Dirtbag Rock n' Roll

Special ‘KP and Stef do Something Awesome’ Report: Go See a Dirtbaggy Sexed-Up Rock Show, Bond with Adorable Neighborhood Burn-Outs, Times Were Unexpectedly Good.


The Show: Black Rebel Motorcycle Club.
The Day: Wednesday night.
The Place: the Intersection.


I can’t believe we even hemmed and hawed about whether to see this show or have porch beers and watch the Wings play. I’m not saying rock bands over hockey all the time, but this particular band was worth it, especially since somebody Ryan knew kept us up on the game (thank you, whoever you are). What’s up with that Total Recall-style metal door at the Intersection anyway? Not that I would have wanted to leave during BRMC (they played for like 6 hours or something) but they didn’t even give me a choice. We were all penned in there like a bunch of tipsy, asymmetrically hair-coifed, pierced and tatted-up farm animals or something. I wanted to keep up with the Wings, Door Guy: I don’t approve.


But like Ryan said as we shifted weight restlessly and I (Stef) whimpered pathetically about what to do, the worst that could happen is that theWings end up 2-2. He was right, and they’ll win on Friday, so F-you Jordin TooToo. McCarty is coming for you, buddy, and he’ll kick your ass right back to the Wheat Kings.


Moving on, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club is a band full of seasoned Rock n’ Roll veterans of a caliber that Bret Michaels (the lamest “rocker” ever to claim that he’s still a “rocker”) could only rub his nipples privately while stroking his guitar all night and wish and hope but never achieve. They played the shit out of all eleven guitars (Les Pauls, near as I could tell, at least the one guy, think the cover of Baby 81) on stage. I must say that it wasn’t what I expected from their albums. This show almost reminded me of the Cure live, dark, filthy, almost goth hotness complete with a permanent fog-machine haze and strobe-heavy (a little too heavy, since most of the audience was more stoned than Bob Dylan in the back of a groupie van at a Grateful Dead show in Hana-Lei) light show. They kept playing forever and ever (2 ½ hours with no set break, not including the two bands that went on before them) slow-rolling cotton-mouth jams with heavy guitars and sparse rhythm of the dirty, almost scary (think those mountain men from Deliverance, sans sodomy) variety. And they weren’t a couple of drunked-up Rock n’ Roll train wrecks like I expected either, they were tight and together, and despite a (debatable, it could have been on purpose) microphone malfunction, they sounded great.



The stage show was okay too, mostly the two guitar guys backlit in silhouette while a spot light shone directly onto the drummer’s (who had a platform, which is always excellent) exposed, glistening chest and throat. That not only made it feel a little more goth, but the guy looked like a bronzed tattooed demon rock god wearing a hoodie made of Lapis and some kind of talisman that only could have been given to him by John Bonham’s agent during BRMC’s last tour in Hell. I’m not saying he was nearly Bonham-quality, much more from the Meg White school of moderation (Meg, I so love you), but he and his glistening chest, that could have been the cover of a Rock n’ Roll Harlequin Romance novel if only there was a busty, scantly-clad princess (somebody call Lita Ford!) clinging to his ankle, were my personal favorites.
They played a little from Baby 81 and a few from Howl, only one that I recognized from the amazing Take Them On On Your Own and a bunch of songs that I didn’t recognize, which was awesome and much appreciated because it’s easier to get a clear taste of what a band’s meat-and-potatoes are if you’re not always comparing them to the studio versions (live should ALWAYS be better, write that down).
I wiped tears of joy from her eyes and yelled “yeah” at the top of my lungs on all the riffage and vocal distortions, and stared mostly with bright eyes and flushed cheeks while dancing a little by myself and reflecting how, like a good wine, Rock n’ Roll is better and more full-bodied with age (with the exception of Black Lips, go buy their albums). This filthy dirtbag Rock n’ Roll shit gets us off and it’s only a plus if the band is actually good.


Verdict: I might be biased because I am in love with live Rock n’ Roll, but AWESOME. I don’t know if they’ll roll this way again but it was worth the twenty bucks and playoff game to let ‘em guitar the makeup right off my face for a few hours. Thanks guys!*
Recommended: Howl by Black Rebel Motorcycle Club. This is smarter than garage rock and better than Wilco, twangy and sweaty and lyrically no better than clever, which makes it perfect for this summer when you’re riding by yourself with the windows down in a pair of mirrored aviators trying to look like a bad-ass.


*Special thanks to the thirty people that actually showed up! It was good to see all of you supporting music, and tell your lame friends to get off of their lay-z-boys and get to a show once in a while so the Intersection will gain notoriety, the bands will start telling each other what a rockin’ crowd Grand Rapids is, and we can eventually (through your cooperation, you big babies) coax Gogol Bordello to play here once in a while.



