Rust Belt Angst: Two Cow Garage and "Sweet Saint Me"

It was a Monday night. It's a hard sell. Relegated to the small back bar of a larger venue, about 30 people put down the $10 cover to see Two Cow Garage.

Finding bands at their beginnings is one of the joys of live music. Seeing them in their raw state and then watching them file, shave and shape down into something that makes sense. The workshop is always more interesting than the museum. The first time somebody experiences a finished work, it begins to die. And it dies a little more with every new viewer.

Two Cow Garage at a show in NC from brand new kind of photography

But Two Cow Garage is not a block of stone in search of a pile of dust. They've been at this for the better part of a decade and just released their fifth album. It's time for someone to let them out of the workshop. Because if you don't, the shavings start to overtake the product and the block is whittled down to a nub. It's great for the select few who got to see the process, but it doesn't work out too well for the block.

Their new album, "Sweet Saint Me," is very good. In a fair and God-fearing world, "Lydia" would be pouring out of radios. It's a song made to be an A-side single. The second best song, "Lucy and the Butcher Knife" is a quirky story song that was made to be a cultishly beloved B-side. The album alternates from orgran-juiced, double lead vocal jump rock to stripped-down, single voice in a room with an unelectric instrument. But from the first time I heard a Two Cow Garage album, I knew this was a band that needed to be seen live. Something wasn't translating from the studio. Like the other albums, "Sweet Saint Me" is very good. The live Two Cow Garage experience, however, is amazing.

"We really appreciate yall coming out tonight. We were in Alabama last night and, well, we're just really happy to be here. Thanks again for coming."

I'm not sure what happened the night before in Jacksonville, Alabama. But for what could not have been much more than the cost of the gas to get to the next show, a grateful rock band took the stage and put on a big Saturday night show in a shitty back room on a Monday. They ran through most of the new album with a vengence, drilling the unfamiliar songs into your head so deep you wonder if they hadn't been there all along. They obliged shouted requests for songs from the crowd and made songs from the back catalogue of my iPod stand up like they had a life of their own. A Replacements cover closed things out on the perfect night of music for a frustrated Fall.

Walking out of the show, the first temptation is to describe them as raw, and that's mostly due to Micah Schnabel's voice. It's all gaps and crackles and strained threads popping out of a V-neck collar and working a clenched jaw. The stage antics are erratic and the instruments swing and shake sometimes with the beat and sometimes exactly offbeat. If there's a "look" of the band, it's like a animated ball of laundry that was wadded under the back seat of a conversion van.

But raw is lazy. The obvious surface parts are raw. The full sound, the full experience is not. This is a mature rock band that puts out a sound that is exactly what it is meant to be. Shane Sweeney slaps the bass like a Stax session player and sings like a truck driver on the 35th hour of a 36-hour haul, too tired for anything but hard, weary truth. When Sweeney's bass and voice meet Micah's, it's tar finding the gaps in gravel and everything else just rolls on top of it. It's those moments when the two come together that Two Cow Garage really finds its sound. It's something that shows up more in the shows than the albums.

I'm not somebody who dislikes genres on their face. It can be helpful to have a mental context for something, and thoughtful genre assignments can provide that. But let's not try to drill too deep or over-think things just to avoid the obvious. Two Cow Garage is not Alt Country, and I don't think they fit into the newly fashionable "Cowpunk" label either. There's not much twang to this music outside of the livestock in their name, the sideburns on Shane's face and their occasional use of a cowbell. It's rust belt angst with the literacy to be able to express it. It's just straight forward rock and roll, and beautifully so.

There are a handful of bands that I will openly proselytize for, bands you may not know, but you should. Bands that, in a fair and just world of meritocracy, would be packing out five-figure venues and filling the airwaves. Glossary, The Felice Brothers, The Dexateens, Blue Mountain...and now Two Cow Garage is proudly on that list. If they come by, pardon the sawdust and the inconvienent show time, and go be saved.

Menomena: West Coast Cool and the Value of Desperation

I need some desperation in my music. We are going to crack this symbol, bleed these fingers, break these strings, pound these keys, strangle this mic stand until you get it.

And that was what was missing from the Menomena show. By all accounts, they're comers. A rising West Coast rock band that's about ready to break out. They brought three racks of pedals, one and a half keyboards, two laptops, baritone sax, windpipe, a variety of guitars and two plastic baby doll heads. And they played them all. Yeah, the guy played the bass line with his feet while blowing out some rough bursts on the baritone sax. That was impressive. But did it actually do anything for the song? Eh.

They are all very talented musicians, and they know it. There are two great varieties of performers. The first are the self-concious who go over the top to compensate for their perceived (real or otherwise) shortcomings with pure sweat equity. The second are the cocksure geniuses of their own mind who believe they are actually the second coming of the Christ, and doesn't think you fully appreciate the greatness. But they're about to convert you.

