Scene Of The Rhyme – January 31st, 2002
by Bing Futch
[[13102kbm]] This is Orlando. This is the Scene. If you let different people cast their opinions of what a Scene is or isn’t, you’d find that, more or less, Orlando has one whether most folks like it or not. All unfair comparisons aside, there are new venues opening up all the time. Never mind that they stay open for a brief run before closing, changing ownership, remodeling and re-opening as something twice as hard-to-manage. There are also so many bands concentrated in O-Town proper that if you drove a Hummer into the crowd along Orange Avenue downtown at any given time on a Friday night, chances are swell to excellent that you’d hit a musician.
One of the true signs of any Scene development is when the ex-patriates begin to show up with instruments on their backs and plans of the mighty; we’ll show those locals how it’s done! It’s usually after a period of time dealing with Mickey Mouse politics and the inexplicable stagnation of their talent that these transient wanna-be’s end up hoofing it back home, across the pond or continuing to someplace else where their dreams seem more likely to come true. That leaves the stalwart kind in place, locals or transplants, sucked in by the gravity of The Weirdest Show In The Southeast.
[[013102michele]] Two stand-out performers that have made it a point to weird-out more than a few audiences in this fair city are pictured posing grinningly with me above. On the right is Michele Lane, sexy hippie-siren who’s seen her share of both bad luck and good fortune, but mostly the bad luck. Suffering from mental demons and blessed with a passionate if not ever-changing vision of artistic reserve, this shy, freaky child of another time has gone through a flurry of identities in search of one that fits her like the skin-tight pants she favors. .50 Caliber Sex Bomb, Nobody You Know, Michele X – they’ve all been monikers for her particular blend of music which is part folk, part confessional pop and a whole lot of on-stage drama. Watching her perform is like watching a slow-motion ballet of possession by malevolent spirits. She coos and soars with a voice gilded with honey, breathy and flighty as a bedroom whisper, long fingers coaxing jazzy chords out of her guitar and then, all at once, she’s smacking the strings percussively, voice arcing and screaming in painful throes of release, body twirling about on-stage and backing off of the microphone lest the sound system explode from the force of her cry. And the exorcism ebbs, she floats back down to the stage, brushing her fingernails across the strings as if they were delicate spiderwebs. There’s a lot going on inside the girl and though she is routinely apologetic regarding her performance, many stand transfixed, captured by her seemingly unaware reverie. She is unimitable and she has both her fans and detractors. One thing is for certain: she is bound to be a star if she doesn’t self-destruct. She and boyfriend Chuck Culbertson are currently putting together a band called The Fabulous Disasters, a moniker that one hopes is not prophetic.
[[013102kristina]] If Michele Lane is a dynamic and spiritual study in emotional resonance, then the other girl in the picture, Kristina Boswell, is a disarming caricature of surreal, stream of consciousness verve. With her quirky girl-next-door looks and wacky voice variations, Boswell could very well be the illegitimate love-child of Laurie Anderson and Andy Kaufman. Her old band, Happy Ending Happening, produced light, alternative rock buoyed by kitsch and Boswell’s energetic and unpredictable presence. Alternately sexy and psychotic, this disarming dame is a dangerous solo performer, fixing her level, unblinking gaze at the audience while singing lines like “skipping down the street thinking about suicide and how good it is to be alive” and producing an always-interesting mixture of notes and rhythms on her guitar. Her voice can be orgasm-tinged in one song; shrill and off-putting in the next as she rocks back and forth and fills the air with lyrics that seem sewn together in a spirit of existentialism. Her melodies are sometimes highly complex affairs, perfectly suited to some of the deep subject matter graced with each flick of the wrist, each intake of breath. She too, seemingly a girl with much inner turmoil with only the art as a purging mechanism. These are the most interesting of artists – the ones that live so outside the box that they must be approached on their own terms. That’s power.
