KRYST, Of Course We don't Have Coffee

Saturday night I saw divorced friends Al and Gale's son, Kyle, perform with his band, Kryst, at Club Diablo. I've always wanted to check this club out, and it's pretty much as I expected; narrow, dark, loud, a pool table, a bar, a raised platform stage, and decor I could only describe as pop-gothic, (the devil's image was prominent but friendly like Santa Claus). We made a strange middle-age trio made all too evident when I bought the first round and my friends requested a 7-Up and a coffee. I really didn't want to walk up to this cool crude bar with the gorgeous waitress (everytime she reached down to fill a beer glass, the room swooned), and order a coffee. But I did and of course they didn't have coffee. Kyle and his band Kryst were way cool and experimental, heavy and prog-ish, making unlikely and effective use of a violinist, a vocoder, and a megaphone blending into the prominent drums and guitars onslaught. At one end of this musical horizon I detected an early Pink Ployd keyboards springing a young Syd Barrett into the world of madness, and at the other, a more psychedelic Nine Inch Nails in a decidedly rock and roll spirit. It was a fantastic set. I've talked with Kyle about music before, wondering if the younger generation left homage for the last wave of great cutting edge artists. I mentioned if he was familiar with, say, Sonic Youth, Talking Heads, maybe Swans, and he looked at me like I was from another planet.

ROAD LESS TRAVELLED, Triangles

I did manage to see one more Buffalo play before the close of 2008, Road Less Travelled's production of "Triangles". Long-time friend, composer, musician, artist Alan Kryscak composed and performed the music for the production. The show consisted of three one-acts all somewhat revolving around the concept of romantic love triangles. Al stood on a platform over the stage behind a mesh screen playing surpringly aggressive and somber electric guitar including some entire lyrical songs at intervals and scene changes. No surprise that his playing was excellent, gently blending in to the moods of the production, but the original songs, which could easily stand alone as fine pieces of music, were strikingly in sync with the often light-hearted production, casting a dark and mysterious shadow over an impending expectation of romance. The first two one-acts were short forays into the concept of confronting a third party in a romantic triangle. August Strindberg's "The Stronger", consisted of a woman, dressed as if from the late 19th or early 20th Century, confronting another woman in what seemed an outdoor cafe, who is having an affair with her husband. Only the cheated upon woman speaks to the other in the scene. She rationalizes, compromises, and victors over the silent third party, causing one to consider that this isn't an actual confrontation at all, but an extension of an infuriated subconscience. Celebrated local playwright Manny Fried's "Triangle" follows, inspired by the one-act that preceded it. The same two actresses again play two woman, one who remains silent throughout, while the other confronts her regarding her intent to run off with the woman's husband, this time in what seemed a Depression-era set and costume. These are fine little bits, but they seem to me, as often one-acts do, merely character sketches of a larger piece that was never realized. I see nothing so inviting here but the skillful displays of the two actresses Kristen-Tripp-Kelly and Lisa Vitrano. The third piece, "The Elliptical", seems an entire full length play in comparison. It concerns three young friends, a guy and two girls, maturing into somewhat neurotic and sexually questing adults. It's funny, and slight and lofty, and often comes dangerously close to becoming merely a stand-up routine. When I see a production as sharp and succint as "Triangles" is, I can't help but focus on its shortcomings. The players in "The Elliptical" do a fantastic job hustling about the stage blending time frames and delivering monologues, almost at an action packed pace, but some of the comedic deliveries, especially from the talented ladies, Bonnie Jean Taylor and Kelly Meg Brennan, (so what's with the triple names in Buffalo theatre?), both of whom I loved watching perform this sexy and sweet ode to romantic relationships, get a wee bit tiresome and repetitious. Todd Benzin's performance is a class act; that rare display of light-hearted conviction and exceptional timing; groping, lusting, and conniving after the girls like his existance depended on it. Really, this is a production, so friendly and unassuming, you can't help but love it.

