Dickey Betts & Great Southern, w/ The Blue Dogs
@ Cat’s Cradle, Carrboro NC
Tuesday, June 8, 2004

This was my first Dickey Betts & Great Southern show, and I hadn’t seen the Allman Brothers in a while (the last ABB show I’d seen was before Dickey was booted), so I expected a trustafarian contingent to be present. Most of the audience, however, consisted of regular middle-aged Carolina guys. Some good ole boys, a couple in tie-dyed shirts, a few very drunk, took the front and center. Everyone looked like they had jobs to go to the next morning but were out to see some music anyway. No trustafarians. No hipsters. A very good audience.

I was bored by the first band, enough to forget their name. The Blue Dogs, a blues/country/rock outfit from South Carolina, had the middle slot. They had excellent skills and played very well, were tight, had a few catchy tunes and ended with a bang, but didn’t strike me as anything too far from the standard pitcher-and-hot-wings blues honkies you see in every city. One song that stuck out was about a good ole boy trading his old beat-up pick-up for an SUV in order to get girls. I didn’t like the song but it was a true lesson for everyone with overly-romanticized visions of the South.

Dickey Betts and his band, Great Southern, were phenomenal. The band opened with an instrumental, a very funky Latin feel. That groove along with getting to see one of my guitar heroes up close put me in high spirits right at the start. The jams were, like with the Allman’s, very tasteful and interesting rather than self-indulgent and directionless, a sort of wild, Southern jazz that’s at once ballsy and wise and exploratory. The rhythm section was the tightest I’ve seen in a while, the drummer Frank Lombardi with a very powerful delivery and honed chops, and the bass player Dave Stoltz with a thick, warm tone and metronome timing. Dickey’s counterpart Dan Toler dealt out some tasteful licks and explosive solos on the Strat. The keyboardist, Mike Kach, reminded me of Gregg Allman in look and sound, doing all of Gregg’s vocal parts on the Allmans songs. To be honest I didn’t pay a lot of attention to the keys, but I’m in no place to critique these guys anyway. They are a band of out-and-out professionals.

I had a great spot at the corner of stage right with an excellent view. Dickey’s standard sweet, rich Les Paul tone with just the right amount of mountain echo sounded better than at any outdoor, cookie-cutter amphitheater. That he is the son of a fiddle player is very evident in his guitar style, especially in the song “Jessica”. He also did other well-known tunes like “Blue Sky” and “In Memory of Elizabeth Reed,” a song I remember jamming to in my bedroom over and over again. The audience was one of the best I’ve seen in this town, responding with cheers at the right moments as the players ended their solos or when the song crescendoed up into a blissful rapture, and always with long applause at the end of the songs. Between sets I could see it in everyone’s eyes they were just as amped about it as I was. That’s what Dickey accomplishes – puts everyone on the same boat and takes them out to sea.

It’s refreshing to get to a show that’s light on the fashion and image aspect and heavy on the musicianship.

Kung Flude, w/ The Bleeding Hearts, Anderson Airplane
@ Go! Studios, Carrboro NC
Friday June 11, 2004

I was ready to ride my bike to this show. It was storming and I didn’t want to be struck by white lightnin’, so I waited it out in my shitty-ass trailer and drank some beer, causing me to miss the opening act, Anderson Airplane, a one man band like Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins or Hasil Adkins. I saw Anderson Airplane at King’s in Raleigh a year ago and he was terrible, but that didn’t keep us from being thoroughly entertained. He has a song called “Ass Attack”. People I talked to that night told me he had gotten better.

The lightning finally let up and I rode my bike down to Go! I know that sentence wasn’t exciting enough to warrant an exclamation point but every time you write the word “Go!” in reference to Go! Studios in Carrboro, you must, under penalty of law, use an exclamation point.

Evidently the rain wasn’t a factor in preventing attendance to the show because people were pouring, like gravy on a plate of roast beef, out into the street. The show was SOLD OUT!!! Luckily I had an advance ticket. I gave the ticket to the door man, got a milk, waded through people to find a good place to stand and caught a bit of the Bleeding Hearts.

The Kung Flude stage set-up was a sight to behold. On stage right two Asian midgets waddled out carrying an ancient Chinese gong. I thought they were going to hang the gong so KF could get it on, but they just stood there. Apparently the midgets would serve as the gong stand. On stage left cement sheets were being stacked up by muscle-bound roadies. Adoring fans lined up single file and each placed gifts of food in the center of the stage: plates of hot dogs, hoagies, assortments of lunch meat, ribs, frozen pizza, seafood, tacos, hamburgers, jars of peanut butter, bowls of General Tso’s chicken, fried chicken, chicken wings, egg rolls, jelly rolls, just plain rolls, cinnamon buns, donuts, cake, and a whole pig with an apple in its mouth.

True story.

Kung Flude was more polish-sausaged than when I saw them last time, and I got to hear some new tunes like “Here Come the Jerks” about jerks who break stuff that works, along with “Strangle You”, “Get Your Foot off of My Balls” and “Weapon Face,” about the first woman the bass player had sexual intercourse with. John Flude has always been a heavyweight when it comes to songwriting, with catchy meat hooks and fat (not phat) lyrics.

