Mr. Airplane Man's take on the blues felt more personal, more haunted. Prodded by Tara McManus' drum swells, singer-guitarist Margaret Garrett literally marched through six quick songs, stomping with thick black boots in time to her morbidly resolute John Lee Hooker upstrokes — throbbing, impatient. As the rusty riffs of "Up in the Room" and "Somebody's Baby" multiplied, scratching into the reverb gloom, Garrett's schoolgirlish-innocent vocals turned wraithlike and feverish, contagiously hypnotic.
This might've been the best Dead Moon show yet in L.A.: drummer Andrew Loomis hammering down railroad ties with a fierce, dance-floor-splitting exactitude; Fred Cole's sugary, Velvety guitar spangle on "Spectacle," more glittery than ever; an eerie, baleful run through the Stones' "Play With Fire"; the prophetic "Fire in the Western World." Without mentioning Bush or Iraq, the lyrics of "Johnny's Got a Gun" took on newfound power as Toody keened with a Patti Smith urgency, "You've anchored your warships, cleared all the airstrips, readied the seeds of decay . . . you better watch out." (Falling James)
KING CLANCY at the Garage, March 3
Okay, you're George Panagopoulos. You've got a set of pipes that'd make Robert Plant jealous. You front a band of groove masters called Mash that's already conquered the Toronto music scene, so you head down to L.A. armed with a CD of catchy tunes. Things happen fast: MC5 legend Wayne Kramer wants to jam with you; Daniel Lanois is postponing U2 sessions to see you; Robbie Robertson signs you to DreamWorks. Now, fast-forward three soul-screwing years sitting on the corporate backburner. You've written more than 120 songs that just weren't quite what A&R was looking for. You've been dropped from the label . . . no album . . . no money. And your movie-star girlfriend has left you for Robertson. What would you do?
Panagopoulos and his bandmates — now known as King Clancy — dug in, recorded a new LP at their downtown loft, and made their first live appearance in over a year on the first Monday of their March residency at the Garage to debut it. And though the performance had the air of a band shaking the dust off their live persona, the new songs gave irrefutable proof that these guys have got the goods. Their set opener "Way Down" was the straight-up stuff rock & roll is made of: a good man wronged, wailing over blues riffs that sounded like they'd been written in blood. And every song that followed, from the cathartic-chorused "Subliminal" to the hard-driving "Organism," sounded like a blockbuster.
The tie-dyed vocals on the chorus of "Stash" were so hysterically catchy, they helped answer the King Clancy conundrum — what to do with a band whose songs have such universal appeal that they don't cater to any particular trend. Drop 'em, apparently. Well, you know, "Guitar-oriented music is on the way out, Mr. Epstein." (Liam Gowing)
ORSON at the Hollywood Ramada Inn, March 8
Orson are among this town's most accomplished popsmiths, masters not only of progression, melody and harmony, but gifted in groove and wordcraft to boot. So it's odd that they're all but unknown — though restricting themselves almost exclusively to preaching to the choir at the Viper Room has done little to shift the shroud. Tonight, then, Orson are branching out a little, albeit only as far as the kitschy cellar bar of this faded '60s hostelry.
Amid a DIY ethic, and with only a practice-room P.A. for encouragement, Orson's twin-guitar interplay and white-boy soul nonetheless raise much of the Ramada's thrift-store hipster crowd to their feet. Newboy drummer Chris Cano's eyes-clenched passion, locking with Johnny Lonely's agile bass lines, ensure that Orson are both hummable and humpable, quotable and quivering. "Happiness" enters with a swaggering T-Rex riff, only to supplely shape-shift as Motown-once-removed vocals blur the cartoon.
Orson offer all of Jellyfish's tuneful tenacity, only without the pomp and overcooked arrangements; all of Elvis Costello's last-call nostalgia, elevated by a uniquely epic optimism. Yet all this would count for little without shaven-headed frontman Jason Pebworth, a vocalist who can simultaneously conjure Morrissey and Freddie Mercury while delivering with the demeanor of a gentrified John Lydon. Pebworth's note choices grasp for stars, his enunciated, tremulous sustain only amplifying the already ecstatic gasp of his expression. Few have captured first-night-together, only-couple-on-Earth bliss, lyrically and musically, as Pebworth does through "No Tomorrow." It'll take just one brave industry player to grace the airwaves with Orson's uncompromising craft. Here's hoping. (Paul Rogers)
TIGA at the Echo, March 8
Electroclash has come to Los Angeles more than two years after it was conceived by New York trendmeister Larry Tee, who tired of house music's four-on-the-floor drive-train. This sound of crunchy, arpeggiated new wave has drawn massive interest, but the movement's artists, save for house veteran Felix Da Housecat and techno veteran Tiga, have done little to propel it beyond '80s nostalgia. The result is a flurry of shoe-gazing cover tracks and a legion of dispossessed punks, goths and industrial fans flocking back to dance floors. The genre's worst impact, in fact, isn't its musical step backward, but its predominance of followers who wouldn't know a breakbeat if James Brown himself demonstrated one on the good foot. Electro, after all, is breakbeat-based, but electroclash is, ironically, a clever marketing term based largely on 4/4 beats.
