Sarah Tomlinson: Blog

6.11 Juliette Lewis and the Licks @ Spaceland
Burning Brides @ The Echo

Either everyone in the city of Los Angeles has spring fever, or local music fans are all about supporting their hometown heroes, because the rock clubs were jumping last night. In fact, it was a total madhouse at Spaceland. There was a line down the block for the early set by Juliette Lewis and The Licks, which was a major change from the first time I saw her play to 100 obsessed Natural Born Killers fans back in Boston a few years ago – not a socially suave crowd, let me tell you. This show was the band's only LA appearance in several years, and people were clearly hungry for it. After a pre-show party to celebrate the release of the band’s sophomore album “Four on the Floor,” (due out July 24), Juliette took the stage looking like a post-apocalyptic Indian princess in skin tight black vinyl pants and a headdress adorned with brightly hued feathers. From there, it was all thrashing hair, sweat, and attitude as she and the band powered through a taut set that found her holding down the stage with that wild, Iggy Pop-patented mix of athleticism and sex appeal. She’s taken a lot of flack since starting the band, which she addressed by teasing guitarist Todd Morse about how no one takes him seriously on guitar because he used to sell insurance door to door (I think we all know what that’s a metaphor for, unless he did really sell insurance door to door, in which case, that could have been the start of a porno or something, seriously, because he is cute). It’s true that some of the band’s early songs had a slick radio rock sound that was a little generic, but they’ve obviously dug deep while writing the new material and there’s plenty to like now. They play a fierce live show. And the lady has pipes. She can belt it out, even on the ballads. Not that there were many slow songs. It was all meaty AC/DC-sized riffs and wild yawls on new songs like the sexed up come on, “Hot Kiss” and the sinuous rocker, “Purgatory Blues.” Also new, “Death of a Whore” has an old-timey swing that makes for a fun romp, even though it’s about as dark as a song gets.

For real people, stop being too cool for school. She can rock. I mean, it was cool enough for Michael Rapaport, who was in the house, chewing gum as only he can chew gum, with an entourage of guys who looked straight out of Southie. It took every ounce of restraint I had to hold back from assailing him with “What we need are models. Big ones.” (Go see “Beautiful Girls.” Right now. So unbelievably good.)

As the Licks fans trickled out, the Deadly Syndrome/Brothers and Sisters/Wounded Cougar fans came pouring in for week two of the Deadly Syndrome’s month-long residency. Love ‘em, love ‘em, love ‘em. The eight-piece, Austin-based Brothers and Sisters mellowed the mood with their sweet, slide guitar-laced country rock ballads.

It was on at the Echo, too, where The Burning Brides were holding down the second night of their month long residency for a crowded house. The shows celebrate the release of their third album, “Hang Love.” As always, these guys delivered an airtight set of ferocious hard rock. Fronted by one of rock’s hottest couples, Dimitri and Melanie Coats, (Remember that old saying – they who rock together, stay together? No? Really? Yeah, well there should be a saying.), the band has serious chemistry on stage, even more so now that they’ve added more guy-girl harmonies. The album boasts a bunch of badass moody rockers, especially “San Diego” and “She Comes to Me.” The band played under one of the best stage projections ever – a rotating cast of classic album covers, from T. Rex’s “Electric Warrior,” (of course) to, appropriately, a couple of Burning Brides albums.

As I’ve been a little remiss in updating my b-l-o-g lately, what with all of the work I’ve been doing on my b-o-o-k, (which will be done this summer, for real; I’m sick of feeling like the girl who cried book; no, really, I wrote a book. I did. Can you read it? Well, I know it’s been six years, but it’s not quite done yet. Almost. Almost done.), this seems like the perfect place to segue into the killer set that the Burning Brides played while opening for Wolfmother at the Grove of Anaheim in (you guessed it, Anaheim) last month. It was cool to see them holding down the big stage, and they rocked the crowd, which is saying something, since this was one of the rowdiest, drunkest audiences I’ve seen, ever. (And I've covered the Dropkick Murphys' St. Patrick Day shows in Boston, so I know of what I speak.) When the sweaty men who push past you coming out of the mosh pit smell like sweat AND puke, you know it’s not good.

