Jambase
I was picking up some groceries last night around 9 when I got a call from Zach Phillips about a rippin' party at his band's practice space at this building on the corner of 36th and Main. A bunch of bands, including his own, were playing and there was beer. I was gonna take it easy, but what the hell -- tomorrow we die, right?
Unfortunately, I missed the Architects because I had to take my groceries home and get them in the fridge -- I also missed tha muthafuckin' Be/Non -- but the party was pretty rad. The building houses Cypher Sound, formerly Berry Music, a stateof-the-art studio with adjoining practice spaces. The guys from Stella Link and Olympic Size have a small studio, too. The lobby walls were adorned with gold and platinum albums, most recorded by Bone Thugs-N-Harmony, all presented to Aaron Connor (sp?), who seems to be the owner of the joint. I met him -- a friendly gent with a smooth, bare head and goatee -- but I wasn't feeling like schmoozer, just a good-time haver, so I left him alone and just drank his beer.
A band started up in the main studio. Some guys had been noodling around on guitars for a while, which was only slightly annoying. The band itself, however, was certified noodlehead act Valency. I've mentioned them once before, in print. I shouldn't have wasted what little space I had for them in that column by talking about the way they look, because that's not the problem. The problem is, well... let's start with their drivel-packed About Me on MySpace:
Valency resides in the realm of fusion. Whether it is the style of play or the very means of combining and connecting ideas or energy, the opposition are closed doors and our motive is to bring into focus the many impressions we share and the possibilities of exploring what seems patterned in an apparently chaotic and holographic world.Virtually every phenomenon we comprehend relies on an intricate lacework of human understanding. No other creature we know offers another perception with which to compare. This is the burden and pleasure of our awareness: to keep alive, not just a species, but the intrinsic underpinnings of consciousness- the critical, faithful, contradictory self.
To maintain this animation of the enormous volume of man, we need only keep talking, trying to combine and connect. This is the nature of Valency.
The lock on the door is a lie ...
That's all well and good -- if Valency were a new age mystical retreat with complimentary herbal enemas every morning. Instead, "the nature of Valency" consists of jammy 5-string bass, a guitar player who's either wanking on the wah or playing random-sounding lead licks, and a nasal singer who sounds like Axl Rose imitating Grace Slick. Attempting to communicate abstract philosophies through whiteboy groove blues is not a good idea for those without astonishing musical talent. The bassist and drummer are talented, but not enough to save the band. In most cases, I find even talented jam bands not worth my while, but bad ones? Bad and ridiculously earnest? They gotta be kidding. But they're not. This is the nature of Incurable Dork. The lock on the door to their practice space needs to be changed.
Then again, something must have rubbed off on me, because not long after Valency finished expelling its musical nerve gas, I found myself banging on a bongo drum while a couple of guys from the Architects (Mike and Adam doing their usual thing with Brandon on bass) and some other guys who were actually pretty good jammed out to "Voodoo Chile." I had promoted myself up from the tamborine, which I had battered half rhythmically during some classic-sounding song I should probably know the name of. Not that anything I did mattered -- the band was loud and I was in a dark corner of the audience, largely unnoticed. The jam had begun with Mike Alexander playing guitar and singing Springsteen songs with relish and abandon -- loud ones, too, like "Born to Run" and "Thunder Road" -- prodded on by friends to keep going. Brandon mounted the drums, tapping the heads with whatever was sitting around. A cowbell was discovered. More people came and plugged in. The rock was on.
I didn't stay much longer. Even a good jam is still a jam. Also, they'd run out of beer. A friend and I hit the Record Bar for last call, which, of course, led to Harry's, and on to my feeling like hell this morning.
Moral of the story: When Zach Phillips calls about a party, you heed.
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