LISTED INFLUENCES:
“All the artists who lay their hearts, souls, minds and lives on the line to follow their Muse.”
UNLISTED INFLUENCES:
animal print spandex. Matchbox Twenty. abs you could carve an ice sculpture with.
MEET THE MONSTERS:
Not only does Aja have an illustrious solo career where she cavorts and wails with the likes of E-Street Band sax master Clarence Clemons, Latin Jazz legend Pete Escovedobut and Argentinean rockers Wilma Palma, Ms. Kim also fronts the “World’s Only Female Tribute To Iron Maiden,” The Iron Maidens. She’s got chops and street cred, and has logged more world tour miles than Ugly Kid Joe. Sadly, these sorts of industry successes don’t always translate into interesting, original music. It’s all flash and fury signifying elevator rock mediocrity. Kinda like Rob Thomas with slightly bigger balls. Ok, much bigger balls.
SONG ANALYSIS:
Clarence Clemons should know better. Ms. Kim’s duet with Clemons, “Get It On,” is saxophone-seasoned, pro studio-polished blues schlock, sounding like a throw-away from the “Beverly Hills Cop II” soundtrack. But something tells me his intentions are driven by something other than writing and recording interesting music, like, putting Ms. Kim on the receiving end of his man-horn. Better known for his goofy-ass sax playing than his vocal styling, Clemons wheezes and chokes through this hideous perversion of a song. He actually utters the lyric, “I wanna stick to you like white on rice.” This euphemism could be interpreted in a multitude of ways, none of which are especially pleasing to the imagination. This type of cornball posturing becomes not-so-surprising when you consider that this is a guy who’s been wearing shiny vests with no shirt underneath for about 20 years now. On second thought, maybe he doesn’t know better.
COMING TO YOUR TOWN:
Aja Kim performs with former Tower of Power guitarist Bruce Conte at The Orleans Hotel in Las Vegas, NV on October, 9 2005
BLOG ABOUT:
Aja’s blogs reveal that she’s quite nice. She seems genuinely appreciative of the support of her fans and fellow artists, humbly grateful for her talent and ability, and overall she appears to be a pleasant, grounded individual. Thanks for ruining it for me, bitch.
BRIAN JONESTOWN MASSACRE
LISTED INFLUENCES:
None. They’re wholly original and one-of-a-kind and if you don’t think so I’m going to kick you in the eye, motherfucker!
UNLISTED INFLUENCES:
each and every psychedelic guitar rock act that came out of the UK between 1964 and 1978. dangling sea shell necklaces. a homeless person’s rambling, psychotic monologue.
MEET THE MONSTERS:
San Francisco’s Haight-Ashbury district is many things: a longtime spawning ground for countless filthy hippie jam bands, a petri dish for lazy, drug-induced love-in philosophies, an open air gallery for crappy folk art that looks like kindling covered in oil-based paints. And in the case of Brian Jonestown Massacre, Haight-Ashbury is also concrete proof that a functioning circle of hell exists and operates here on planet earth. Only in such a soulless, bottomless pit of untalented hackery and stunted artistry could such a god awful band even begin to congeal and take form. And by “band” I obviously mean Anton Newcombe and whatever burn-out punishment gluttons he can convince to “play music” with him. And by “play music” I obviously mean ducking drunken punches while mastering the complexity of a power chord.
SONG ANALYSIS:
If you love single key funeral processions, fake Brit accents, and completely incompetent sitar playing that evokes the aural simulation of a root canal then, well, I probably hate you and you probably hate me. But you will surely jizz all over your stupid self for “God is my Girlfriend,” a curry-and-crumpets flavored jam that would’ve been fresh and innovative and maybe even listenable, say, forty years ago. This particular piece of sonic ear-fucking is off BJM’s new “mini-album” We Are The Radio. Mini-album? Please explain to me how a “mini-album” is not an E.P. Oh, yes. It’s more pretentious.
But if it’s groundbreaking lyrical styles you’re looking for, try “This is Why You Love Me.” Here’s a sampling: “I heard you say / He’s gone away / Well, everything’s okay / Hey!” Next to Anton Newcombe, Robert Frost is a punk-ass bitch.
COMING TO YOUR TOWN:
Brian Jonestown Massacre plays at Dante’s in Portland, OR on Sept. 8 [insert your own Inferno joke here]
BLOG ABOUT:
Actually, their blogs are relatively informative. So that’s one thing they do right. One thing.
AXE OF VENGEANCE
LISTED INFLUENCES:
(old) Aerosmith, Cannibal Corpse, (early) Genesis
UNLISTED INFLUENCES:
alienated societal disenchantment. morbid violent imagery. Cookie Monster.
MEET THE MONSTERS:
Axe of Vengeance hails from Harlingen, Texas, located in the southern-most tip of the Lone Star state. Apparently, the city is far enough from modern civilization that they have not yet received word that death metal is, well, dead. Unless you’re a penitentiary inmate, white supremacist or serial murderer, there is absolutely no reason for you to be listening to this type of outdated musical scare tactic. If you’re a young person looking to frighten the living crap out of your parents and teachers while defining your narrow-minded, cro-magnon individuality by being part of a larger group of narrow-minded, cro-magnons, everybody knows it’s much more threatening and unnerving to listen to hip hop. And you’ll probably get laid more often. Probably. Can I get a “what-what?”
Despite playing a style of music that is as contemporary and remarkable as smooth jazz, Axe of Vengeance does have one thing going for them: their enormous bass player. Regardless of how good-god-fucking-awful your band may be, if your bass player is built like a garbage scow you’ve at least got my eye’s attention, if not my ear.