Wolfmother were on that night too, unleashing their epic rock anthems with aplomb. Singer/guitarist Andrew Stockdale rocked his falsetto and one of those over-the-top double-necked guitars (as well as an intense selection of flying Vs, SGs, and the like). No guitar was quite as impressive, though, as the wall of air guitar playing fans who could not quite kick the sensation that they were playing Guitar Hero when the band tore through “Woman.” And bassist/organist Chris Ross displayed some serious moves. Don’t tell him I said this, but he’s sort of got this Gary Glitter thing going on that’s truly amazing. The lads in the band are starting to look a little wilted after something like two solid years of touring, but it was good to catch them before they take a hiatus to write their next album, which we can only hope will rock even half as hard as their debut.

For a little taste of the local Anaheim flavor, check out this photo that my friend Laurel snagged of one of the band's female fans. White pumps. Hot!

6.20 The White Stripes @ Icky Thump Records

“I feel like I’m at my friend’s bah mitzvah, and The White Stripes got paid a million dollars to play,” my friend Brett said as we stood, waiting eagerly and sweating profusely, in the old Tower Records store at the heart of the Sunset Strip. It had been temporarily repurposed into Icky Thump Records, in order to sell copies of the new White Stripes album when it dropped on Tuesday (the store even opened at midnight, old school style, recalling the days when eager fans still queued up to buy those most coveted new releases like “Appetite for Destruction”), and to host an exclusive show by the rock duo. The atmosphere was pretty sexy for a bah mitzvah, though, and it definitely felt more like a rock show, what with the way the seriously bland store, with its dropped ceilings and boxy, vacant vibe, had been done up with red light gels, and the foxy young minxes in vintage cigarette girl garb circulated, pedaling limited edition buttons.

When the band finally took the stage, the crowd’s anticipation crescendoed, as everyone pushed forward and started to move. Meg and Jack were dressed down, compared to the elaborate costumes they sport on the cover of their new album, and the whole night had an intimate, basement show feel. They played much of their new album, as well as oldies but goodies like “Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground,” which found the crowd singing all of the verses, and a gorgeous, punked up version of “Hotel Yorba.” Plus there were classic covers like “Jolene,” on which Jack howled. The interplay between Jack and Meg was a thing of subtle beauty. Jack prowled the stage, moving between several microphones, sweating and wringing the most remarkable highs and lows out of his voice, and the most delicious blues licks out of his guitar, but always stopping from time to time at the microphone near Meg’s drum set, to commune with his big sister, as he still calls her. A charming master of ceremony, Jack was gracious and funny, thanking everyone for being there, especially the fans who had camped out for tickets, and who were apparently sent pizzas by the band (now that’s classy). And with his smooth voice and fervent tone, he sounded like a Pentecostal preacher, as he had the crowd say Amen, not only for the wonder of tangible, non-disposable music, but also for Meg, of course.

But when the band tore through a ferocious version of “Seven Nation Army” during their encore, it was a reminder that, spectacle aside, the duo is responsible for some of the most authentic and ambitious rock ‘n’ roll this side of the ‘60s. And that was the perfect note on which to end a celebration of their latest record, which is at once as fierce and tender as anything they’ve released.

And a note for those concertgoers who like to be in on the latest trends (wave a cell phone, not a lighter, etc., etc.), apparently young bucks no longer hoist their ladies onto their shoulders during concerts, so that the girls can get a prime view (and flash the band, of course; this show was on the Sunset Strip). Now, they sort of grab them under their rib cage, as if they’re pulling them out of a burning car, and hold them aloft for as long as they can, so the girls can see over the heads of those in front of them. It’s not quite as sexy, but it seems to get the job done.