OUT AND IN WITH SKINNY PUPPY

Somewhere into my third decade, I realized I had stopped listening to music. Having always been an enthusiastic listener, buying records since I was first given a weekly allowance, it was my sudden and sad realization that I no longer possessed any interest. If I had so much as an old Pink Floyd cassette laying around somewhere, that was all I had. I had a huge collection of albums and tapes that somehow got thrown aside on the path to mature adulthood. Where is it written that when you reach a certain age, you toss your rock and roll records out the door, and set NPR on the radio dial. Jesus, I was becoming my parents.

So I set out to purchase every record I had ever owned. In a few years time, I had collected hundreds of vinyl and CD records of favorites, and as many new records and CDs. I had accumulated so much music, my small apartment was beginning to look like a used music store. And there was no way I was going to find the time to listen to everything I had brought home. So I alphabatized everything and decided to listen to at least three albums a week. I would attempt to listen to them in alphabetical order. I first had to force myself to find the time, put on a record or CD, and listen to the sweet music. Lights out, candle up, clear your mind, and infest it with melody and noise. The herb cupboard wasn't always empty. It was rather daunting when the next alphabatized album was, say, Frampton Comes Alive, when I least wanted to hear it. But do or die, I'd listen. And that's a damn good album.

And I've been doing just that for years. Now, of course, I have as much music downloaded, and like scouring a record store, (Record Theatre is a beautiful place), I now scour the internet looking for new and exciting music. With the New Year I find myself on the S's, and New Year's Eve brought me the Canadian band "Skinny Puppy"'s "The Process", and on New Year's morning, I listened to Skinny Puppy's "Too Dark Park". I don't know how Skinny Puppy came into my life. I think I heard them on the radio, and had to hear more. This is disturbing and dark experimental pop music. Big and highstrung crunchy metal with a lot of lifted verbal samples, and a wash of synthesized noise. Nine Inch Nails, for instance were influenced by Skinny Puppy. 1996's The Process is unusual in that it contains actual remnants of melodic song structure, most unlikely for a Skinny Puppy album, and opens with the soft and pretty repetition of a piano chord. Soon though the darkness sets in on a world where, "my brain is hurting", and "the mother toe is sad and she'll end when the world ends.". The cover artwork of "The Process" looks like downtown's Lafayette Hotel, where I once unfortunately lived. Haven't we all at one time or another? 1990's "Too Dark Park" is pure Skinny Puppy, opening with the statement, "he's fearing monsters, he's losing his mind and he's feeling it going.". It's a nightmare album of insanity, violence, and rotting meat in a science lab. Alleged to be anti-animal experimentism, it seems to be anti-everything. The listener may find himself, as stated in the closing of opening track, Convulsions, "extremely, intensely, terribly uncomfortable".

THIS IS BUFFALO CLASH

Last Friday I went to the Joe Strummer tribute show at Mohawk Place. I was a big fan, still am, and every year I try to get to this gig at Mohawk, usually scheduled between Christmas and New Year's, and every year, something keeps me from getting there; a winter storm, conflicting work schedule, etc. But this year nothing was stopping me except my middle-aged indifference to all things happening outside the comfort of my cozy couch. So I had to sort of march myself out into the cold winter night, before I could find an excuse to stay home. Dug up and found, miraculously, my old Clash pin buttons, and adorned them to a Wal-Mart chic faux-leather jacket. Put black make-up on my eyelids, as Strummer was prone to do, and marched, marched, marched. Called my brother and a few friends to tell them I would be there, if they cared to meet me.

So I drove into Buffalo from the Chautauqua County industrial farm lands I hail, thinking of Strummer, dead from a heart attack at age 50, me, his age, still behaving like a teenager, drug-free, (tonight anyway), but with enough residue in my system to last a lifetime, my poor friend sitting home probably feeling miserable, (he called back to say he was having emotional problems), my state trooper brother, who might meet me tonight, and who I often party with, but whose presense can be unnerving as one never knows if he'll suddenly pull out a gun, point it in all directions and yell, "OK everybody, FREEZE!"And I was bummin' out. Stopped at Burger King, fished a greasy chicken patty out between it's bun, ate it, and felt disgusted. And the freezing rain made things perfect.

