2008-07 Vital Source Mag – July 2008
Icy Demons
By Kyle Shaffer An open-door policy in a musical project seems is an obvious catalyst for experimentation. But when that collective implements an initiation process – involving alter egos – all your circuit-bent guitar pedals and Godspeed You Black Emperor! albums may not prepare you for what you’re about to experience. That’s the idea behind Icy Demons’ latest, Miami Ice, as the group challenges listeners to journey into poppy experimentalism as opposed to experimental pop. Chris Powell (aka PowPow) and Griffin Rodriguez (aka Blue Hawaii) are the group’s founders, though no one really appears to be at the wheel of the project. A slew of guest artists, including Tortoise guitarist Jeff Parker, make up the supporting cast on this trippy, unpredictable release. Icy Demons hit their stride amidst quirky, repetitive melodies a la Broken Social Scene on “Spywatchers” and “1850,” making use of everything from cello riffs to vintage keyboard sounds. And while the title track hints at pop immediacy, the songs keep shifting in the neo-prog/jazz of opener “Buffalo Bill” and the lounge room sway of “Summer Samba”. Were it not for the spacey time shifts and alien synth lines, Miami Ice might almost sound terrestrial. But this album may as well be the soundtrack to a robot-only sex party or Martians shooting up heroin. There’s certainly something to be said for the ingenuity and left-field antics that run amok on this release – it just may not be translatable in any earthly tongue.
Jul 1st, 2008 by Vital Archives
Mavericks and leaders
There are only three paths in life for a free spirit: lazy dreamer, maverick and leader. Of course there’s a fourth option, and one that many attempt – some to the end of their days – avoidance of embracing one’s true nature. The strongest of these reassure themselves that they’re “doing the right thing” by attaining middle management status so their kids can have the opportunities they didn’t (though I believe this is a myth, and that foregoing your own fulfillment sets a terrible example). Others spend their lives bouncing from job to job, looking for that magical situation in which they can finally be happy. But for those who recognize their own nature and acknowledge its calling, none of the choices are easy (assuming the absence of a trust fund). Lazy dreamer is the most attractive option for the young. Life is simple: when you have ten bucks, you get three beers at your corner bar. You might have a guitar, or a cat, or a collection of first edition Raymond Carver hardbacks – things you cherish not for their material value, but because they’re special to you. You’re probably satisfactorily under-employed somewhere that offers a flexible schedule. Your friends are artists and activists, and collectively you reinforce each others’ belief in simple pleasures and the evils of material enslavement. It’s a good life for awhile, and some folks keep with it all of their days. For others, there comes a time – typically in one’s late 20s or early 30s – when la vie bohème loses its charm. You may want to set up house with your baby, you might be tired of being broke all the time or perhaps you’re simply sick of hearing that you’re a chronic fuck-up. At this disheartening fork in the road, there are two paths: the aforementioned denial of your nature (at least temporarily) or the reinvention of yourself as a maverick. Mavericks are the mythic darlings of American culture. They work tirelessly in pursuit of their personal goals while bowing to no man; they are the innovators, the self-made millionaires, the rock stars. They don’t punch a time clock. For hard-working free spirits, this is probably the best life imaginable. It’s helpful to have an in-demand business skill you can hone into a personal empire, but even if you don’t you can dedicate yourself to becoming a skilled artisan and make a nice living while maintaining your independence. One thing not taught in maverick school, though, is the catch: the successful ones will find themselves at another fork in the road, and they’ll have to make a choice: to stay free and accept the limits of the one-man band, or to build something larger than one person can achieve. It’s the very definition of irony. While mavericks enjoy (immensely, really) widespread fraternity with other mavericks, with the people for whom they provide services and with any envious joe they find on a barstool at 5:30 on a Friday night with their […]
