Round Robin, Eyes Night

[lexies]

See a full album of photos from the night here .

Surprisingly, I have not yet seen one single review of Thursday and Friday night's Baltimore Round Robin tour shows at Sonar. Not on SENBaltimore, not on City Paper's website/blog -- and only the usual snarkily-captioned photos on Beatbots. So here's what I thought of the bands I saw (and recognized, by name) at Night One ("Eyes Night") of the Baltimore Round Robin tour, a two-night showcase of Baltimore's indie-est, and an event that has received enthusiastic plaudits from extremely well-regarded sources across the board.

TEETH MOUNTAIN: One of those wall-of-noise indie bands that use real instruments (sax, violin, guitar, bass, drums) to make droning, atmospheric squawkings. This one I thought was quite interesting, actually, as though they were moving in some sort of unified maneuvers, and underpinned by tribal-ish rhythms. The real striking thing about them, though, is that they have this very young feel to the group. First, they all look about 17, and the gal banging on the floor toms in the picture above, mainly because she was the only female in the group, gave me a sort of "I-just-got-to-Art-School-and-found-my-true-self" vibe, as if she had only recently discovered the appeal to some people of a girl wearing a smock dress over dark tights going ape-shit on a bunch of drums, or that others find such a spectacle appealing. Teeth Mountain was, for me, a great first signal that this night was going to emphasize the DaDa of Wham City, the ubiquitous Baltimore art collective that organized this event.

JANA HUNTER: Looked like Janis Joplin, sounded very West End of London, 1968. But erring on the more Kinks-y side of things, rather than the truly drugged-out psych-rock side. Hunter has a great voice, plays fairly uninteresting guitar, but write songs that aren't quite symmetrical and felt to me like they'd be equally welcome accompaniment in a movie about a road trip across Death Valley as a scene on a foggy pier out in the Thames at night.

CREEPERS: Alright, further down the DaDa rabbit hole, then. These guys were a duo, with one playing a casio keyboard and singing high, the other (on the left in the pic) mirroring his vocals an octave or two lower. All of their songs sounded like demented Broadway numbers, but one was particularly hilarious. Didn't get the name, but the lyrics went something like, "That sting you feel, that's part of love / Relax, you're doing fine / I'm very pleased with you." Talk about Creepy, but so funny.

SANTA DADS: A guy (the guy from Creepers) in tiger pajamas playing trumpet; his comrade in a dress, strumming a ukulele; a girl in between them adding nothing to the act save for some epileptic dance moves and the vigorous shaking of a giant, bewhiskered, stuffed catfish--now we are safely here, in the 21st century Baltimore absurdist movement. I don't dig this band that much musically (plus, where was "Where You Gonna Hang Your Leg"??) but I get that they are, to a certain extent part of a troupe, and purveyors of an art joke that you basically have to immerse yourself in to really understand. We're talking about reliving childhood here, but with all the hormones and awkwardness and nervous obsession that came with puberty mixed in. There's nothing intellectual about Santa Dads, but that's okay, because that's not the point.

BEACH HOUSE: The most-talked-about Baltimore band this year, blah, blah, blah, Devotion, even Baltimore Magazine readers can appreciate them, blah, blah, blah, Victoria Legrand's dad is some sort of French new-wave film star, blah blah bleccchh. When I heard Beach House's record, and a few earlier tracks, and especially when I watched director Skizz Cyzyk's cinematic take on their song "You Came To Me," I decided that I don't really like this band. But that was before I saw them live, and heard Victoria LeGrand's really quite epic cat-like yawl through a proper sound system. If this is the new cool, I'm at this point okay with that.

FUNNY CLOWN: In the middle of his stand-up act, Funny Clown, AKA Joshua Kelberman of Wham City, said, "I need a volunteer from the audience..." and when a bunch of hands shot up, said, "Which one of you wants to die?" That was pretty hilarious. Almost as funny was when he asked the eventual volunteer he selected, a college student, what he studied, and when the kid answered "economics," he asked--"What kind of economics." The kid said, "financial economics," and Funny Clown tilted up his chin scanned the crowd, gave a flourish of his hand, and said, dramatically, "Is there any other kind??" That was pretty funny too.

