The Automatik

House of Blues
May 31, 2003

I’ll let you in on a little secret: that whole “grunge” thing from the 90s was just some A&R guy’s way of making real rock music palatable to the masses again. Consider that the only things approaching rock in the late 80s were Redd Kross, Jane’s Addiction, and the first Guns ‘n’ Roses album and this will start to make sense. I have no concrete proof of this theory; it’s just a hunch, but a hunch that is edging closer to a fully-fledged hypothesis after seeing the Melvins again.

I’d heard they were playing with Tomahawk (Mike Patton) but considering the tickets were pricey and it was at the despised House of Blues, I’d written it off. My bro-in-law Mark insisted upon buying me a ticket because he and my sister have been begging me to listen to Tomahawk for at least a year now. Who am I to turn down a free ticket?

Fast forward to Saturday night. Although there were about ten people going to the show with us, only Summer, Mark, Paula (Mark’s sister), Corky (her husband), Toby (singer in Mark’s band), and I whiled away the time before the show eating sushi and talking about 80s music. Mmmm, sushi. Mmmm, 80s music. We all agreed that J. Lo is a moron who had no right to remake the “Maniac” video from Flashdance and should be stopped before she tries to remake Casablanca with Ben “Dirk Squarejaw” Affleck. Paula and I bonded over our inability to “get over” 80s music and listen to “new” stuff.

Openers Dalek were okay. They were doing that sort of rapping over weird samples thing that is so popular with the kids these days. I’ll say this, it was less irritating than most of the tripe that calls itself “rap” these days. As they lugged their gear offstage, who should prance into view but Melvins drummer Dale Crover, in a lovely two-piece black lacy negligee complete with ruffled panties. The Gimp (aka Kevin Rutmanis) made an appearance as well, and his fetish mask and CUNT t-shirt really set the tone for what was to come.

When the band officially took the stage, I was truly not prepared for the onslaught of RAWK MUSIC that was to come. I had forgotten how totally incredible the Melvins are live. King Buzzo’s deep, malevolent roar makes Gene Simmons sound like Nathan Lane and his guitar playing probably induces rampant sniveling in hipster boys who like Guided By Voices. All that, and he was wearing a long black dress with a giant “U” on it. To match bassist Kevin Rutmanis’s shirt with the giant “F,” natch. Rutmanis looked like a strange combination of early 80s Stewart Copeland and Brian Eno with his long, scraggly blonde hair and orange running shorts.

I recognized none of the Melvins songs but every one was amazing. Oh, how I ache for the early ’90s, and the last of the great punk bands with their collective “fuck you” to every slick, contrived, corporate piece of crap gracing the covers of Rolling Stone.

As Tomahawk set up their gear, we were treated to an oddly soothing mixture of 30s and 40s tunes, including one that was undeniably familiar:

When Der Fuehrer says, “We ist der master race” We HEIL! (pffft) HEIL! (pffft) Right in Der Fuehrer’s face

“My grandfather used to sing this!” I exclaimed to Summer and Paula who were highly amused and amazed that I remembered this.

As Tomahawk began to play, we realized that the crowd, which had been a comfortable density at the beginning, was now a suffocating mass of pushing and shoving. But Mike Patton was charismatic and crazy enough to overshadow any claustrophobic discomfort we may have had. Patton had a slew of gadgetry at the front of the stage that would not look entirely out of place next to Mr. Quintron’s Drum Buddy. But his singing and his obvious, erm, passion for what he does were undeniable. There’s no way you could give all the credit for the band’s sound to a bunch of gizmos and sequencers. I had no idea that the man could sing, I mean, really sing, like Freddy Mercury or Jeff Buckley. I also now know where my friend Mike Hickey gets his stage moves, hee hee.

It wasn’t exactly my cup of tea, but I was definitely impressed. Their musicianship is obvious and there were some songs, particularly some guitar riffs, that were quite haunting. And Rutmanis deserves a prize for playing two blistering sets in a row. I think there’s too much of that creepy, self-conscious “darkness” of bands like Tool and not enough humor or multi-genre referencing, but then again, I didn’t know any of the lyrics and it was only the first time I’d heard them. Patton’s sort of like the musical equivalent of a Picasso: an artist who can sing exceedingly well, but chooses to shriek and scream instead. I just don’t think that shrieking and screaming denotes originality or rebelliousness in and of itself. One song, towards the end, was almost like a post-war ballad of sorts, and that really worked for me. I suppose I’m prejudiced by Jim Foetus and his bag of tricks, with influences from rap, industrial, big band, swing, 80s pop, and Raymond Scott, and the fact that he can make his voice into the most lecherous, guttaral, demonic growl without the aid of any special microphones. But I’m perfectly willing to listen to more Tomahawk.

Coda: whoever played “Maniac” after the show deserves a pat on the back. Did they know we were talking about it at dinner? The bridge in that song rules!