-Tom Child

(Watch: director Dave Markey discusses and shows deleted scenes from his documentary The Reinactors, available now in a limited edition DVD package from We Got Power Films)

The Reinactors is nearly over, it’s after midnight, and I am on the verge of sobbing. A prepubescent girl with a keyboard on the curb of Hollywood Boulevard is singing the saddest version of “Hotel California” I have ever heard, and behind her, El Capitan’s dazzling marquee illuminates the faces of Freddy Krueger, Shrek, and Captain Jack Sparrow as they watch and listen.  Someone in this crowd will definitely want a souvenir of his or her trip to Hollywood, a photo with a bona-fide movie character.  Maybe there’s even a casting director out there, a talent scout looking for the next Hollywood superstar (or a body double for Johnny Depp).

David Markey’s latest documentary isn’t about Sonic Youth or Nirvana; it’s about the shabbily costumed “ambassadors of Hollywood” you see every time cruel fate shoves you near Hollywood and Highland.  And not even Courtney Love in The Year Punk Broke will prepare you for the desperate fame-seeking hunger in the eyes of The Reinactors’ skinny Superman, or the crazy-eyed Marilyn Monroe who claims to have slept with him, or the shockingly realistic (and white) Michael Jackson, or the weird demon-man with wings and fangs and cat’s eyes who seems to adore a character in his own mind, even if that character is hard to explain to tourists who just want to meet Charlie Chaplin or Minnie Mouse.

These actors playing actors have bought into the true American dream of fame, and they want it bad.  They love any camera, and for Markey’s lens, they gush, they affect accents, and they tell personal details about themselves and each other that are by turns desperate and poignant.  While Markey treats their stories with sympathy, these costumed buskers never let you forget just how sick they are, and not only with the mental health and addiction problems you’d expect.  You’ll see and hear about diabetes and prison beatings, maced faces and missing teeth in this movie—it’s hard to be in lock-up when you’re dressed like Batman!  Yet there is also a Dickensian sense of pride, camaraderie, and even love amongst these outcasts.  If you work in movies or aspire to, you may just recognize your own career struggles played out here in gruesome miniature—and for you musicians, especially those of you who draw less of a crowd with your own music than with your all-female Misfits tribute band, who’s to say these ambitious actors are more deluded than you?   

It’s a rare movie that feels both like a funny clip from YouTube and like a Mike Leigh film, yet The Reinactors manages to mesh the two in a way that is horrifyingly, hilariously bleak.  Prepare to cry, but also prepare to watch Superman smoke pot and talk shit about black people.  If Hollywood has its own branch of Hell, this would be it, and the damned sculpt their brimstone out of celluloid dreams.

-Dan Collins

Rumspringa
Self-titled EP
Cantora

Rumspringa’s vibe can be defined as East of the Brite Spot Americana: sweet potato fries with pepperjack cheese, crispy on the outside, soft and orange in the middle. It takes 20 and a 1/2 minutes to get through all 6 tracks on their EP. On opener “Shake em Loose Tonight,” Joey Stevens and Itaru de la Vega invite you to hit up their back patio, “Brothers and sisters/Won’t you gather around/Don’t need no tickets/We’re all from the same town,” for a little Devendra meets Black Keys bluesy after-hours—less folky than the former, not as punk as the latter. On “Goldmine,” Stevens’ vocals twist a tempered yarn around his cat-walkin’ guitar licks, as Vega’s lilting shuffle on the drums hits the spot that connects your shoulders to your belly-button and inspires a gentle rocking motion. The chorus (“Ah, Sativa, I feed you g-g-g-olden touch…”) could almost get crunk if Lil Jon poured it into his platinum chalice. The third “member” of Rumpspringa, the little-lupe memory pedal, allows the boys to traverse a range of layers and to really swing a strong rhythmic groove. Stevens harnesses his inner Tom Waits chi on “Skulls ‘n Phones,” with Vega’s “dow, da dow, da dow, da” takin’ it to the river for a romp in the leaves. Best if consumed after 2 AM.

