When you grow up close to the ocean, it’s always part of who you are. For someone like Nicole Atkins, whose music has been so deeply inspired by her upbringing near the water, the devastation hit particularly hard. What once was is now gone. Friends and family were displaced; homes were destroyed, flooded, or burned down. You can get used to the unpredictable temperament of the weather by the ocean, and you understand what a big storm might mean. But you never expect something like Sandy.

“People say, ‘It’s a once in a lifetime storm!’” Nicole tells us. “But it makes me really worry when people say that because it would be such strain for us to go through this big rebuilding, only to have to do it again in a year. Or even five years. Or ten years.”

Shark River Hills is a secluded little middle class village in Neptune Township, NJ that’s a mishmash of blue-collar fishing town and musicians’ hideaway—the kind of place Bruce Springsteen might write songs about if he had a mind to. If you look on a map, you’ll see that Shark River Hills is a minuscule peninsula that juts out into the Shark River (which is really more of a bay), which itself empties into the Atlantic Ocean.

From stem to stern, it’s a little under three miles from the westernmost border of Shark River Hills to the sea. Many areas of the Jersey Shore are broken up like that, with estuaries and tiny peninsulas and thin strips of beach. It’s a fragile-looking lattice of shoreline, and it’s one of the reasons why Shark River remains one of the most devastated areas in New Jersey nearly seven months after Sandy’s landfall.

“Shark River is such a small town that everybody forgets about us,” Nicole says. “We got hit so bad because we’re just surrounded by rivers. There’s one way into town and one way out. Most of my friends and neighbors… if their houses didn’t burn down, their houses have to be knocked down.

“It’s just a shame. We have one bar in town, and that got leveled. All the boats… it used to be this really idyllic little fisherman’s town, and now it’s just so wrecked.

“We’ve been through so much… a house caught fire on my street yesterday. And I’m like, dude… we cannot catch a break!”

Nicole played the “On The Beach” Superstorm Sandy benefit concert in Asbury Park in January with My Morning Jacket, and was out on tour with The Eels through March. When she returned, it was to a hometown still in complete disarray. ”I don’t think anybody has any idea just how bad it was. And still is.”

Shark River musicians decided to do something about it, and the idea for “River Concert 2013: Shark River Hills—A New Beginning” came to be. ”It could always be a lot worse, but I’m glad that the town is full of musicians so we can at least throw a party to raise money. And the town needs a party.”

“River Concert 2013″ on Saturday, June 1 promises to be a great party. In addition to food, beer, and wine from local vendors, the concert will feature music from Nicole (in a trio with guitarist Irina Yalkowsky and Chris Donofrio), Steve Forbert and Mike Doughty; the Shark River Hillbillies—with Pete Schulle, Marc Muller, Ricky DeSarno, Harry Filkin, Ronnie Mailloux, Amy Broza, Frank D‘Agostino, Joel Krauss and PK Lavengood; beloved locals Joe Riccardello, The Lone Ramblers, Lemon Juice, and local teen girl group The Glycerin Queens will be performing throughout the day and evening.

“The good thing about the people of Shark River Hills is everybody are really good friends, and everybody helps each other out, so everybody has a pretty good attitude,” says Nicole. “But just seeing the level of stress… people who are almost 70 years old shouldn’t be rebuilding a house. But I think it’s really good for morale for Shark River Hills to be having a party. It’s gonna be a lot of booze and food and I think that everybody’s gonna come out.”

“River Concert 2013″ will start at 12pm on Saturday, June 1, 2013 at Riverside Park, South Riverside Drive at the Shark River Hills Marina in Neptune. Tickets will be $25 for adults, $10 for ages six to twelve, and kids five and under are free. Tickets may be purchased in advance or at the concert. All proceeds will go directly to the Recovery Along the River Fund benefiting families in Shark River Hills affected by Superstorm Sandy.

If you can’t make it to the event but still want to show support, donate to help the people of Shark River Hills through Rebuild Recover (in Shark River Hills’ name) or directly to the Shark River Property Owner’s Association. For more information about “River Concert 2013″ visit their Facebook page.

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Earlier this week we spilled quite a bit of pixel dust in praise of Blank Realm’s LP Go Easy, out now via Fire Records. As such, we thought we’d conjure up the opportunity for one of you to get your hands on the release, on glorious pink vinyl.

“Blank Realm has been knocking around Brisbane, Australia for over half a decade, spurting out small-press underground rumblings on all sorts of formats. But with the release of Go Easy they are swaggering confidently into a bigger spotlight.

The record actually came out last year and kicked up a fair amount of positive dust, but in the end that response just wasn’t satisfactory, for the UK label Fire Records has recently given it another well-deserving and higher-profile press, this time on pink vinyl. Listeners favorable to a meeting of Royal Trux’s more rocking moments and the raggedy thrust of the current garage scene should find it a keeper.”

“The group is composed of two brothers and a sister, Daniel (vocals/drums), Luke (bass), and Sarah (synths/vocals) Spencer, with Luke Walsh (guitar/engineering) completing the lineup. Based on a casual first impression, the foursome seems to be tapping into a definite ‘90s indie vibe, a circumstance that’s only deepened by the comparisons between the band and the early/mid-‘90’s recordings issued by Royal Trux…

Very frequently when listening to a record, a song will arise and immediately reveal its destiny as the consensus “hit” of the platter. That’s not the case here. Understandably, lots of folks are currently celebrating the odd pop of “Cleaning up My Mess,” but from where I’m listening, Go Easy has four more cuts out of a grand total of eight that are just as strong.

And that’s a downright impressive feat. Due to the surface familiarity of their sound, Blank Realm is likely to be underrated a bit, but with this LP they’ve charted a fresh entry in the annals of Australia’s rocking history, and that’s a circumstance deserving of generous praise.”

Enter to win our pink vinyl copy of Blank Realm’s Go Easy by sharing with us in the comments below the coolest record you own on any color vinyl. (There’s actually a Best of 70′s Porn Music LP here at TVD HQ and uh, yea…pink vinyl too. No joke.) We’ll choose one winner on 6/3!

The band’s on tour too—would it kill you to check ‘em out live? Didn’t think so.