Word has it that these two have actually recorded material together. Now that would be a kick in the head. A new feature in this column will be (once we can get it working properly) the ability to listen to some of the artists profiled here. We’ll have some music from these two very talented and prolific women very soon. But first, some reviews for y’all:
RED SHIFT MANTRA
Deep Field Image
Manteis Recordings
(Five out of five stars)
Listening to “Deep Field Image” is like living some kind of lucid dream. It’s a rich tapestry of sounds, both organic and non, layered and arranged in such a way that you’d have to be horribly distracted not to fully fall into its aural pleasures. There are two highly stimulating instruments that dance freely within the eight tracks, one of which is the flute as interpreted by Bethany Pritchett. Her melody lines are wonderfully ethereal and call to mind the flute work on Peter Gabriel’s “Passion”. The other instrument is violin as played lovingly by Kim Rivera-Crochet. Whether providing disturbing trills, as in the opening track “Obsidian”, or lending soaring support to the melodies, her work anchors the mostly digital tunes. Pianist Vanessa Howell adds sophistication and gentle glimmers of tone, her tasteful notes in “Rain” are appropriate drops of sweet refreshment. She and Pritchett are also responsible for the album’s uplifting and haunting vocals, their expressive voices weave sonic beauty around the grooves, singular and soothing alone, transfixing and nirvana-inspiring when combined, harmonies intertwining and floating as if called to the sky. Reminescent of the early work by Kate Bush, there’s a distinctly ethnic soulfulness involved here. “Kobayashi Maru” is one of the discs joyful discoveries, an ever-upward bound mixture of dance beats and cascading waterfalls of sparkling synths, sweetly keening strings and Enya-esque vocalizations. Rhett Johnson commands the digital side of things, cooking up soft, urging rhythms and spicing up the orchestrations with space-agey burbles and shiny dynamics. From the vocoder-spiked opening of “Nalu” to the wide-open wonder of “Cloudnoise”, the tunes trek along in the same basic vein; always mystical, suggesting deep vision. C.K. Young takes an understated approach to the bass on the album while Johnson’s percussion nicely fills in the score when the programmed drums fade out of the mix. Talking drums provided by Riad Abdul Salam set the spacious pace for “Calm Between”, a track that moves like the breath of life, daring to pare itself down to just lilting piano and flute at the tune’s close, yet it loses no momentum. This is a piece that could easily find its way into a motion picture soundtrack. In fact, the whole CD is a thematic time-trip, one that should be taken with lights off, candles lit and mind wide-open. The perfect cure for road rage. www.redshiftmantra.com
RICHARD NEGRI
Pen To Paper & Other Blues
Light Moose Productions
(Five out of five stars)
The art of spoken-word in central Florida seems to have been relegated to the smoky backrooms and coffee-houses sprinkled throughout the scene – rarely making an appearance on record. If “Pen To Paper & Other Blues” is any indication, the recorded riffs and rants of poets and prophets might be making a very hip comeback, if they ever left at all. Featuring firmly-realized music by Chad Palmer, this CD is an urban treat; an unblinking stare into the heart of America put to the soundtrack of its people. Richard Negri has a poet’s voice, both on paper and on the mic. His prose is gritty and beautiful all at once, his throat an expressive instrument of sympathy, empathy and insight. Words strung together in a rhythmic shift of emotions and cadence, it’s a pleasant listen, if not a sometimes harrowing portrait of this countries lost and forgotten subjects. Negri puts forth his inspiration in “Pen To Paper” by stating “they told me to put pen to paper, so I rewrote psalms and reality/I scribbled notes to slave owners, sellers and cc’d none other than me.” His anger over racial and sexual bigotry surfaces in “21” as he mourns the loss of young men like Matthew Sheppard and James Byrd, victims of hate crimes. The sad story of a 13-year old black girl found dead by the side of the road turns “Rotten Fruit” into a sobering and indignant rant told by the girl herself as she screams “if they can remember my tears, if they can remember my black skin crying on their killing hands, I didn’t do this” as Palmer’s chaotic chimes and airy keyboards drone on in the background; a digital dirge. A slow, ghostly beat accompanies the drug-addled desperation of “Afraid” while a somber trumpet and dissonant string pads underscore the hopeless “Prayer” where “the child plays on glass again, in a midnight haze where addiction fights serenity with needles and thread.” Heavy stuff to be sure, but all is not end-of-the-road blues – in fact, one of the CD’s most empowering pieces is a jaunty trip through Negri’s blues record collection called “Blue”.
