Page 23 - the NOISE January 2013

Everybody had a good year / Everybody let their hair down / Everybody pulled their socks up / Everybody put their foot down / Oh yeah
(I’ve got a feeling) / Everybody had a good year / (A feeling
deep inside) / Everybody had a hard time / (Oh yeah) Everybody had a wet dream / (Oh yeah) Everybody saw the sunshine
(I’ve got a feeling) / Everybody had a good year (A feeling I can’t hide) / Everybody let their hair down / (Oh no) Everybody pulled their
socks up (Oh no no) / Everybody put their foot down, oh yeah
1967 picture of William Shatner slinging a beefy arm manfully around the diminutive Ellison’s thin shoulders, Oswalt cracks: “Look at Shatner, he thinks he’s just won an Emmy.
‘Wow, these things are big!’“
At one point, after Oswalt describes him-
self as “on the polite side of Asperger’s,” Elli- son (who had quadruple bypass surgery in 1992) cracks up, then bends over clutching his gut and tells him, “No, wait. Stop. That one hurt.” Patton proclaims himself The Man Who Killed Harlan With Laughter, then says,
“Dude seriously, don’t f*ckin’ die. It’ll be really awkward at Comic Con this summer. ‘Thanks a lot, assh*le!’‘I know, I’m sorry.’“ A recovered Ellison pictures the headline: “Oswalt kills Ellison. Nobody gives a f*ck.” Oswalt adds:
“Four shut-ins angry.”
There’s lots more. Unfortunately it’s not
professionally shot. The two clips were re- corded by different people in the audience, the second part cuts out early, and there’s a bit of overlap. They aren’t clearly marked ei- ther; do a YouTube search for “Harlan Patton.” Funniest sh*t I’ve seen all year.
— Tony BallZ
Enough goddamn nostalgia.
REVIEW’D
BY FRANK CHIPOTEL
Vagabond Gods
s/t EP
Self-released
jjjj
Vagabond Gods
I’m sure he can’t because anytime the drums are rolling full bore, I can’t hear what the guitar is doing either. There’s no bass to tie down the sound and it’s excruciating until they decide it’s time to stop. The local crowds are polite and sympathetic. It almost makes it worse.
Ah, but for the glory of recorded music. Bryant still sounds pissed, but pure heavy sludge and gloriously engineered riffs now fill in the picture frame. The sound is full. The dirty slutty angels of rock n roll are dancing. The energetic frenzy in the breakdown of
“Dead Zone” allows the listener to imagine a large crowd of socially awkward young peo- ple jumping on each others’ backs, scream- ing the choruses in between the guitar noo- dle shreds. Takes one back, don’t it?
They save the best guitar solo for last — on “Cutler,” and they keep it short, which is nice but in this case, isn’t all that necessary. See: Dinosaur Jr.
The Nirvana worship is evident. And Chris- topher Vasquez does his best to channel John Bonham, or Dave Grohl doing his best John Bonham impression. I offer a ‘what if’ scenario: a young Kurt Cobain joins a still- relevant Soundgarden and a young Chris Cornell loses his band and his future career and the world is wonderful. George Bush is not elected. The world is saved. Vagabond Gods kind of hint at that magical possibility. So what are they so mad about?
Office Romance
I Love the Holidays EP
French Kiss
jjj
So though I’m starting my draft of this be- fore Thanksgiving, this might appear late, as far as paralleling holiday-themed fare. That’s okay, this is the kind of thing you can put on in the middle of summer, when you’re nostal- gic for the cold temperatures, the mistletoes, the familial arguments and the reindeers.
The title track is by far the best; it has a Mo- town holiday feel to it. The other two tracks are fine though. Christmas bells are included. Amy Carlson’s vocals remind me of Zoe De- schanel singing in the shower in the movie, Elf, which is kind of one of the best Christmas movies (besides Die Hard) and if that visual image is too cute for you, this EP might be
The few times I caught Vagabond Gods live, I was far from impressed. There’s Bryant Vasquez screaming his face off. Who knows what the f*ck he’s so upset about. His guitar amp is a tiny thing; it sounds like sh*t, and you can’t hear it over the pounding drums, anyway. It sounds vaguely ‘grunge.’ (And that’s not a word I’ve used to describe any- thing, ever. It’s a fake word created by cor- porate record labels and adept flannel shirt manufacturers. As a musical genre, it does not exist. Unless you mean that first Mud- honey record, and what you really mean is
‘awesome.’)
I didn’t realize at the time that the drum-
mer is Bryant’s brother, but he is playing like he can’t even hear what bro is doing, which
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