Blank Realm Tour Dates:
May 24 – Chicago, IL – Burlington
May 25 – Cincinatti – Chameleon
May 26 – Columbus, OH – The Summit
May 27 – Washington – DC – Black Cat
May 28 – Brooklyn, NY – Death By Audio
May 29 – Philadelphia, PA – Ortlieb’s Lounge
May 30 – Chaos in Tejas Red 7 – Austin ,TX
June 1 – San Francisco, CA Hemlock Tavern
June 2 – Permanent Records in store, Los Angeles
June 3 – San Diego , CA – Che Cafe
June 5 – Portland, Rotture
June 7 – Seattle, Cairo

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Flying Dog Brewery is known for its rare and experimental beers, so it is fitting that of Montreal will be taking the stage this Saturday for the first of their 2013 Summer Concert Series. Enjoy a Raging Bitch Belgian IPA with mango and habanero while taking in the Georgia band’s musical theatrics. Not sure you could have a better Saturday afternoon, so trek it to Maryland for a colorful start to your long weekend at this 21 and up event.

Polyvinyl Records artist of Montreal released their latest album Paralytic Stalks last year, which brought a toned-down live version of the usual theatrics. Don’t put down your freak flag quite yet! Whether the outfits are nude-colored spandex suits or most recently shirts and ties, you can always count on being surprised by some form of risqué on stage.

You never know what you will get, so get your spot on the lawn, as it’s not every day of Montreal brings their own stage and production for your entertainment. Get there early to buy Kevin Barnes a beer and enjoy an afternoon of music, rare beer, and food trucks from 5:30-9pm.

Baltimore’s US and US Only, not to be confused with the sixth album by The Charlatans, will open the event. They released their latest album Dark Cloud Past last year and have plans to release a 7” titled Light Poured/The Horse’s Mouth this year.

The Beer Line-up (sold a la carte):

Bloodline Blood Orange IPA
Single Hop Imperial IPA with Citra
Single Hop Imperial IPA with El Dorado
Pumpernickel IPA
Easy IPA
Snake Dog IPA
Doggie Style Pale Ale
Big Black Wit
Woody Creek Belgian Wit
Underdog Atlantic Lager

Two Experimental Casks:
Raging Bitch Belgian IPA with mango and habenero
Pearl Necklace Oyster Stout on oak, primed with maple syrup

Food Truck Options:
Kooper’s Chowhound
Wheyich Artisanal Sandwiches
Smoking Swine

Flying Dog Brewery is located at 4607 Wedgewood Blvd in Frederick, Maryland 21703. Buy your tickets before they sell out.

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“Spending a lot of time in the basement, I slowly started to creep my father’s record collection. It was a standard “dad” collection, featuring plenty of Doors, Moody Blues, Jim Croce, and Simon & Garfunkel…all things that were not very exciting to a 6th grader who just saw Nirvana play on TV. Then, I found a copy of Molly Hatchet’s Flirtin’ With Disaster. Never actually hearing the band before, I remember thinking that my dad was a secret hesher, based off of the album cover alone. I had to hear this!

After a couple of seconds into side A, I was convinced that the record in the jacket was not the correct match. I kept looking at the cover while listening, getting frustrated that there was no mention of warlocks, death angels, and danger. So, I did what any normal kid would do–buy another Molly Hatchet album to see if their earlier records sounded anymore like their album covers.

Fooled a second time, I decided to return to the record store and attempt to make an exchange…and then Iron Maiden’s “Number of the Beast” caught my eye and my lifelong love affair with heavy metal records began.

With age comes musical discovery, and my growing record collection continues to benefit from such.

These days, vinyl records are the really the only medium that I spend money on, much less even consider spending money on. I try to DJ a couple of times a month which feeds my record shopping addiction by forcing me to have new stuff to play out.

Just a week ago, I found myself up at 4 in the morning bidding on a Jay-Z acapella 12″ single, due to the badass rare artwork. Some things never change.”
—Justin Krol, Hugh Bob & The Hustle

Hugh Bob & The Hustle’s self titled debut LP is in stores now.

Hugh Bob & The Hustle Official | Facebook | Twitter

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Tonight Tipitina’s will host a benefit for the twenty people who were injured in the 7th ward shooting on Mother’s Day. Performers scheduled to appear include Bonerama, The Revivalists, The N.O. Suspects, Donald Harrison and the Congo Square Nation, the Hot 8 Brass Band, and the Stooges Brass Band. I wrote this essay last week.

I have been attending second line parades for over twenty years on a near weekly basis. There are some parades, like the 128-year-old Young Men’s Olympia Jr.’s procession of five divisions with six brass bands on the third Sunday in September, which I never miss. There are other parades like the Original Big 7’s annual Mother’s Day parade that attempted to celebrate a 10th anniversary this year, which I have never attended.

I have witnessed violence and felt the ever-present threat of violence. I have always taken seriously the various similar messages at the bottom of each club’s route sheet—leave your dogs, guns, and attitudes at home.

At one of my first parades in Central City, shots rang out. Hundreds of parade goers reacted like veterans of a foreign war—they all dropped to the ground. I was left standing—a lone naïve white face towering over a multitude of black faces of all ages.

Years later, the Rebirth Brass Band was leading a second line in Gert Town. A rumor circulated like a virus on a cruise ship. Phillip Frazier, the leader of the band, was being targeted. Tensions soared all along the parade route. While the parade was at a stop on a side street off Earhart Boulevard, sharp pops in the distance provoked the crowd. A mass stampede ensued, but by then I knew ducking and covering was better than possibly running right into the gunman. The pops turned out to be fireworks, but the parade had been ruined.

Fortunately I wasn’t at the parade in the 6th ward that ended with a young man emptying two Glock pistols at a rival at point-blank range. He shot the guns at the same time with the triggers horizontal to the ground as if he were some action movie star. Incredibly, because of the lack of basic gun handling skills, twelve shots were fired and the intended target lived.

None of these three episodes were widely publicized, nor were dozens of others that I have witnessed or heard about. Perhaps this is because no one died or perhaps it is because the environment around the second lines has changed. Most likely it is a combination.

Second line parades have been a fixture of urban black life in New Orleans since the turn of the 20th century. Peruse the old photos at the Hogan Jazz Archive or other similar repositories and you will notice that everyone is dressed in their Sunday best. All the men are in suit and tie. They all wear proper hats.

