The Dirtbombs

Ko Melina, bassist/guitarist for The Dirtbombs, is one of the few real rock goddess walking the planet right now. A quiet, serious looking Vietnamese chick with average looks, onstage she becomes larger-than-life, a monster, a sexpot of the first degree. She plays a standard Fender Mustang like a bass guitar most of the time, adding sweet, hypnotic guitar rhythms when the song calls for it. She sings, she dances, she poses, she runs the band. She is the perfect woman. She is a goddess without whom the world would be a dull, gray place indeed.

When I was able to tear my eyes away from Ko, I was able to realize that yes, I was in Jake’s, in the heart of Bloomington at an explosive set by Detroit’s finest, The Dirtbombs. And much as I was smitten with Ko, she was just a part of a fiery rock combo. On the left side of the stage was a hulking curly-headed Bonham-like hammer-of-Thor drummer trying his best to beat the fuck out of the drumkit. On the right, a powerfully Moonish curly-headed, seven-arms-of-Shiva drummer doing his best to shake every ass in the place. I barely noticed the other bass player. He must have been good, but he wasn’t no Ko.

Soul Brother #1 Mick Collins held it all together in the middle. He is a little bit Hendrix, a bit Otis Redding, and some Stevie Wonder with hints of Sly Stone. And I’m just talking about his voice. His distinctive lo-fi guitar freak-out show is highly entertaining and a little alarming at the same time. He even managed to take the INXS track “Need You Tonight” and turn it into a sweaty Detroit rock anthem.

The climax came at the end of the third encore, a bottom-heavy funk rave-up dedicated to the Indiana state trooper who had pulled them over earlier in the day. The curly-headed hammer-of-Thor drummer had his floor tom on his head and Ko was beating on it full-force. He came out of it in a raging psychotic freak-out, flailing away before tackling a nearby photographer, dry-humping him and running off the stage. Meanwhile, Ko and that other bass player dude switched up instruments and Ko slapped out some crazy funk, before raising her arm in a triumphant rock goddess pose.

If only all rock shows could be this good.

–Jeff Napier

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Stephen Malkmus and The Jicks

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They Might Be Giants

I think music is fun again! The house was packed from the crowd in heavy coats with drinks and enthusiasm aplenty. The eclectic crowd that piled into the Bluebird to see They Might Be Giants was animated, excited and enthusiastic. TMBG t-shirt-clad fans milled about, seeking out the other die-hards in the mix. The anticipation was definitely palpable, but this is the type of reaction that the band solicits everywhere they go. Rightly so, considering the outstanding show they put on!

Oppenheimer opened, and such a large sound from just two people is impressive. It’s obvious that Shaun and Rocky love what they do and enjoy and appreciate their fans. “My Son, The Astronaut” started their seta, and that first big blast of sound was enough to energize the crowd and get heads bopping and bodies jumping. Right after the intro, technical difficulties allowed Shaun time to tell the crowd a incredibly funny story about a friend who stole an inflatable life vest from an airplane and proceeded to play a practical joke on about 250 onlookers at the baggage claim. Kudos to Oppenheimer for fostering performer-fan intimacy by engaging the crowd like that.

There was, of course, the obligatory airhorn solo . . . a great way to elicit a response from the audience. They kept the flow of the show moving with a tune called “Major Television Events” from their forthcoming album and a great version of “Breakfast in New York City.” As the set played on, people commented on how fresh and upbeat the sound was. I have to agree. Oppenheimer puts on a great live show.

But then, so do They Might Be Giants! The floor was so full and it was incredibly hot. Bright white lights announced the arrival on stage of TMBG and everyone cheered with abandon. The lead song was “Hey, Mr. DJ, I Thought You Said We Had A Deal,” which they’ve never played live before. People were practically moshing at the front of the stage. As John Flansberg said “I think this will be our greatest performance ever,” it certainly seemed as if it were going to be true after just the first song.The show continued with a happy, almost giddy feeling from the band, especially leading into “The Mesopotamians.” It was inspirational enough to the crowd to keep us all bouncing. Feeding from our elation, the Johns had a quick wit that emerged throughout the show. References to chicken fights? A crowd of significantly varying heights from the vantage of the stage? Yes, indeed, this TMBG show had it all!

