Soundgarden at The Orpheum Theatre (1/20/13)

Soundgarden. No opener. Just Soundgarden for two and a half hours. All aspects of their career were covered. The hits were played, of course: Spoonman, Fell On Black Days, Burden In My Hand, etc., as well as a handful of songs off of King Animal. But a shit-ton of deep cuts and lesser played songs were aired, and this was the payoff. Fourth of July AND Mailman? Yes, please, and thank you. Head Down, Drawing Flies, Hunted Down, Ugly Truth… hell, I could go on and on and on. Just when you thought they had exhausted everything they would launch into another one of their classics and you’d be like “Oh yeah, I forgot about this song,. It rules!”. This set was really a tale of two bands; on the one hand you had the hit making machine, cranking out songs tailor made for radio and singing along to. On the other hand you had the totally out-there artrock version of Soundgarden, who would veer off into a blissed out shoegazey section during Ugly Truth for a few minutes, abandoning the song altogether. Or just play one of their mindfucks like Head Down.

Chris Cornell’s voice was in top form, and it only got stronger as the set went on. He nailed all the high notes in Loud Love and Ugly Truth from his barechested banshee days with ease. He joked around with the audience a little bit, receiving a bouquet of flowers from a gentleman caller and making a crack about it. Ben Shepherd laid down his bass lines like he fucking meant it, and I’m pretty sure he did. Kim Thayil just played the living shit out of his guitar. During the encore version of Incessant Mace, with Cornell putting his guitar aside and just singing, Thayil was allowed to solo untethered, and the band came as close to prime Led Zeppelin as any band is going to nowadays. And last but not least, I need to give a shout out to the secret weapon, Matt Cameron. Rock solid the entire time, unwavering during all of the odd time signatures and weird changes, he is the unsung hero of this band, the driving engine of Soundgarden that propels it onward.

The encore consisted of the aforementioned amazing version of Incessant Mace, a supercharged Rusty Cage, the Beatles-on-downers anthem Black Hole Sun and finally a heaving and writhing Slaves & Bulldozers, which dissolved into Cornell and Thayil making an impressive racket with their axes for a few minutes, until Cornell walked off and left Thayil alone with his guitar cranked, coaxing sounds out of it that would’ve made Thurston Moore green with envy. And then that was it. Kim walked across the stage, waving to the audience as his guitar fedback into the ether, and it was over. Two and a half hours. An epic set by any measure. Thank you.

Cult 45 at Radio (1/14/13)

This was the CD release show for Cult 45, who were bestowing unto us “On High”, their new collection of hard rock gems. The show was packed and I’m pretty sure that every single person there knew every single other person, which made it seem kind of like an awesome family reunion but without a punch bowl for Uncle Ralph to wear on his head while making inapproriate passes at your sister.

Slim Lizzy, Boston’s own Thin Lizzy cover band, kicked it off in fine fashion. Instead of a black bass-playing Irishman up front, you got the singing drummer. Andy pretty much nailed it on the vocals, and the dual guitar players put on a Gorham/Robertson workshop, nailing the solos with ease. It’s hard to go wrong with a set that included Are You Ready, Bad Reputation, Don’t Believe a Word, Emerald, Rosalie and a bunch of other classic Lizzy songs. Bassist Bob Maloney held down the bottom end in fine Lynott fashion, kicking on the “awesome” pedal a couple of times.

White Dynomite, a new Allston supergroup consisting of members of Roadsaw, Cropduster and Wrecking Crew, tore it up next. Decked out entirely in white (duh), they slammed through a set of short, catchy punk rock. Kind of like if you dropped your bubblegum in your bourbon, said “the hell with it”, and slugged it back anyway. John Darga’s mustache peeled off some tasty solos and lead Dynomiter Dave Unger strutted around the stage like the drunk bastard offspring of Joe Cocker and Iggy Pop. The Riggs/Catz rhythm section held it all together like rock ‘n roll duct tape. Their new album “White Dynomite” is out now, if you like music you should hunt it down.

