roll salvation. The band contorts the corners of musical genres into shapes no other band can touch. Whether they were covering Otis Redding ("Change Is Gonna Come") or David Bowie ("Moonage Daydream"), the band burned the rock mold to its ashes and resurrected it with flaming soul. And on this particular night, these were eternal flames?or at least ones that burned after last call and into the time the bar turned the houselights back on. Tireless rockers could have kept going, too, except for the sweat-drenched drummer, who'd pounded through the floorboards all evening and just got up, mid-song, and walked out the door.
Jennifer Maerz