Welcome to the World of Tomorrow

We got to get over before we go under in '07.

by A.D. Amorosi

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Published: Jan 3, 2007

I couldn't buy a dozen Johnny Rotten's greatest-hits imports for 80 percent off before Tower Broad Street closed. I had to watch the whitest people on television pontificate on James Brown's soul power on Christmas. Still, 2006's fucked finale wouldn't bring me down, the future's too bright. So tape this on your wall. And expect Me and CP to bring these things up in 2007. We might even use the same words.

Johnny Brenda's in Fishtown? Looks good, sounds good and most importantly bands love playing there. I know this because bands tell me this. All the time. Kudos to Brandy and the boys. Know what else? Bands tell me the places they hate playing. All the time. I won't bore you with sorry-ass details of ire-filled conversations where said-band-member has four PBRs and a SoCo Lime, then commences to howl about how hard it was to get booked, how they had to suck cock for a soundcheck and had their time moved after telling their eight friends who swore they'd be there. When these chats happen I purse my lips because, when Brenda's bloom pops off the rose, bands will talk JB down while talking up other rooms. Because bands do this now. They tell me they hate playing Fishtown. They tell me JB's is a "clique with a lock they got to pick" to get in. (Do cliques have locks? I wonder.) Bands crack me up.

I think locals and not-so-locals are going to have to "tour the city." Play four corners, so to speak, every time they want to get their point across: North (JBs, Manhattan Room, Fire), Center (Khyber, Bar Noir, Balcony), West and South. The rooms the kids love out West? Danger! Danger! House — the 47th Street homestead whose inhabitants run a righteous label (Starpower City) in a scene where commingling between bands is encouraged. There's Haunted Egg Cream at 43rd. It's more intimate than it is dangerous and as often home to film fests as band bashes. There's 50th Street's Satellite Coffeehouse, owned by Stinking Lizaveta's Alexi Papadopoulos, who books the creepiest acoustic, electronic and jazz locals. In South Philly, while Connie's Ric Rac on Ninth Street plays home to punk, acoustic softness, theater music and whatever it is Mikey Wild does, Broad Street's Circle of Hope (off Washington) likes it harder and louder. Soon, we'll discuss the Troc/Balcony offshoot, the Westmont in N.J. Cool. If you're considering Northeast Philly, don't even send a press release.

If Black Ice can release powerful spoken word hip-hop (The Death of Willie Lynch) without sounding like a Def Poetry Jam, it'll be cake with icing for Daniel "Gravy" Thomas. Expect Phil Moore Brown's baritone poet to drop CD-volumes of word jazz by April 2007. Expect them to be brutal and frenetic. But soft, too.

Jeff Zeigler's Relay dropped Type/Void and Still Point of Turning in 2006. Did you pay attention? Not enough. You worried about Spinto Band. Grow up. Shoegazing guitars and teary lyrics are your future. Not Sears commercials. Yes. I am un-fond of Spinto Band. I'm bored of semi-local Clap Your Hands Say Yeah if "Love Song No. 7" is any indication. This may change when I hear more of Some Loud Thunder before February. Know what else sounds good for 2007: hard pop like the Eastern Conference Champions debut on Interscope. Lo-fi quirk pop like Dr. Dog's next one? I love it more than I do doggone Easy Beat. If Man Man man Chris Powell's Icy Demons amazed you with wonky world pop (which world is your business to figure out), the promise of 2007's brazen Miami Ice entices. You're going to squeal when you hear Stinking Lizaveta's Scream of the Iron Iconoclast in March. And George Korein. He produced Espers sweetheart Helena Espvall's scary electro-induced Nimis & Arx. He's stationed at Ninth Street Records. He dropped a mesmerizing Memoirs of a Trilobite. More Memoirs coming soon.

Everyone likes the little labels. Fine. But on the biggish side of pushy guys with cigars coming out of their mouths, there's Playloop Records. Sike. Playloop boss Justin Paul doesn't smoke cigars. But he does have a solid-state sense of control over his electronic label's stable of artists: local dogs Nigel Richards, Josh Wink and King Britt, beyond-Philly-border types Carl Cox, Tattoo Detectives and Germany's Microstar. This is going to be big, I tell you. Big.

Love it. Hate it. Del Val hardcore is at its feverous best — at least since the days of Ruin. Maybe it's just at its most sellable, I dunno. Either way, it'll infect the country if we don't stop it. Let it fester. West Chester's slop punks CKY got signed to Roadrunner and will piss off more than just Jackass fans. Jersey's harder-still God Forbid will make you cry from all that thrashing. Philly's Scareho gather tattooed porn freaks from www.holeandaheartbeat.com daily. The emo-ites of Valencia and the Starting Line will probably be Fall Out Boys of 2008. And what is Northern Liberties, if not hardcore slowed to a fine, sharp stabbing point?

Wes Pentz has a troubled love life if ex-girlfriend M.I.A.'s MySpace page is right. But from that couple's second volume of Piracy Funds Terrorism mashes and his co-production of her sophomore CD to his Favela on Blast documentary, his upcoming Hollertronix mix CD with Low Budget, and his Mad Decent label's releases from DJ Blaqstar and Bonde Do Role, 2007 looks like Diplo's year. He's like Orson Welles during his prime. Just pray we're coming up on Diplo's Citizen Kane and not his Magnificent Ambersons.

This year is prime for multi-instrumentalist/producer Devin Greenwood and drummer Tony Catastrophe. That's because Greenwood (known to cavort with the likes of Amos Lee, Birdie Busch and John Francis) dropped his eponymous EP with an album to follow. And Catastrophe (spotted with Lauryn Hill, Steph Pockets and Jimmy Luxury) is finishing two records with sensual, scat-happy songstress Ryat, who's no side-stepping slouch, having sung for King Britt, Calvin Weston and Disco Biscuits as Kilo (the jazzier ensemble) and Ryat Catastrophe (their electro-loopy duo).

It feels good to a point. Bunnydrums and Warm Jets did it heroically and will continue on, thank God. Sic Kidz did it for the last time and that's a shame. Pure Hell is doing it in Japan and making money. But Caufields, Beru Revue (I love you still, Greg Davis) and Betty White Trash (they nearly died trying) did it and now I'm scared: No more elders. OK. The only guy unhappier than Frank Brown that his Flight of Mavis is reuniting for next week's sad Record Cellar finale is me. Kevin Karg — you're too good to re-do Rolling Hayseeds. Drop that guitar. And though I may allow a Duct Tape reunion, if Jay Medley tries Science Fiction or Alice Cohen revives The Vels, there'll be trouble.

(a_amorosi@citypaper.net)

 

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