LEXIE MOUNTAIN BOYS: To start, I have a very hard time describing, when I'm talking about it, why I think this group of grunting, groaning, men's briefs-wearing women are so f-ing brilliant. So I'll give it a try in print. For those who don't know, LMB basically gets on stage in really strange costumes, which sometimes emphasize their sexuality (body paint, torn clothing, busty tops) and sometimes satirize it (fake beards, men's undies over their pants, etc) and has a seance-like vocal jam sessions that consists of (sorta) tuneless grunts, groans, moans, stomps, handclaps, and various gutteral warbling. It's certainly not "music" as most people know it. But I hear strains of pre-war gospel, soulful moments that reference old blues, negro spirituals, and shape-note singing. At the same time, all the other "boys" seem to gather around Lexie and draw energy from her, clutching at her wrists and clothing like a prophet, as she raises her eyes to the sky and seems to feed off of their energy as well. Accordingly, the cadence of each song rises from the calm to the frantic, with the girls throwing their heads back and howling, then humming, then cooing. In doing so, I think they tap into some of the same ideas about song structure, tension and passion that romantic composers reach, while working in roughly the same format as the neo-primitivists of the 70s like John Fahey and Peter Lang. They need to be seen live to be understood, and they make me smile from ear to ear whenever I see them.

LESSER GONZALEZ ALVAREZ: Channeled Jackson Browne, Jeff Buckley, and Nick Drake in equal parts. He dressed in earthy, tweedy prep-tones and played deep, rich-sounding accompaniments to his folk songs on a crystal-clear Fender Telecaster. Enjoyed him, but need to spend more time with him.

Rub

[gobble]

So I promised a review of the barbecue place that Dana and I found on our bike trip through South Baltimore, and here goes. I don't understand what Richard Gorelick is talking about here, when he says that Rub makes brisket that is "very tender and a little bit beautiful" or turkey that is "a marvel of modest flavor." Both are simply untrue.

Let me instead chance an analogy that better suits the quality, originality and general ethos of Rub -- how easily Gorelick was seduced by the Walker Evans photo qualities of the landscape, the six-pack cartons as condiment holders (wee!) and everything else Rub tried to sell him as "authentic feelings about Texas and the good food that Texans make for each other"! -- and that is, Rub is to barbecue as whiskey is to Jim Beam, and there were at least 2 dozen Beam bottles lined up on a mantlepiece behind the bar. In fact, almost all the house cocktails, like the Lone Star lemonade, are bastardized whiskey sours made with Beam, and Beam is held up in this place as the most Texas, most appropriate accompaniment for slow-smoked meat, and the fact is, Jim Beam is disgusting and a whiskey that rests only on its strong branding.

Likewise, Rub's barbecued meats are disappointing, and resting on the laurels of a bar with the kind of character that attracts fratty Federal Hill types. Why else would there be over a dozen flat screens showing ESPN, FSN, network football and even Gol friggin' TV? Real barbecue joints don't need to be sports bars, nor do they need to look pretty:


[gobble, 2]

But now, actually, that does look pretty. That's the turkey breast that came on the Lone Star platter. But don't be fooled! It was dry as a bone and served less-than-lukewarm. This was amateur barbecue, not slow-heat alchemy. Same goes for the brisket. This wasn't the type of meat that you don't want to bespoil with hickory sauce -- it was exactly the type of meat you want to smother in it. And we did, and it tasted fine, I guess, but not revelatory by any means. The chicken did fall off the bone, I guess, and the sausage was pretty delicious, but what kind of barbecue place can be judged on chicken and sausage? What's that you say? A Texas pit? Nay. Sausage is important to master -- it's like learning your Suzuki Method before trying the Shostakovich violin concerto. But for a Texas-style barbecue joint, your brisket is your Vocalise -- a penetrating, dreamy, melted-butter aria that can be made truly beautiful, or wholly forgettable. Rub is certainly not the former.

Our sides:


[m&c] [pomme-de-terre ensalat]

This were disappointing as well. Vanilla, mayo-based potato salad devoid of herbs, and M&C heavy on the cream, not the cheesy. Myeah.


[dosty]

FOOD: B-
A Texas barbecue place needs to focus on the essentials, videlicet, not poultry. The balance can't hang in the cradles arms of a mediocre mustard sauce. The ribs and brisket were not impressive, the "slow heat" not apparent, and the plate arrived half cold. You want Baltimore barbecue? Go to Big Bad Wolf.

DRINK: B-
Had a nondescript pale ale that I don't remember now because it was October. The cocktails all looked pretty frighteningly bad. Keep your Red Bull away from me.

AMBIENCE: B-
This place really bothered me (can you tell?) because it was so clearly a sports bar first, and a food purveyor second. I can't deal with barbecue places that don't give it their all. Get rid of the commercialized drink specials, the hordes of Ratbird fans, and the constant product placement, and then we'll talk.