— Daiana Feuer

Da Beatsmith Benny Blaze
An Eclectic Life Orchestration
Undaworld Production

The idea sounded great: a hip-hop mixtape made using samples from 1970s rock powerhouse Electric Light Orchestra. And on the instrumental side, it was great. ELO’s records were busy and very overproduced, making their music an unlikely but perfect foil for today’s rap climate. Da Beatsmith does a great job weaving the band’s over-the-top instrumentals and catchy hooks into fresh-sounding backing tracks. But the rappers here don’t even come close to being as good as the beats they’re rapping on top of. At best they lack charisma; at worst they can barely keep up with the beat. Take “The Evil Woman,” which starts with an excellent stop-start rhythm from one of ELO’s biggest hits, only to be ruined by the vocals from Jen Jen, who raps so fast that her verses could be placed on top of any track here and sound the same. The vocal highlight on the record comes from the sung (not rapped) vocals of Alisa on “Summer Feeling,” a summer jam in the style of Len’s “Steal My Sunshine.” But if the most positive thing that comes out of a mixtape is a reference to a one-hit-wonder from the ‘90s, there’s a problem. Still, anyone interested in hearing the great sounds and mediocre vocals of this mixtape can currently download it for free over at Undaworld Productions’ website.

— Adam Fisher

The Weather Underground
Bird in the Hand EP
Self-Released

This third EP for the Weather Underground is a collection of short stories, each told by a different character. First: “Fight Song for the Desalojos,” a mariachi-esque song born from a recent trip to Guatemala that sounds like a great street festival and uses about every type of percussion and wind instrument to propel the party. The EP was written around the second track, “Trainwreck,” a strong, straight-forward rock anthem that pleads passion to the masses, with a feel like the Shys “Call in the Calvary” or many of the Walkmen’s up-tempo songs. The title track is a slower, more reflective piece that tells a personal story of learning to move on when your life is turned upside down, and the record closes with a somber, more gospel-inspired “All Ye People.” The band evidently believes that things happen in threes, so Bird in the Hand is the third and final EP for a while, though they are looking toward to releasing a full-length album late this year. There’s obvious inspiration here from artists such as Spoon, Delta Spirit, Tom Waits, Otis Redding and any old soul music they can get their hands on, and the spirits of each float comfortably throughout this record.

— Julia Swanwick

Xu Xu Fang
The Mourning Son
Self-Released

The Mourning Son is the perfect soundtrack for laying down for—or comin down from—the night. Currently fielding seven members—including former Warlock Bobby Tamkin—the group has settled in for a mellower, down-tempo take on psych rock. Opening with the soothing sounds of oceanic waves in a stormy sea (and used throughout the album for intermittent, watery effect) and leading right into their previously released hit title track, this EP offers a lovely driving groove throughout, highlighted by soothing vocals and softly played songs. “Good Times” is the most dynamic, like a more serene Brian Jonestown Massacre or Dead Meadow, or maybe more like Spiritualized. The 13:56 long final song “Terra Scura” ends in an Eno-esque soundscape—rain falling and thunder in the distance, colored with dreamy, trance-inducing synthesizers. The mix (by Rick Parker, who’s worked with BMRC and the Dandy Warhols, and Mark Needham, who also worked with Fleetwood Mac!) perfectly finishes this impeccably laid back and well-done album. Xu Xu Fang will sing you to blissful sleep.

— Chesney Higgins

Upon looking at the ferocious Travis Millard artwork and the words Downtown / Union, my mind nostalgically leaped back some twenty years ago to a song from L.A.’s Thelonious Monster titled “Union Street.” It was kinda their anthem and ours too at the time, being young, hip, up-and-coming junkies. Union Street was the location to buy heroin. It’s moved a few blocks south since then. How delighted I was to find this CD, the polar opposite. Heroin chic is so…. goofy! Yeah, that epoch existed. I was 23 or so in ’85, and our heros were Johnny Thunders, Stiv Bators, and if you fancied yourself a cerebral junkie—and believe me, there were oodles—it was William Burroughs. I’m here to tell ya the whole thing was a con job. Pure hokum. A ruse geared for people who felt out of place… “uncomfortable in their own skin” or some such tomfoolery. Subterfuge to sell records and clothes. Now those same people are running rehabs. All orchestrated by one cat—a very seductive entity. Won’t you guess his name? Anywayz, things change, as Nick Cave says, “You grow up. You do. You mellow out. Buds of compassion push up through the cracks in the black and bitter soil. Your heart begins to transmute, base metals become silver and gold, and you warm to the world.”

Downtown / Union the album is pleasantly a diametrical about-face. I’m an ardent believer that music can save your life, and in fact can even teach you how to live. I avouch that this is the sole purpose of all art, that…and, well, fucking. If it isn’t intensely profound, it better give me a boner. This all may sound a tad bombastic, if it wasn’t very true. Roughly six-years or so ago I was a paying guest at the Royal Viking Motel on Alvarado and 3rd street. Just a cop, slip and a lump from Union, preparing for that “last” late checkout. It was T. Rex and Bob Forrest that came to my rescue. (That and the L.A.P.D.). I’m rambling but the point is—I put this enchanting 6 song CD by Downtown / Union in the same category.