The drummer, Danny Seim, brought it. There's no doubt. On a stage of electronics, style and technology, he brought the lo-fi wood, brass and bare feet that drove the show. The highlight of the set was a song called "Dirty Cartoons," with vocals by Seim. As the rest of the band joined in for the final build-up harmony, it was one of the few earnest moments of the night. The kind that made you sit up and see what could be with a little less primp and a little more madness.

For the rest, they were too sure of their own talent and the crowd's appreciation of it. The bass, either played by pedal or string, was steady and interesting. The keys were everything an accent should be. The guitar was strong. Even the three and four part harmonies were flawless. But that was the problem. They had nothing to prove. It was like watching the smart kid in the class solve an equation. It's the difference between a rock show and a recital.

Every show should be a revival. You have a message and crowd of non-believers. If you don't convert them, they'll spend the rest of their lives wandering hopeless and lost. It's that simple. There's somebody out there tonight who doesn't believe. And we're going to beat on their chests until either their eyes open or their ribs crack.

The band picked up energy as it went along. Looking back, it was a solid effort and certainly worth 3 beers and a $15 cover. But it was very California in the assumption of cool and appreciation. It was beauty without heartbreak, which is just kind of empty. If you like Menomena, you should check out Centro-Matic/South San Gabriel. All of the genius, a little more offbeat and a whole handful of desperation...because what else is there in Denton, Texas if not desperation?

Call and Response: Reconnecting with Galactic

It's a very primal satisfaction...to cry out into the dark and hear someone else cry back. It provides a sense of place, like a haggard kind of sonar. It can help you find your way back home. It can help you find your escape. Share joy or provide sympathy. Signal a warning, start a fight or announce a celebration. It's what makes the response so electric, and it's what makes an echo so haunting. More than anything else, it's a reassurance that you're not alone.

And when we first started putting bone to skin and foot to ground to try to find a beat, call and response got built in. So here we are in 2010 and the best sounds are still built around this very same caveman formula, and nowhere is this ancient art more alive than New Orleans.

New Orleans in August is something akin to an industrial dish washer set to "Pots and Pans" with a weeks dead nutria rat strung out on your top rack. It's at this time that some of the local musicians, who would otherwise be perfectly content to follow to the Kermit Ruffins formula of weed and BBQ in Crescent City perpetual motion, decide to venture out into the rest of the country.

With the strange Katrina/BP bounce, everything New Orleans, from the food to the art to the long-suffering football team, has suddenly become America's good-hearted, chronically snakebit little brother everybody's rooting for to pull through. It's as if someone took the lovable loser mystique of the Chicago Cubs, planted it in a swamp with a dash of black pepper and let it ferment for a few hundred years. As far as it goes, 2010's turned out to be a decent vintage.

It was this gulfstream of events that brought Galactic to an energized, packed-out venue in the Mid-Atlantic where no less than 5 years ago, the Neville family would've been best known for Aaron's ill-fitting denim vests and adult contemporary duets. But today, the crowd was ready. They cheered on Ivan and Ian when they joined the band on stage and were prepared to embrace the beauty of the trombone lead. On this night, when the band cried out the obscure chants of the back corners of the Quarter, the voices in the dark cried back with a jubilant fury. There's a difference between echo and reverberation, and you know it when you feel it.

For most frat boys of the Southeast, Galactic is something of a known quantity. Not on the same level of familiarity of the Panic, but somewhere around the neighborhood. You've probably seen them before and probably more than once. The albums have played in the better of the jammy party mixes since the mid-90s. It's no different for me, and I had no special expectations for the show.

But for whatever reason, this one just hit. Like musical comfort food at the moment it's most needed. A good piece of fried chicken after a bad break-up while stranded in Canada. They brought out some Nevilles (Cyril, Ian and Ivan) and threw down a two hour set complete with extended Stanton Moore drum solo, blistering harmonica, bristling, brass splintering horns and slapping bass with hip-hop and bounce interludes. When traditional vocals were called for, Cyril Neville takes the lead. There aren't many better.

Most music, of all genres, whether you know it or not, is generally built from the bass and rhythm up. With Galactic, it's a celebration of the bottom and there's no question who's driving this wreck. It's the sweaty white boy behind emo glasses with his foot on the gas and bass drum pedals. Everybody else is just trying to hang on by their fingernails, but smiling throughout. Because they know it's damn good when it works. And like I said, on this night, it worked.

To All Seasons, An End.