Jul 1st, 2008 by Jon Anne Willow
Fire in the Disco
Photos by Brian Jacobson + Eric Walton “Everyone calls me a magician. I don’t mind it so much, but – at least get it right.” If you’ve lived through a summer in Milwaukee and you’re not a total shut-in, you’ve probably seen Marcus Monroe – he’s hard to miss on his eight-foot unicycle, juggling knives taped to torches (the “knorch,” Marcus’ own invention) with a firecracker strapped to a helmet on his head. The extreme juggler and performance artist has been a fixture on the local festival circuit since he was a teenager. In 2004, Marcus moved to New York City to start his career as an entertainer and it’s been nothing but rock star success ever since – taking the stage at all hours of the night at NYC “playgrounds for billionaires,” opening for Cake and Talib Kweli, traveling the world with a knock-off Louis Vutton bag of juggling clubs and living with two other jugglers in a “fun house” apartment in the big city. But he’s more than just a certified phenom with a pretty face: the magnetic Marcus Monroe, a 23-year-old Milwaukee native, wants you to experience juggling like you have never experienced it before. He wants to make it fresh. He wants to make it hot. He wants to change it – forever. As a kid, Marcus “was kind of the goofy juggler,” he says. “But I wanted to appeal to a mass market. I wanted to start a new style of juggling … not the traditional sequined vest, crazy, ridiculous suits, colorful ties. I realized that there are no rules. I’m my own boss. I started dressing the way I would want to see a juggler dress. I wore what Justin Timberlake was wearing. I watched pop concerts to see what Usher was wearing and asked, how can this work on me? “I looked good. And the juggling was good.” JUGGLE FEVER When he was nine, Marcus saw one of his schoolmates juggle in a talent show – “just three balls, very poorly when I think about it,” he says. “But it was so inspiring to think about, someone that young … just a kid … juggling.” He spent that whole summer with his father learning the skill. “It took me so long, but my dad and I were so into it. I surrounded myself with everything juggling. I went to juggling clubs at UWM, started going to conventions, buying books on juggling, performing, videos – I didn’t care about school. I wanted to focus on juggling and performing.” His first performance – in overalls and a polka dot shirt, juggling to “Closer to Free” by the BoDeans on a boom box – was in fifth grade at the school talent show. Less than a year later, he was juggling at block parties, birthday parties, fairs and festivals. In high school he got a gig at Park Bar opening for bands, juggling fire, knives and glow-in-the-dark hoops. It attracted him a gathering of fans from […]
Jul 1st, 2008 by Amy Elliott
The Black Ghosts
In my lifelong predilection to condense a review to one word, this one would garner more of an escape of breath: “Eh.” Honestly, there just isn’t enough originality (or for that matter, anything compelling) within these 11 tracks to elicits more than that. Their moniker itself is groan-worthy: how many bands do we need with the “Black” adjective or “Ghost” subject, really? Oh, and their aim is to haunt and disquiet the listener with gothic eeriness. Whatever you say, guvnor. Obviously, these two Brits know what to do with the equipment. They’ve studied their Beck, Madonna, and early ‘90s Madchester scene. There are beats galore, with the requisite samples and sonic candy thrown in right where they should be. The tracklisting is near-perfect, with the moodier numbers spacing the upbeat disco and the (all too few!) fat-bottomed jams, which are without a doubt the highlight of the recording. Both “Until It Comes Again” and “Something New” are truly funky, with basslines that make me salivate. “Full Moon” features the collection’s best production, with acoustic guitars and strings that build to a nice crescendo. Unfortunately, the vocals never go anywhere: they don’t lie inside the instruments, nor illuminate the forgettable melodies. Although I’ve been highly critical of the templated songwriting and aesthetic, this is not a bad disc – I’ll just listen to my Codebreaker over it any day.
