Austin Sound

This year’s second annual Psych Fest put on by the Black Angels expanded to three full days, which needless to say is more droning and distortion than just about anyone can take. We pushed ourselves to limit and took in as much as we could at the not-really-opened for business Radio Room. Friday’s opening night offered an appropriate dose, with Low Heaven delivering a moody and melodic tone that was just as likely to crash into a wall of sound. It bookended well with the Black Angels closing set, which was one of the best and most energetic sets they’ve served up, with new material that promises to jump beyond Directions to See a Ghost. Most interesting for Friday night’s lineup was the Golden Dawn performing Power Plant in its entirety. While George Kinney and company couldn’t be accused of delivering the best performance of the weekend, they did remind that psychedelia is supposed to be fun, and Kinney’s dancing and crooning was a blast. For the rest of the weekend, we sent Evan St. John into the madness to cover the afternoons, and pics from the evening shows.

Friday Pics
(Click images to view full size pictures)

Tunnels
Arriving at Radio Room at a modest 3 pm, I grabbed myself a quality five-dollar Bud Light and hunkered down among the gravel outside the open-but-not-open venue (remodeling will keep the venue from showing its true colors for at least a while) and decided to take in the sights and sounds. I first caught Austin locals Tunnels. Both trippy and vintage, their sound was a good way to jump into the day. Slow, down-tempo tunes provide the soundtrack to an abandoned desert town; reverbed, desert-dry guitar and airy synth organ hang in humid air. Their final song, with guitar backed by sustained key chords and droning second guitar supporting it, sounded sitar-like, while sparse rock drumwork tapped an even beat in the background. The slow pace wound up to a hard strumming climax, ending in something that came dangerously close to breaking up. To be honest, maybe it did. Luckily, the band’s lonely beauty allows a few lapses in meter and time—the edges can get uneven without too much ill effect.

Astronaut Suit
Scene: A tall figure, pearl snapped and boot-set, slinks past, dragging his feet. He looks dazed, but satisfied. “The closer you stand, the better it feels,” he declares, his cohort sharing a knowing nod. Enter Austin’s Astronaut Suit. Bringing a modern space-rock feel to the paisley and flannel psychedelia that preceded it, Astronaut Suit definitely electrifies the air. They do a solid job of evoking the few good tracks of Cave-In’s Antenna while sloughing off the rest. Booming drums break through clamorous and humming guitars, with both vocals and strings drowning under an echoic film. “Godzilla Blues,” with its ever-so-slightly funky bassline, got me to the front of the crowd, while “I Ain’t Yer Man Little Girl”, with its driving slow cymbal blasts and rolling tom hits, did its damndest to blast me back. If you want to feel enveloped in sound, look these guys up.

The Shine Brothers
Retro-blues rock aficionados The Shine Brothers were next in line. Easy to tap a foot to, the Brothers brought enough energy to get the crowd congregated and pull them away from the back of the tent. Vocals sounding like combination of a more-comprehensible Dylan with a (sorry to say) less-talented Jim Morrison accompany a lo-fi blues tone while vintage keyboard fills in the sonic range. Vocal harmonies, though far from beautiful or refined, come from all sides. Drums, keys, bass, all lend a voice to get things pumping. These guys seem to have learned that a few spasmodic flailings during a harsh bluesy solo keep one involved and up close.

Despite their largely energetic stage presence, this band has the loneliest looking tambourine player in history. Apparently tambourine players were the first to be helped out in the economic bailout, because every band at the Fest seems to have a minimum of one of these guys, but seriously—if you’re going to be up there with a small, portable instrument that doesn’t require being plugged in, I better see some motion, not sullen contemplation. If anyone witnesses this poor soul around town, give the guy a hug and unbutton a few snaps on his military jacket so he can let some air out.

Promises to mend broken hearts aside, the Shine Brothers continued their path through start/stop 4 chord psych-blues in good form. Requisite time-distortions and slowdowns in “White Tears” and “Yellow Elevator Pt II” led way to a final song that channeled the Beatles’ “Tomorrow Never Knows” in true psych fashion. Plus two points for trippiest song of the day thus far.

