[NOTE: All kinds of cool MPMF photos and multi-media are here.]
I did my best impression of a Wall Street trader on the first night of MidPoint — you know, on the floor of the Exchange. After perusing the schedule, for better or worse, I determined that just about everything I had a mind to see Thursday night was taking place at The Exchange.
I could have dashed over to the Know Theatre Underground to catch a bit of Nashville’s Kink Ador (our own John Fox was quite enthusiastic about them), but in the end I chose to stay put. Three consecutive years of running around the hell’s half acre of Austin, Texas for South By Southwest have taught me the value of venue camping.
First up on the evening’s bill was the newly reassembled magnificence of Knoxville’s favorite sons, Superdrag. The 7:30 pre-party booking was clearly intended to bring people out to MidPoint early on the festival’s first night, and it was a great draw in the service of a good idea. In their original four-piece lineup for the first time in years, as the original rhythm section of engaging bassist Tom Pappas and hammer-and-tongs drummer Don Coffey Jr. rejoined guitarist Brandon Fisher and frontman John Davis, Superdrag is embarking on a limited tour of precious few dates, the first of which was last night’s MidPoint appearance.
My first exposure to Superdrag was nine years ago, when they came to town as the opener for the Ben Folds Five at Bogart’s. I had just gotten Head Trip in Every Key and then interviewed Davis for a CityBeat feature. Afterward, I went right out and picked up Regretfully Yours and the Stereo 360 Sound and Fabulous 8-Track Sound EPs, and I’ve been banging their drum ever since.
The Bogart’s show was absolutely astonishing, and last night’s performance was its equal in every possible way. The foursome played with an understandable and irrepressible vigor, sounding as fresh and as vital as this lineup in their prime. As Superdrag ran through a blistering chronological sonic scrapbook of their four albums — Regretfully Yours, Head Trip in Every Key, In the Valley of Dying Stars and Last Call for Vitriol, the latter two of which were not done by this lineup) — it was clear they were having the time of their lines.
Davis played like a man possessed and sang with vein-popping conviction, Fisher razored calmly through his guitar lines, Pappas was both manic bass presence and class clown, diverting attention away from Fisher and Davis’ guitar switches with witty stage patter and even a tape recording of some weirdly binky melody. By the time Superdrag wrapped up their ecstatic hour-long set, the audience — which included MidPoint organizer Bill Donabedian, Moth stalwarts Kevin Hogle and Eric Diedrichs, local guitar god Ric Hickey and a cornucopia of local media — was completely drained by the band’s powerhouse performance and still screamed for more.
The tactic of booking Superdrag as bait for a big crowd worked, until they left the stage and the club fairly cleared out, which was several shades of too bad for Pictures of Then, a Minneapolis quartet who had endured a 14-hour drive in a vacuum packed and hermetically sealed Scion to reach MidPoint, only to play to a handful of Superdrag holdovers.
It was a shame, as the foursome (normally a quintet; the Scion wouldn’t accomodate their keyboardist) swung with Glam/Pop abandon, channeling psychedelic Folk roots through howling Indie Rock branches, like Billy Corgan if he’d been obsessed with “Arnold Layne”-era Pink Floyd, with little nods to Ziggy Stardust-era Bowie/Ronson along the way. They played a spirited and buzzy set that completely masked the exhaustion they felt at the end of their long and constrictive journey to Cincinnati. Here’s hoping they can make the return trip under less taxing circumstances to a larger and more appreciative crowd.
Dayton’s Reutschle (you might not guess, but it’s pronounced “Richly”) was next on the card, and they kicked through a breezy set of Brit Pop-influenced confections. Frontman Mike Reutschle is obviously steered by early Who (now who else in Dayton do I know that suffers from that affliction? Must be in the water...) as well as the Pop classicism of Buddy Holly and the New Wave jitters of Elvis Costello, and it was all done extremely well if a little familiarly over the course of their 45-minute set. The quartet’s space rock finish was a nice flourish to break up the uniformity of Reutschle’s pacing to that point.
New York’s Teenage Prayers held the next-to-last spot on the bill, and the quartet (also absent their regular keyboardist) more than lived up to their CityBeat Critic’s Pick status (business-to-business thanks to Ezra Waller for calling the Prayers out for special attention). Imagine a manic crossbreed of the Strokes’ terminal hipness, marah’s chaotic Philly Soul and the Kinks’ ravenous appetite for every era of Rock and you have some idea of the Teenage Prayers’ visceral appeal.
They began their set with a gorgeous a capella intro that showcased the sibling harmonies of brothers/guitarists Tim and Terrence Adams, which served as a launching pad for the Prayers’ soul-stirring, ass-shaking, grin-inducing performance, highlighted by Tim Adams’ Paul Westerberg-tributes-Sam Cooke testimonial vocals; his energetic stage gyrations had his spiffy white shirt, glowing like neon under The Exchange’s banks of black lights, drenched through with sweat by the end of the third song.
Mixing songs from their debut CD, Ten Songs, and their new album, Everyone Thinks You’re the Best, produced by the incomparable Steve Wynn and slated for early ’08 release, the Teenage Prayers were a blistering example of how simplicity, conviction and passion make great Rock and Roll.
The Swarthy Band did a set chock full of songs to be found on their imminent new disc called How We Watch the Skies. Swarthy is a little bundle of energy, a master of the dramatic hipsway and the grand Rock gesture, liked a shaved-head Ben Stiller doing his best Iggy Pop impression. About midway through their set, Swarthy lost his shirt, inspired, he said, by his recent viewing of the recent Jesus Lizard DVD, a cavalcade of half-naked David Yow moments.
On the musical side, the Swarthy Band’s set was high energy and vastly entertaining, with engaging ringmaster Swarthy cheerleading great performances out of his crack band. With this gig as evidence, How We Watch the Skies is going to be a big Rock album with more hooks than a Bass Pro Shop outlet mall. Look for it in early November.
(Photo of The Teenage Prayers by Keith Klenowski)
— Brian Baker
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