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jacob cardwell

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Middle Of The Map: Day Three Wrap-Up

The third and final night of the second annual Middle Of The Map Festival was coming to a close. I had no choice but to make it the most ambitious day possible. I flew solo most of the day, which gave me ample time to venue-hop and catch both local favorites and make some very surprising new discoveries. Just a short twelve hours after Mission of Burma ended their closing set at RecordBar, I was right back at the strip mall venue, sliding into a booth to drink overpriced mimosas during The Record Machine’s daytime label showcase.

If necessary, Minden could have forced an early sunrise with radiant indie-pop that is simultaneously glamorous and affably disheveled. Singer Casey Burge sashayed around stage in metallic spandex, and when I spotted two girls in the audience dressed in kind, I expected some audience participation during the band’s opulence advocating “Gold Standard,” but no– they were but ordinary hipsters. I had a bit of a realization during Minden’s set. The band is well on their way to greatness, and even have a potential for “household name” status. It’s just such a damned shame that they hit their ceiling in KC, and feel they must move away to Portland to prosper as musicians.

Next up for the day show was Katlyn Conroy’s newest project La Guerre (though she was formerly billed under her own name). Conroy on her own has an undeniably saccharine voice, and when those pipes are laid over the blithely uncomplicated rhythm of her own keyboard and a backing band, creates a wholesome na├»vety that holds the key to the fluttering, electronic-based twee in which she prevails. Conroy also performed at the festival with Cowboy Indian Bear, a great Lawrence-based group that is only further enhanced by her contributions.

Maybe I had a little mimosa buzz by the time Akkilles gathered their arsenal of members to begin playing folksy, acoustic guitar led arias, but I wasn’t much of an audience of David Bennett’s when they began. The multi-layered pop was admirable, but I chose to bid my adieu to the RecordBar and head over to the day show happening at Riot Room, where Cherokee Rock Rifle were tearing up the patio stage. Frontman Dutch Humphrey is obnoxious, offensive, and sings abhorrent lyrics while holding his rifle-turned-mic stand out to the crowd with little subtlety as to it being a phallic symbol. The crowd loved it, and so did I. Dutch Humphrey supplies an unquestionable arrogance that makes a frontman worth watching, and the southern-fried rock n’ roll delivered by the rest of the band with respectably day-drunk precision imprints the groove on your skull for hours afterward.

Fast forward a few hours, and the evening shows are kicking off in succession all across Westport. Maps For Travelers opened up the Riot Room (inside, this time) and the crowd was already teeming with people excited for the bands to come. Most importantly, the band performing that very moment should not be ignored. The four guys on stage played until the sweat rolling down in their eyes blinded them, and then played even more. The influences of the band are a bit curious, but their live show is executed with the ferocity of a young(er) Hot Water Music and gives plenty of nods to the various projects of Walter Schreifels and Jonah Matranga in the process.

I saw The Casket Lottery perform in the exact same venue, almost to the exact day one year prior for last year’s festival. But the last time I really watched the band was just a few months shy of ten years ago, when I was completely infatuated with them in my youth and they were still touring on their Survival is For Cowards album. The Casket Lottery was a trio of Nathan Ellis, Stacy Hilt, and Nathan “Junior” Richardson back then, but these days (as in, on their forthcoming album) they have expanded to a five-piece that includes Brent Windler (Sons of Great Dane, Anakin) on second guitar, and Nick Siegel on keyboard. “Nostalgia” was without a doubt the word on the lips of all those in attendance, as the group cranked through old and new material alike as if they never missed out on those six or so years of not being an active band, and only aroused the appetite for things on the horizon in a comeback done so, so right.

Although Reflector released a split 7-inch with The Casket Lottery in 1999, the record only served as a crossroads for the two, as TCL had a sole EP at that point, and Reflector was on the eve of issuing their last recordings as a band. Performing only their second reunion in the last decade, guitarist Jared Scholz was joined by Harry Anderson on bass and Jacob Cardwell on drums to rehash old songs that while musically on point in their arithmetic, lacked the familiar near-squawk of Scholz, replaced instead with a softer crooning while exhibiting songs from Where Has All the Melody Gone? As noted by Scholz early on in the set, the last time they shared a stage with both The Casket Lottery and following act The Appleseed Cast was 14 years ago, at a Halloween party.

