Supertanker - Full Flavor - Shut up and listen - a slew of punks
some Ramblers

I've got it rough. To do this column properly I'm forced to attend concert after concert, consuming gallons of milk and rubbing elbows with that most unpredictable of all celestial entities: the rockstar. It's no small feat, and I fear it might be interfering with my day job at the Bird Call Emulation Facility. I don't remember it too well, but I'm told that after passing out on the testing range a couple days ago, I was heard muttering: "No, Britney: salt first, then tequila and then the lime." It gets pretty crazy in rockstarville. As I left work today, someone I've written about yelled "CRISPY!!" out the window of a passing vehicle. Don't these rockstars know how to read? It's CRIPsy, thank you very much. Not crispy. Crispy means brittle. CRIPsy means a duck who talks trash about your band in the local paper. Ever heard of Nipsey Russell? Think Nipsey, but say Cripsy. These people think I'm some kind of Cantonese entree. My labors began early this holiday season with a 10th Anniversary party for the C-Ville Weekly. Ever heard of it? It's a cool little rag out of Charlottesville, Va. that.... ah, never mind. Anyway, they had this party on the Corner in the old Anderson Brothers building, a giant empty space awaiting the influx of a new Plan 9 and a sorely needed Higher Grounds. Therein, a bunch of literary-type folks and sympathizers were cavorting and carrying on in a "ho-ho-ho" kind of way and generally soaking up a lot of free suds in honor of central Va.'s most interesting journalistic endeavor. Supertanker was providing the mood music, jamming amidst candles and dangling decorations. If you recall, instigator Peter Greisar's home brewed CD Disposable Love Songs was a lovingly dry underground Bowie-esque kind of affair, and early versions of the Supertanker band reflected that ethic. They have since been infected by the jam, sometimes even resembling a psychedelic rock outfit. Arrangements are no longer eerily sparse, but fleshed out and occasionally overstuffed. The rhythm section of Ben Jacobs, Rod Coles and Raphael Wintersburger is a raggedy powerhouse combo that would be difficult (if not at least uncomfortable) to leash, so keeping them "on a long lead" seems a happy alternative, but some of the Greisar effect's lo-fi charm may have been compromised in the process. You can dance to them better now, but it's as if the jam obscures some of the quirky genius haunting Greisar's stuff. Then again, I liked them alot anyway and I had absorbed a quantity of free suds by the time I arrived at this thought, so I could have been... (hic)... mistaken. (never!) (Duck Note: This review provoked an angry response.) The band quit playing and it was still Monday night so I knew I could catch Full Flavor upstairs at Michael's Bistro. Junebug enjoys some Flavor It doesn't really make much difference what day it is or who is playing in Matthew Willner's band -- if you're in the mood, Full Flavor will funk you. The house was full and I was feeling fuzzy and so, naturally, I was funked. People were dancing between the tables and howling alot. Willner was roaming around with his wireless electric guitar, playing solos from back by the bar. An enthusiastic audience member jumped up on the mike and started moaning lustily. Just as I began to wonder where the mighty Matthew had disappeared to, I heard his voice by my ear: "Who's the white girl?" Much funky jamming ensued. On Thursday night I stopped by "Shut Up and Listen" at Tokyo Rose. Without overhyping the happily well-attended event, it should be said that Peter Greisar was deeply appreciated in solo and duet form, Karmen and the mini-Fridge were lovely, David Sickmen returned gracefully to the realm of pretty pop, Lauren Hoffman delivered the goods (and a cool-ass Bella Morte cover) and the My Art Project provided an earful of original acoustic stuff. Melkerson and shoe On Friday I foolishly returned to Tokyo Rose for a punk barrage. Oh happy fool! Charlottesville is home to some excellent punk acts, and if you own earplugs (which I stongly recommend - them kids're loud! (Duck Note: No foolin'!! I'm still recovering from ear damage I incurred that night after stupidly dropping my earplugs. Ouch!)) you must go out and see them sometime. Friday's show saw Slacker Work Ethic, Riot Act, the Counselors and the Elderly all in fine form, thrashing about and driving leather and spike clad buddies into a frenzy. It was glorious, really. Worthy of special mention were the antics of Jeff Melkerson, lead singer for the Counselors, always ready with some bonus craziness. Friday night he introduced the crowd to the concept of "Impressionistic Butter Pubic Hair Wall Art." Pounds of margarine in hand, he attempted to coerce audience members into trying out this new art form, but there were no takers, so the sticks were strewn about the room and squished onto various attendees, providing cholesterol-free fun for the whole family! Tent Ramblin' Saturday I found myself in an amazingly bizarre and beautiful house in Schuyler, every room of which was architecturally distinct and elaborately decorated. There I stumbled upon a mini Rick Danko remembrance jam with Hogwaller Ramblers Jamie Dyer and Rolland Colella in a little clown tent of a room all decorated - walls and ceiling - with patchwork fabrics. I'd have stayed all night, maybe even never left, but sobriety kicked in and I flew home. I'm O.K, you're Y2K. -Cripsy Duck cripsyduck@mindspring.com

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