The members of the early social aid and pleasure clubs were upstanding citizens who paid their weekly dues to insure against unforeseen calamities and assure a dignified funeral. Most of these organizations died out as the larger society changed. There are only two clubs left that date that far back.

By the mid 1970s, the SA&PCs and their attendant brass bands were considered by many to be relics of another time. Their memberships were dwindling down to a handful of old timers. When I first became aware of the second lines in the mid 1980s, there were only about eight clubs parading. Now there are parades on nearly every weekend from late August until mid June. There are over 35 organizations putting bands on the street every year.

The growth in the number of second line clubs was spurred by the brass band revival that began with the formation of the Dirty Dozen in 1977. The Rebirth followed in 1983. Yet, the Dozen hasn’t led a parade in decades and the Rebirth now participates in about four parades annually.

Tellingly, the names of some of these newer groups omit the word “aid.” Though many still function as community-based organizations, the emphasis has clearly shifted to pleasure. Another significant change has been the arrival of numerous female organizations. Though women have always participated, female-led groups are a more recent phenomenon.

But perhaps the largest change associated with the social aid and pleasure clubs and their second lines is the large numbers of outsiders who participate. When I first started parading I knew nearly all of the white people who attended regularly. There was Davis Rogan—tall and lanky—who actually paraded a couple of times with Rebirth and the Furious Five division of the YMO. There were photographers Michael P. Smith and Pat Jolly.

More recently, there was “Bin Laden.” So nicknamed after 9/11 because of his distinct resemblance to the Qaeda mastermind. Before he was accepted into the tight-knit community with his daring dancing, he once responded to taunts from surly teenagers on the parade route with the memorable line—“cut me open, I’m filled with feathers.”

Now when I go to a parade I am surrounded by young white hipsters of unknown provenance. The second line parade used to be an invite-only experience. Their existence was unknown to outsiders. You had to go to a second line to find out about a second line. The route sheet for next week’s parade was handed out at the beginning of this week’s parade. Or, you had to pass by one of the likely stops on the route and surreptitiously grab the sheet off end of the bar. Now they are widely distributed across the media.

I had a personal guide when I began second lining and I became a guide as I grew in experience. Over the years I have brought numerous people to the parades. But I always choose carefully which individuals will be comfortable in an inner city setting fraught with all manner of rowdy behavior and the ever-present specter of violence. Some regard the event as the most profound social experience of their lives. Others are never able to shed their fear jackets and resolve to never participate again. Yet, now I sometimes even detect the presence of unaccompanied tourists; cameras dangling from their necks.

The long-term ramifications of the Mother’s Day shoot-up are still unknown. Before the shootings, my musings were more prosaic. I wondered how long would it be until the routes of the parades are published in tourist guides and hyped by concierges? Will the popularity of the HBO show Tremé breed a new brand of cultural tourist?

Now I wonder with so many women and children cut down, will the new female leaders, led by Tamara Jackson of the Social Aid and Pleasure Club Task Force, become a force to reckon with in the larger community? Will the judges, legislators and the police department, and most importantly the school system, finally find a solution to recidivistic gun-wielding teenage criminals? When will “enough is enough” really be enough?

In the eight years since Katrina changed the landscape of urban New Orleans irrevocably, there has been a massive adjustment in attitude by the powers-that-be. If Bill Clinton was our first “black” president, then Mitch Landrieu is our first “black” mayor. Violence at a second line in 2006 led to intense pressure on the clubs as out-of-the-know leaders tried to blame the culture. Now, a concerted effort is being made to insure that the culture is neither accused nor stifled.

The parades will go on defiantly in the face of these hoodlums—these terrorists who seek to sow misery that mirrors their miserable inner lives. But with only four parades (the Big 7 will do a re-do parade on June 1) left on the schedule until August, it will be a long, hot season of reflection.

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The track builds almost staccato-like with Mariechen Danz’s mesmerizing and unusual deep female voice holding the melody together. It’s hard to place where the band’s influences lie, but as the chorus breaks fans of HAIM will be pleased with the sweeter side to Danz’s vocals calling out like a bewitching indie priestess.

There are elements of MS MR here but a little Blonde Redhead-esque chamber pop too—it’s a great mix of styles and this little taster will leave you wondering where the band are headed next.

The single is supported by the Heart Island remix of the track and the band are expected to release an album in the Autumn. UNMAP are certainly an exciting prospect and prove their label, Sinnbus, continue to churn out top quality bands.

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Back in the second half of the ‘80s, as part of a small group of post-punk acts that managed to hang around long enough and grow in stature to become one of the initial bands in the first wave of the marketing-based non-genre known as Alternative music, The Cure came to be esteemed by quite a few as underdog survivors. But simultaneously, the outfit was on the receiving end of an uncommonly high level of flack.

They were reliably disparaged for such miscalculations as horrid dress sense, ludicrous hairstyles, overzealous and poorly applied makeup, banal subject matter, trite lyrics, ham-fisted song construction, and brazen music-video clowning. And these assessments were often spouted from folks who actually professed to like the band.

Observers who did not enjoy or even downright hated The Cure could frequently be found seething over the very existence of the group, deriding them as an affront to the cherished modes of acceptable rock and roll behavior. The derision of these bitter sorts reliably focused upon bands of the Alternative persuasion (to say nothing of newfangled Rap music), but The Cure seemed to catch a little extra opprobrium, many because they seemed to have no problem with being perceived as ridiculous.

In retrospect, that lack of inhibition over being seen as occasionally goofy and sometimes just overly obvious in striving for effect has become, at least for this writer, one of the more endearing traits from a pretty likeable group. But my thinking wasn’t always such. No, as a much younger listener during their Head on the Door/ Kiss Me Kiss Me Kiss Me/ Disintegration US heyday, the musical flame they were throwing off didn’t really set my hibachi ablaze.

Not that I held them in particularly low regard. Even then it was plainly apparent that The Cure had some good to great ideas that were expressed at times through highly successful song-craft (I never really agreed with the assessment of their tunes as being all that clumsy). But they were so well-loved by assorted friends and acquaintances that I heard them at a rate far disproportionate to my personal estimation of their actual worth.