As a fat stand-up bass thrums through a snare-poppin’ groove, Negri finds himself extolling the virtues of Billie Holiday, Howlin’ Wolf, Louie Armstrong, Chuck Chinaski, Lightin’ Hopkins, Count Basie and “Gil Scott Heron now, he sang the blues saying, ‘home, home is where your hatred is.’” In the 60’s, the beat poet didn’t just stand on-stage and elucidate while he hallucinated. There was a palpable sense of connection with the dirty underbelly of the country and Richard Negri has captured that reality with a twist of spiritual celebration; a validation for his subjects. Rejoice in this new work, for it plants the seeds that will hopefully bring more compelling fruit from the roads and from the cities. richardnegri@aol.com
[[wrongCD]] WRONG
Bring It On
(Four out of five stars)
If WJRR 101.1 was still totally alive and kicking, they’d find space in their rotation for this wild and woolly album. Unfortunately, the “Rock Station” recently succumbed to an automation credo, fired most of its jocks and embraced so-called “alternative music.” Too bad, because WRONG embodies all the best of modern rock including ear-piercing guitar solos, bombastic drums, much sass and boasting, psychotic chord changes and a healthy dose of sex and drugs. Anyone who’s seen the band live knows that they don’t give a fuck and they’ve happily captured that spirit on “Bring It On.” Lead tonsil-twister Brian dishes out rock ‘n’ roll dynamics with aplomb, half-singing and chanting in a sneerful tenor before opening the throttle and pushing the envelope with a shriek that makes one fear for his vocal cords. The band calls to mind bits of Guns ‘N’ Roses with its neo-60’s, acid-fried guitar lickage and post-modern grooves fueled by insane drummer K.J. His rolling fills and tight change-ups elevate the tunes while a dual attack by axe-mongers Chad and Mark keep balance between the atmospheric and the apocalyptic. If the music’s the high-point, then the lyrics are an Achille’s heel with their simply-stated rave-ups about bean-takers (“Pill Popper”), blow-jobs (“Chic ‘N’ Head”) and come-hither sexual advances (“Phat Girl”). That is, when you can hear what’s being said/screamed, since the vocals are mixed fairly low. On the stand-out “Wake Up Call”, a low groove tended by bassist Dom allows you to hear Brian as he sings “don’t you point, don’t you stare/if you’re messin’ with me then you better beware/this is your last chance/such a flirt/get up and dance/and lift up your skirt.” Not exactly poetry, but with this album, the music’s the thing.
The group excels at nifty sonic imagery, as in the tripped-out opening to “Rat”, which uses keyboards and drums to create a nervous, neurotic pulse. There’s also a very funny, not-very-PC track called “Inconvenient Store” which is comprised of a light rock groove and the band’s hassling of an Apu-like clerk as they ask for everything from pork rinds to “K-Y Jelly Donuts” to his protestations of “get the fuck out of my store!” Produced at Reel Time Recording Studios, the album sounds solid, if not for the occasionally hollow mix and the previously mentioned low-vox problem. Other than that, this is a rip-roarin’ and unapologetic representation of a band on the fuckin’ loose. www.wronginc.com
We be jammin’
I’m journeying to Longwood tonight to enjoy a bit of a jam, hopefully not involving traffic. There have been quite a few invitations to congregate with others and try out some new musical vibes, something that I’ve never been too hip on because improvisation is not one of my strong points. But in recent weeks, I have braved the circumstance and fallen in beside players on-stage, without a net, so to speak. Tonight’s jam is actually the second tier of experience as I’ve sort of played alongside these cats before. Will this be a simple “drink beer and let loose” kind of jive or will yet another new project come creeping over the horizon and into an already crowded city? I can guarantee you, lovely readers, that you’ll be the first to know. Until next time, be well, be wise and be wary….
“bfsig”</a>