Two significant parts of my life came to an end this past week with the U.S.'s World Cup and the first season of Treme coming to an end. Both had tremendous build-up, moments of glory and mixed feelings. So, in the name of conflagration and journalism's grandest tradition, let's take a look back at two completely unrelated items in a forced metaphor. Bob Bradley, meet Big Chief Albert Lambreaux. Clint Dempsey, get your hands off Janette Desautel, you greedy bastard. Davis McAlary's passing a joint to Landon, who's been crying in the corner all night. Wait, who the fuck invited Bill and Mick? Shit's about to get out of hand.

There's a moment when Sonny goes to Houston to sit-in with some other New Orleans players who are doing a session at a roadhouse. He plays one song, they thank him and ask him to move over. Somebody else wants the seat for the next one.

"But I can carry it."

"That's alright, man. Thanks for sitting in."

Sonny steps back into the crowd and watches as his replacement and the rest of the band lays into "At the Foot of Canal Street." It was at that moment that Sonny knew he didn't really belong. He probably knew all along, but this was the visual proof. It's not because of some cruel twist of fate or evil forces working against him. It's not because he didn't work hard enough or didn't have the will to get it done, he just was not on that level.

Watching quarterfinal games on Friday was that moment for U.S. Soccer. We tap danced on the guardrail and had some good moments in the bramble of group play. The good teams are just trying to scrape by. The bad teams are just trying to put bodies in front of the goal to hang on for a draw. In the middle, teams like the U.S. split the difference. The result is a random madness of deflections, own goals and penalties. The outcomes seem more like happy accidents than decisive conclusions, and it's understandable how people can become frustrated with it.

The knockout round is almost a completely different sport. The kids have been sent home and it's time for the adults to go to work. Brazil and the Dutch played beautiful football. And not just beautiful in the "beautiful game" context of finesse and showmanship. It was complete. They were hardnosed when necessary, dirty at moments, and most of all, turning chaos into stunning order that, after it's over, seems like the build-up was all part of some masterplan. It's Van Morrision singing "Cypress Avenue" after sitting through some local wedding cover band sing "Brown Eyed Girl." There's a loose association, but vastly different tiers of performance.



That's not to say that the U.S. didn't accomplish anything. We won the group, showed competence and played with gritty pride, none of which are givens when it comes to American soccer. Playing a game to put out the last African nation in the first African soil Cup brings a lot of bad juju. But it wasn't ancient black arts or continental terroir that brought us down (though I do put some blame on the very presence of Terry McAulfie and the stench of loserdom that trails behind him like a sulfurous cropdusting).

The African teams have a reputation not all that different than Louisiana football-- unbridled athleticism that tries to overwhelm with sheer size, speed and attitude with no shape, direction or strategy. But if you can contain it, bring order without killing the joy, it can be a legitimate force.

But that wasn't Ghana. They put together an organized, thoughful game that left our players playing chase for the majority of the match. That crazy Serbian door-to-door encylopedia salesman with the loosened tie and the confused look has done a job on par with Nick Saban in Baton Rouge. They looked even more the polished, professional squad in their next game against an equally organized Uruguay. They belong.

More than anything else, this U.S. team gave us shared moments. The moments when you're clutching an American flag in one hand, with your fingertips dug into the shoulder of the stranger next to you. For waning minutes at the end of the Algeria game, the country was united under the right foot of Landycakes. Shared desperation can bring an energy. It was talked about in New Orleans immediatley after the storm, there was almost a brotherhood among everybody who was left. We're all up againt the same wall, but the fact that we're all still standing is an impressive accomplishment. But when that adrenaline wears off and you realize you're still standing in the same place against the same wall, it's a fast decline. It's time to either move forward or fall down.

Your keeper in the opposing team's box is the physical manifestation of desperation. It means the good ideas have run out. All that's left to do is throw everything you've got into the breach and hope the confusion is enough to disrupt the logic's foot on your throat. Against Ghana, Tim Howard was the human kitchen sink, hurling itself headfirst into the ball. It was time to go home

But there's more than one way to handle the revelation that you don't belong. Sonny realized he couldn't create, so he self-destructed and went Berman on some leather at a shady bar. But then there's Davis. And if there's any reason for Sonny to exist on Treme, it's to serve as comparison for Davis. Like most everybody at the start of the show, I was annoyed by Davis. I understood his purpose and what he represented in the New Orleans eco-system, but still cringed every time I saw him on screen...that is until they start to develop Sonny. Davis is a loveable tag along. Sonny is a leach, and that's an important distinction that gives Davis a new nobility. There was a time when Davis and Kermit Ruffins were peers, but Davis got left behind. Instead of getting moody about his short-comings, he becomes a fan, even pushing Kermit further. "America needs it some Kermit. You're standing there telling me all you want to do is get high, play some trumpet and barbeque in New Orleans your whole life?" ("Sounds good to me.") Sonny just slunk off into the dark and tried to take Annie down with him, rather than letting her outshine him.

