Hank III - Live in Brooklyn

There are many artists clamoring for the now-vacant title of Hardest Working Man in Show Business, but my vote goes unquestionably to Hank Williams III. The reason is simple: I've never seen another performer play three completely different (yet equally raucous) sets without taking a break in between. So when his tour pulled in to Brooklyn's Music Hall of Williamsburg on the eve of my birthday, I knew I had to be there.

Williams has always been a creative soul with an identity crisis, balancing his love of heavy metal and punk rock with his country pedigree. His approach to expressing these genres is a methodic one: tackle each style, one at a time. Starting off with a tradition country set and a band that included fiddle, banjo, stand-up bass and steel guitar players, Williams took the audience on a musical tour of the American South, churning out both original and classic yarns based on tales from West Virginia, Georgia, Texas, and Tennessee. The most rancor was reserved for the latter, particularly Nashville's Grand Ol' Opry for refusing to grant his grandfather, the country legend Hank Williams, a posthumous reinstatement. [For more info or to sign the online petition, click here.]



From there, he ramped things up by changing hats (literally) and going into the Hellbilly part of the night with Assjack, bringing out singer Gary Lindsay to help belt out rockers like "Six-Pack of Beer," "Country Heroes" and "Life of Sin." Of note: after many years of circulating official bootlegs, Assjack will finally be releasing their official debut on Curb Records, due out on August 4.



It really wouldn't be a Hank III show without a final punk rock set, though at this point most of the crowd had cleared out. Paying particular homage to GG Allin and the Murder Junkies (GG's brother Merle and drummer Dino took the stage for a song), the band went through several hellacious, industrial-strength tracks and teased the audience with riffs on Slayer's "Reigning Blood" and Ministry's "Stigmata." After much sound and fury—not to mention equal parts spilled beer and blood—the show came to a frenzied, sweaty end.



For more photos, check out the gallery here.

Let's Deport Speidi

As much as I loathe to devote any of my time, bandwidth or breathe on the gruesome twosome known as "Speidi," I found this post on E! Online interesting. Apparently, they've launched a poll to see if their viewers are indeed sick of these two walking organ donors.

Seriously, why do you need a poll? There's this thing I learned about in journalism school called "news value" and that the established media are "gatekeepers." So really? Do you have to ask? Just stop reporting on them.

The debate I'm really interested in is to see if maybe President Obama can write a bill to have them deported. I think they'd do really well in Germany.

Shut Up And Listen To... Monster Magnet

During my college days, I spent many hours listening to New Jersey's Monster Magnet in altered states. There was just something about all their psychedelic influences, the power rock chords and singer Dave Wyndorf's constant references to Marvel Comics characters (in fact, he once told me during an interview that he strived to write lyrics the way Jack Kirby drew comics—all angular and greater than life) that ingratiated Monster Magnet to me, particularly their watershed 1995 album, Dopes To Infinity. To this day, it still feels like home.

Yet like so many other bands, Monster Magnet subsequently ran out of steam and released a series of sub-par records that sullied their otherwise stellar catalog.

Last month, I went to see Monster Magnet—now reunited with guitarist/Atomic Bitchwax founder Ed Mundell—on a whim, hoping they'd ignore their last few albums. Not only did they exceed my expectations, but they also played all their standards, starting with the opening track from Dopes, plus underground classics like "Zodiac Lung," "Tractor," "Spine of God," "Melt," and my favorite song by them, "Blow 'Em Off." The result? I fell into their vortex all over again and listened to them for the next three days.

So today, in concord with Music Monday on Twitter, I'm telling all you suckers, LISTEN TO MONSTER MAGNET.

Fuck What You Like

It's true. I've been even more bitter than usual as of late. Though I suspect a lot of it comes from employment search frustration, I'm fairly certain some of it also comes from a Vitamin Peen deficiency in my diet.

Sure, there are ways to deal with all this: exercise, booze, Craigslist casual encounters. But I choose to focus on some more creative endeavors like this blog, my still-being-constructed portfolio site, and contributing vitriolic ideas to my new favorite Tumblr blog: Fuck What You Like.

When they land their book deal, I want a piece. And if you see me, feel free to throw a job, some dick or mind-enhancing substances my way. In that order.

Meet My New Man: Chris Hemsworth

Everyone's been making a big deal out of Star Trek's Chris Pine (who, by the way, is the son of C.H.i.P.s' very own Sgt. Joseph Getraer, Robert Pine), but my eyes—and loins—are too busy being captivated by the dude who played his dad in the movie, Australian actor Chris Hemsworth.

Even more amazing: according to reports, Chris will be playing Marvel Comics' Thor in the Kenneth Branagh-directed adaptation set to hit theatres in 2011. Adding to this already heightened nerd cred, the 25-year-old will also be starring in the remake of Red Dawn, plus the Joss Whedon/Drew Goddard-written horror flick, The Cabin in the Woods.

Problem is, I don't think I can wait that long to see him again. And since my birthday is coming up, I'm thinking Chris should just holler at me. First time is always free ;)

Dispatches From The CD Mines

Along with the basic patriotic duties I took part in over Memorial Day weekend (Fleet Week sailor wooing, beer, tube meats), I made a point to listen to the haphazardly piled promo CDs stacked on my stereo. Some won't be released for a month, others have been hovering there since January; all got a fair listen (OK, maybe not all. I've got a dozen or so records left to go through). While I don't plan on reviewing them in detail, I jotted down some notes below.

Up next: the horde of digitally delivered promos currently clogging my iPod (Eminem, Virus, Oceano). I do it so you don't have to.

Good:

Iron Age's The Sleeping Eye of the Watcher — A little more sophistication than I expected from these TXHC Cro-Mags worshippers.

John Doe and the Sadies' Country Club — Who knew the famed X vocalist had a yearning for honky tonk crooning? With an all-star band behind him, John Doe takes on several country classics to great success.

Genius: The Ultimate Ray Charles Collection — So perfect for a relaxing Sunday.

Amesoeurs' s/t — I have no idea how this record came into my possession, but this shit rules. Part ethereal female vocals with shoegaze guitars, part blast beats and black metal, Amesoeurs do it all, and in French. Apparently they've been around for a minute, but this was my first encounter with them. Get familiar.

Not-So-Bad:

Dinosaur Jr.'s Farm — Though I'm still forming a final opinion on this one, I'm proud to announce that J Mascis & the original band in no way f'd up on Farm.

Los Straitjackets' The Further Adventures of Los Straitjackets — Salsa-flavored instrumental surfer rock. Plus I finally got to hear the band whose name I'd seen so often.

Riverboat Gamblers' Underneath The Owl — My 18-year-old cousin—and countless Warped Tour fans—would probably love this.

Meh:

The Number Twelve Looks Like You's Worse Than Alone — This one just hopped too many Hot Topic trends to leave any kind of impression of what they're about.

Tom Morello/Boots Riley's Street Sweeper Social Club — If you think the formula of skinny RATM riffs + Saul Williams' Niggy Tardust persona works, then you might just like this.

Twangy:

Justin Townes Earle's Midnight at the Movies — Not bad by any means, just a little too folksy for my taste.

The Bottle Rockets' Lean Forward — Akin to pop country from Margaritaville. Not my steez at all.

Awful:

Dirtfedd's The American Nightmare — Bad spelling, even worse meathead metal.

Oh, Erlene

It was one year ago today that we lost you, but you'll never be forgotten. Love you always. Rest in peace.