During the songs the band entertained the crowd by inviting lucky audience members to the stage to hold the cement planks, before smashing them to pieces with their amazing Marshall arts skills. A portly audience member was even allowed to hit the gong, and he did with such ferocity that the midgets fell and hurt themselves.

At one point singer/guitarist John Flude whip-creamed a solo like nothing I’d ever heard. To the untrained ear it might have sounded like he was simply running his fingers over the fretboard randomly, but I suspected a method to the madness, and I was determined to get to the bottom of it.

My conclusion: Kung Flude are Marshall Artists with very good taste in music.

Cautiously, I followed Master Flude after the show. He entered the tour bus. Okay, it wasn’t really a tour bus. It was a giant truck shaped like a hot dog. I jumped up into the weiner when no one was looking. I crept under a sign that read, “NO GROUPIES UNLESS YOU HAVE FOOD”. Flude was sitting in the back with a plate of chili dogs and a jumbo-sized bag of Andy Capp Cheddar Fries. Surrounding him was an entire kitchen set up – an oven, range top, microwave, dirty pots and pans, a milk shake machine, a kegerator, and a refrigerator/freezer overflowing with so much food it had to be clasped shut with bungee cord. I approached cautiously.

“nalm, nalm - Who fcker YOU! - nalm nalm” he bellowed as a barrage of orange, cheddar-flavored food pellets hit my face. I stammered a few words and just as I thought my night would be ruined with judo chops – or was it pork chops? – I remembered that half eaten Italian hoagie I had stashed away in my pocket. I offered it up as a gift.

“nalm nalm - Put it ovr ther wid de others – nalm nalm,” he commanded, pointing a cheese powder-encrusted finger toward a five-gallon bucket in the corner filled with hoagies and labeled “hoagie bucket” in permanent marker.

He explained to me that this was his “dojo” and he was calming down after the show by an ancient Fatonese practice known as “meditative gorging” to regain any calories he might have lost during the blistering performance.

I turned around from adding my hoagie to the mass, and the first thing I noticed was the entire plate of hot dogs had disappeared. In its place was drummer Matt, who stood grinning with a bit of ketchup in the corner of his mouth. Apparently he had eaten all twelve weiners in a matter of seconds. I stared at him, and back at Flude, who was now in the throes of chugging a chocolate milkshake. When I looked back, Matt was gone just as fast as he appeared.

I managed to get a few words out of the guitarist between bites. Not much of the interview is transcribable, but I finally got to the part about his unorthodox soloing.

“What scale are you using?” I asked.

“Bfrm scale,” he mumbled, mouth full of hoagie.

“What?”

“Bathroom scale! My philosophy of guitar playing is put your weight into it. My guitar Sensei was also a batting coach for the Pittsburgh Pirates.”

By the end of the interview I was covered in soggy bread crumbs, three kinds of cheese and a plethora of salted, cured meats.

“It’s been a picnic talking to you,” I said, before thanking him and leaving.

I was chased halfway home by a bum carrying two stale slices of bread in either hand. He kept up with me for a mile, even as I rode my bike, before pooping out. Just when I thought I was home free, I hit a bump, fell into a shallow ditch and was attacked by an army of flesh-eating ants, who mistook me for a picnic.

Or maybe it didn’t go quite like that. I’m not sure if it really was a sold-out show, or if I got milk at a bar, or about the Asian midgets or if the cement planks were really cement, or the audience bringing food, or the giant hot dog tour bus. I could have hallucinated it all.

But I wasn’t doing any drugs. I didn’t even drink all that much. It must’ve been something I ate.

Dynamite Brothers
@ Go! Studios, Carrboro NC
Friday June 18, 2004

Scott, Mitch and Shane are three of the best musicians around. They played a particularly explosive set tonight. Get it? But I’m not joking – they seemed particularly tight and hard-hitting. It was a blast. Get it? But it was. The Dynamite Brothers have crafted their own sound, their own get-down-low boogie that grows out of soul, funk and rock influences, a sound forged by endless practice and searching for that groove that’s floating around deep down under your feet, in the dirt, the thing that makes the worms wiggle. When they aren’t playing as the Dynamite Brothers, these guys are out gigging around with jazz bands and side projects. Very well rounded. Not slaves to genre. They are musicians in the old school sense of the word. Right on.

DKT/MC5 featuring Marshall Crenshaw on guitar and Mark Arm and the Zombie Who Ate Evan Dando’s Brain on vocals, w/ Valiant Thorr, Cobra Verde, The Man
@ Cat’s Cradle, Carrboro NC

Saturday June 19, 2004

The Man was already on when I rolled up to the Cradle. I walked down the hall to give my pre-bought ticket to the doorman when an ancient road-worn dude hobbled out from the band room. I assumed he was one of the MC3 but I hadn’t seen any photos of them from later than 35 years ago. He looked to be about 106 years of age.

There weren’t very many people in attendance and there wouldn’t be very many more before the night was over, but at least the Man had a decent sized crowd front and center. I got a beer and walked up close to the stage. The band was tighter than they had been in the past, I thought. Singer Kevin Clark very Iggy-like. Johnny Dzubek on the low-slung Les Paul a good addition to the Man.