Every so often I’d raise a polite objection and get temporary control of the stereo, but that regularly just brought disappointment upon discovering my associates lacking in a similar high regard for the foul-mouthed grandeur of the Angry Samoans’ Back from Samoa or the lovely form-extension of Pere Ubu’s The Modern Dance (I knew better than to subject my cohorts’ ears to Throbbing Gristle). These were hard lessons in the never-ending reality of different strokes for different folks.

Happily, some slightly older cats came along and turned me on to the group’s earlier material, and that stuff stroked my lobes pretty darned well. Yes, some of that stuff was already easily absorbable via the ’86 comp Staring at the Sea – The Singles, and sponge that record up I most certainly did. But getting to hear in full their ‘79 full-length debut Three Imaginary Boys (and its partial US equivalent Boys Don’t Cry), ‘80’s follow-up Seventeen Seconds and ‘81’s third LP Faith assisted greatly in bringing the early motions of The Cure into much sharper focus.

While those records aren’t perfect, they did land in the racks at a rather quick clip and they essay in very listenable fashion the band’s progression from melodic, edgy post-punk to a smoother yet more developed and yes, darker version of the same as they headed toward their destiny as commercially viable merchants of Gothic vibes.

Exactly where does Cult Hero figure into all this? In a nutshell, that 45 marks the end of the Michael Dempsey-era and the beginning of Simon Gallup’s long tenure. Except for a two-year departure from ’82-’84, Gallup’s involvement continues right up to the present (his short-lived exit was mainly due to the clashing of hefty egos with vocalist Robert Smith, but it also concerned the singer’s reputation for being a severe cheapskate; the pair rowed over the paying of a bar-tab).

Bassist Dempsey had been a member of the group from way back before the beginning, when he, Smith, and drummer Laurence “Lol” Tolhurst were tinkering around under the moniker of The Obelisk. Eventually they became Easy Cure, their handle taken from a tune written by Tolhurst. They never issued anything under that name while extant, but some very cool demos and live cuts were apparently bootlegged and they eventually got chucked onto the bonus disc of the 2004 Deluxe Edition of Three Imaginary Boys.

Dempsey figures on The Cure’s first three singles, all of which stand the test of time exceptionally well. That’s especially true of the debut “Killing an Arab” b/w “10:15 Saturday Night,” with the a-side’s blatant crib from Albert Camus’ The Stranger remaining one of their most instantly recognizable tracks. Interestingly, of the songs from the three 45s (a group that includes the terrific “I’m Cold,” which features guest vocals from Goth priestess Siouxsie Sioux) only the b-side of the first is included on Three Imaginary Boys.

However, Boys Don’t Cry does hold five of the six tunes from those 7-inches, with only “I’m Cold” getting strangely excluded. So, it’s no shock that many prefer it to the UK LP that preceded it by roughly a year. Due to the appearance of the title cut, “Jumping Someone Else’s Train” and both sides of that first single, Boys Don’t Cry does hold a considerably bigger bang for the buck than Three Imaginary Boys (not to mention that for years the US album was the easiest place to hear the nifty B-side “Plastic Passion”).

I’ve always dug the rather unrepresentative front cover of the UK disc though, even if Smith is understandably on record as despising it (the photo was chosen by producer Chris Parry). The LP also holds the likeably different if ultimately no-big-deal Dempsey-sung version of Hendrix’s “Foxy Lady.” And Smith is also on record as not caring for that tune; it’s one that got the heave-ho for Boys Don’t Cry’s track-list.

If it sounds like Smith wasn’t the easiest chap to get along with, well yeah. But the story is that he and Dempsey were never very close at all, and by ’79 the distance between them had increased significantly. Smith was looking for a way to bring Gallup, his weekend pub-mate in the town of Horley, into The Cure’s lineup as bassist. Not a bit shocking, since by this point Dempsey and Smith reportedly had no substantial interactions outside of the group.

Gallup first met Smith when Easy Cure played gigs with his band Lockjaw, an outfit that while somewhat slight, are nonetheless foot-notable in punk lore as a part of the Raw Records stable. They released two singles on that label, and their best song is a rocked up version of “The Young Ones” by Cliff Richard and the Shadows.

Lockjaw morphed into The Magazine Spies, later alternately known as the Mag/Spys, a marginally better post-punk act whose sole output with Gallup was two songs from a split single issued as the opening salvo on Smith and Simon’s bro Ric Gallup’s venture into record-label moguldom, Dance Fools Dance. The disc effectively comprises one half of the short-lived imprint’s discography.

If you’ve never glimpsed a copy of this record then please join the club, for only 100 were pressed. And it’s not likely to be rereleased, for the a-side holds the only known recordings from The Obtainers, a pre-teen duo that split duties between singing and banging on household objects.

This might all seem a bit strange coming from the guy who sang “Just like Heaven” and “Friday I’m in Love,” and Cult Hero ain’t far behind. If accurately assessed as a maneuver in nudging Dempsey out of the Cure fold, it remains an eccentrically entertaining bit of business, predominantly for its vocalist Frank Bell. A hail fellow well met in the pubs frequented by Smith and Gallup, he indeed did make his living delivering the Horley mail, and he’s aptly described as a colorful character.

The band’s name came from a t-shirt Bell sometimes wore that sported that very phrase for all to see. Legend has that one night, while no doubt in his cups, Smith had the inspiration to secure Bell into the studio and write a disco song around the suavity of the dude’s talents. When told, the postman found the idea to be simply gangbusters. Naturally.

But with a listen to a-side “I’m a Cult Hero,” two things quickly become apparent; these guys couldn’t concoct a serviceable approximation of disco if their pale hides depended on it, and Frank Bell was far less of a trad lead-singer and much more of a no-frills enunciator in the mode of one Ian Dury. Instead of disco, the tune’s wavelength sounds quite a bit like the ol’ Blockhead doing double-duty as front-man for an early incarnation of Madness, with some wonky guitar and splattering gobs of synth-like keyboard integrated into the scheme.

The Cult Hero single also holds a high level of participation, and not just Smith, Gallup, Tolhurst, Dempsey (here relegated to keyboards, one foot already out the door), guitarist Porl Thompson, and additional key-tinkler Matthieu Hartley, a very high ratio of early Cure members all in one place at the same time. It also features Smith’s sisters Janet and Margaret (the latter an auxiliary keyboardist), those randy Obtainers’ kids, a bunch of supplementary Horley residents, and of course, the Cult Hero himself, Mr. Bell.