The concert even brought in a polka-esque element with “Cyclops Rock” and “Dr. Worm,” which was surrounded by the brilliant lights of the disco ball. TMBG lived up to the expectation of providing the unexpected. Unfortunately, there were no confetti cannons this night.I didn’t quite feel the energy build during “Withered Hope,” but it didn’t diminish. “Older” opened the floodgates again and the crowd pulsated as one. By the time the apropos-for-our-weather song “New York City” was rousing the crowd, John F. asked, “Is it hot in here or just stiflingly warm?” He later offered his thanks to the person who opened the door to cool us down and “Let in the 18-year olds!” Dedicating “Alphabet of Nations” to the fake ID crowd, the guys danced around the stage and infused the music with a grown-up silliness that is ever so appealing. “Puppethead” and “I’m Impressed” were played with gusto. “Istanbul (Not Constantinople)” was impressively launched from the amazing and classically-Moorish guitar solo of Dan Miller.

It was a great segue into the classics that make a true TMBG fan tingle, notably “Birdhouse In Your Soul.” This song led the concert train up the roller coaster rails of the climax of the night. The train went over the crest and down the heart-pounding hill with “Particle Man,” the kick-off tune to the first encore. The rockin’ drumming of Frank Vilardi and sonorous bass tones of Danny Weinkauf followed in its wake.

By the end of the second encore and after raising the figurative freak flag during “How Can I Sing Like A Girl,” I don’t think I could have been more pleased with the show. The sound was surprisingly good for the Bluebird, the band was in a ready-to-play mood and the crowd just glad to be there and enjoy the music. Great show, great tunes and a great atmosphere.

–Susan Meagher

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EXCLUSIVE PHOTOS: Silverchair @ The Music Mill 12/11

Photographs by Nicole Green

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Review by Mike Schull

Do you remember back in 1989 when Ian Astbury was a gothic cowboy witch? My first exposure to The Cult, as far as I can recall, was the “Fire Woman” video which was all over MTV that year. The band rocked balls, the dude playing drums started playing with G’n'R shortly thereafter, and hard rock was still healthy and chart-worthy.

Fast forward to Friday, the 16th of this month, at the Murat’s Egyptian Room. The Cult was in town on the Jagermeister Music Tour, notable if only for the hypocrisy of the headliner’s comments on stage throughout the night. After walking in most of the way through the opening opener (I believe it may have been “The Cliks,” but cannot guarantee this as fact), a band described to my friend Sam as “the new Depeche Mode” played. Dubbed “Action Action,” this band contained nearly every component guaranteed to make your friendly reviewer hate a band - emotastic vocals, three keyboards (situated in front of the three dudes playing guitars and a bass), a silly name, and songs that misinformed, 17-year-old white kids with bad haircuts and acne might describe as “danceable.” That’s all I’m gonna say about Action Action, other than “they played” and “thankfully the set was short.”

So anyway, the inner 10-year-old Mike was so stoked to finally see The Cult. In recent years I’ve dug out “Love,” “Electric,” and “Sonic Temple” and realized they were actually quite good albums in that Zep-meets-AC/DC way. Given the opportunity to see them for free, it couldn’t have gotten better.Well, lemme tell ya . . . it coulda been better. Way, way better. Pretension oozed like the feces in the “two girls, one cup” video. Vocal melodies for the biggest hits were reinvented - was it to make me feel like a jerk for singing along? Or to feel duped for still believing in hard rock?