The place was packed. I felt so much better just getting through the door, and felt a bit proud to be supporting a Strummer show where proceeds benefited struggling musicians. I loved Joe Strummer, and that's why I came. A diverse age group- teenagers, young and old musicians, aging punks, hot young things, yes Strummer would have loved this. A young band was playing songs from the Clash's first album. Teenagers were mouthing out the lyrics with a memory better than mine. The world has changed. When I was a teenager, I couldn't fathom, liking or even knowing the music of the generation before me. I was a post hippie, pre-punk lost seventies child, star gazing into the likes of Yes, and Emerson, Lake and Palmer. Now we're a united Clash. My brother showed up and we just hung out drinking beers and listening to the bands. I recognized a group of Buffalo actors, who I guess would be the epitome of that scene. Is that Father Baker? I wrote a scathing piece on that play after the - president? king? director?, of MusicalFare encouraged people to publicly announce their feelings about the play after a nastily negative review from The Buffalo News, where the production was somewhat accused of fostering child molestation. I pointed them out to my brother and told him "those guys are actors", and we just sort of stared at them for awhile like we were contemplating an exhibit at the zoo.

We couldn't find a roster of the bands, it was almost impossible to get a beer from the packed bar, so I don't know the names of the bands and musicians I saw. The next band played a lot of Sandanista. I wormed my way onto the cramped dance floor, and some stranger behind me kept screaming into my ears that the lead singer looks like he's about to OD. "He's going ...going....going to fall over ...that guy is messed up!" And, well he did seem a little high. I can't remember which song it was, but he kept tripping up on the lyrics, repeating the same stanza over and over, like he couldn't find his way out. Like a dizzying skipping record. Nice set though. The next band were dazzling in ways only a Clash fan could appreciate. A tight rhythm section behind a vocalist respecting and imitating Strummer, mouthing out sacred words and emotions as carefully as taking them from a Braille board. Never guessed I would see a perfectly executed "Car Jammin'" performed live by anybody in my lifetime. They were then joined by a saxophonist and trombonist from The Great Train Robbery, who brought an exotic illustrious flair to the decidedly hoodie caucasion scene, and provided perfect backup to a number of Clash songs, notably, "Rudie Can't Fail".

Yeah, Clash forever. Freezing rain and glaring lights outside. A cute teenage girl asked me to get on her cell phone and tell her boyfriend to F off. I obliged but wasn't so drunk I couldn't imagine a 6-foot tall football jock showing up and beating the crap out of me. A street guy emptied the handful of quarters out of my pocket befitting a Strummer sentiment. I defied orders and buzz-drove home.

HAPPY NEW YEAR! oh very young what will you screw up this time?

It's a new year, and my old ignored blog is calling out to me to please put it out of it's misery. 8 months without a post. The poor thing is whimpering. I got up today, New Years, and decided to clean my apartment and confront this blog. I just can't kill the pathetic thing. And I need to get somebody in to bulldoze the apartment.





It was my second attempt at blogging. The first, "Merciless Community Theatre Reviews", never really took off.





I've had a brief affair with theatre; auditioning for a role in a community theatre production about 5 years ago, to the far outer circle of the Buffalo theatre scene, ( I mean like way out there with a mop and pail), I've been tumbling along in it, realizing my acting chops are non-existant, ( and it's funny because I act all day long, but put me on a stage, and I can't act for shit.), but eager to do my part in the production of a play, however menial, ( yes, yes, there are no menial parts, just menial people). But after several months of working for the man every day, and the lady every night, I may give theatre the lights out. Hey, actin's hard!





Mind you, when I get that call that someone is looking for a tireless sound and light man, who will double as stage manager, house manager, usher, ticket taker, prop guy, assistant set designer, and non-speaking walk-on role for little or no pay, ... I'll be there.

Unless I come to my senses.