It had been ten years since Chelsea on Fire played live but you never would have known it. Completely emotional music played with passion and total heart is what they’re all about. Absolutely no irony here, ladies and gentleman. The closest comparison I can possibly even try to come up with would be the original PJ Harvey band, back around the time of “Rid of Me”, but even that doesn’t do them justice. I’m horrible with song titles, but during the last number Josey Packard’s voice left this earthly realm and soared somewhere out into the cosmos, it was a force of nature. Simply stunning. Hopefully there will be some more action from them in the future as there is really no band in Boston that sounds like Chelsea on Fire.

After everyone picked their jaws off the floor, Cult 45 hit the stage running and closed out the night with a solid set of future hard rock classics. Lead singer Tai Heatley has chops for days, she possesses an incredibly powerful and melodic voice, which is needed to keep up with the band. Lead axeman Jeffrey Fultz shredded a few solos, and bassist Bob Maloney and drummer Pepe Anzalone rumbled along, providing the foundation. Their sound isn’t metal, but there’s a little of that in there for sure. A shit-hot cover of “The Mob Rules” leveled the club, and they also do a mean cover of UFO’s “Can You Roll Her”, so those songs should give you a signpost of pretty much where you are with these guys and gal. Their brand new CD “On High” is out now, featuring the top shelf artwork of bassist Maloney. A solid set from start to finish, and a great night all around. Boston’s still got some life in it yet.

High on Fire at The Middle East (11/24/12)

I’m sitting here drinking Merlot and trying to decipher what I just saw. This was a stacked line-up if there ever was one. Four bands blowing your head off with distortion, riffs and “Yes, I mean it” vocals. Holy shit. Okay.

Lo-Pan delivered the fucking riffs like Lo-Pan does. Like a current Only Living Witness, if you will. And you will. See, you can’t argue with songs like this. You wanna fuck with “El Dorado”? Go ahead, be my guest. Let me know when someone else writes a song like this again. Moving on…

Primate are the Blind Faith of the underground metal world. A supergroup if there ever was one. Why aren’t they wearing capes? Look, you’ve got Kevin Sharp from Brutal Truth and Bill Kelliher from Mastodon in this fucking band. No disrespect to the other three guys at all, but I have no idea who they are. Did they rule? Yes, they did. And this was after they broke down on the way to Boston in some Maryland hellhole and basically were lucky to escape with all of their organs intact and accounted for. Throw in some Black Flag and it’s nothing but win at that point.

Holy double kick, Batman. Goatwhore weren’t fucking around at all. They started their set with no hesitation and began pummeling the audience straight off, no build up. It was basically like getting your head chopped off while you weren’t paying attention. What followed was a barrage of guitar solos, incensed bellowing and double kick upon double kick. Here, put your head on this jackhammer, you might like it.

High On Fucking Fire. Matt Pike is the best guitar player on the planet right now. Do not question this. Dude was pulling out some Mahavishnu shit during solos. Basically it was a cross of Motorhead and early Larry Coryell (look him up). All the shit was played. “10,000 Years” destroyed everything. The whole band was in top form, including Pike, whose stint in rehab only made his playing tighter and more focused, like laser guided napalm. One of the best performances I’ve ever been witness to, no doubt.

Hounds of Hasselvander at O'Brien's

Alright. A night of DOOM the night after Valentine's Day, when you've had time to let it sink in that nobody in the entire world wants to be your Valentine and you'll probably die alone shivering in a cold, dank basement and your body won't be discovered for months because nobody missed you or even cared at all. Troo doom.

Ogre trudged up on stage to flatten the unworthy masses (and there was an excellent sized crowd at the show) with their take on doom, which features tons of top notch soloing from axe wizard Ross Markonish. Seriously, this dude woodsheds up on the highest mountains of Maine and brings it back down to Earth to share his message of electric love with the downtrodden and drunk. There was also a song about some sort of giant robot woman who can't get a date so she kills everything in the universe. You know how it goes.

