CONCERT REVIEWS

black lips at turf club

by sam watson

I’ve been a fan of the Black Lips since high school, when I first heard Bad Kids pumping through my friend’s blown-out car speakers. Although they certainly aren’t the only rockabilly punk act, their tenacious, hell-bent sound and juvenile lyrics have kept me listening for years. So when I found out they were playing at the Turf Club I knew I had to go. Although I will admit, I was somewhat hesitant. I love crazy shows, but the Black Lips have a reputation. From Wikipedia: “The Black Lips are noted for provocative theatrics- including vomiting, urination, nudity, fireworks, a chicken, and flaming guitars.” Oddly, Wikipedia makes no mention of their penchant for sucking each other off on stage, or guitarist Cole Alexander’s talent for playing his instrument using his cock. I’ll go ahead and spoil it: the show did not involve any sex organs. Which was frankly a little disappointing to me. Like I just want to know how that even works. The opening act Natural Child performed a solid set. Their swingin’, rockabilly vibe (with frequent references to drugs and weird sex) makes them an obvious pairing. Although Natural Child is by no means tame, when the Black Lips came out it was like experiencing a manic shift. They opened with Family Tree, an intense tune with squealing guitar hooks that get all up inside your head and chest. The audience responded in kind, happily screaming along and instigating a sweaty, ceaseless pit. Even though the band didn’t get crazy that night, that didn’t stop the crowd. Thankfully, the Black Lips are comfortable with chaotic energy: When one enthusiastic drunkard surfed on stage during Drugs and started yelling the chorus back in Alexander’s face, Alexander lightheartedly tipped him back into the crowd with an index finger. No sweat. The Black Lips’ powerful, psychotic-blues style is incredibly absorbing live. I sang along to all my favorite tracks with perfect strangers, and at one point unironically did that goofy hillbilly dance which involves grabbing one’s belt buck and kicking side to side. I was not the only one. When the show came to a close, Alexander delivered a monologue about hangovers, sunsets, and dirty women in his charming southern drawl. As he neared the end, a sweaty drunk dude up front extended a palm. Alexander locked eyes with him, and gave the most solemn high-five I have ever witnessed before exiting the stage. If there ever was a spiritual high-five experience, I’m pretty sure that drunk dude got it.

chevelle at myth

by henry southwick

In the last issue of No Fidelity, I wrote a review of Chevelle’s new album La Gargola. I was extremely excited about the album, and then I got to see them live. This was my second time seeing the band in the last 8 months and, holy shit, did they up their game. The lifeless Loefflers of last summer came flying back with new energy and a very visual excitement. The concert was the second 93x radio event I’ve attended in the last 9 months, and it blew the first one out of the water. Chevelle have been popular for years now, and the people came in droves to see them live on a Saturday night. Thousands of people were packed into Myth before the end of the first warm up band (called nothing more, also excellent), and they proceeded to get loud and rowdy. George and I fought our way up to the front

chevelle cont.

row of the pit by the time Chevelle came on at 10. The crowd was screaming and chanting in the pit before the band came on, and a deafening roar exploded when Pete Loeffler was first spotted. When the first notes of “Sleep Apnea” hit, we started jumping and moshing and I think I blacked out a little bit due to happiness overload. The set list was an excellent blend of old and new material that kept the crowd energetic and screaming the whole night. I lost my voice for yelling after the sixth song, “Take Out the Gunman” which was the hit single released off La Gargola. The band kept complimenting the audience throughout the night, talking about how crazy we were, which of course only got us more riled up. In the end, despite our exhaustion, we were still able to give it one last huzzah for a three-song encore, “The Red,” “Send the Pain Below” and “I Get It.” I left exhausted and deaf but happier than a husky. It was an amazing show and an amazing night.

angel olsen at the cave

by mary dahlman begley

Angel Olsen’s latest album, Burn Your Fire For No Witness, is undeniably a masterpiece. I had heard some of her earlier singles and quickly lumped her into the Waxahatchee, Courtney Barnett, modern-female-indie singer genre which is certainly lovely, but maybe a bit overdone. Angel’s agent contacted me in January, before the release of BYFFNW, and I agreed to book her on the basis of adding variety to the Cave line-up.I simply had no idea what was to come. Like Waxahatchee, Angel added more instruments and more pizazz to her latest album to fill out the sound and bring her excellent songwriting skills to a new plane of excruciating jubilation. Unlike any other indie-female-singer-songwriter out there, Angel’s voice throws the listener back into the backseat of their mothers’ minivans listening to cassettes on the way to second grade. Promised Land Sound was an opener contracted by Angel’s agency to open. I was a bit surprised to see the Nashvillians skateboarding outside the Cave when I pulled up for sound check, but their sound made sense of their teenaged attitude. Definitely Nashville country-rock, but with some weirdo experimental themes and flame-fingered shredding. A great foil to the delicate melodies of Angel. Angel started out with her big hit, “HiFive”. I tried desperately not to be a fangirl singing along in the front row because yesIknoweverysinglewordtoyouralbumAngel. Her aloof lack of eye contact added to her ethereal presence. The highlight of the show was when Lil’ Sluggers captain Sam Powell handed me a Sluggers hat to pass up to Angel. She put it on and then played my favorite song, “Forgiven/Forgotten.” Angel’s connection to the campus was so lovable, as was her other-worldly persona and dynamic, divine performance. My only critique of Angel’s show and visit to the Cave was that she did not want to be my best friend as much as I wanted to be her best friend. This is not really a valid critique. Furthermore, when I ran into Angel in downtown Madison,Wisconsin, the next day, she not only remembered me but complimented my “Stevie-Nicks-vibe.” SWOON! Ok, fine, I’m a fangirl.

photo by mary begley