“What day is it? Tuesday? It’s Lightning Bolt day.”
I’ve been waiting to see Lightning Bolt since “Wonderful Rainbow,” but back in those days the band’s shows were practically secret. I’d find out about a warehouse show the following day, which would be followed by comments like, “Oh man, you didn’t know? It was such a great show!”
This time they advertised the show in the Guardian and I bought my tickets online — $10 each, with fees. I arrived a little late to the show and discovered a line in front of 12 Galaxies that stretched around the block. It was not for tickets to the Lightning Bolt show, but will call. I could’ve pulled a “I’m a journalist and need to get inside right now!” especially since I was sporting a camera bag and a microphone stand, but I was afraid to be rejected and embarrassed. So I waited around a 1/2 hour to get inside.
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‘Killed my father, I wear his head like a crown!’
I’ve always appreciated the idea that punk music was created by people who couldn’t play, which inspired other people to start their own bands. It’s not necessarily true — members of the Ramones, Sex Pistols and the Clash were all in bands before they started punk bands that made them so famous — but I always liked the idea.
Little Claw is a prime example of how basic chords, noisy guitars and the absence of desire to challenge one’s talents can still produce music that sounds new and exciting. Think a combination off-kilter female vocals, mixing UT with Bikini Kill, backed by Pussy Galore’s early desire to destroy rock and roll with rock and roll.
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Stoner rock for the record-collecting elite
I feel bad for taking my wife to this show. She’s as big of a music fan as I am; when we met in Seattle, she worked at the greatest record store of all time, Fallout Records, and her record collection practically dwarfs mine in both size and coolness. Yet she’s not a “record collector” like myself. I’m stupid over records; I will rush over to Amoeba whenever my buddy Rob text messages me about the arrival of a new release. I did that last weekend with the new Unnatural Helpers album, a CD release that only the coolest of the Seattle ex-patriots in the Bay Area would know about. But I couldn’t take the risk of someone buying it out and ran to Amoeba immediately.
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