Buttsteak, summer '09, part 3: Halloween ZombieFest-- REM and the Pixies

A spooooooky Halloween to all you rockers!  Vampires are still boffo box office, and werewolves have been getting some lovin' of late, but it's zombies that rule the day.  Rock Zombies.

I suppose it stems from the necessary, juvenile bent of the rock genre.  Unlike blues, jazz, bluegrass, hip-hop, and so on, which get by with fluid combos and ever-changing combinations of players, rock n' roll has always traded on the image of the band as a unit/ gang/ family identifier.  Them's the rules.  It's a fine line for band to walk, and it can make for a good ride, but forestalling evolution or extinction is always going to fail in the end (not to mention that it's an absolutely unnatural state of being).  What's it gonna be?: Evolution, extinction or that grey land in between?

Your average zombie band, of course, doesn't know it's dead.  It walks on past its prime and slogs through decline, stumbling onward but rarely forward.  REM announces retirement.  World shrugs.  Other bands such as the Pixies die perfectly respectable, natural deaths (see also Pavement, X, Camper van Beethoven, etc) only to later rise from the grave in response to some mysterious call (usually that's the money talking).  They might, deep down, understand that they're not gonna be flowering back to full life anytime soon, but can manage to ride the cultural mojo for some fun and a cash grab (or several) and maybe make an event (as is now de rigueur) of playing the seminal album(s) in its entirety.  That sack of flesh rarely can it tuck itself in, straighten up and make some "valid" new music, whatever that is but I guess that, in the right light, it doesn't really matter to me, so long as whoever's playing is actually, as they say up here in Boston, "puttin' some haaaaaaahht into it".  I can love me a zombie just fine.  I'm a guy who can watch those PBS fund-raising oldie-fests for quite a while.

Lord knows where that leaves Buttsteak and the Haggises Five, living dead-wise.  Feasting on the flesh of rock zombies perhaps?  As ever, I suppose.  We were sodden carrion -pickers from the start, so I say "Huzzah"!  Hoist a glass and gnaw some bones!  

Driver 8:


Here Comes Your Man:

Buttsteak, summer '09, part 2: The Cure, perennial faves

Today we carry you further on into autumn with some more fine cover tunes courtesy of the largely reconstituted Buttsteak and the Haggises Five, summer '09.  Oh, and some old photos of the constituted Buttsteaks, circa spring '89.  Scroll thee down.

Those of you in the know would correctly note that our meat and potatoes were generally Scruffy the Cat and Camper van Beethoven, and we sure loved some Ramones, but over time we were always trafficking in a few tunes by the Cure and the Smiths and their peers.  Probably this in large part reflects the influence of Faulk and Fitz, but we all were (and are) big supporters of those British bands of whatever ilk you'd call it-- it wasn't "alternative" back then, or "new wave".  Maybe we'd call it "new music", or "college rock"?  No matter-- The songs were (and are) flat-out great and they were of course a huge part of the '80's soundtrack.  In Suite 201 of Building A at JHU, those two bands were on near-repeat for most of the year.  Of course, that wasn't my doing, classic/ roots rocker that I was, but I learned to adapt and learn and love.

I'll put on Steve Earle's boots and stand on Bob Dylan's coffee table and argue anytime for the unbelievable, wonderful Johnny Marr of the Smiths.  But maybe more on the Smiths later.  Today's argument is for Robert Smith and the Cure and their albums and albums of dark, weird, groovy, whiny, heartbreak .  Hopefully these make up for some of the brutal crimes against music that comprise some of our versions of "In Between Days" and "Close to Me".  Glorious low points, all!

Boys Don't Cry:


Just Like Heaven:

of buttsteaks & boston

Hello all, Roadkill here at exactly 1 p.m. on a Monday in Baltimore, which means they're testing the air raid siren at the courthouse while some of us try to work through lunch. The horn is a particularly blaring return to reality as I sit here still basking in the glow of fires, literal and figurative, that were stoked this past weekend in Boston.  

Originally, an extended cast of characters planned to converge at TT the Bear's, a sweaty dive in Cambridge where the afore-mentioned Scruffy the Cat was to reunite after a 20+ year hiatus. But people in bands lead complicated lives and the shows were unceremoniously scuttled. The Fitz's stepped into this void and a small hoard of thankful college friends and spouses descended for some ambling walks, food & drink, and terrible fireside singing.  Along the way, cocktails were had, friends reconnected and, quite possibly, a septum was deviated. 

