Last Thursday’s show at the Ottobar found two out of the three bands mingling amongst the audience at some point during their sets.
Surprisingly, the notoriously raucous headliners Black Lips were not included in the aforementioned two. This is not to say the Black Lips were lacking in entertainment value.
As always, their outlandish behavior is what elevates their live shows above and beyond those of their garage punk-rock contemporaries.
While other bands in a similar sonic vein pluck apathetically at their strings — here’s looking at you, Vivian Girls — the Black Lips straddle and bite them.
The first band to take the stage, JEFF the Brotherhood, certainly wasn’t apathetic about the performance, although their extremely spaced-out behavior might have led some to mistake them as such.
Hailing from Nashville, Tenn., the band is comprised of two brothers — as their name intimates — Jake Orrall on guitar and vocals and “Jamin” Orrall on the drums.
Most of their songs are lyric-less, which afforded Jake several opportunities to enter the crowd and strum away from the floor, occasionally riffing as he leaned against the backs of audience members.
Their demeanor, page-boy haircuts and apparent inebriation were amusing, but after a few songs I found myself wishing for some vocals to mix things up.
I soon understood the reason for the lyrics’ absence: Jake’s voice is not necessarily what one would describe as “good.” It’s somewhat of a screeching, unintelligible Kurt Cobain impersonation.
Still, I continued nodding my head, enjoying the rest of the set for what it was: the fast and heavy marriage of a guitar and drum kit, as epitomized in their song, “The Ripper.”
The Brooklyn three-piece Vivian Girls soon compensated for a relatively short change over. They spent several minutes fine-tuning their amplifiers and instruments before beginning their first song.
I spent the majority of the Vivian Girls’s set unimpressed, and instead of really listening, debated the plight of the all-female band.
Feelings among the audience were mixed; some were very taken with their lo-fi music and melancholic tone while others found their music monotonous and performance boring, despite bassist Katy Goodman’s efforts to saunter into the crowd and psych them up.
Judging from the crowd, I concluded that, popular music aside, men are often far more receptive of all-female bands than women are.
It’s not self-loathing, nor is it jealousy; they just have to try harder to convince us (for some reason, I am much more open to the prospect of a female solo artist — I recently came into near fisticuffs with a Californian who had never heard of the greatest of them all, Joni Mitchell — than I am to an amalgamation).
The Vivian Girls, to me, were just an angrier, messier, mediocre version of Best Coast, which is almost humorous considering that the Vivian Girl’s former drummer Ali Koehler recently left them to join BC’s ranks.
Newcomer Fiona Campbell has since replaced her.
I couldn’t quite understand why guitarist Cassie Ramone, who appears to possess a repertoire of about six chords, is the lead vocalist, when Katy Goodman has an infinitely better voice.
I suppose it’s because harmonizing — Goodman’s post — requires a more adept ear.
Their set picked up towards the end as the harmonies increased and the songs grew a little more inventive.
I got the feeling, though, that their songs simply don’t translate well to a live setting, especially given the drawbacks of the sound system.
Songs I’ve previously enjoyed, such as “Wild Eyes,” seemed utterly cacophonous with Ramone’s drone against the sleet of instrumentals.
In order to really improve, I would suggest finding a new front woman, as Ramone’s one-note, awkward, tight-lipped act isn’t nearly as effective as she thinks it is.
Vivian Girls’s performance was even worse for the wear in light of their successors and headliners, Black Lips.
The four-piece from Dunwoody, a small suburb of Atlanta, flooded the venue with their enthusiasm the moment they took the stage.
There are no weak links among the members, with each tossing around vocal duties like an especially energized hot potato.
Guitarist Cole Alexander, however, in his conductor-inspired apparel, is arguably the most attention grabbing.
He all but humps his guitar, climbs Joe Bradley’s drum kit like it’s a jungle gym and frequently spits in the air, catching his saliva as it falls, before swapping it with fellow guitarist Ian Saint Pé Brown — all in between turns at the mic.
(Alexander has also been known to expose himself and urinate on stage, though he managed to keep it in his pants for Thursday’s show.)
Admittedly, I am only familiar with a handful of the Black Lips’s songs, recognizing just “Katrina,” “Bad Kids” and “Veni Vidi Vici,” but the rest of their set was just as catchy and enjoyable.
They manage to stay true to their lo-fi power-punk sound (or, “flower-punk,” as they describe it), but do not shy from experimentation, which can likely be chalked up to the versatility of each musician.
It’s also nice to see that the bassist, Jared Swilley, takes center stage — a somewhat unorthodox arrangement even if it looks more symmetrical.
I was impressed with Black Lips’s infectious and fun performance, enough so that I could forgive them for selecting such lackluster openers as Vivian Girls.