Suddenly the Zombie Who Ate Evan Dando’s Brain lurked over and stood to my right, checking out the band. I felt that cold, eerie death-vibe that zombies ooze, and my automatic response was to go through my mental rolodex of answers to typical zombie questions like “You got any spare change?” and “You know where I can get some brains?” Zombies only want two things: brains and money to buy brains with.

Luckily I adverted eye contact with the zombie who appeared bored and walked away.

Valiant Thorr was up next and they absolutely rocked the house

They were the band of the night. If it hadn’t been for them I might not have come to this show. I dig the MC5 but I don’t own any of their albums.

Anyway, this was Valiant Thorr’s show. Fronted by Herbie (that’s his earth name, his true Venutian name is Valiant Thorr. I think that’s how it goes. It doesn’t matter). They are rowdy. They are from Venus. They teach us about the radiation belt that surrounds the earth. Herbie MAKES everyone have a good time. They jump out into the crowd and dance. They MAKE everyone come up out of their seat. They MAKE everyone get down real low, so as to make anyone trying to stand in the back and be cool stick out like a sore thumb. Why does Herbie make everyone get down low? So we’re all on the same ship, we all connect, and the more people that get down the more people on the ship, the harder and stronger we can row, back to Venus and back to the Soul, which is the glue that connects all life. They are a band for good-time-havers. Chapel Hill needs Valiant Thorr. The Earth needs Valiant Thorr. What is their music like? It cannot be described in simple Earth terms, but I will try Here’s what it is: it’s a wheel of fire and overdrive spinning wildly and just when you think it’s going to pop off it’s axel it all comes back to a low funky roll, and just when you relax in that funk, that wheel drives and turns and burns again, wilder and faster than the first time, taking you on an inner space journey back to the Venus of your soul, until you almost can’t take it, and then there’s a crash landing and an explosion….. and in the end we all shout “More Thorr! More Thorr!” – We don’t give a goddamn about the other bands, but they have to go. But the wheel keeps turning and turning in you for the rest of the night, and you get up the next day and say, “Hey motherfucker! I gotta do something to make the wheel keep turning some more!” Valiant Thorr is church. More than church. A ride. And it’s Funny too. It’s entertainment. Yeah! They are currently on the beginning of a gigantic US tour. Go see! http://www.valientthorr.com

Cobra Verde was very cool, but regrettably I didn’t catch much of their set because I had business to take care of over at the Local 506. I think they’ve been in the game a while. There’s a very Cleveland punk, late 70s glam vibe to them, but not in a nostalgia sort of way, not in a way that is at all detached from that sound. They are what they play and they’ve been around the block, and I could tell this from only a few songs. Very solid band.

The DKT/MC5 was not meant to be a recreation of the MC5, but more of a celebration, and that it was. Mark Arm was superb on vocals. I always dug Mudhoney.

The band was tight. Tight, old dudes. Ancient. Wayne Kramer jumped around like a goof and jammed the shit outta that late 60s Strat with the fat head. He was having a good old time and really worked the small crowd, who sang along to almost all of the songs. Marshall Crenshaw, who I never really got into, oddly did a great job on guitar. The signature MC5 riffin’ was tight and roused mid-song cheers from the party at the foot of the stage.

I’m not sure who decided to take the Zombie Who Ate Evan Dando’s Brain on tour. Even if a zombie didn’t eat his brain, I still don’t get it. Before a zombie ate Dando’s small brain he was just a cute little early-90s slacker dweeb singing Simon and Garfunkel songs. I kept an open mind. The first song the ZWAEDB did wasn’t bad. Then, out of nowhere, he was jumping around and laying on the floor. I’m not sure what he was going for. It wasn’t jiving right, and it wasn’t very respectful to the other guys in the band. Then he abruptly left the stage. Mark Arm watched him walk off, winced and shrugged his shoulders and looked at Wayne Kramer and said something like “Where the hell’s he going?”

Probably to look for brains.

The rest of the night he’d lurk on stage, forget lyrics, fall on the floor and abruptly leave right at the end of the song. The band and the entire audience were dumbfounded. At one point Michael Davis held up his arm in a sort of “Ladies and Gentlemen, Evan Dando” fashion, and then the zombie did his disappearing act again, and Davis’s arm went into a shoulder shrug, and the _expression on his face was hilarious. It looked like this: ?????

But we were all having too good a time to let that jerk-off ruin it for us. Someone told me he was indeed lurking around backstage asking people for brains. The following Monday at work I got on the internet and looked for some reviews of this show in other cities. Apparently the zombie was acting the same way across America. In Detroit, Chicago, New York and DC the zombie has reportedly had bottles thrown at it and gotten into fights with audience members not happy with it’s brainless performance.

BE WARNED!! THE ZOMBIE WHO ATE EVAN DANDO’S BRAIN IS HEADING WEST!! HE IS NOW IN TEXAS! I don’t expect him to survive Texas. Perhaps that it was Wayne Kramer’s plan all along to destroy the evil creature. That’s the only reasonable explanation.