Ok, musically as I first listened to Downtown / Union, I’m thinking… the Real Kids… Big Star…with a dash of Modern Lovers tossed in, just to keep ‘em honest. It’s heart-on-your-sleeve rock ‘n’ roll with a sincerity rarely heard nowadays. Not since the Downliner Sect’s EP Sick Songs by The Sect has a tantalizing totalization like this been achieved. They’re a two-piece outfit, which is fine with me. Rock ‘n’ roll sounds so much better without a bass unless you’re Led Zeppelin or some prog-rock act. Just turn up the snare drum and let her rip. You’re listening to a guy who picketed Lux and Ivy’s apartment on Edgemont when they added a bass. Finally Lux shot me in the kisser with a water pistol. It’s just so useless. More then thee people on stage and I get panicky. The White Stripes don’t have a bass on their good songs, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs don’t have one, but then they got that Karen O with that funky little voice of hers, not to mention her paradoxical beauty!

The message of the first song “Do What You Do” is simple: “It’s going to be alright,” which is exactly what a society run on fear and trembling needs to hear. Yet, it’s the hardest thing to believe. Next up is an aquatic little number called ‘The Plunge”—lend the duo your lobes on this one. These guys are no slouches when it come to dishin’ out the tidings, and if you have to put your headphones on, baby, they’re right there on the couch.

“You’re a saintless sinner, be my saving grace
You’re my hometown kitty in outer-space
And I’m a shipwrecked sailor
Looking for a port of call
Baby, you’re my waterfall”

Next up: “Till You’re Home” about missing your gurl so much that the world could end tonight and that’s alright. So long as she’s right there beside you when you wake up, defining (along with the commander-in-chief) your existence. Without the slightest bit of corny sentimentalisms. That takes guts. People think these macho tuff choads that strut around with this façade of “You can’t hurt me!” are real men and they’re just scared toxic daddy’s little lads. In fact, if I were to sum up this whole spirituality of men in a one liner, it would be this: the young man who cannot cry is a savage, the old man who cannot laugh is a fool. We have to move proactively into pain so it doesn’t become an enemy, so we don’t become surprised at it. (Thank you, Saint Francis!)

“Low Down Dirty Walk” is about the temporary desolation or alienation we all feel at times. It passes, although whole philosophies are based on this state. Sure, it feels real when we are stuck in it, but it passes. Just keep going till you receive communion—I mean consolation and grace, and oh yeah, the song is metal as fuck!

“Vanward Ay Aye” is filled with astonishing surrealist imagery, the “Mr. Tambourine Man” of the album and reminiscent of a Terry Gilliam Dream Sequence.

“Six Diamond Skies” is the one slightly venomous song on the album, just so you know these guys are neither doormats, hopeless romantics or pusses. In fact, it takes a lot of gonads to put out music like this nowadays. They are not piggybacking on to anyone else’s hip trip. I get the feeling they are simply playing what is melodious to their ears. This CD is all its own and it rocks to beat the band. The vocals are heartfelt; the guitar has a cool garage-y sound. The drumming is perfect in its timing and ability to emphasis and punctuate the guitar at all the right moments. Remember: like Hound Dog Taylor, this is a two-piece outfit! The production sounds live. The album art by Travis Millard (like I said) puts everything into a certain aesthetic I didn’t see coming. A wonderful, joyous, celebration of how beautiful life is and can be if you have the right attitude. If you ever plan on doing a stint at the Royal Viking on Alvarado and 3rd, Downtown / Union may just save your life, if not your soul.

Sex, God and Rock and Roll,
Malibu Mike Murphy

DOWNTOWN / UNION WITH THE MONOLATORS, THE FLYING TOURBILLON ORCHESTRA AND JACK WILSON, JR., ON THUR., JUNE 19, AT ALL STAR LANES, 4459 EAGLE ROCK BLVD., EAGLE ROCK. 9 PM / FREE / ALL AGES. LA-UNDERGROUND.NET OR CLASSICALGEEKTHEATRE.BLOGSPOT.COM.