**If you aren't sure what to do from here, at least two bands next week are appearance worthy. The first is Tuesday April 22 with The Bravery. This is an Indie band with a bit of electronica mixed in and a lead singer whose haircut alone will fog up your aviators. Definately worth the $15 at the door since there should be about 3 opening bands, two of which hail from England and are very indie and then a Michigan band.
The second is Friday April 25 with Lucero. KP saw this band in London and had never heard of them before, so she dragged along this random guy from South Africa with her. Standing outside the Underworld (yes that is the name of the dirtbag infested basement in the heart of British punk town where KP saw Lucero) KP met two longhaired obsess-a-fans. These two fine young gentleman had every logo and every signature from Lucero, tattooed somewhere on their bodies. If the two motorhead wannabe's from Bristol are any indication of what the fans of this band are like, hitting this concert up should be interesting. Not to mention the fact that the lead singer can turn out his best performances when he's the most intoxicated person in the room. If your in to some hardcore rock and alt country music, these are the guys to see.

***Other special note- Juan, I don’t know if you read this but your show was great and your photos looked really nice. I’ve never seen that graffiti-wall-hand colored one before, and (as usual) I liked it. You’re surrounded by top-notch talent (including you) and it was nice to see support like that for a place like that. You guys are really doing a good thing. If you get a chance check out the staff art as well as some wonderful student art at WMCAT (98 East Fulton) until the end of May.

Cheap Haircut, Free Gossip, Glad Hand-y with the Eyeliner

Cheap Haircut, Free Gossip, Glad Hand-y with the Eyeliner. Learned what a “Lipover” was, Opted to Pass. Maybe that’s why nobody makes out with me…

It went like this:
KP: Oh, that’s Douglas J, it’s a haircutting school.
Richie: I was driving around by the DAAC and I saw this line of like twelve hot girls all walking out of there. I was wondering what that was…

Douglas J Salon is a high-end cosmetology school downtown where the students get two heads a semester (the hair is real!), graded under the careful watch of Instructor, a guaranteed job at any Aveda Salon if they graduate. Sound treacherous? Just get ‘em talking about each other.

For the ladies: thirteen-dollar haircuts by your favorite ex-bartenders and eighteen year old asymmetrically coiffed Lowell HS graduates, complete with full wash and scalp massage.

For the Fellas: at least thirty teased-up, blown-out foxes who don’t pass unless they rub their fingers through your hair, regardless of its condition. Not recommended unless you’re looking for something of the hip, layered, combed-over-one-side-of-your-face variety. That might be the only one they know.

For the Pervs: Thirteen-dollar rubdowns by obvious minors. No questions asked, except “What is your favorite thing about your hair?” Careful though, there is one dude who works there who is kinda small but might try to kick your ass. Or at least slap you bitch.

So Stef gets a haircut: I went in there a little too close to shift change, I think (4:30 pm). I get my hair washed, oiled, all that good stuff, and she asks what I want. What the hell, right? This is haircutting school, bursting with inspiration, talent, heavy-lidded enthusiasm for style and creativity. I say: knock yourself out. Do whatever you think would look good, Misty (that probably wasn’t her name). I asked her if she liked attending school there. She proceeds to tell me which ones of the other girls had fake boobs, hair extensions (except the one that was bad, apparently, that one she called a “straight-up weave”), and which ones were banging rich guys. She said girls can be kind of bitchy, and slammed her hand over her mouth, I told her I didn’t care, and she kept going. It took her about 45 minutes, and she called over an Instructor (also a hot chick) who appeared to be doing this to serve mandatory community service for a first-offense DUI or something. She walked around with a clipboard and a ruler, and I could tell “Misty” was scared of her because she stopped saying nasty things about the other people as soon as she came around. Instructor rounded out the hour by turning my chair so it faced the mirror. Surprise! She’d taken about three inches off of the bottom, that’s it. Instructor spent a fair share of time correcting in places, trying almost visibly to ignore the fact that I could have just done that myself with the old whack-off-the-ponytail trick. Oh well, Instructor was putting her jacket on and Misty had to get to her other job as a server at the Grandville Max & Erma’s or whatever. Later, I had to go back and have it corrected, which was a slight improvement and used up another hour but they were nice about it and didn’t charge me. They gave my sister a really good haircut though. I recommend taking the tour, it’s hilarious.

KP gets a haircut: the tiny girl whose special talents included the straightening iron and the teasing comb leans over KP’s shoulder (again, she doesn’t do much to the hair except tease it and straighten it) and whispers almost inaudibly over various hair-drying apparatus, “this city…scares me.” KP then proceeds to tell the poor girl about the time she got mugged in front of her apartment. Anyways, the better KP haircut story is about the Douglas J in East Lansing, where she met a guy (that worked there) who was more dolled up than she was, swore that he wasn’t gay and then took her and his grandma out for margaritas at Don Pablo’s. KP’s tour included the break room, washer and dryers and the back door (ooh…).

Verdict: Cool, especially if you’re a boy who’s looking to defend himself to his buddies about how he’s really not emo for a while, or a rock star. I’ll bet that if you know how you want your hair cut, they’ll do a good job on you too. If anything, it’s good for a few laughs (how much are the movies, again?), no way can you put that many pouty-faced youngsters in the same room and expect them to share barrel curlers without fireworks. The thirteen dollars was worth it but I’m not sure about the two hours…