At this point, Riot Room was quickly filling in with those awaiting venue headliners Coalesce and Fucked Up. I chose to forgo the lingering stench of beard sweat, and ran over to Firefly to catch Fourth of July play to a modestly sized audience. The brothers Hangauer (Brendan and Patrick) provided the guitar and bass, while the brothers Costello (Brendan and Brian) furnished an additional guitar and the drums necessary to fuel Brendan Hangauer’s creative outlet. The crowd was small, but the number of mouths in the audience that knew every word to every song (even those yet to be released) were far greater than any other band at the festival thus far. The quartet sounded impeccable, and their jaunty pop clattering off the lavish furniture of the speakeasy was not entirely disjointed from the scenery.

I dipped out of Firefly a bit early to catch my second wind with an espresso (after the day show, it was a wonder I was still standing), and passing the vast swaths of festival goers lined up outside the Beaumont and Riot Room only further affirmed my decision to head down into the chambered depths of the Union to catch the remainder of The Devil‘s set. The Lawrence quartet of Mike Teeter, Natale Collar, and Sara McManus is led by Taylor Triano, and pummeled out a filthy, stoner rock answer to the question “what would Janis Joplin sound like today?” — part performance art-punk, part unforgiving noise rock.

The Oklahoma by way of Lawrence band Mansion wreaked a towering ruination of doom metal upon the audience with a face-liquefying decibel surely outlawed across much of the country. Almost entirely instrumental, the songs were time-traversing expansions of momentum with a metronomic backbone rhythm the only thing keeping the audience from devolving into throat-tearing creatures straight from the pages of a Lovecraft novel. Whether they played one forty-minute song or ten four-minute incantations, I have no idea, but their opus could soundtrack the apocalypse.

While others were drinking the kool-aid of festival hype bands, Cleveland’s mr. Gnome were creating a fan for life in what amounted to little more than a dreary cavity carved into the basement of an old Midtown building. Through the entirety of the weekend, I watched bands that varied from pretty good to great, to even some old standby favorites, but this duo pushed sound from their speakers fit for an orchestra of musicians, and seemingly with little effort. Nicole Barille’s technique was a spastic array of hummingbird-paced guitar strumming culminating in a medley of genres and influences, and drummer/pianist Sam Meister’s work behind the kit was so robot-esque in its accuracy it’s a wonder he didn’t exhaust himself halfway through the set. I’m kicking myself not for watching them, but for even considering the possibility.

The second group of Oklahomans to climb behind the guard rails that create the makeshift stage at the Union, Broncho played a set covering most of their debut album Can’t Get Past the Lips. The band left the room a sweltering mess of sticky bodies after laying out a sound akin to The Stooges, The Exploding Hearts, and leagues of other punk bands with era-defining attitudes from the ’70s, ’80s and today. Frontman Ryan Lindsey can also be seen as part of Starlight Mints, and joined the defunct OK band Cheyenne after their album was released by The Record Machine, whose owner Nathan Reusch curated the entire festival.

Phantom Family Halo brought their traditional stoner psych in from Brooklyn, and played an ultimately forgettable set that was doomed from the start, crammed between two of the better bands of the night. The band took a backseat to most of the room’s conversations at the time, and with every other venue having already closed their night out by that time, it was inevitable that the crowds would gather and the overflow would begin to gradually fill the room. Which it did, for a short while.

Acid Mothers Temple began at 2:00 in the morning. Had they started at their planned start time of 1:30, they may have gotten an extended set, but due to city regulations, the sound was cut off after only 40 minutes, so that the place could be vacant by 3. In the short time the Japanese psych saints played, I stood on top of someone’s road case (sorry) that was tucked away in a cement support pillar’s corner, and closed my eyes for most of the set. Not because I was tired, but because the band’s free-form space prog was a sensorial trip for the mind and body, and removing one of the senses was the only way to heighten that of one that was more important at that time.

I spoke with the band’s road manager/translator after the place had been cleared out, and he confessed that although the prints available for the tour stated it was to be the last tour, the reality was it is only their last tour of 2012. Well played.

The final tally for the weekend concluded with 25 bands having been watched, seven venues attended, a boundless number of beers resting in my belly, and a revolting number of sleep hours lost. Don’t know about you, but I can’t wait to see what’s in store for year three.

 

This review was written for Lost in Reviews.