“Has anyone here read Herman Hesse…Siddhartha? … Does anyone here still read books?” These are a couple of sentences a good frontman resists the urge to say, no matter how much he and his band wish they were somewhere else, like, say, back in the year 1989 in a pool in California, stocked with groupies and hi-fi system with some Doors albums. In fact, Mr. Astbury (whose fashion now looks more like “gas station attendant with fox pelt in pocket”), some members of the audience not only read books, they are librarians. Dick.

Even as he noted they had a “new album we really believe in,” they phoned in a few tracks and plowed through the classics. I was excited by the fact they played “Wild Flower” and “Electric Ocean,” and would have loved for Ian to at least pretend he cared about the songs and the fans that showed up to see them play. Sure, the Egyptian Room was about 25% full, and sure, the buxom young girls of the ’80s may now be slightly older and less, uh, buxom? But in the words of the MC5 heckling Cream, “Kick out the jams or get the fuck off the stage!”

The most puzzling part of the evening was the interlude between the set ending and the encore, where a montage of photos culled from various revolutions of the past flashed on a screen as a Cult song played in the background. So, like, The Cult was playing even when they weren’t playing. And Astbury’s whole spiel of, “Put down the remote, turn off the TV, pick up a book and start a revolution,” was supposed to seem poignant instead of trite and insulting? I dunno, man. It truly ended for me when dude took all the more liberties with his pacing of the melody in closer “Love Removal Machine.” Yes, Billy Duffy and his big Gretsch White Falcon still rule, but I’m afraid the revolution spearheaded by Jagermeister’s corporate bank roll and Ian Astbury’s snide pretensions is in no danger of being televised, broadcast, podcast, or otherwise Internetted. Hard rock isn’t dead - there are still some good bands soldiering on and carrying the flag - but The Cult should stop phoning it in and hang it up instead.

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EXCLUSIVE REVIEW: Ween

Story by Brian McKenna -

October 16 @ Bluebird (Bloomington)

The last time Ween was scheduled to play in Indiana was in 2004 at The Bluebird in Bloomington. Personal issues along with a drug and alcohol rehab stint for Papa Gene Ween caused the 2004 Bluebird show to be cancelled. The Bloomington show was not the only date cancelled in 2004. With the exception of a handful of festival shows, the entire tour to support Ween’s 2003 Sanctuary release Quebec was scrapped. For a band that built their once underground cult following quite literally one fan at a time, it comes as no surprise they would honor the makeup club show instead of opting for a bigger theater show.

What is a bit of a surprise is that the band originating from New Hope, PA decided to open their 27 date (and growing) North American Tour with a small club date in good ol’ Bloomington, IN. The band hit the stage promptly at 9:00 pm and the fans went crazy. Waves, bows and smiles of gratitude and appreciation from the humble bandmates fell on and warmed the crowd like sunshine on the beaches of Rio. From the first notes of the campy mariachi lounge tinged instrumental opener “Fiesta,” it was obvious this would not be a Ween show from the 90’s that consisted of mistakes, silliness, thin sound and lots of talk about poop and drugs. Instead, the band (consisting of drummer Claude Coleman, Glen McClelland on keyboards, bassist Dave Dreiwitz, and Gene and Dean Ween) sounded well rehearsed in all facets of the band’s 20+ year discography and were welcoming everyone to their party.

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EXCLUSIVE REVIEW: Helmet 

Story by Tommy Miller - Photos by Tommy Miller -

Aug. 30th @ The Vogue

Sometimes you go into a show with little or no expectations. And then are times that you are completely obsessed with a show, playing little scenarios over in your head about what songs the band might play, and how the reaction of the crowd will be to your favorite group. For me, I was in the latter frame of mind. I’ve been a fan of Helmet since 1993 when my best friend introduced me to them. Since that time, I’ve been something of a super fan, collecting all of the Helmet bootlegs, singles, soundtracks that they appear on, and any solo record that Page Hamilton has contributed to. With all of that said, I headed out to the Vogue with my aforementioned best friend on Thursday night, looking forward to having a great time while absorbing some fantastic music. 

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Tags: Helmet, Vogue
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