Shapes Have Fangs
These guys hit me strangely - I know they have a growing following around town, but while they have some high points, I also have a few gripes. For sure, they bring to the table the best coordinated vocal harmonies yet—seriously, this stuff sounds studio quality—but I can’t help thinking that every other band member has a voice on par or better than the lead vocalist. This may be an honest criticism or just be a complement to the rest of the band – my mental jury has yet to reconvene. Combining the Rolling Stones and Exploding Hearts, with treble pumped on all fronts, Shapes Have Fangs were a lot of fun during their shining moments. The bassist was impressive, his confidence and exploration of the fretboard could be heart throughout the venue, with fills bulking up the otherwise predictable and thin blues structures found in most of their songs. It may have been this predictability that kept them down, but what they do, however predictably, they do quite well.

Daughters of the Sun
It is a proven fact: as the hair gets longer and the beards fuller, shit gets more experimental. With Daughters of the Sun, multiple drummers, one maraca-laden, led the crowd on a rhythm driven noise escapade. Despite their mediocre name, DOTS are an impressive group. Oscillators and other noise-making boxes worked their spastic noise magic while nonsense was yelled into hyper effect-laden microphone, making the members sound twelve miles away, under water, and on fire. These guys broke from the retro-theme and brought the weird, hard. Animal Collective-like songs built up with a bashing of hand drums and guitars before retreating to a safe distance to allow the audience to recover after each bout of mindfuckery. There’s a reason to let everybody get a little drunk before these guys come on stage. As the ebb and flow of noise swells and devolves one can’t but feel warmed, which was welcome on the cold, overcast day. At its strangest, Eastern mantras are accompanied by high register guitar pings and untimed tambourine hits before once again regaining a distinguishable musical skeleton and continuing to the next song. Imagine a hippy drum circle without the obligatory disdain shown by every passerby then escalate and amplify it. Last song “Rings” was the most epic thing heard all day, preferring something personal and innovative, rather than predictable and dancy. If people were dancing here, it was for themselves, not for the band or the cute girl on the other side of the room. These guys are modern psychedelic.

Saturday Pics

Sliding back down Sixth for day three of Psych Fest, I couldn’t help notice a change. Having forgotten what it looked like, it took a while for me to recall what it was called: sunlight. The heavens, having gotten bored of teasing us with forty degree drops followed by overcast heatblasts, decided to act up and fly right. Sunday was, for all intents and purposes, a beautiful day. I found my place under the tent and waited amongst the tens of people around me. The Fest is off to a slow start as two days worth of collective hangover must be setting in, but everyone who actually made it here is more than ready for another day of solid retro-rock. Silence descends as the crowd prepares itself for…

C. Bland and the Revelators
Nevermind. The crowd couldn’t possibly prepare themselves for this. Black Angels lead guitarist Christian Bland and the Revelators began their set with a slow, droning drum beat and a not-entirely unsatisfying 12-string guitar riff that carried a limited amount of fullness and edge. Drummer Colin Ryan slammed down some 1-3 kickdrum and slow rock beats while Bland continued his riff ad nauseum, with the only vocals being a single, unwarranted squawk into the mic about 2 minutes in. The crowd slowly realizes it is seeing an on-stage recreation of 2 guys noodling in their living room, complete with awkward instrument changes and redundant jam style drum beats.

After unplugging his instrument in the middle of the second song, Bland began playing with an oscillator on the floor; Ryan became visibly worried as the waveform matched not-at-all with his own playing, and struggled to try and find a correct pace while trying to remain visibly unfazed. The rest, I will log chronologically, for the sake of impact and brevity:

3:34: Bland switches to a strange instrument that appeared to be a keyboard powered by an accordion style squeezebag. Plus two points for obscure instrumentation, minus three for the resulting song in which it was put to use.

