Kansas City Blog

Playing a black, left-handed Gibson SG often with a capo and backed by a bassist and drummer, Barzelay offered stripped, electric versions of the songs in Clem Snide's otherwise acoustic-based, searching and mellow catalog. Though the band is labeled as alt-country, last night's show was straight-up bar rock. There was a singer-songwriter element present, though maybe I say that because most of the folks there remained seated through the whole show. A friend I talked to said the band's sound reminded him of early post-Husker Du Bob Mould. I'm not that clever; I heard elements of the Velvet Underground. Throughout, the focus -- and this is probably where that songwriterly element comes from -- remained in large part on Barzelay's clever and impressionistic lyrics. Highlights included "Jews for Jesus Blues" (Now that I'm found, I miss being lost) and the arresting "Something Beautiful" (You make me wanna sip Lysol from a cup/So clean it hurts/You make me wanna break/Something beautiful).

Forester Michael

Forester Michael

Barzelay's guitar needed repeated retuning between songs. He didn't shy away from bantering with the crowd during those moments any more than he did bopping around stage and yelping off-mic during the band's crashing rock cadenzas. Even though the crowd developed its own drunken peanut gallery by night's end, Barzelay never forgot his role as showman.

In fact, even after the band had played close to an hour and the bassist and drummer had darted out for a smoke break, Barzelay remained on stage for a few impromptu solo numbers. Last night was the final stop on a 32-date tour, and he wasn't quite ready for it to end. Eventually, his band mates rejoined him for a number or two, and then it was out to the smoking patio again, where I overheard the bass player tell someone that the show felt "redeeming."

Doesn't get much better than that, right?

I'm not sure the Heligoats felt the same, however. The band is mainly just Chris Otepka, frontman of a little-known but critically respected band called Troubled Hubble. Last night, Otepka repeated "Thanks for listening" in an Eeyore-like way so many times between songs that you weren't sure whether he was just being jokingly bashful or whether he hated us. The crowd, however small, was into what he was doing, though. How can you not be into a songwriter who introduces a song saying (and I paraphrase), "This song is about a guy who quit his job and moved to a polluted swamp to try and clean it up. The swamp rejected him because he wasn't part of its biome"? He also had a song "about a porn star who wanted to kill himself during a scene but didn't know it was a prop gun, so he had to explain himself for interrupting the scene."

"When I was little, I used to think I could catch ghosts by inhaling them," he informed us, and then talked about how if you're going to get cremated at a "green" crematorium, where they recycle the metals in your remains, you should eat a bike chain and some quarters before you die and leave a note saying you were a robot. His voice was clear and nasal, a bit like Colin Meloy, and his verses were verbose, meandering and a little obtuse. The song about the guy in the swamp, for example, began with There's a sing on the back of my head that says 'desensitized.' Hopefully next time Otepka comes through town, it won't be on the desensitized end of a long-ass tour.