Friday MPMF: Good Parking Spot, Good Omen?

[NOTE: All kinds of cool MPMF photos and multi-media are here.]

Whoa. I scored a parking space sent from the damn heavens. Lucky strike day. Then I ditched my purse in the trunk, put my valuables (keys, smokes, ID, wrinkly bills) in my pockets and hit the MidPoint streets. Early evening, the crowd was growing steadily. All around, I felt an energetic buzz. The mood seemed intensely more powerful than last year. Other than a gazillion people asking me for money that I didn't have, the scene slowly sizzled. I felt a l'il adrenaline creeping up my spine. I thought of Kings Island. Drop Zone, The Beast.

My night began with Nashville's Forget Cassettes at The Exchange. The drummer was kicking it hard and frontwoman Beth Cameron's pipes were already going strong when I marched in. With her pixie hair, skin-hugging animalish-printed dress, red tights and boots, Cameron looked like a true, slick rocker. Playing a black Fender, on the first three, she sounded like a tiny tornado, belting out some old tunes. Coolly aloof, the trio definitely wasn't crowd friendly, but at first, they didn't have to shmooze — the tunes stood on their own, setting the pace and mood. But then came some new tunes which were less rocking and more Twilight Zone. The confused crowd shifted, gazing at the band in a daze. It was as if, collectively, everyone was thinking about hitting the pisser at the same time.

Cameron looked slinky and alluring, but they were losing people. I guess it was too early in the night to bust out with moodier stuff. The band got lost in its own little universe and when I asked around, I found that other people were thinking this — move it along. Instead, the Cassettes got deeper. If I closed my eyes, I dug the songs a lot actually, but they sounded like something I'd rather listen to at home. Not something to open a festival. Still, the drummer stood out, stealing the show now and again. Bam, bam, he was a 10.

Outside, I talked with Tank, the bouncer. A veteran, he'd been a bouncer for years. One night, he gained his nickname when he took on a whole football team fight all on his own, or some crazy shit like that. Ever notice that people rarely talk to the bouncers? They probably have more stories than the whole crowd put together. Hmm. Tank summed up the "bouncing life" for me:  "It's a labor of love."

Istanbul's Direc-T followed Forget Cassettes. But poor Direc-T faced a black hole rather than a crowd. Everybody went scramblin' after Cassettes were done. Then I went scramblin' too. Sorry, Direc-T.

Then I found out where everyone was scramblin' to. The streets were lined with smokers and the air was thick with nicotine haze. All around, lighters and smoke sticks. And in the alley, some street performers were awarded a smoky, standing ovation.

At Cue, I sat in on a few of For Algernon's set. They were tight and energetic, but the bar smelled like nail polish and lacquer or something weird. Polyurethane. God, it reminded me of the smell of the fetal pig I refused to dissect in high school. Traumatic.

I wandered in on a real gem at New Stage Collective. Local band Entheos played the cozy theater space. Inside, there was orange-reddish-bluish cool lighting, and the energy was positive and warm. This talented trio (including a bro and sis team on vocals) reminded me somewhat of Seattle's atmospheric band Sky Cries Mary, and Entheos had some right-on, engaging harmonies that really sparked my attention. I was impressed. Enough that I bought the CD. Their sensitive, airy harmonies shone, but they could hammer it out too. The drummer led them into harder territory here and there. A passionate mix of sweet and stirring, their uplifting, airy, fresh, soul-filled, deep, gorgeous music (is that enough adjectives?) sounded nearly ethereal — touching and angelic. Watch out for this band — very together, bright. Definitely my favorite of the evening. Until …

Levi Weaver played Kaldi's. The crowd was sardine-can thick. It smelled like something was burning, but nobody seemed to mention it or care. I stood, literally, right in front of Weaver, who looked like he was from New York, wearing tight jeans, a black leather jacket and sporting black-dyed hair. But when he opened his mouth, his accent revealed his Nashville roots. Cowboy boot-clad and looking sexy (my MidPoint crush), Weaver was a one-man musical octopus. Not only did he play guitar and sing using reverb and delay, he played harmonica, sang through two different mics, at times using a violin bow to play his guitar, and then some.

