Nothing screams “alternative music blog” like subverting one’s editor on the first go. While the original intent of my blogging was to bring all that is new and exciting in NYC to the attention of URB.com readers, I simply cannot, in good faith, ignore the super sweet 16 days I just spent in the UK. While the vast majority of the music industry was having a wank in Austin, TX, I was in London. And Cardiff. TAKE THAT, ESTABLISHMENT!!!!!
I’ve heard nothing good of this year’s SXSW. No band made the impact of past festival winners like Bloc Party, Art Brut and erm, the Darkness. When pressed for recommendations, I found industry friends grasping at straws, trying to pull a name out for the sake of justifying the buttloads of money they’d spent on crappy house-shares and equally crappy ATA flights. One name I remember hearing a couple of times is Cage the Elephant. My friends can rest easy knowing my memory is so shit, because whoever mentioned them would henceforth be banned from ever recommending a band again. Holy crap. Literally.
Let me set the scene (and preface this with an apology to anyone who believes the phrase “If you’ve got nothing nice to say, say nothing at all”). After two weeks of intense music chasing in London, I decided to unwind with a quick trip to Wales. Naturally, when one’s friends are music types, nightlife ideas tend to center around gigs no matter where you go. And so there I was in Cardiff, taking a ride to an externally beautiful venue called the Point. A friend of my friend is dating the adorable little chick from the Subways, who were coincidentally playing that night, and so it came to pass that we were on the guest list. The last minute nature of the trip meant little research had gone into activities and planning. And thus we had no idea who else was on the bill that night. My friend and I arrived in time to catch the opening act, and thank fuck for that. Without such luck, I would’ve had nothing to blog about. And even worse – I might’ve actually believed that I missed something by skipping out on Austin.
Now, a fun game to play when you’re at a gig that’s downright laughable is “What Band Do You Think YOU’RE In?” The rules are simple. Position yourself close enough to the stage to scan each member. Scan each member. Guess which band each toolkit think’s he (or she)’s in.
So let me introduce to you the boys of Cage the Elephant (above).
Take a minute to formulate your own guesses before I submit ours.
Ok, ready? Left to right. T. Rex. Cute Is What We Aim For. Spin Doctors. Foals. The Strokes. And I’m not just talking image, folks. These guys SOUND confused. It’s like they don’t know if they’re the Academy Is or the Black Crowes. Not to mention the Arctic Monkeys (if only for the obnoxiously short guitar straps and trendy booking schedule).
I tried to like them. Really, I did. I wanted to believe that the Subways had good taste in tourmates. I wanted to believe that something had been exciting in Texas. But alas, all hope for Cage the Elephant was dashed with their final song. The singer said, “Most of you will recognize this one.” My friend, having returned from a loo-break in time for the announcement wryly replied, “Oh good, this must be the Myspace jam.” But no. As the bassline kicked in it became all too apparent that this was in no way a Myspace jam. It was “Psycho Killer.” By Talking Heads. Butchered beyond acceptance like Daisy from Rock of Love. It seriously made that Panic at the Disco version of “Karma Police” sound like fucking “Bohemian Rhapsody.” Oy va VOY.
I mean, who the hell ends an opening set with a COVER??? Cage the Elephant, that’s who. My faith needed restoration, real bad. Thankfully the Subways proved that they are pretty impossible to hate, and even my epic cynicism couldn’t stop my head from bobbing. Those guys (and girl) have got the market cornered in catchy hooks and had the Welsh crowd sharing vocal duties with the utmost devotion.
I left the gig feeling feisty and satisfied, but I guess that could’ve been the Stella Artois science.
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