Born of Thunder stepped on the gas and sped it up a little, or a lot, depending on your state of mind and what type of chemicals you had ingested before and/or during the show. More rabid soloing, this time by Mr. Craig Silverman, and between song banter by the band that rivaled that of the Carson/McMahon team at the height of their powers. Catch bassist Joey Sinn in the hit Swedish TV show "Streetboat".

And then, my friends, Hounds of Hasselvander set up their gear, including a mammoth drumset, and proceeded to teach everyone in attendance a lesson of what troo old-school doom is, the kind of doom that was handed down by Butler/Iommi/Osbourne/Ward and passed along to the likes of Pentagram. No bullshit, heads-down, let's get 'er done DOOM. When Joe Hasselvander wasn't riffing the fuck out, he was peeling off solos that would make most guitarists just put their fucking guitars down, go crawl in the corner and weep into their Sword t-shirts. Not many bands sound like this. Serious first-rate shit.

Maybe dying alone, Valentineless, isn't such a bad thing after all. Doom on, brothers.

Destruct-a-thon at The Midway/Cortez at O'Brien's

Holy fucking shit, Batman. Two shows at two clubs, eight bands preaching the heavy rock gospel, a farewell show, a CD release, and a band that hasn't played together in six months? Let's do this....

Buried In Leather, besides having the best name for anything ever, also have the white Joe Cocker on vocals, and if you don't know what i mean then you spend entirely too much time watching Judge Judy. They kicked things off in grand fashion at the Midway in Jamaica Plain, basically sounding like Motorhead and the Ramones fighting over the last beer at some kid's 21st birthday. Keith Pierce is the ringleader, fully clad in leather and exhorting the crowd to get their shit together, because this ain't no picnic.

Mob Hit are up next and they throw down some metallic hardcore, NOT metalcore, and if you don't know the difference then there's no hope for ya, bub. Doug from Gozu fills in on 2nd guitar and does an admirable job kicking asses and taking no names.

Once Superpower's bass player shows up, walking in the door and plugging right in, the shit is on. Dave River Tree Conley Esq. does his thing, and Terry, yeah, Terry who used to play in anarcho-crust legends Disrupt and Ny-Quil doom heroes Grief, puts on a workshop of how to play guitar THE RIGHT WAY. This was their CD release show for their new disc "Phantom of the Alliance", which I picked up but have not had the chance to listen to yet, although I'm sure it kills in all the right places. If you haven't seen or heard Superpower yet, think of DRI and Municipal Waste and you're halfway there, as Jon Bon would say.

Then Destruct-a-thon are next, saying their goodbyes and farewells, after fighting the good fight for a good many years. Duncan's eyes pop out of his head and roll around on the floor a couple of times, and Michele Morgan plays guitar like she was born with it in her hands. Two other axe slingers, Patti and Ed, provide some sonic back-up, and Eric and Sean hold down the fort on drums and bass so Duncan can crowd surf and kiss the ceiling fans. Don't try this at home, these people are certified motherfuckers and we're gonna miss 'em. Farewell, Destruct-a-thon, we hardly knew ye.

OK, now it's time to head across town to O'Brien's in lovely Allston where Cortez and some other miscreants are gonna rape my earholes and treat me like the piece of garbage I am. I think I have some issues I need to work out. Anyway....

Completely missed Blue Aside, my apologies, I was too busy partaking in extracurricular activities at D-Thon's rehearsal space and got lost in some sort of beer/space time vortex.

This was my first time seeing Birch Hill Dam and I don't really have anything to say other than Jeezus Harold Christ, that's a goddamn rock band right there. These dudes don't just play riffs, they excavate them from riff mines deep in the heart of riff country. If you dig Unida, Pepper Keenan-fronted Corrosion of Conformity, and good rock music played really well by musicians who mean it, then you'll dig these guys. I mean, fucking B.C. Rich? Obviously they're not fucking around.