SONG ANALYSIS:
Skip the uploaded song on their player and scroll down to the video for “Divine Mercy,” taped live at the questionably titled Club Rendezvous. A more appropriate moniker might be: Club Unwashed-Beer-Mug-Full-Of-Hepatitis. The video is a fury of frizzy hair and shaky cam. Three or four Mexicans engage in an ancient Incan slam dancing ritual. Drop D power chords chug. Drums clatter. Vocals churn at earthquake-like registers. And Jabba the Bassist works the neck of his guitar like it was the last Subway sandwich in the galaxy.
COMING TO YOUR TOWN:
…to spend their landscaping paychecks on Budweiser.
BLOG ABOUT:
N/A
the FLIR
LISTED INFLUENCES:
Cocteau Twins, New Order, the Cure
UNLISTED INFLUENCES:
Ann Rice novels. opiates spiked with tryptophan and soaked in nighttime cough syrup. paint drying.
MEET THE MONSTERS:
Before you label them as yellow-bellied pussies, take note that the FLIR is not, I repeat, “not afraid to blend electronic, experimental, alternative, and rock elements into unique songs.” They are, however, afraid of live drummers. The FLIR’s line-up consists of two guitarists, a dude playing “keyboards” (i.e. a laptop and one-finger/one-note synth swells) and the quintessential hot chick singer in a mini skirt and knee-high boots. At some point in its development, the FLIR must’ve sat down and said, “Ya know, a live drummer is only going to make the music more enjoyable and rhythmic, more interesting and engaging for the listener. How are we going to lull audiences into a near-vegetative state with a real live drummer keeping time?” Hence, we are left with melodies that are as interesting and memorable as a momentary gust of wind and electro-percussion that sounds like staccato R2D2 farts.
SONG ANALYSIS:
“Fanger” is an insipid, directionless exercise in inept meandering. It attempts to build into a …into a… Man, I can barely keep my eyelids from… Wha, huh? So spleepy. I’m so sleep… So. Sleepy…zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
COMING TO YOUR TOWN:
…to euthanize the terminally ill.
BLOG ABOUT:
This user's profile has been temporarily disabled for special maintenance. The profile will be available again shortly. Sorry for the inconvenience.
Let’s hope this “special maintenance” involves a cup of black coffee.
LUX
LISTED INFLUENCES:
Evanescence, Goo Goo Dolls, Jars of Clay
UNLISTED INFLUENCES:
PowerBars. fantasizing that their groupies are actually dudes. No Fear tank tops.
MEET THE MONSTERS:
First I must extend miles and miles of thanks to Joseph from Glendale, CA for introducing me to this band. To return the favor I mailed him a dozen breakable glass vials filled with a highly concentrated, extremely rare and deadly strain of Chlamydia. Thanks, Joseph.
According to their 3,000 word “abridged” biography, LUX was formed “all the way back [in] the early winter of 2000.” This is one of my favorite myspace band bio tendencies: trying to give your lame, ass-awful band a sense of longevity and accomplishment by making relatively recent events sound as though they occurred eons and ages ago. How about something like this, dickos: All the way back in the early winter of 2000, during the turn of the century, Lux formed, invented music, built instruments out of tree bark and rocks, and began playing songs for pterodactyls, cavemen and the mummies of Egypt. Then they oiled each other up and created the art of high intensity bodybuilding. Which brings me to my next point…
These fuckers are huge. Huh-you-juh. Any one of them makes Glen Danzig look like Michael Stipe’s gayer, thinner cousin. They’re meticulously chiseled and groomed to a degree that no average heterosexual male would have the time, desire or energy for. More horse than human, the LUX boys add to their beastly visage by donning some pretty sinister expressions. Looking at any of their group photos gives you the feeling that you’re a mere four seconds away from being violently gang raped by a rogue Chippendale’s troupe. The only one with half some sense appears to be the drummer, TJ Stiles (alias: Black Star), who covers the lower portion of his face with a bandito bandana. TJ’s either shamefully cognizant of how utterly ridiculous five shirtless, greased up, muscular dudes must look when they’re all huddled around one another on a beach or he was the unfortunate victim of a horrible grease fire that left him grotesquely scarred from nostrils to chin. But if you could see his chin I’d bet dollars to Ding Dongs that it would be preciously dimpled.
SONG ANALYSIS:
For a band that lists over 250 bands as influences, from Yngwie Malmsteen to 50 Cent, they’re not terribly innovative. I guess when you distill every form of popular music ever created, you get Emo. Who knew? The intro to “Believe” spends half a minute swelling into the biggest rawk explosion I’ve heard this side of the Bullet Boys. You want gang vocals? Fuck you! Lux takes this tired formula and injects a gazillion CCs of ham, cheese and Levitra into it, using simulated, synchronized arena audience gang vocals to accompany every other lyric in the song. It makes you feel like you’re in the midst of a capacity crowd at Nassau Coliseum, cigarette lighter held high, chanting, “I’m a cowboy / On a steel horse I ride!” It’s a sensation that also bears more than just a strikingly eerie resemblance to being amongst thousands of brainwashed Hitler Youth, extending a stiff arm skyward and chanting “Zieg hiel!!!” The lyrics have equally hellish undertones: “Open up your eyes and realize.” Yeah, realize that weightlifting androids have learned how to play musical instruments and record albums and no one seems to mind very much. Especially the geniuses at Sony, who’ve apparently signed these dog-felchers to one of their imprint labels.
COMING TO YOUR TOWN:
…to spot you.
BLOG ABOUT:
“Thank you to everyone for the constant support and interest in us. We love you all.”
...for a better blogging experience, check out LUX's bare-chested brothers on Cherry's Shirtless Dipshit Of The Day blog.