So where do we go from here? Sonny would spit on the ground, comment on how soccer sucks anyway and go watch some Nascar. Don't do that. Be a Davis. Be an appreciator and take joy in the extraordinary, even when you're not directly invovled. This is when it gets good.

Heaven Is Whenever

"I just can't sympathize with your rock and roll problems. Isn't this what we wanted?" - "Rock and Roll Problems"

First of all, I miss Franz. Levon said it best, "The bigger the band, the better is sounds to my ear." Franz was essentially the bigger band rolled into one package of romp, velvet pants and mustache wax. He left the band shortly into the recording of Heaven Is Whenever, saying:

"They have their one big idea-- making literate, wordy lyrics over big anthemic rock-- and the last two records were about as good as I felt like we could do with that."

Little known fact, Franz is also Bazil Shabazz's evil doppleganger. The Wario to Bazil's Mario.

The problem with geniuses is that they have trouble sitting still (one of the many obvious indicators and I am not, nor will ever be one). This kind of creative itch is what side projects were made for. But for a band on the level of The Hold Steady, they have to tour constantly to make the numbers work, which doesn't lend a lot of time to Vaudevillian side bands with tap-dance interludes. Franz clearly appreciates the value of the big idea of Hold Steady, but I think he overestimates the band's accomplishment and underestimates the depth of that one big idea. If Franz had been George Washington Carver, he would've boiled a peanut, decided it was good and called it day. Mmm. Boiled peanuts.

It's hard to overstate what a multi-instrumentalist can do for a sound-- especially in a band with the religious themes of The Hold Steady. If you're going to bring the sermon, you better damn sure bring the organ. But it was more than that. In a world of drums and guitars, it's amazing what an extra sound can do for creating an instant mood within a song. The harmonica for the country, mournful or stomping. A mandolin is a sweetness and a sharpness. Spoons for a goofy, low-rent gait second only to the cowbell. Then, there's the chronically under-utilized accordian. Unfairly banished to polka sideshows in ethnic beerhalls, it's making a slow comeback into coolness. Franz owns three. And you certainly can't discount the value of a good, weird, falsetto high-harmony in the background vocals.

This is not to say that The Hold Steady doesn't or can't exist without Franz, but they do have to fill the gaps. That's maybe the most interesting thing about this album. By leaving because of lack of room to grow, Franz may actually force the band to noticeably evolve, but evolve within the scope of that one "big idea."

"There was that whole weird thing with the horses. I think they know exactly what happened. I don't think it takes any explaining." - "The Weekenders"

Enough about what's missing, let's talk about what's still there. Craig Finn can still turn a phrase, tell a story, give a sermon, bring a simple truth and make absolutley no sense whatsoever. The songs are absolutely there. What Finn does better than anyone else is being constantly self-referential without being reptitive or inaccessible. Each song stands on it's own, but also fits into a larger continuing narrative. The band's past albums aren't prequisities in the way Alegra is to Calculus, but compliments. It adds depth and rewards your curiosity, and it's what makes a thing stand up over time. You can enjoy it in a vaccum, but the more you dig into the context and see it as part of a bigger universe, the more interesting it becomes.

You don't have to have listened to Chips Ahoy! to enjoy The Weekenders. It's a wink to the existing fanbase. "Hey, we know you. Thanks for coming back." And for new fans, it's a future moment of recognition. After they've been through Heaven Is Whenever a few times, they go back and listen to Boys and Girls In America and make the connection. Now, they're on the inside of a joke that was pretty good even from the outside. There are a hundred of those moments throughout the band's catalogue.

"Gonna make like a pre-emptive strike, hit the 5:30 mass every Saturday night." - "Our Whole Lives"

It's the rock show with driving hooks and story songs straight out of Warren Zevon's playbook. Hurricane J is the girl you can't save without changing everything you love about her. We Can Get Together about people who only communicate indirectly through pop culture and music references (sounds familiar). And then the celebrations and consequences of the cycle of self-destruction that are the core of any Hold Steady album so far. Increasingly, the voice is of an older brother trying to give a lesson of experience-- though he slips from the message of warning to remember the good times on a dark road in a way that you know even he hasn't quite decided if it was worth it or not.

Even without Franz, it's still the Steady. It's still among the best rock out there, and nobody else is doing quite the same thing.

The Death of Cool

Big Daddy Pollitt: When you got pain, it's better to judge yourself of a lot of things. I'm not gonna stupify myself with that stuff. I wanna think clear. I want to see everything, and I want to feel everything. Then I won't mind goin'. I've got the guts to die. What I want to know - do you have the guts to live?

Brick Pollitt: I don't know.

Big Daddy Pollitt: We can start by helping each other up these stairs.