Nobody told Resurrection Sorrow that they weren't playing Madison Square Garden, but that's just as well, as they crammed an arena's worth of rock into the confines of O'Brien's. The singer brought to mind Danzig, although much taller and he kept his shirt on. Just full-on hard rock, nothin' fancy, but if you wash down your steak with Black Label then this is the band for you.

Finally, 143 beers later, Cortez takes the stage with their newest vocalist and shows everyone in attendance why they've already been to Europe and also played the Stoner Hands of Doom festival. It's because THEY FUCKING ROCK AND THEY WILL KILL YOU IF YOU TURN YOUR BACK ON THEM.

Alright then, that's it for me. Cheers to all the bands for a mammoth day of rock played with passion and heart. It's an ugly job but somebody's gotta do it.

Elder at O'Brien's

The buildings never felt so good falling on you. Every brick and girder, every piece of reinforced cement fell perfectly on your body, hitting it just so, crushing it just right. It felt so good, you couldn’t imagine it happening again like this. You gave in to it and let it wash over you. No more pain. Gone.

Once the elephants started running you had nowhere to go, so you just picked up what you could and headed for the nearest copse of trees, hoping it would shield you. The dust that was raised by the trampling was blinding. The sound was a deafening roar, just a wash of noise. You closed your eyes and hoped for the best, at one point seeing someone hanging a shirt in an open window, the walls bare and the light on.

The cheering continued unabated, the banners and streamers going full tilt, creating a vision of cascading red and white. More victory could not be attained at this juncture, the flag had been planted and photographed for prosperity, the troops stood smiling, mouthing “Hi, Mom” at the gawking cameras.

Once upon the mountain, your campsite secure and safe, you set out to go higher. The Sun is cresting the horizon, the sky is anything but blue. Light beams onto you, climbing and straining skyward. Reaching. Every single ounce of energy contained in your body rising upwards towards the Sun itself, grasping it tight and never letting go. Ever.

Born of Thunder at O'Brien's

I figured I'd drag my ass out of the apartment as I was in danger of turning into Jack Nicholson in "The Shining" if i didn't get out for a bit. Lo and behold, O'Brien's had a decent show going on, so I braved the sub-arctic temperatures (actually it wasn't that bad, but I'm sick of this shit) and had my face rocked off.

Riff Cannon (amazing name, by the way) started off the night with an excellent set of heavy-ass RIFFING. Some sweet guitar solos sealed the deal. I think they're somewhat new, but I'll check 'em out again. At one point a riff cannonball landed right near me and almost spilled my drink.

Mob Hit have a little more hardcore mixed into their metal, but they're not really metalcore (thank God). Barry Spillberg from Wargasm beats the shit out of his drums for these dudes, so you know it's gonna be good. This would probably go over a little better with a younger, more energetic crowd, not a bunch of geriatric rockers who spike their Jack & Cokes with Ex-Lax (I'm speaking for myself here). A spot-on cover of "Honeybucket" by the Melvins brought a tear to this geezer's eye. Also, nice Stryper shirt.

Revocation just shredded. Three-piece death metal with a guitarist who could play rings around Trey Azagthoth or any other DM axeslinger out there. Did I mention this dude shreds? Totally. They kind of reminded me of Death a little bit, which I would say is a good thing. Even the people who didn't really dig 'em had to admit that the guitarist SHREDS. They have a small feature in the new issue of Metal Maniacs, so you can read all about what brand of goatsblood they soak their strings in.

Finally, Born of Thunder took the stage and rocked the hell out of the place. Craig Silverman (Only Living Witness) has been added on second guitar and it really beefs up the sound. It was fucking LOUD, in the best way possible. These heshers play pretty much straight-up metal, think Motorhead with a little Laaz Rockit mixed in, that kind-of-but-not-really speed metal. Mr.B broke a few laws with some too-fast-for-love drumming, but that's rock now, innit?

After the last notes had faded and the last beer had been drained, I said my farewells and headed back out to my dogsled and made my way across the frozen tundra that is Allston, my appetite for rock sated once again. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, after all.