What they came up with isn’t really a great song, but that’s not really its goal. It works much better as raw documentation of an enormously pleasurable studio experience, and the results translate extremely well across the decades. Same goes for flip side “I Dig You,” with Bell again remindful of Dury. No, he doesn’t exactly possess great range.

But this time what he’s fronting comes closer to chunky, riffy mid-tempo pub rock. It’s loaded to the gizzards with guitar moxie, and the words Bell speaks have caused me to break out in laughter many times. And I’m not laughing at him, but instead making-merry with him, dig? As such, it serves as a truly swank b-side.

These cuts eventually found a home on the extra disc of the Deluxe Edition of Seventeen Seconds, along with live versions from the only gig Cult Hero ever played, recorded at London’s Marquee Club, with a high level of audience input. Shortly thereafter Dempsey made his exit, joining The Associates as bass player.

The Cult Hero single did receive a few different pressings, so if interested it shouldn’t be that hard to locate on vinyl. The easiest place to check is probably Canada, where the record sold 35,000 copies as a “novelty” hit. That’s a truly fine example of Northern taste. And that level of success vindicates this 45 as something substantially greater than just an ephemeral oddity. In the moment a very good time was clearly had by all, and it still connects that way today.

GRADED ON A CURVE:
B

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It’s a long story, but I almost didn’t make it to DC9 on Sunday night. Luckily, I walked upstairs to the nearly-full venue and made my way through the crowd toward the front right before the band pushed past me to take the stage. As soon as Kitten hit their first note, I knew this was going to be one of those exciting shows where the energy sticks with you for a long time after—and that missing it would have been a mistake.

On Sunday night, the much-hyped, new wave, post-punk, dance act performed a loud, youthful set lacking in pretension and surprisingly mature and genuine. Currently touring with Paramore and having played the Fillmore Silver Spring the night before, this was a unique opportunity to see Kitten as headliner.

At this point, talking about Kitten’s youth screams cliché. Yes, the band’s frontwoman is all of 18 years old, the black underage “X” visible on her hands as she holds the mic. And yes, the remaining four band members were also born in the 1990s. But as they’ve been together for three years, have two EPs under their belt, and are readying the release of their first full-length album this summer, it’s quite a misnomer to call this band “new.” With a stage presence belying their age, Kitten makes it clear that while the members might still be young, they are at the beginning of a very long career.

Decked out in a black choker, chunky-heeled black boots (which came off almost as soon as the set started), and half of her hair in cornrows with the other half usually covering her face, frontwoman Chloe Chaidez demanded her audience’s attention. She is a force on stage, twirling and gyrating, arms out, climbing down into the audience, jumping up and down—and all while singing with power and control.

Often referred to as punk in her earlier days, meaning the ripe old age of 15, Chaidez and her band have evolved into a more complex sound in the years since. It’s not hard to track Kitten’s influences to ’80s new wave, post-punk, and electronic dance rock. But their synth-driven tracks have an air of youth and glamour and light that is somehow beautifully woven into the aggression and the grit that gives Kitten a feeling all its own.

With Chaidez’s charisma, it would be all too easy to ignore what else is happening on stage—especially with four young, generically-hipster looking guys dressed in all black behind the instruments. But with Kitten, failing to look beyond the front would be an unfortunate oversight. Drummer Lukas Frank has been with Chaidez from the beginning, with guitarist Waylon Rector and keyboardist Bryan DeLeon joining next. After cycling through several bassists since the band formed, Zach Bilson came on just this spring. While that could have led to a few easily-forgiven weak spots, the set was tight, and the band sounded like they had been playing together for years. If anything, the weak spots came in between songs—for instance, when Frank started into the next song with Chaidez still bantering with audience members.

Kitten played a mix of tracks from their 2010 EP Sunday School and their follow-up EP, 2012′s Cut It Out. The set kicked off with “Kill the Light” from Sunday School, a track Chaidez remarked that they don’t usually play. During the third song, Cut It Out’s “Junk,” Chaidez grabbed a pair of drumsticks during the instrumental part, and pounded the shit out of an extra couple of drums. It was loud and fast and intense and just perfect.

Toward the end of the set, Kitten played a new song, “Doubt,” promising that they would put it on the record if we liked it enough. With a heavy electronic dance and pop sound and less guitar-driven rock, it was a clue as to the direction we might see Kitten take on their full-length album.

There were a few moments during the set when Chaidez went just over the top—a few too many fist pumps during “G#,” for instance—and intention veered from music into the realm of straight performance. But luckily, they were few and far between.

The boys, particularly DeLeon and Bilson, had their own personal dance parties during each track, but came together as a group when Chaidez demanded. It made for a kinetic show with energy and commitment to the music emanating from every corner of the stage. Kitten isn’t a punk band, but there were moments of their live show were reminiscent of the best punk shows. With no holds barred, the band was just as committed to the music and the dancing as they hope the audience was—perhaps a trick that Chaidez learned from her father, Mike Chaidez, former drummer for punk band Thee Undertakers.

Nine songs in, the too-short set ended with Chaidez singing from the top of a fan’s shoulders, hanging onto the ceiling. The floor of DC9 was shaking as the audience danced. Earlier in the night, Chaidez explained that Kitten is on a “big old tour right now, but I like this better….Every time there’s more than 20 people at our show, we think it’s a fluke.”

So long as they continue on their current path, Kitten will be headlining their own “big old tour” with many, many more than 20 people lucky enough to experience their live shows. I’m just glad I was able to catch them this past Sunday night.

Photos: Richie Downs

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Let me be frank: music festivals are awful. They are magnificently unpleasant. All of them. There is almost no other way to spend $350+ and have a worse time, other than maybe flying coach to the Midwest three days before Christmas.

That being said, this will be my sixth year attending Sasquatch. My first S’quatch was in 2006, and I went consecutively for the following four years. The 2010 festival was, barring Massive Attack’s STUNNING performance, such an abysmal waste of three days that I, during the dark, rank, exhausted drive back, swore I would never, ever go again. Ever.

Going to Sasquatch is like getting waxed: after enough time has passed since you last had your hopes and dreams ripped out through your bleeding follicles, you forget the pain and gloss over the memory. Soon enough, you’re back on the table, writhing in agony, wondering what the hell you were thinking.

