In which I Attend the Forward Music Fest, Day 2, Part 1

fig.1: The two Nicks from The Box Social yowl some words or something

I spent the night at my pal Norah’s place a hop, skip, and barely a jump from the Capitol square area, which was just too damn perfect. She had met me at the Corral Room Friday night and we stood outside and chatted while the boys in Brainerd closed things out (yeah, um, sorry i missed you guys, John!). This was a good thing, as i had not seen Norah since March, when we played that very same Corral Room. The next morning she treated me to a Red Baron 4-cheese pizza breakfast (i sort of saw this weekend as an opportunity to get my digestive system in shape for our tour, which starts Friday) and a private screening of Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog, which, for frak’s sake, where have i been? Joss Whedon rules at nerd musicals, as the sixth season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer obviously demonstrated. I should have downloaded this weeks ago.

Anywho, you don’t care about nerd shit; you care about rocker shit (which is essentially nerd shit, but louder. Face it). As the final credits rolled i made my way from Norah’s pad to the Stage Door, the side theater of the Orpheum on State Street. I got there just in time to check out my pals in the Brewtown pop-punk power party The Chinese Telephones throwing down a fairly solid set, despite some sound issues that were beyond ridiculous.

Seriously, if there were a Gordon Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares for sound dudes, these yahoos would have qualified for a season finale. The Telephones got off easy compared to Things Fall Apart, who i suppose had it coming, what with naming their band that after all. During portions of their set, the PA threw out filling-rattling bass at inopportune times and cut out entirely at others. Completely ridiculous. Things seemed to get back to some level of competence for Canadia’s Brutal Knights, who played some killer Zeke-tempo speed punk.

They were followed by a band called Star Fucking Hipsters. Now, ok. When you name your band something like “Star Fucking Hipsters,” your band is going to either destroy so much that it’s the best band name ever, or your band is going to suck so badly that your name reads like a desperate way to get people to pay attention (i mean, if i see a band called “Adolf Hitler Raped My Grandfather” on a flyer, i’m going to the damn show, ya dig?). In this case, the name turned out to be a case of “oh, you’re on Fat Wreck Chords and playing the exact same music they’ve been putting out for the last 500 years, but because you dress like New York gutter punks and have neck tattoos, you need just the MOST BADASS NAME POSSIBLE, don’t you? Awwwww, so cute.” Which basically meant it was time to head to The Frequency for some rippin’ Indie Rock.

After a more sedate than usual set from His and Her Vanities, a Madison band that plays the most killer 1996 Grass Records Brainiac/Lazy-style noise-rock that i’ve heard since 1996 on Grass Records (wow, i bet that description is useful to about three people–sorry), Milwaukee-to-Madison turncoats The Box Social set up. My band and i have a fun relationship with The Box Social, in that we heckle them mercilessly while they play (look, any band that puts up posters that say “for fans of Tom Petty, the Replacements, and Phantom Planet” deserves whatever they get. Seriously–Phantom Fucking Planet? “So what does your band sound like?” “You know that band from the OC that did that ‘California’ song?” “Dear Christ, yeah?” “Well, sort of like that.” GUYS. YOU ARE WAY BETTER THAN PHANTOM GOD DAMN PLANET. KNOCK IT OFF), and they attempt to fire back and it’s completely limp-dicked. A typical exchange may go something like this:

DJ: “That song was really great, if you like Phantom Planet!”
Nick Woods: “Hey, you’d like Phantom Planet if you were younger than 50 years old!”
DJ: “Probably not, since even my little brother knows they’re horrible. Hey, play one you practiced this time!”
Nick: “…You’re old!”

In all honesty, though, The Box Social are a truly fantastic power-pop band, and they really know how to appeal to an audience. They’re loud, meaty, and as subtly catchy as HPV. It was also a nice touch to see that Nick Woods had cut his hair, trying to hide the fact that Madison has been slowly turning him into a fucking hippie. Their set was short and sweet and thoroughly kickass, capped off by their M.O.T.O. cover of “I Hate My Fucking Job” or whatever that song’s called. I bet the house parties eat that shit up.

fig.2: Nick raises his hand into the air, pleading for applause

After a set by competent pop-rockers Apparently Nothing, who committed a severe rock show cover song transgression by playing “Where is My Mind” with more technical precision than the Pixies ever did (ATTENTION BANDS: please stop covering The Pixies. They’re like the Beatles or Nirvana–they’re untouchable and uncoverable. If you try to cover them, you come off like a cover band, unless you do something to really mess with the arrangement. And even then, you’re pushing it. So STOP), it was time for one of Chicago’s best power-pop outfits, the fantastic and picturesque Dials.

The Dials are just plain awesome. Period. Minimalist guitar leads, driving drums, and more hooks than my coat rack (so, like, 5!). And they dress very well.

fig.3: My camera goes for mood lighting over actual figure definition. Whatever, it’s sort of artsy for a cheap point-and-click

fig.4: The red light wasn’t on for this one

fig.5: Keyboard girls sort of totally rule, and if you disagree, you’re either a eunuch or dead

OK, yikes, looks like i have to chop Day 2 into two posts, because i have WAY too much to discuss with regard to the High Noon Killdozer show. So, until next time, i guess!

fig.6: As much as i love them, The Dials are from Chicago, and therefore, do not know how to handle beer without it foaming everywhere. Then again, maybe the beer is overly excited because it’s being handled by a member of the frakking Dials