I bring this up in an ostensibly musical forum because of the degree to which music has been the surgical glue that stuck so many of us together so many years ago and that keeps giving us excuses to meet up in one city or another. At the heart of it is the friendships.  I mean, nobody ever went to a Buttsteak show (or a two-drummer rehearsal at 303) for quality songsmanship. It was about camaraderie and beer, in roughly that order. Sure, it would have been nice if Scruffy took the stage this past weekend but, sitting around the fire pit in Lexington, I think we all realized it wasn't really about them after all.

Dan, stoking the fires.

Buttsteak, summer '09, part 1: We were fans of Camper van...

Ah, Buttsteak!  The band, that is-- the actual Buttsteak.  With the sloppy cover song thing?  You know, with the Haggises Five and all that?  The ramshackle "organization" managed to get through no fewer than four major incarnations back in the JHU days but in our brains they've all sorta melded into The One.  And, sleeper cells that we are, the promise of old friends and stoopid rock songs and cold beer and bad dancing still manages to intermittently call us forward into action, and backward into silliness.  The signal's got enough  power that it was a no-brainer that, come the 20th reunion of the class of '89, we'd naturally all get back together and get our rock trousers on.  And indeed, that whole affair was a hoot.  So.  Much.  Fun.

But this isn't about the gig.  Even if the Hopkins show hadn't gone down, it would have been worth it just to have five of us get together for the practices down in Baltimore, and then to get joined by Hani in the stretch.  Like putting on an old, comfortable pair of cut-off camouflage pants in need of a washing, and a shirt with a sausage on it.

But this also isn't about the practices either.  It's about the idea that we get together a couple months after the '09 gig to at long last lay down some decent recordings of the band.  Not surprisingly, we'd never gotten our act together to do such a thing back in the day.  And this take was also incomplete, but we made do--- Hani had to head back overseas, so the sloppy and half-baked keyboards you hear are my fault (and I couldn't come close to bringing the Shalabi mojo).  Back in Boston, we managed to dub Fitz in.  Soooo at least it's an approximation.

And there's a big bunch to post.  First up, two unsung classics by Santa Cruz, CA's Camper van Beethoven, old mainstays...  "Skinheads" goes way back to the Scott Scummit/ Whiskey Sin and Moral Corruption days and, I dunno, maybe before I was on board, and enviously watching those yahoos in the lovely D.U. basement.  "Sweethearts" I believe we added in the post-Fitz era.  It's missing the string parts and whistling but I could listen to Todd play those guitar bits just about forever.

Take the Skinheads Bowling:


Sweethearts:


Four out of six, spring '09:

Hani's thoughts on the matter:

Fitz, winter '09 actually looking up lyrics!! Go internets!

Harpswell Hootenanny 2011, Part 5: Drug Test

Hey gang.  Hope you're enjoying our little backslide from autumn back into summer.  Also hope it doesn't last long.   Irregahdless, here's the last of the finished Hoot mixes for you.  It might not be to everyone's tastes, noisy lil' devil that it is, but it should provide some audio (and perhaps video) evidence that we managed to skronk it up a bit at March's throwdown, which is to say that we briefly flew the alternative- indie flag and let loose a tad of feedback as well.  This was thanks in no small part to Dillo's destructification of a couple guitar leads.  Never had I heard such a spectacular strangulation of my Telecaster, which is used to a more sedate, twangy, roots-rocking existence.  Happily this song provided one of those moments when you're playing a song and have to force yourself to keep going, because what's taking place right in front of you is so goddarned entertaining that you're almost inclined to just stop and listen.  Anyway, this is all above and beyond the fact that he flew up from Chapel Hill with his own home-crafted prosciutto.   A true Renaissance man! 

Hopefully you'll also be able to stream or (probably) download some of the video we had from the run-through, prior to all the "beautification" and other studio wizardry.  If nothing else, I think it gives an indication of the degree to which we were flying by the seat of our collective pants, if you pay attention to the confused, determined and surprised looks all around.  And hooray for the seasonal plumage and accoutrements!

We've got a couple more of these Hoot songs in the can, or partially so, and they'll hopefully see the light of day before long, once we work out the transcontinental file sharing and electronic recording situation so that Paul B can work his magic.  Might slide into something completely different next week.  We'll see.

jk

Drug Test:

Dillo- Guitar; Paul B- Guitar; JK- Bass, etc; Road- Drums

Drug Test in-progress video:

Filmed by Roggie