The Hold Steady

The Hold Steady at the Bowery Ballroom, NY, May 19, 2005

As the commandant of the Brooklyn-based rant-and-ravers The Hold Steady, Craig Finn turns rock 'n' roll into a grandiose parade float cruising down the streets of Smalltown, USA. He's a beat poet marching to the tune of a thousand toy drums being pummeled with Corona bottles. And he's also one of the most awesome frontmen in music today, boasting a wack-ass charisma that would normally bug the shit out of me. But the dude puts a lump in my throat.

On The Hold Steady's two visceral albums, The Hold Steady Almost Killed Me and the new goosebump-filled Separation Sunday, the band burned through enough emotional garbage heaps to make a gaping hole in the ozone layer. But it's Finn's lyrics and slightly slurred yammering that make 'em classic. He tells poignant stories of people, parties, and places he's never been, which seems unbelievable since his tales are so detailed and deranged you wonder what kind of mind can conceive of such moving, vivid, and sometimes preposterous scenarios. It's as if his eyes have been in and out of the eye sockets of all the junkies, bartenders, suburban philosophers, and punk rock kids from here to Vancouver. Time for Springsteen to scoot his Jersey ass over and let Finn sit on the throne.

At the Bowery Ballroom for Separation Sunday's release party, Finn emanated a lovable maniac brilliance that comes around once in a black-and-blue moon. He flailed his arms, yanked at his receding hairline, beamed with happiness, clapped his hands, ranted and raved like a barroom diva. He didn't know whether to shit or go blind, and neither did his fans. When the band tore into "Your Little Hoodrat Friend," the crowd up front swelled and pogo-ed to guitarist Tad Kubler's chords, while a horn section and back-up singer added smoothness to the mix. The songs addressed kids who got fucked up on drugs, got born again, and consequently got fucked up by Catholic youth groups. The whole night felt like a sweaty episodic redemption song that rocked everyone to the core of their very being.

Mastodon at the Bowery Ballroom, NY, May 12, 2005

Anyone with one ear to the ground can tell you that metal – notably extreme metal – has been garnering the kind of attention usually reserved for cute, tattooed pop-punk bed-wetters that grace the cover of A.P. magazine. How did a bunch of musicians who sound like they horde vikings up their asses get here? I have no earthly idea, but its got me bent over, anticipating a glorious rumble in my proverbial jungle.

As the heavy metal titans in Mastodon threw down mightily at the Bowery Ballroom, my very-metal friend described them as such: "These guys are so cool. But they're so cool that they're like, not cool, but they really are cool." Translation: "Mastodon are so kick-ass that they have won non-metalhead fans – specifically skinny emo-boys with dirty hair and ugly glasses – so I, being a traditional metalhead, regard this crossover appeal with a touch of skepticism. But in the end, Mastodon polish my knob like no other.

The band was touring behind their second album Leviathan, which was inspired by, of all things, Moby Dick – a book plenty of kids were required to read in school, but never did. Ahab's maniacal quest is what floats this band's boat, so to speak. Imagery of man versus nature, man versus beast, et cetera course through the veins of each song, and the music follows suit. Certain lyrics are even cribbed straight from Herman Mellville's text, which is a billion times more bad-ass than Cannibal Corpse singing about gore and vaginal skin. Anyway, the live set was a frothy brew of classic metal melodies and shrewd arrangements that swung like a two-ton pendulum. Like a sea ditty that took place during a hurricane, Mastodon rocked the shit out of our dinghies. Guitarists/vocalists Bill Kelliher and Brent Hines cast down ominous, agitated riffs like bolts of lightning that occasionally danced circles around each other. (Incidentally, Hines looks very much like the actor John C. Reilly.) Brann Dailor (drums) and Troy Sanders (bass/vocals) hammered and churned as half-assed mosh pits formed and collapsed, one after the other. The band returned for an encore and closed with "The Bit" by the Melvins – great ending to a perfect storm.