Levi was a superb showman — completely at ease, joking with the crowd, often hiding jokes within the songs. For instance, he'd poke fun at himself, singing, "I just messed up the chorus so I think I'll do it again." Then he did it again. Or he sang, "This is my favorite part of this song coming up," and then he'd bust out with a strong high note. Hilarious.

Engaging and entertaining, between his boot stomping intensity, heart, grit and gutsy performance, Weaver was a one-man work of art, a black leather machine of energy. I took home his six-song EP. I'm looking forward to his album coming out in October. A natural. He looked, acted and performed like a true, artistic star with a genuine nature, spirit and smarts. A+.

Johnnytwentythree played on over at InkTank. By the time I got there, they already had the films going, playing war footage, rocking out songs from their self-titled fresh album. Stephen Imwalle (film and video for the band) was going wild switching reels, dancing and jerking around to the music, looking like he was losing his mind (always a good sign), when the band hit some of their trademark intense crescendos.

Then I had to disappear and run over to Below Zero to catch Peter Adams, who, in my book, is on his way — or maybe already there — to somewhere big, whatever those big words mean anymore. Lately, I've been thinking "making it big" is all relative. Still, I don't think Adams will remain a "Bedroom Maestro," but rather, I believe he'll become an "In Everyone's Bedroom Maestro." Dripping with talent, with a new five-piece full band (including stand-up bass, drums, strings, electric and acoustic guitars), Adams' sound was tight and professional. When I closed my eyes, I swore I was at Riverbend. It was the drummer's first gig with Adams and he was right on, but it'll be interesting to see, with time, if they add even more dynamics as they keep playing out.

By the way, I found it ironic that it was sauna-hot-as-fuck in a bar called Below Zero. It smelled like teen spirit and B.O. in there, but the place was the metrosexual's dream, including mints at the door. I had three. OK, four, five. Anyway, the room was packed for Adams, and the band slid out both old and kickass new songs as smooth as butter. Adams has a new album coming out soon. Every time I see him, it just gets pleasantly better. And better. His unique voice was both soft and full of passion, a mix that continually impresses me. This band completely gelled, with complex and engaging arrangements. Smart as hell. Magic Adams stole the crowd.

Back at New Stage, I saw Cincinnati's The Times play for the first time in a long time. (I will soon win the award for using the word "time" the most in a paragraph). The whole time, Ashley Peacock's voice was clear and passionate as ever, and the band was strong, looking and sounding mature. I talked with Peacock for some time after the show, and he reported that The Times are working on some new material, letting it slowly evolve over time. He also said he's been getting into the recording side of things, producing other bands' albums and such, which sparked my interest — more info coming soon. At the right time.

Lastly, after I downed some caffeine and dropped off a stack of CDs at my car, I checked out Cincy singer/songwriter Ramsey at Below Zero, which was still not cold inside. More like the steam room at Bally's. But I'd grown used to it. I'm adaptive like that. A crowd chameleon. Ramsey looked a little nervous, but then he settled into his songs from his debut CD, looking like the all-black-wearing dark troubadour that he is. Then I got distracted and trapped by one of those conversations you have to "take outside." Not bad at all really, just needing air. If you are a human being, then you know what I mean here. Even if you're an alien, you might still get it.

Overall, I have to say this:  I'm proud to be a Cincinnatian. I'm proud to be a part of our music scene, to do the writing that I do. It was thrilling to see the streets so full downtown, to see our thriving music scene in action. Keep going to see these bands who work their asses off and put their hearts out, letting them bleed for you. Hell yes.

Thanks, rockers.

(Photos from top: for algernon and entheos by Keith Klenowski)

— C.A. MacConnell

Comments

[brian]

hey! the multi-media link leads to a page that says "MPMF 2007 is in the books..." wait! we're not done writing the story yet! there's still one more night of music to be seen and heard; some of the fest's best acts have yet to take the stage!

[John Fox]

Sorry about that -- wrong link. The correct link to this year's multi-media photo shows is now in place above.

[ezra]

Just a note because I forgot to mention them in my wrap-up: those "street performers in the alley" were The Gregory Morris Group. GMG is Cincinnati's answer to Django Reinhardt and Cat Stevens all in one. It's a good thing this quartet is immune from gravity, otherwise such a dense concentration of talent would collapse on itself and cause some kind of musical black hole. I'm not sure if the street performances were their idea or MPMF's, but there should definitely be more of that. And more guerrillas in general.