And, so, two years since I last subjected myself to the dirty, loud, hot, overpopulated nightmare that Sasquatch has become over the past five years, here I am with a four-day pass and a rough schedule of bands to see.

Now, before you point your grubby little hipster fingers at me and call me a naysayer or a cynic, I will admit that music festivals have their advantages, Sasquatch especially so. Yes, it’s expensive, but I would probably end up paying close to $350 to separately see just a quarter of the bands that will be playing.

Yes, it’s an overcrowded swarm of humanity, but, as an introvert, I would rather condense all the over-stimulation of multiple shows into one intensive session from which I can then spend the rest of the year recovering.

Yes, it’s hot and cold and dry and wet all at the same time, but I defy you to find a more beautiful backdrop to lounge beneath for four days.

There’s also something I find incredibly satisfying about making it through a weekend of Sasquatch—sporting sunburns and bruises like badges of honor, recounting harrowing tales of drunkards and overturned HoneyBuckets to gape-jawed friends, and then, of course, those moments when you hear a song you just saw performed live and immediately relive the vivid connection between musician and audience that only blossoms during the extraordinary kind of sets that are somehow so commonplace at Sasquatch.

Sasquatch is instant misery and latent bliss, generous suffering and hard-earned ecstasy. It’s something you dread and pine for, all at the same time.

However, not all the evils of Sasquatch are necessary ones, and I will concede that my personal Sasquatch experiences did, for the most part, improve each year as I better learned how to prepare for and navigate the festival. So, out of both the kindness of my black, merciless heart and the hope that, for some of you, reading about your own douchebaggery might jar you into self-awareness, I have constructed a list of Do’s and Do-Not’s for your immediate absorption and strict adherence, punctuated by small samples of what kind of musical greatness to expect this weekend.

You’re welcome.

15 ways to make your (and my) sasquatch experience not absolutely terrible:

1. DO NOT take a dump in the floor of a HoneyBucket.

First things first. This is one of the main reasons I swore off Sasquatch after the 2010 festival. I walked into not one, not two, not three, but FOUR (quatro) HoneyBuckets in which someone had wiped feces (caca) all over the interior.

Mentally, emotionally, I can’t even begin to ponder the process of completing such a task. But, nonetheless, someone(s) found themselves inspired enough to attempt it, and dedicated enough to succeed. Now, I understand that there are, imaginably, mitigating circumstances which might excuse, if not explain, how an individual might suddenly find themselves exploding with poop. And even if there’s no medical reason, and you just suddenly felt the inescapable need to not defecate like a human being for a moment, all I ask is that you warn us. Smear an “X” on the door. Set it on fire. Camp out in front of it and claim it as your own personal temple.

Whatever you need to do.

Please. For the love of god. Don’t force me, or any other perfectly nice, unsuspecting person, to unwittingly walk in on your intestinal train-wreck.

2. DO NOT forget your ticket.

Three years in a row, my friends and I took turns forgetting our tickets and suddenly realizing our folly halfway to the gorge. Retrospectively, it’s funny, but at the time it was both stressful and humiliating. Also, it’s pretty dangerous when you’re bombing down the highway and everyone is frantically flipping U-turns. It’s wristbands this year, so hang it on your front doorknob or pack it with the prohibited hard alcohol we both know you’ll be smuggling in.

3. DO drink water. So, so much water.

You’re going to be out in the heat, climbing that gargantuan hill over and over again, trekking across pavement and eating salty, dried foods. Throw in a couple $15 cans of PBR, and it’s like writing a letter to the sun formally requesting a heat stroke. Bring two Nalgenes (you’ll lose one) and try to drink that much water at least six times. At least. This is critical to the safety and well-being of not just yourself, but of everyone else as well. Were you to insist on only drinking energy drinks and booze for the entire weekend, your tortured, pitiful kidneys would fail, and you would start vomiting uncontrollably, likely triggering a massive sympathetic emesis chain-reaction, drowning hundreds in a sea of puke. Don’t play us like that, bro.

4. DO bring your own food.

Unless you plan on eating craptastic $15 chicken teriyaki for four days, you need to bring your own food. If you happen to be allergic to peanut butter, you should probably just stay home, because I honestly have no idea what else you’re going to eat, and that stuff is going to be everywhere.

The best way to go about packing food for S’quatch is pretending that you’re an explorer from the 1500s about to embark on a lengthy voyage at sea. You want dried fruit (to prevent scurvy), granola bars with high fiber (to prevent constipation), and some good quality jerky (to prevent cannibalism).

Super Secret Pro Tip: Bring a knife. This handy device allows you to spread peanut butter (or your gross peanut butter substitute) uniformly over bread or bagels, while simultaneously keeping your filthy, music festival-y hands out of your food. Because tapeworms.

5. DO NOT bring the $95 silk sleeveless button-up from Anthropologie you bought specifically for the festival.

I know it’s super cute. And I know you envisioned yourself swaying delicately in it to some Mumford & Sons song and attracting the attention of one of the band members, who would then invite you up on stage and showcase your pure, youthful beauty. But leave it at home, along with anything else that you would like to be able to wear or use after the festival. In each of my five years of attending, I have never had anything stolen or broken. But, in each of those five years, I have encountered many a crying girl and crying boy wailing about their missing Canon Rebel or broken Gucci sunglasses. Rule of Thumb: If it wouldn’t survive being carried around in a bag of garbage for a couple of days, don’t bring it to Sasquatch.

6. DO bring the Three S’s of Not Dying of Skin Cancer: Sunscreen, Sunglasses, and Sunhats.

Let me put on my Bad News Pants here: statistically speaking, you will probably die of some form of cancer. But hey, just because pollution, antibiotics, toxic power plants, mass atomic weapons testing, and corn syrup have sealed your fate doesn’t mean you don’t have any say in the matter.

I’m not a doctor (legal disclaimer, you litigious bastards), but from what I’ve read/heard, melanoma is one of the worst forms of cancer and can kick into high gear as early as your teens. But, fortunately, I have also read/heard that it can be prevented through the proper use of sunscreen and protective clothing. So get your camping buddies together every morning and slather each other with waterproof sunscreen. Then throw on your sunglasses (because eyes are important) and a hat (because heads are important), and make sure to give yourself some breaks in the shade to reapply. That way you won’t ever have to battle your own flesh in a fight to the death, and I won’t ever have to pay taxes toward the astronomical medical bills you undoubtedly would not be able to afford. Win-win.

