Posted by: on March 8, 2009 at 5:57 pm

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What? I had some time to think about this year’s Blowout; it was 4am, and I was waiting for a ride. I figured my perspective is different on the event, nowadays, from my Chi City POV. But what I’ve always loved about it hasn’t changed. We had prime real estate just inside the doors at Belmont, and everyone who came through, it was like I knew them well. Or I did know them well. Or I knew them well by the end of the whiskey. Lightning Love had been hotly tipped, and I thought they delivered: lazer vizion keyboard melodies, pulsing on the top of something I couldn’t place over the hubbub. Hip-hop in my life, too, and Ryan Allen’s dad. And the Friendly Foes, who tore off a bit of 90s indie and fashioned it into a home run. The Belmont was my squad last night, that is until I got to a couch on which to crash, and the texts kept coming. Yeah, crack of dawn breakfast was magic, and I woke up on a different couch. Again. I never made it to the garage rock reunion at K of C but our photogs did; enjoy the pics.

Fall out.

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Pics: Trever Long

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Pics: Bianca Garza

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Posted by: on March 7, 2009 at 3:07 pm

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Instant Facebook status update: crapstein, hungover face. Kelly Jean Caldwell was what I walked into first. Whoever put the red gels in had it right — girl was like a young Stevie Nicks under those lights, shambolic and strange, but confident. Have flute, will travel. I kept thinking a stoned, Northern California-stizz Jackson Browne was going to suddenly sit in. Side note from set: Greg Baise’s badass beard.

“This sound is ass, I’m going in the lounge.” That was me to El Jefe during The Uproars. And back over there it was still seventies. Alan Scheurman, like Animal Collective live from the Honky Chateau. And space rock, which to my (wasted) mind kept surfacing over the huddled crowd, during Scheurman and then Aran Ruth, who wore sparkling heels from another planet casually with the vest of a Huron tribe wisewoman. My vision blurred. Someone gave me a hug. The music rose. Was that a Wendigo in the shadows, or Waingro?

In the end, it was the Dirtbombs. The band were on some fury shit from my view at the side stage, through the haze of a thousand bingo games and Pall Malls. Bass line runs like battering rams, and Ben Blackwell’s beard. I was sated.

Our faith redeems us. Oh, and electric guitars.

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Pics: Trever Long

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Pics: Bianca Garza

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Posted by: on March 7, 2009 at 11:05 am

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Posted by: on March 6, 2009 at 2:09 pm

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First thought: HOLY FUCKING SHIT IT’S NICE OUTSIDE.

Caught the last half of Fontana — one of those X! Records bands people on other blogs seem to really believe in. We believe, too. But we’re not sure Fontana’s puke-punk totally does it for us. Still, we were impressed with their dedication to angularity, and, well, the entire SST catalog. We were also impressed with the bassist’s boots.

Plain Dealers — no “the”, as they pleasantly informed us — were half stand-up comedy act, half 90s post-core assault machines. They had a song that brought to mind Blue Oyster Cult, mashed-up with the screaming hardcore of Swedish experi-metalists Refused. They played their asses off, despite all four band members being on the verge of a massive heart attack. Gotta love that. Oh, and the place was PACKED.

Hopped in the Acura and hoofed it over to the Knights of Columbus, and got the most amazing parking spot ever.

Walked in while Deastro and band were sprinkling their tight-as-fuck electro-pop over a healthy crowd of head-bobbers. Randy wanted more keyboards in the monitor, and we wanted more Deastro in the room (the sound at KofC was less than stellar). On the bright side (literally), Randy’s shirt looked like he swiped it from an LA Lakers cheerleader in 1985, and the drummer played sideways on the stage, which always looks cool.

Ducked into the lounge area to catch most of Zoos of Berlin, who have really come into their own these days. Smoove jazz-pop gems that just don’t quit. A band so classy, their mic stands had cup holders attached to them.

At one point, ran into the now-infamous Bryan Metro of Jesus Chainsaw Massacre, who was wearing a graduation gown, minus clothing underneath, Tommy Lee style. Found out some interesting things about the guy: A) his real name is is not Bryan B) his favorite movie is The Shining C) his knowledge of B-movie actress Shannon Whirry was impressive and D) he carries around bottles of beer in a backpack, and if you ask nice enough, he’ll totally let you have one.

Ended the night catching most of the Silent Years set, which would have been totally amazing if it were at the Crofoot Ballroom. The sound in KofC’s big room is just bananas, and we wish we could have heard more of the horn section they were touting on stage. Still, though, the band seemed like they put tons of work into the show, and Josh Epstein can sing like a motherfucker. He was also wearing a belt that was, we think, made out of a giant toy car. Another thing we noticed was that TSY are a band with FANS. Like, people sing along to their songs when they play, and want them to keep playing, even after they stop. It’s easy to look to them and think, “This is how it’s done.”

Last thought: Could somebody please buy Steve-O a fucking Segway? His feet hurt, and it’s only Thursday.

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Pics: Trever Long

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Posted by: on March 5, 2009 at 4:18 pm

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Child Bite will soon just be one big beard.

The Octopus look and sound fucking cooler than you, me or anyone we know.

Why is the top of the stairs at the Magic Stick everyone’s favorite place to stand and talk? 200 bodies huddled together, smoking, imbibing and yelling over the music like a herd of hipster Emperor penguins during a snowstorm.

Scarves and military caps are to today’s music scene what jean jackets and white belts were to the garage rock crew.

Sgt. Pepperoni should be demoted to the rank of Private. Not having pizzas ready at the end of the night forces people into awful, late night decisions. Like the decision to inhale three Chicken Ring Sandwiches, a ten piece Mozzarella Cheese Stick and a 32 oz. Orange Lavaburst at 2:45 a.m. Slid. Home. Pants. Foamed.

The new promotions honcho for Metro Times is mega cute; WAY better looking (and nicer) than the last jackass they had in there.

Loftus takes over with coverage from here through Saturday. He has now apparently swapped out his Steve-O mask for a Bill Holdship disguise, complete with Boy Howdy t-shirt and pull-out Ted Nugent poster from 1979.

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Pics: Trever Long

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