Judson and Mary, Chasing Kings - Silverlake Lounge / Tijuana Panthers, TraPs Ps - Spaceland - Monday, November 1, 2010

"The 704 is going to be totally different from now on," I told Dr. Spielvogel during our Monday morning session. "I think I've turned a corner. I'm through with traditional show reviews. Or, you know, show reviews that are traditional by my standards, where I yammer on about whatever the fuck, and then at the end I try to somehow describe the music or say something insightful or amusing or, like, opinionated about the bands that played. I just don't know if I can do that anymore. I feel like I've hit a wall--I mean, it's the same wall I feel like I've hit dozens of times before, but it seems a lot harder this time, and more, like, well-constructed--and I just don't have anymore words to describe music. Writing about music just seems so stupid.... I mean, not really. It's not stupid. I know it's not stupid. Describing and critiquing music has like .01 percent of the value that actually making music has--and that's probably overstating it--but it still has some kind of value. I still believe that. Capturing something as abstract as music with something as clumsy and concrete as language has a certain poetic aspect to it. If you can do it well. I don't know if I've ever done it that well. I don't think I have. I'm pretty sure I haven't. Yeah, come to think of it, I can say for sure that I never have. But I don't even have the energy or motivation to try anymore. I don't want to dig through all the same words that I've misused before and try to find some proper use for them now. I just don't. I mean, I do. There's a part of me that really, really wants to, you know, wants to keep at it and maybe, magically, get good at it. But a bigger, bullying part of me just thinks that's dumb, and this part of me prefers to make things up. So I think that's what I'm going to do on the blog from now on, you know? Just make stuff up. I've increasingly been integrating that sort of thing into it lately, if I feel inspired to do it, or if I have absolutely nothing to say about the bands that I've seen. I mean, I think I've died at the end of three different show reviews now, only to be mysteriously resurrected a couple of days later. Which I guess makes me--or, you know, not me, but 'Lord Growing'--the Jesus of local music bloggers. Or the Kenny McCormick. Or the Chris Peterson. Yeah--definitely the Chris Peterson. So I've done that. I've done alternate history. I've had corpses set aflame in the Pehrspace parking lot. I've reviewed shows that never happened and bands that don't exist. I've reviewed shows I didn't go to. At the moment, doing that sort of thing seems a lot more exciting than anything that could even marginally be called music criticism. I just want to make shit up. That's what I'm going to do from now on. It's going to be awesome. Awesome to the max. Starting tonight. I'll still use going to a show as a catalyst. But no more 'reviewing.' I'll exclusively be making shit up. Starting tonight."

"And," Dr. Spielvogel said, sleepily, "vat sheet vill you be making up tonight?"

"Um," I said. "Shit. I don't know. Like, uh.... Hm. Haha, good question. Like, something about the Civil War, maybe? Fuck, this is going to be too hard. You know what? Nevermind."

*

If we weren't such a wicked, fallen species, full of violence and cruelty and hatred and sheer ugliness, if our better angels held more than like ten percent of the seats on the board of directors of our nature, TraPs Ps would play hour-long sets several nights a week, and everyone would get to see them. I believe this to be so.

As it stands, however, we only get to see them sporadically, getting about fifteen minutes' worth of their projectile outbursts of ... I don't know, calling it "garage rock" might give you the right-ish idea, I guess. It sounds more like gospel to me.

So they played last Monday night. I saw them. You should have too. Unless you did, in which case, you make good life decisions.

Now let's all try to be better people. Maybe then TraPs Ps will play till our eardrums crumble and we swallow each other's tongues.

Tijuana Panthers played next. There were definite tough-act-to-follow issues at play, but they still managed to bring it. They had more of a retro-ragged-surf edge going on. I don't remember the finer details, to be honest. It was a long time ago. I've been putting off writing about this show forever.

I might be seeing Tijuana Panthers again this Monday. If so, I will examine the hell out of them then, dissect their sound and influences, transcribe their banter, and explicate them in ways they never thought they'd be explicated. Or maybe I'll get really drunk and I won't remember their set. Who knows? Monday isn't for a long, long time. Only a fool makes plans that far in advance. Man plans, God laughs. And I don't like it when God laughs at me. It's hurtful and loud.

I wanted to see Dirt Dress, this month's Spaceland residents, but some weird impulse inspired me to walk down to the Silverlake Lounge to catch Chasing Kings instead. I can't say for sure if this was the right decision. For peace of mind, I'll say that it was. The band was quite appealing, and the drinks were slightly cheaper.

Chasing Kings seem to be heading in a somewhat new direction. Nothing revolutionary. It's not a renunciation of their past. They're still a pop band through and through. But a certain grittiness seems to be creeping in to their newer material, scraping and scabbing up the edges. They sounded like they'd made some bad decisions that they've turned into lovely songs. They were powerful.

Judson and Mary closed things out. And who doesn't have a soft spot for Judson and Mary?

Well, I suppose someone out there doesn't. But I like them. And the drunk guy who was going around shaking everyone's hand liked them.

Josh from Le Switch plays keys for them now, so ... be sure to make a note of that, people who care about that sort of thing.

They were good. I wasn't really paying attention, though. I was thinking about years ago, me and my lady were driving from Olympia to Bellingham, listening to Frank Black and the Catholics' Show Me Your Tears album, which is a great album that you've never heard, and I don't blame you for never having heard it because who really cared about Frank Black during that era?, and it's a pretty square album anyway, you probably wouldn't like it as much as you should, and, anyway, right outside Bellingham the sun came through the trees and down onto this lake, this dense golden light, and I've never been the type of person who cares about light, or notices the difference between one sort of light and another, that's always sounded like bullshit to me, but this light, my God, I wanted to stick my head out the car window and swallow it, but instead we packed some more weed into the one-hitter and we smoked a little deeper, and then we checked into the Travelodge and had all sorts of sex.

Judson and Mary's music might have had something to do with inspiring this reverie. I am unwilling to say so for sure.