Jul 1st, 2008 by Troy Butero
Into Arcadia
Horace Walpole, the 18th century English writer/historian/politician, oh-so-properly pointed out that “this world is a comedy to those that think, a tragedy to those that feel.” Walpole had a point, as those who are bound by the heart are usually more prone to the pathos that life dishes out. Milwaukee’s Into Arcadia have transformed their fair share of dark days into earnestly exuberant songs, rooted in tragedy, yet propelled by a sound that is anything but dreary. Their five-song EP Maps for Children, according to Otto Ohlsson (vox, guitar), was based on his childhood experiences growing up in Manchester, England. The title, Ohlsson explains, comes from “the struggle between childhood’s innocence and the corrupting nature of coming of age;” Ohlsson added that the band doesn’t plan to dwell on this theme for the duration of their musical careers, and that he believes that their next writing ventures will be “more upbeat … more dance-y.” Whatever direction the future holds for Into Arcadia, their debut EP is a pretty study in absolution from past wrongs, with beautiful driving guitars from Ohlsson and Kenny Buesing solidified by Wes Falk’s bass and Zac Weiland’s percussion. Joy Division, Doves, The Fall and early Coldplay are all familiar sounds for Maps for Children. “Time is no best friend of mine,” Ohlsson sings on “Distance Equals Time,” guitars chiming and percussion punching the wall of lyrics built to give the songs strength, even in their vulnerability. What would Walpole say about what the world holds for those who think and feel after hearing this record?
Jul 1st, 2008 by Erin Wolf
On Assignment
Or: Getting entertained to death in Branson, MO Yakov Smirnoff – of early ‘80s “In Soviet Union, car drives YOU!” fame – is currently fighting a losing battle against a mob of bloodthirsty, dancing pirates. Overwhelmed, he swings a plastic sword wildly through the air as he’s driven ever closer to the edge of the stage. “Oh no!” he cries. “I think we’re in for an adventure!” I’m sitting in the Yakov Smirnoff Theater in Branson, Missouri. Hundreds of semi-conscious senior citizens with pants up to their necks fill the seats around me, applauding every Russian themed dance number and crusty joke about the differences between men and women (men and toilet seats: when will they ever learn?). I’m applauding along with them, and it isn’t until the show’s climax – in which Smirnoff serenades and subsequently waltzes with the Statue of Liberty – that the big question finally hits me: What the hell am I doing here? Yakov Smirnoff: He’s not dead yet The armadillo, the mayor, and the ghost Branson sits astride the shores of Lake Taneycomo in the middle of the Ozarks, 40 miles north of the Arkansas border. A self-described “Family-Friendly Las Vegas,” it’s home to a ridiculous number of theaters and attractions that cater almost exclusively to the geriatric set: Dolly Parton’s Dixie Stampede, Dick Clark’s American Bandstand Theater, The Roy Rogers-Dale Evans Museum. Andy Williams, Bobby Vinton and the surviving members of Bill Haley’s Comets are among Branson’s red-hot celebrity fixtures, along with Mel Tillis, Ann-Margaret, and yes, Yakov “What a country!” Smirnoff. In addition to these highlights, Branson also contains plenty of standard tourist-trap fare: Hollywood wax museums, haunted houses, miles and miles of biblical-themed motels. To make a useful local comparison, Branson is a lot like Wisconsin Dells, only with fewer water parks and more theaters owned by the Oak Ridge Boys. For reasons unclear, I’ve been sent to Branson to cover its annual Summertime in the Ozarks Festival. Accompanied once again by VITAL’s own Amy Elliott, my assignment is open-ended and my angle unclear: should I write about how ridiculous this place will almost surely be? Should I look for something deeper, a hidden side to Branson rarely seen or discussed? Should I just say “fuck it” and check out the Red Skelton tribute show? In the end, I manage to come up with a half-baked notion that no matter what, I should attempt to shield our adventures with the least amount of protective irony as possible; I want to be truly entertained. And in a town that counts Tony Orlando as one of its main selling points, that’s a tall order. We arrive on a Thursday morning, bleary and caffeine-shaky from a grueling 10-hour drive through the night. After grabbing a quick breakfast at the Farmhouse Café (I order a cheese omelet, which arrives – topped as promised – with two melted Kraft Singles) and checking into our rooms at the brand-new Hilton Convention Center (an elderly doorman claims some […]
Jul 1st, 2008 by Matt Wild