Thee Makeout Party
Play Pretend
Teenacide Records / Recess Records

“Wreckless Epic”

The CD version of this album is being released on Jim Freek’s power-pop-oriented label, Teenacide Records, so it’s tempting to describe this record as sounding like Chris Stamey from the dB’s singing for the Real Kids. These kids do sound real power-poppy at times, especially on this album, where the production values are cleaner and less in-the-red than what you may have heard live (or on their super-limited-edition seven inches).

But while this CD is less raw and ragged than their Velvets-meet-the-Archies live sound, it’s still definitely nowhere near the hip sophistication of, say, the Stones-meet-Jack-White blues rock that Dan and long blonde Alex grooved on during their stint with indie-rock darlings the Willowz.  And that’s more than fine for me.  While I really do like the eighteen bell-bottomed bands currently trying to wedge themselves between Let It Bleed and Sticky Fingers, it’s nice to hear an album crafted by guys with broader record collections, who can evoke all the styles they love without being derivative of any particular era of music.

Sure, Thee Makeout Party’s bubblegum roots are still on display here, and not just because they prove their credentials with a cover of “My Birthday Suit” by the Cattanooga Cats (a Hanna-Barbara rarity previously only spotted in Don Bolles’s record collection).  But unlike their live shows, here Dan pulls back from his Ohio Express nasal inflection and sings with a tuneful, slightly somber voice, one that perhaps reflects his real personality.  Don’t let those smiling photos of him on Disneyland’s teacup ride fool ya—this is a dark, bitter man-child who has some real demons he’s trying to drown in the kiddie pool.  His songs’ references to second-base relationships, and the bridge he so cleverly steals from Barry Manilow in “Change,” are just the varnish of goofiness he uses to lacquer over the monstrous painting in his basement.

I don’t want to give the impression that this album is doom rock.  This is still punk-party pop in a tight little package, with no song running more than a couple minutes long and most songs far shorter.  Each new listen makes me happier, as I discover a six-string Byrds variation here, a Descendants’ bass line there; no mean feat for a four-piece with only an occasional keyboard plink or vocal punch to accentuate their song structure.  There’s a lot of playfulness and fun in this album, including (dare I reveal it?) that nostalgia of the ’90s, the hidden bonus track at the end!  But instead of getting the Mad Hatter tea party music I was expecting, I got something slightly different: a catchy-as-hell ride through the ghostly corridors of Orange County, and a lost love that just might follow me home.

The album comes out June 8th, and they’re having a record release party with Devon Williams at the Echo that night.  You should be there, cash in hand.

— Dan Collins

Douglas Armour
The Light of a Golden Day, The Arms of the Night
Social Registry

Douglas Armour’s impressive take on pop comes sunny side-up, with songs ranging from electro-pop with a R&B infusion to straight-forward ballads. Every excursion is catchy to infectious, often with a lead synthesizer and drum machine leading the way. (It sounds like the Maroon 5 guys hanging out with James Murphy.) I suspect Armour watched a lot of golden-era MTV, where Berlin, the Human League and Missing Persons played harmoniously next to Al. B Sure, Jermaine Stewart and Terrence Trent D’arby. The production on the album is crisp, potent and totally radio-friendly. I’m definitely hooked—he’s successfully passed the 5 PM hike to Griffith Observatory test, the 9 PM three glasses of wine test and even the 6:30 AM trying to wake up to get to work and pounding coffee test. Stand out tracks are “The Whole World” and “Fall Apart,” and one of those songs will most likely be the soundtrack hit for the next Juno. I’d even go as far to say this is just plain ole exciting adult contemporary. Pleasant, fun, fresh and in permanent rotation.

— Jennifer Brandon

Moris Tepper
Stingray in the Heart
Candlebone

“Spidercloud”

Stingray in the Heart grows on you rather quickly. Nonchalant opening “New Mom” lets a guitar riff swagger across an innocuous rhythm line—drunken trouble out for a midnight stroll—and then the album swerves into “The Wolf King,” a sure psychedelic staple had it been released thirty years ago. And just when you’re ready to settle down for fifteen more tracks of the same, Tepper’s off again for some new genre he’s just invented. Stingray in the Heart never pauses in a familiar territory: the bent vocal Dylanisms of “Tables” morph into a southern-fried face melter, followed by a kind of alien neo-soul ballad. Though Tepper is widely recognized as a sideman, his long-term affiliation with Captain Beefheart and the Magic Band is most apropos to the feeling of Stingray in the Heart, which has an affection for spinning out of control then bouncing back with something even more unexpected. It might take time to fully explore to the new territory in Tepper’s album, but right now this is bachelor-pad music for the impending apocalypse.

— Antero Garcia