Last Night: Richard Lloyd 'n Little Murders at the Record Bar
Mad men was the theme of the evening yesterday at the Record Bar, beginning at 11, with the unhinged-school-teacher persona of Little Murders frontman Bill Cave.
Standing up stiffbacked and coiling his mic cable around his forearms as if to symbolically leash them to his torso, Cave barked out scary, repetitive lyrics in a muffled, punk mein that recalled David Yow and soundbites from The Wall. Behind him, an all-star lineup of instrumental badasses churned out spiny, aggressive, noisy rock.
Guitarist Auggie Wolber (Hundred Years War, In the Pines) led the assault with steel-cutting, trebly riffs that remained tasteful while cutting splintering wails out of the air around his humbucker-equipped Telecaster. Across the stage, Byron Collum (ex-Doris Henson) did the work of two, coaxing both a pulsing low-end roar out of his bass and fleshing out the group's sound with more harmonic, chordal stuff. His former DH band mate, Wes Gartner (whom I hadn't seen behind a drumkit in over two years), was a twisting, sweaty mass of limbs and hair, smashing out patterns heavy on intricate snare/hi-hat interplay.
The group's music-side was on and tight, but the vocals-side could use some help. When Cave gets going, he's interesting to watch -- standing up between the monitors, his face twisted in rage -- but his lyrics, what I could discern of them at least, consisted of sharp, repeated phrases about oppression and failure and being ground up in the blades of the system. 
I wish I'd written down an exemplary quote, but I got nothin'. I'd just encourage him to push for more variety and clarity of communication. He's totally got that righteous-punk-mouthpiece thing going; it's just not always clear what he's saying. It might also be cool to hook up one of the instrumentalists with a mic to provide backup shouts. It worked for Gang of Four. This was only, like, the band's second show, though, so I'm sure the Murders'll get tighter and meaner as they go. I'd love to see them play a crowded basement punk show.
Meanwhile, Richard Lloyd and his Sufi-Monkey Trio arrived from a rather eventful trip from its last gig. Somehow, somewhere, a false rumor had spread during the day yesterday that Lloyd and his band had been in a car accident. Lloyd's booker and manager heard this and tried to get in touch with him, but Lloyd's cell phone had died. This is what I was able to piece together from Lloyd's stage banter, combined with talk around the bar. The first thing Lloyd actually said after he strapped on his beat-up Stratocaster and stepped to the mic was, "Where's our announcer?" This brought longtime Rolling Stone contributor Charles M. Young to the stage. Young is on the road with Lloyd, selling merch and helping this most seminal of New York guitarists compile his memoirs.
Young loudly proclaimed Lloyd the inventor of punk rock, crediting him as the guy who convinced CBGB owner Hilly Crystal to book underground bands, including, of course, Television.
And then, after Lloyd croaked an apology for the laryngitis he'd caught from another band's microphone, the rock-and-roll jamfest began.
The trio -- rounded out by original Television drummer Billy Ficca and the slightly younger, very blond Keith Hartel on bass -- played a similar set to the one they delivered at this same venue back in August. They stuck mostly to songs off recent Sufi-Monkey albums: bluesy, swaggering, with lots of soloing from Lloyd and wry lyrics. They covered "Spanish Castle Magic" and one or two other Hendrix tunes, including set closer "Purple Haze."
And, just like last August, they did two Television songs: "Friction" and "Elevation." (By the way, in the original recording of "Elevation," when they seem to jump ahead a beat on the chorus, lashing into the sky-high riff seemingly half a beat too soon after Tom Verlaine sings El-eh-vation, don't go to my head -- you know how that part sounds kind of weird and forced? Well, that's how they play it live too, and it's awesome.)
Of the disappointingly small crowd, many were seeing Lloyd for the first time. Unfortunately for those people -- myself included -- who love classic Television for the sparse, cutting precision of the guitar work, last night's performance by Lloyd and pals was marked by consistent sloppiness. Sometimes it was sloppy-good, with Lloyd playing fast and loose all over his fretboard to pleasingly reckless effect. And sometimes it was sloppy-bad, with half-articulated notes and subtly flubbed runs left and right. The band even wobbled rhythmically more than once, its members nearly losing track of each other. It was definitely a loose jam, and though it mostly held together, it could definitely have been less all-over-the-place.
The set ended just past last call in a clattering post-"Haze" jam, with Lloyd ripping out half his guitar strings and playing one strung-out, tenuous note over and over, gabbing into the mic and flicking it with his tongue a time or two (no wonder he got laryngitis).
Lloyd is undoubtedly a master of his instrument. It seems that he's also done his share of hard living. As a musician and influential force in rock history, he deserves to play those Rock and Roll Hall of Fame ceremonies right alongside Eric Clapton and Bruce Springsteen.
But sometimes, fate has other plans.
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