7. DO bring earplugs.

Let me tell you a secret: no one thinks you are a badass because you “don’t need earplugs” when you go to shows. Out of all the things anyone could ever be capable of accomplishing, this is probably the least impressive. Besides, medically speaking, you do need them, unless you have some mutation that allows you to seal off your ear drums at will. Fortuitously, earplugs have always come in bright, neon colors, so you’ll be able to coordinate with your super cool neon tank tops that say “YOLO” across the front.

Oh man. I’m going to talk myself out of going just by writing this. You people.

8. DO bring a travel pack of baby wipes.

Baby wipes are your new best friend. And washcloth. And shower. And toothbrush. And makeup remover. And handsoap. And foot de-odorizer. And wound disinfectant. And dishwasher. And, if push comes to shove, feminine product.

9. DO NOT bring your small child.

Why? Seriously. Why? If you are dead-set on bringing your toddler to Sasquatch, let’s compromise: you don’t bring your squalling offspring to a four-day adult event so I, and all the other adult ticket-holders, don’t have to deal with its loud, sticky, and nerve-wracking presence (because, come on, it’s only a matter of time before its complete lack of balance sends it tumbling to its death), and you can give your three-year-old the exact same sensory experience it would have at Sasquatch by strapping some speakers to its head and letting it sit in a hot car with an open can of beer and a burning cigarette for a couple hours. Everyone’s happy. Except maybe Social Services.

10. DO NOT use Sasquatch as an opportunity to try hallucinogenic drugs for the first time ever.

Let me tell you a story about a young man we called “Sloth Guy.” We found him lying face-down on the small, grassy hill by the food court area. At first, we thought he was just napping, but after a few minutes he moved his head (very…very…slowly) and we realized that he was not only awake, but that he was Tripping Balls. Capital T, capital B.

It was easy enough to deduce what had likely happened: Sloth Guy decided he would try (insert hallucinogen here) with his friends, but he made the common mistake of taking too much and the even more common mistake of having tools for friends. His friends, upon realizing he was beyond help, just left him there, sprawled in the grass, completely and overwhelmingly terror-struck by all that was happening around him. How long he had been there, we had no idea.

He moved achingly slow, a perfect impression of a sloth crossing a road, and when he did dare to gaze up at the world around him, his eyes would widen and his brain would seem to simply cease processing the bizarre lifeforms stalking about, his senses overloading and emptying out and overloading again and again, until he would slowly drop his face back into the grass.

It was one of the most tragic things I have ever seen, and I laugh about it with my friends at least once a month.

I don’t care what your friends say. I don’t care if they assure you that you’ll be fine if you just try a little and that they’ll be right there with you, and it’ll be so much fun, and you’ll have a great time. If you put your body in a stressful environment (heat, noise, crowds) and then feed it drugs that make it hallucinate, drugs that you have never before experienced or know how to cope with, you are going to have a fantastically terrible time.

If you’re lucky, you’ll end up like Sloth Guy, lying in the grass, being made fun of, and having your picture taken. If you’re not as lucky, you’ll end up eating part of someone’s face and being gunned down like a rabid animal by a SWAT team.

11. DO practice proper Pit Etiquette.

Should you find yourself in a “Pit” situation (circle, mosh, dance, Brad, etc.) remember that a good pit is about fun, not broken teeth. Keep your elbows down and watch where you put your feet. Don’t shove someone who isn’t paying attention and don’t use a pit as an excuse to try to get some girl’s top off.

There are people out there who will tell you that pits are about messing people up. No. Those people are idiots who, for one reason or another, feel the need to express their insecurity through violence. In all the punk, hardcore, and metal shows I’ve been to (A LOT), I have never encountered a pit where the asshat throwing elbows wasn’t part of a very small minority.

A well done pit looks dangerous, but is actually composed of people who are moving to the same tempo (more or less) and are looking out for each other. If someone falls down, everyone stops and helps them up. If someone wants out, you help them get to the front or the back. If you are in a pit and you see someone being unsafe or violent, tell people. Move to the front and tell one of the security officers.

Be proactive about your own safety and the safety of the four-year-olds who will inevitably be sitting on the shoulders of their negligent parents.

12. DO whatever you need to remember where you are camped.

It doesn’t matter how many times you drunkenly bang on the windows of the car I am sleeping in and shout “CARRIE LET ME IN!” At no point will the car suddenly become Carrie’s car, and at no point will I suddenly morph into Carrie. I promise it’s not a joke that Carrie and I are secretly playing on you. I don’t even know a Carrie. But I do have a can a pepper spray and a very limited amount of patience, so to save everyone time and searing pain, remember where you are camped.

13. DO dress like you are about to go through an apocalypse.

If you’ve been to Sasquatch before, or have friends who have gone, you know that the weather is always incredibly creative over Memorial Day Weekend. This festival has seen everything from hail and lightning to 95-degree heat-waves. The best advice I can give is to go read the Book of Revelations and bring whatever clothing you think you would need to survive that.

14. DO bring a box of fabric bandaids.

While I would like to be able to meet a person and assume that they do not have an infectious disease stampeding through their veins, statistics from the Center for Disease Control, among other scientific institutions, assert that would probably be an incorrect assumption. I’m not saying that you have a mutant Hepatitis-Ebola hybrid hacking away at your internal organs, but I’m not not saying that either.

The best way to handle this kind of situation is to make sure that all of your probably-perfectly-healthy-but-possibly-virus-ridden blood stays inside of your body.

Enter bandaids.

By generously applying these effective little strips (the fabric varieties stay on much better than their foamy counterparts) to the bloody gashes your brand new gladiator sandals are going to carve into your feet, you can keep all your blood borne pathogens to yourself, and I can continue not to have rabies.

15. DO NOT be an asshole.

Here’s the deal folks: we all paid a decent chunk of change to go to this festival and enjoy the music, atmosphere, and environment. We didn’t pay $350 (or more) to watch two drunk dudes kick the piss out of each other (literally), or to trip over broken bottles thrown on the ground (tetanus), or to have to pretend like we don’t notice you having “stealthy” sex under a blanket in broad daylight, right next to us. (WE NOTICE.)