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Middle Of The Map: Day Two Wrap-Up

My night started out at the Beaumont Club, seeing the rhythmic “drum punk” collective Ad Astra Arkestra. In likely one of the most odd settings of the entire festival, the collaborative group on stage deserved a better backdrop and audience than the vastly unattended showcase in the stark vacuum of a venue for which they were given the opening slot. Numbering nearly a dozen members, the local group’s synergy was an undeniable force whose uncanny width and breadth of musical range was given a push toward visual absurdity. KC punk Mookie Ninjak served as the anti-hypeman, standing on stage drinking beer, playing with a cell phone, and generally embodying the same nonchalant attitude displayed by most of the crowd. By comparison, the eleven-piece Altos played at the same time to a packed Riot Room. Locale is key.

Venturing through Westport Coffeehouse down to their dark, carpeted basement is where I was able to witness a stripped-down version of The Caves. David Gaume and Elizabeth Bohannon were both out of the city/country, leaving only Andrew Ashby with an acoustic-electric guitar, and drummer Jacob Cardwell experimenting with other forms of percussion, hastened as they were with the somewhat last-minute set change. The duo played a short and ascetic set that borne upon the audience new songs from the next two (!) albums, and tunes from their debut EP with a naked melancholy akin to David Bazan. To reference my comment in the first paragraph, I could not have imagined seeing the two at any other place in town without coming across as inorganic and contrived.

After the crushing realization that I had missed all but the last 30 seconds of Capybara‘s set, I made my way over to Gusto with minutes to spare before the fantastic Ghosty began playing. I’m a bit embarrassed by this admission, but as a follower since 2005’s Grow Up or Sleep In, this was the very first time I had ever been able to coordinate my life to be in the same room while they were playing. I know, I know. And if that weren’t bad enough, front man Andrew Connor and I worked together for nearly two years. My being a terrible co-worker and local music fan aside, the trio of Connor with Billy Belzer on drums and Mike Nolte on bass splashed a remarkably lilting and shimmering pop against the Gusto’s dilapidated, century-old brick interior. Though much of the set contained songs written and recorded in the last three years, their delivery is as timeless as the classic (power)pop influences that drive the band to continually release some of the most profoundly impressive work this side of the Mississippi River.

Columbia, MO, indie rockers Believers drew me to the Riot Room later in the evening, and with me I dragged a few of my friends. The band performed well, and sounded adequate in the venue, but overall fell a bit flat compared to the great production quality of their recently released debut. In the thick of the casual conversations and clinking of pint glasses taking place all around the room, the complexities of the band’s sound was ultimately lost in a muddle of noise pollution. This resulted in the group’s otherwise immense creation being reduced to a pattering of drums and a yelp of inaudible lyrics. I ended up leaving their set early just so my first experience seeing them live wouldn’t be tainted by a distracted audience.

Back to Gusto, The ACB’s made the bar two-for-two on quality sets from established local acts. That this band also contains Ghosty’s Andrew Connor is inconsequential, as he only provides one part of the flourishing powerpop quartet led by the charming falsetto of Konnor Ervin. The setlist has not changed much in the three times I’ve seen them in the last six months (with “My Face” and “You Did It Once” among those being played), but the band continues to add more and more new songs to the list, and each one that is revealed has that much more rump-shaking funk than the last. The band surprised with an addition of the hit that never was by playing “Suzanne,” and “Be Professional,” the first single from the band’s sophomore effort. Even more surprising was the inclusion of a flared-up rendition of Matthew Sweet’s “Sick of Myself” in the latter half. I thought it impossible, but the new album may end up being even better than the last.

I chose Mission of Burma at the RecordBar to close out my second night, because who else could you really see after watching a band that first started playing together over thirty years ago? The Boston punk band formed in 1979 and played so extensively that they broke up in 1983 due to co-founder Roger Miller acquiring a nasty case of tinnitus. The band reformed in 2002 (with Shellac’s Bob Weston joining Miller, Clint Conley and Peter Prescott) and have been active since (releasing a new album this very year, in fact), but it goes without saying that almost every single person in the room was there to hear songs from Vs. and the Signals, Calls and Marches EP. The audience was not let down, as the band hammered through 70 minutes of brash post-punk that was easily a key influence for every other musician in the room that was not already on stage. The highlights? As if there were any other possibilities, the amusing “That’s When I Reach For My Revolver,” and a set closer of the punk classic “Academy Fight Song,” complete with the rather inebriated singing along by the audience.

This review was written for Lost in Reviews.

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