|
Brownout
By
Mike Hotter
Ween
Palace
Theatre, June 12
‘I
got this shirt for 2 dollars and 65 cents!” guitar hero Mickey
Melchiondo (aka Dean Ween) declared from the hallowed stage
of the Palace last Tuesday night, beaming proudly between
sips of Heineken and ripping guitar solos. It was a bit jarring
to witness the Ween boys browning things up in the same place
that David Alan Miller and the Albany Symphony ply their trade,
but the guys were respectful and seemed to be thoroughly impressed
by the venue. (Aaron “Gene Ween” Freeman almost appeared a
little taken aback by the lavishness of the place at first,
and would spend an unusual amount of time backstage while
the rest of the band played throughout the evening.)
Things kicked off with the straightforward pop of “Exactly
Where I’m At,” and all seemed right with the world until a
murky mix and Freeman’s strained vocal made a hash out of
one of their most beloved songs, “Take Me Away.” But they
corrected themselves with a great version of the Stone Temple
Pilots pastiche “Transdermal Celebration” (play it after “Interstate
Love Song” and you’ll hear what I mean), and the audience
started to show their appreciation by tossing bras—and a hamburger
bun—onto the stage. If these guys were around in the ’70s
they would have been huge, what with Mickey having the guitar
chops of a Frank Zappa and Aaron delivering the flamboyantly
pretty pop craftsmanship of “Even if You Don’t.” The hard
funk of “Voodoo Lady” got everyone bouncing around. (Nothing
moves a white guy like the Chili Peppers chop, and one dude
even started voguing—very un-Ween of him.)
A priceless Spinal Tap moment occurred when Melchiondo, after
much righteous guitar flamethrowing, started using a vocoder,
proving that the voicebox contraption makes one look ridiculous
even if you aren’t Peter Frampton. “Zoloft” was simply Ween
at their best, a rewiring of Wings’ “Listen to What the Man
Said” that’s as perceptive as it is funny, celebrating the
calming effect of antidepressants while also pointing out
the insidious apathy they can lead to.
But this is Ween, and thinking too much about any meanings
behind the lyrics will only prove problematic. How to love
a band if you take a seemingly homophobic song like “Mister
Richard Smoker” at face value? If anything, Ween are subverting
Big Dumb Rock Clichés by making them so ridiculous one can’t
take them seriously. Keyboardist Glenn McClelland had a five-minute
solo that was more John Tesh than Jan Hammer (as far as cheese
factor, it was more ludicrous than sublime)—but was this just
making fun of the old 20-minute versions of “No Quarter” from
our Zeppelin bootlegs? Plainly on the sublime side of things
was drummer Claude Coleman, who simply kicked ass on the Pure
Guava track “Touch My Tooter,” pummeled the shit out of
the Motörhead tribute “Stroker Ace,” and managed to make a
cowbell solo cool on “Waving My Dick in the Wind.”
At 30-plus songs, the show appeased the fans, and the night
was made extra special by a topless girl who jumped on stage
during “Push th’ Little Daisies” and proceeded to push her
blooming daisies right up into everyone’s face. Me, I was
most satisfied by what I felt to be the truest song of the
night, “Best Time at Your Party,” a new tune where Gene Ween
and “the wife” thank some fellow 30-something for throwing
a great dinner party. Among the dick and poopie jokes, it
was refreshing to hear what really goes down back at
the Ween ranch.
It
Was All Yellow
Gustafer Yellowgold
MASS
MoCA, June 16
Unless you’re actually allergic to children, you’ve probably
got exposure enough to them to realize that their entertainments,
nowadays, have to have more than just infantile appeal. As
a rule, it seems, parents are no longer comfortable turning
their kids out of doors at sunup to go play in the junkyard
or at the mouth of the abandoned mineshaft till the dinner
bell rings. Instead, they mousse the kids’ hair into fauxhawks,
over which they slip tiny Misfits T-shirts, and lug them around
from intellectually/aesthetically/culturally/ physically stimulating
event to event. It’s high-investment parenting and it seems
only fair that the folks get something out of the deal, too.
Morgan Taylor—the musician-illustrator behind Gustafer Yellowgold—is
just one of a growing crop of performers whose work is aimed
at young audiences, though not necessarily created for them
originally. He’s released several albums of quirky indie-pop
intended, we assume, for grown-ups; and he has played with
the Autumn Defense, a side project of Wilco’s John Stirratt.
The Gustafer Yellowgold story evolved from doodles Taylor
used to produce while working in a record store and a whimsical,
Beatlesesque song titled “I’m From the Sun” culled from one
of the aforementioned albums.
As staged at MASS MoCA last Saturday, the Gustafer Yellowgold
experience is a bit like a PowerPoint presentation given by
a member of the Elephant 6 collective. Taylor’s own—quite
charming—illustrations are projected on a screen before which
he and his co-vocalist, Rachel Loshak, sing introductions
to Gustafer Yellowgold and his friends: the eel, Slimothy;
the friendly, flightless pterodactyl, Forrest Applecrumbie;
the pet dragon, Asparagus; and Gustafer’s brother, Ben, inventor
of both the hot-cheese cannon and rocket shoes.
If it sounds a little silly, it, of course, is. What do you
expect at an 11 AM performance? The Ring Cycle? Taylor’s lyrics
are gently surreal and playful (Gustafer’s hobby, we’re told,
thusly, is pouncing on pastries: “I jump on cake, from high
above/I step on pie, so warm and lovely/It’s mine to punt,
vanilla bundt/All freshly baked, I’m on your cake.”) The songs
are catchy and twee, without being cloying or insulting. Taylor’s
stage presence is low-key and wry without being snide. (At
one point he commended an elementary-school-age audience member
for a quip by saying, “Nice one. In the comedy biz, that’s
known as a ‘callback.’ ”)
If there is any problem with Gustafer Yellowgold it’s in the
show’s easygoing nature. The songs do introduce the characters,
but the show doesn’t do much more with them. We learn that
Gustafer lived on the sun, then came to Minnesota in search
of a more varied climate; we know that he’s got some unusual
pets, and that his brother is a bit of a eccentric. We’re
given this info in colorful and eminently hummable ways. But
then nothing happens. Easygoing is great; aimless, not so
much. I found myself waiting for the point, the lesson—something
about making friends, appreciating differences, something
After School Special-ish.
Then again, my Neutral Milk Hotel albums didn’t teach me how
to share. So, maybe I’m missing the point. And it should be
noted that my daughter is still singing that one about the
eel.
—John
Rodat
 |
|
PHOTO: John Whipple |
Hello,
My Name Is . . .
The
Capital Region’s own Blotto, in one of their not-infrequent
reunions, performed in Troy’s Monument Square Saturday afternoon
as one of the many musical acts at the 4th Annual River Street
Festival. An estimated 20,000 people passed through, soaking
in the sun, sights and sounds at the daylong, family-friendly
bash. Other acts included geek-pop elder statesmen They
Might Be Giants and Australian-American rockers Mink.
|
Site
Search 