Don’t fight your way through the crowd to just stop and stand right in front of someone who has obviously been waiting there longer than you. Don’t blow your cigarette smoke behind you, because someone is probably standing right there. Don’t throw your garbage on the ground. Don’t use the cover of an energetic set to get away with copping a feel—we can all tell the difference between an accidental bump and an intended grope.

I know that sometimes, what with the great burden that comes with having the universe revolve around you, it can be really hard to not be an asshole. But the non-assholes—the people who just want to spend a few days in the sun listening to great music—deserve to have the good time they paid for.

Besides, the good folks at The Gorge Amphitheater put on a music festival later in the summer that’s reserved specifically for assholes, so if you really don’t think you can make it four days without making another person miserable, maybe you should sell your pass on Craigslist and buy a ticket for Dave Matthews Band instead.

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Ra Ra Riot, the former baroque-pop darlings, reflect this refined maturation process. Two years after the release of their captivating album The Orchard, they return to us with a lineup change and a new album, Beta Love. We had the opportunity to discuss the venture into electronic elements with bassist Mathieu Santos. 

You’ve just released the newest album, Beta Love, and it’s a bit of a departure from 2010′s The Orchard. What do you think shifted the band’s sound?

I think a lot of different things. The biggest part was that we knew we wanted to approach the writing and arranging of this record differently. When we first started as a band, we had all these different instruments at our disposal, and at first, it was a strength of ours, but I think over time we sort of got into this rut. We learned how to write and arrange together so well that we just approached the songs in the same way; we were always adapting the songs to the band. It was like, “Oh, yeah, what’s the violin part going to be? What’s the cello part going to be? What’s this? What’s that?” We just started doing the same thing in every song, I think.

When we approached this record, we wanted to listen to the songs once and say, “What does this song need?” Just let it develop more naturally. We also wanted to embrace things we might have been too self-conscious to embrace in the past, like a lot of the electronic elements or the thematic elements. Shortly before we started working on the record, we had a lineup change, which shakes things up. We let a lot of the decision-making happen in the studio as opposed to figuring it all out beforehand. There was a lot of spontaneity and improvisation in the studio, which also helped shape the music.

Is it necessary to continue to experiment with the band’s band sound?

Yeah, absolutely. Not really that it’s necessary, but it’s more natural. There’s a bunch of us in the band. As we’re all changing, inevitably as individuals and getting into new and different things, it’s only natural that the band is going to reflect those changes.

It’s unnatural for anything to stay the same for a long time. It wouldn’t be any fun for us if we were just doing the same thing over and over again. Any time that we get together, we’re excited to see what’s going to come out of it and what new things we can accomplish.

From where would you say the inspiration for this album came?

There was a lot of eighties pop, you know, Janet Jackson and Michael Jackson, Phil Collins…a lot of new wave stuff and electronic music like Devo and Kraftwerk. Dennis Herring, who produced the record, also had a huge influence in how it sounded. He was introducing us to things while we were there, particularly R&B and house music. So, there was a lot of stuff floating around. I was listening to a lot of jazz fusion.

What prompted the decision to work with Dennis?

We did the last record, The Orchard, on our own. We produced, recorded, and engineered it entirely ourselves, which we wanted to do. It was a fun and unique learning experience. We learned a ton in the studio and had a lot of fun making it.

So, I think when it came time to make this album, we thought, “Well, we did that. Let’s see what a real pro, hands-on producer can bring to the table.” We had it sort of narrowed down to a short list, and Dennis was on it. And he was actually the first person we’d met; we were huge fans of the records he’s worked on in the past, and he had a diverse list of clientele, which was appealing to us.

It was just a really great first impression. We were supposed to meet him for coffee one day in Brooklyn, just to say “hi” and get to know each other a little bit, and we hit it off so well, we ended up spending the entire day with him, like six or seven hours. We ended up going back to our studio and playing him all the songs we were working on just after having met him.

It felt really natural right away. It was part of this new approach. We felt good about it, so we didn’t want to over think it. We ended up going with him and it ended up being a great choice. He really pushed us and helped us achieve things we wouldn’t be able to do on our own.

How do you feel the audience is responding to Beta Love?

We were really nervous at first. The album had been done for months; we were very used to it, but we knew that no one outside of the band had heard it. We were curious to see how people were going to react when we released the first couple songs. There was some backlash at first, a little tiny bit of a backlash. I think people were caught off-guard, maybe. After that subsided, that knee-jerk kind of reaction, it felt like a really overwhelmingly positive response.

Since we’ve been touring the record this year, it feels like the songs have been really connecting live, and people have been really responding to all the new songs, which has been great for us. I feel like people have been singing along even more with the new songs and responding to them more than the old ones in some cases.

When making this record, we knew it was the same people making the record, so by extension we thought the same people who liked the old stuff would like this, too. We were hoping like our fans would grow with us. So far, it seems like they have. It’s been good.

What would you say is the most rewarding part of touring and performing live?

Just that. That connection, however cheesy it may sound. There’s nothing that can really ever replace that experience of live music.

As much as the internet and things like that have leveled the playing field, in terms of bands being able to get discovered and popular on that level, I think the live music experience will never be replaced. It’s a special thing. That’s the whole reason we started the band, to be playing in front of people and having fun, and having that really exciting, fun and positive energy exchange. It’s great to go to all these different cities and countries in the world and have all these strangers get on board and share in the experience.

Why do you think that vinyl is making a resurgence?

It’s probably a response to how the internet makes everything accessible. I think people are coming to appreciate the simple pleasures of analog music. That, again, like live music, is something that is never going to be able to be replaced. An MP3 is never going to sound better than a record. It’s a physical impossibility.

You know how the internet can devalue things? You can just download hundreds of albums at once. I think people are rediscovering the joy and thrill of going in a thrift store and finding a record that you’ve been looking for and having it at home and putting it on a turntable. It’s a really neat experience. I’m happy it’s making a comeback. I’m proud that our records are available on vinyl. I think it’s a great way to listen to music.

Ra Ra Riot is currently on tour supporting The Shins and will embark on a tour with The Postal Service in June. 

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