3:36: Switches back to 12-string guitar, having to plug it in after having unplugged it for no discernable reason.

3:37: Fumbles around, then asks the crowd through the mic if anyone has a pick.

3:40: Kicks into a track with a tribal drum beat and gritty low-frequency blues guitar. These kids are back on track. Oh wait…

3:42: “Does anyone have a slide? Bear with me while I tune to open G.” Oh lord.

(I was impressed to learn that Austin has the type of crowd where people, do, in fact, just carry around slides).

None of the songs really seemed fully developed and even with some thick tone lent by his delayed 12-string, the two men didn’t fill out the stage. Vocals were Doors-esque but sparse and mostly unnecessary. A third of the crowd walked away at each two minute intermission, and there were many. Between the intense blues faces the vocalist was making and the on-stage realization of every pretentious-yet-incompetent musician stereotype ever, I slowly began to hyperventilate. No amount of $5 beer could make me like this band, nor save me from liking my life just a little bit less. I did mention that C. Bland and the Revelators were only two people, didn’t I?

Miranda Lee Richards
“Alright, this first one’s called, “Savor Your Smile”’ says Richards in a slight but endearing country accent while standing timidly on stage; the crowd gathers at the back of the tent and listens to the simple, pleasant singer-songwriter fare with some interest, but keeps its distance. “I would say don’t be shy, but I’m feeling kinda shy, so that won’t work”. She seems slightly out of place and knows it. The contrast between this set and the rest is palpable: while everyone else is going to lengths to conceal their music under 12 blankets of effects, it’s nice to hear the honesty of a clean guitar strum and a beautiful voice. Harmonica over simple folk strumming evokes a paisley-and-flowers folk pop sensibility a la Brothers and Sisters.

As she steps into her second song, everyone can sense that a transformation has occurred. The crowd is stone silent, their attention rapt. There are no auxiliary conversations in the tent. The vendors have stopped selling for a time. Her low volume invites a forced intimacy that doesn’t seem forced, and her vocal confidence and interaction with the crowd belies her physical shyness. While other singers act too cool to make eye contact, this woman’s gaze could ignite tinders. She moves along to “Swamp Song,” which brings as much speed and power as a singer-songwriter is allowed, and is perhaps the high point of her set. Her next song, “Olive Tree,” sits on the edge of dark while still remaining intrinsically appealing, like a less sinister Mark Ryden painting. “A magic trick changes/the ordinary to extraordinary/what do you think of me now/ as I appear” she croons. Her voice is so incredibly controlled that she garners a mid-song ovation after an imposing high bit, and her presence, though physically small, rings titanic in the crowd. She sings, “put at bay your adversary, your commentary/ and show me a little faith/ ‘cause I don’t have much these days.” In the end, we do show her faith, but suspect she was lying anyway. “[She]’ll try anything,” she sings.

The Upside Down
Getting back to the psychedelic side of things, the Upside Down immediately piqued my interest. The Upside Down brings a rich layering of sound, assisted in an egalitarian manner by each member. This stuff keeps your head nodding in time. The powerfully catchy rhythm section lays the ground for just the right lead guitar accents; though honestly, with three guitarists who all know their place and keep their egos in check, its hard to know who is ever really leading. Their driving faster solos echoed Tia Carrera with less crotch-grabbing masculine swagger. Some of the songs are slow to change form, sticking to one primary groove, but it works, and has to be expected in this genre. Vocals were low down and booming—think a psyched up version of Roy Rogers and the Pioneers. Drummer Bob Graham Mild has a great feeling for what rocks, and assailing his ride cymbal often and heartily while having a strong attack on every other part of his kit. Sarah Jane on keyboard and tambourine—take note, Shine Brothers—coils up her body like a rattlesnake before feverishly shaking her tambourine for a sustained flourish at the end of one song, and gets down all over stage for the rest, making quite the spectacle. The softer numbers seemed less impressive overall, but gave some of the other vocalists a chance to stretch their chords, to varying degrees of success.