I couldn't find a flier for this show, so here's a picture I stole from The SF Sludge blog. If anyone has a flier, please send it my way! I will thank you verbally! Well, I had barely escaped the the razor wire and outrun the snarling dogs at the outskirts of Cleveland, and before I could catch my vomit tinged breath, or recover from the hangover, even, Cleveland caught up with me in the form of stoner metal stoics Keelhaul. On a tired, cold Monday night I was to be found wandering around seventeenth street looking for a place to charge my phone so I could make an important "connection," and I settled on the mysterious Connecticut Yankee, where I spent an unenjoyable hour picking at blackened chicken fingers and celery sticks with bleu cheese.
Got all up in da club soon enough, made the grave mistake of paying when I was already on the guest list. (they never give your money back) Went straight to the backyard to get busy with the business of ignoring the opening band, who sounded way too poppy for my tastes at the moment. I absently assumed they were a local opener, put on the bill by an inept booker. Then I looked down at my newly charged phone and saw that I now had four texts from Robert Collins!
“Clint. Come Inside.”
“Seriously. Come inside right now, I know you’re here.”
“Dude you can’t miss this drummer.”
“Get your ass in here or you will miss the best drummer in the midwest.”
Once I realized what was going on. I ran inside to get a look at this drum pummeler, and of course by then it was the last song (whoops), but he was indeed very good. If I had been paying attention from the beginning (which you should all do now kids! Take it from an old man!) I would have realized that this disheveled powerhouse was the battery charging this poppy-garagey outfit, and they were actually pretty good.
I hope that when I’m a crusty old man, bald, (still) flat broke, with taped together glasses and (still) cheap equipment , I will still be playing music and touring, like Keelhaul. It’s been a long time since these math-stoner titans hit the west coast, and I was really glad that I dragged mice-elf out to see them. Woo-hoo.
I’d heard Russian Circles on record before, and wasn’t impressed, boring instrumental music, and not even that heavy. I decided to kick it in the back yard, watch one of the Keelhauls be increasingly shitfaced, and listen to the other guys talk about, and show me pictures on their I-phone, how they stayed at Danny Carrey from Tool’s house the past two nights. I forgot how they know him. Weird. Every now and then I tried to divine whether the Russian Quirkies had improved at all since their album “Enter.” It didn’t sound like it. But of all the people who packed the club, I was one of the few who remained outside, so what does that tell you about how cool people love really boring stuff? Does Pitchfork or Vice tell them that this stuff is good, and they just take their word for it, go to the shows and automatically bob their heads to this shit unquestioningly while nursing their stellas? I don’t understand and I don’t care to. What a blessed existence.
Got all up in da club soon enough, made the grave mistake of paying when I was already on the guest list. (they never give your money back) Went straight to the backyard to get busy with the business of ignoring the opening band, who sounded way too poppy for my tastes at the moment. I absently assumed they were a local opener, put on the bill by an inept booker. Then I looked down at my newly charged phone and saw that I now had four texts from Robert Collins!
“Clint. Come Inside.”
“Seriously. Come inside right now, I know you’re here.”
“Dude you can’t miss this drummer.”
“Get your ass in here or you will miss the best drummer in the midwest.”
Once I realized what was going on. I ran inside to get a look at this drum pummeler, and of course by then it was the last song (whoops), but he was indeed very good. If I had been paying attention from the beginning (which you should all do now kids! Take it from an old man!) I would have realized that this disheveled powerhouse was the battery charging this poppy-garagey outfit, and they were actually pretty good.
I hope that when I’m a crusty old man, bald, (still) flat broke, with taped together glasses and (still) cheap equipment , I will still be playing music and touring, like Keelhaul. It’s been a long time since these math-stoner titans hit the west coast, and I was really glad that I dragged mice-elf out to see them. Woo-hoo.
I’d heard Russian Circles on record before, and wasn’t impressed, boring instrumental music, and not even that heavy. I decided to kick it in the back yard, watch one of the Keelhauls be increasingly shitfaced, and listen to the other guys talk about, and show me pictures on their I-phone, how they stayed at Danny Carrey from Tool’s house the past two nights. I forgot how they know him. Weird. Every now and then I tried to divine whether the Russian Quirkies had improved at all since their album “Enter.” It didn’t sound like it. But of all the people who packed the club, I was one of the few who remained outside, so what does that tell you about how cool people love really boring stuff? Does Pitchfork or Vice tell them that this stuff is good, and they just take their word for it, go to the shows and automatically bob their heads to this shit unquestioningly while nursing their stellas? I don’t understand and I don’t care to. What a blessed existence.
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