The 22-20s/Southpaw/Feb 22, 2005

by Abi Cameron

The 22-20s look like the cast of Reservoir Dogs with better haircuts. They play a thudding, full-body impact, non-stop wall of gritty, supped-up neo-blues for 40 minutes – one song screeching into the next, transforming the 9 p.m. beer-nuzzling crowd into the 9:05 p.m. party. It’s dirty. It’s loud. The sound guy ran around his booth attempting to sooth the whining sound-system. The bass throbs down the stage, across the floor and up my legs when singer/guitarist/songwriter Martin Trimble’s first lines slam through the air and hit me. I want to dance. I want to make out with…somebody.

Bassist Glen Bartrup, tall and emaciated, is the focus of every press camera (and my point-n'-shoot) in the place. He struts around the stage like a young Mick Jagger, wrapping Trimble in his trailing cable and seemingly taunting him into an onstage battle of Who’s-The-Bigger-Rockstar. But this is not a choreographed rock show. There are no looping-“rockstar” moves. None of the usual “I’m-so-out-of-control” jumps and slides and jives. They create a show one beat at a time. It’s the first time in a long time that I’ve felt like I was seeing four guys playing their hearts out. This cranking energy is not lost on the crowd. Trimble sneers back. Bartrup gyrates into his bass and writhes in fits of ecstasy.

Tumbling bass and drum syncopations, like sneakers in a dryer, make me feel like a Mexican jumping bean. I just don’t know which way to jump first. Instead, I’m carried away on the rolling, gospel-kissed organs that they slather on top of it all. All the while, Trimble slurs and growls and prances his way through one incendiary song after another. With the best use of syncopated rhythms since 'Cry Me A River', the 22-20s are a hybrid of Interpol and Slim Harpo.

Formed three years ago and named after the Delta bluesman, Skip James'
piano-led '22-20 Blues,' the Lincolnshire 22-20's are not what is rolling off the current garage-rock conveyer belt. They play fast bluesy rock. This isn't your White Stripes novelty-brand blues; this is the real thing - they've got heavy, dirty bass guitar, and enviable guitar maneuvers. The bulk of their set is composed of catchy, filthy songs that embed themselves in your cranium on impact. They actually have something to hang their hat on – white man's blues. It's the same blues that Eric Clapton brought to British music in the late 60s, Bowie twisted into one-blue-eyed soul in the 80s and the Black Keys have brought into the 21st century.

They have the obligatory garage-rock Ode to a Fucked-up Relationship ("Messed Up") and the standard Ye Olde Apology Song ("22 Days") but they douse these less than original themes in seeping rhythms and noise so full and distinct that I don’t care. You just want to see what happens next.

The licks, hooks and chops are all there and you get the sense that they are playing from a need to get something off their chests and it works. If you’re shooting for the blues as white boy brits, you’ve got to really mean it and persuade an audience you really mean it. The 22-20’s are very convincing. They play straight-forward blues-rock that you could probably hear coming out of any dive bar in Mississippi, but the 22-20s take what could be a languid, bluesy jam and pound you over the head with it. Again. And again. And I still wanted more.

Perhaps the 22-20's best song is "Devil In Me." An exhausting bass line, rock-hard drums and lyrics lifted from Robert Johnson's diaries propel this sweat-inducer from its actual four-plus minutes into what seems like a minute forty-five. This is the one to put on a tape for an ex-boyfriend to convince him that you've turned evil and hard post break-up.

The show ends when they just simply stop. The stage is empty in minutes. There has been no banter between the band and the audience during the show. Nothing is said when they leave the stage. This is not a band for small talk. And I could care less.

The Strangeways Glee Club/Floyd, NY Bar in Brooklyn/ Feb.13, 2005

Is it fair? Shall the critique be unleashed? These people were volunteers after all. Aid workers gathered to lead the lovelorn in the singing of songs by the Smiths.

The answer is right there. Fairness? It is but a fantasy in the world governed by Messrs Morrissey and Marr. Nature’s a language, can’t you read?

So the Strangeways Glee Club was but a group of amateurs. They had to pluck the lyrics off of sheets of papers. The dude on the acoustic guitar couldn’t get it right. One of the singers looked like a zippy fourth grade teacher.

But you want an academic discussion about The Authentic, huh, bigmouth? It’s in the pub. It’s two friends sharing stories about The Smiths while singing songs by The Smiths as led by a community group manhandling songs by The Smiths. All on the eve of Valentine’s Day.

Yes, it was a crime that “How Soon is Now” was not part of the evening’s program, but do you blame them? Do you know anyone who can play that song? And is it their fault that at least one person in the room was crushed that “Ask” remained unfurled? How could they know that the bucktoothed girl from Luxemburg is a specter that haunts my, er, her everyday existence? These petty grievances seemed not to bother the chortling choir members dressed in black.

And thank goodness for that. Self-absorption was the drink of the day and everyone there was soused on the stuff. Together.

The Arcade Fire/Webster Hall/Feb 1, 2005

Dear Diary,

Ohmigod, last night I got to see the Arcade Fire. They…are…so…CUTE. Every single one of the hundred band members, completely fuckable. Even that singer guy Win who sorta summons the je ne sais quoi of Rocky Horror Show’s Riff Raff. Win, if this diary ever becomes public, please know that this is totally a compliment.

But I have to confess. Can I confess to you, sweet receptacle of my innermost thoughts? I hate them. To death.

See, during the whole show, they all kept switching instruments with the laissez faire of a pre-schooler running from game to game in the basement rec room. The hopped from keyboards to drums to accordion to bass to tambourine. They made it seem easy. Diary, I have tried to play one instrument in my life and have failed miserably. How do the kids in the Arcade Fire think it makes those of us not blessed with the nexus of creative and math smarts feel? The answer is dumb and bitter.

But then again, it’s hard to stay mad. You see, they all line up and shout the ebullient choruses at you, almost like a dare. Come on, join us. We are singing at YOU. Double triple dare you!

And then different players act out these dorky tableaux during songs: the two violin players start pretending that they’re having a vicious lover’s quarrel, a man in a motorcycle helmet starts pummeling the dude with the accordion, two of ‘em start waltzing. This is strictly study hall goofs and they’re unabashed about it. Know why? These guys are having fun. You just can’t hate them.

Diary, know what else I feel really dumb about? I think I was standing behind David Bowie the whole time and didn’t even know it.

See, I got a VIP pass because I’m writing about the show for another outlet besides you. Don’t be mad, ok? Why they gave me a VIP, I’ll never know. I had fully planned to be with the hoi polloi. I had dressed accordingly: tons of light layers to shed as I got hotter and hotter packed in with the masses. I got there early.

So it was a surprise, this VIP thing. When I entered the VIP balcony, I noticed that all the good places were these tables against the railings that had reserved signs on them. Since I was so early, no one was sitting at them and I picked the best one and sat down, thinking the person would ask me to move when they got there.

Well, just before the AF hit the stage they got there.

A huge burly man swooped in and shouted, “This table is reserved for INSERT LADY’s NAME HERE, move away from the area.” He was really mean. I was thinking, “Who the hell is this lady?” I had never heard of her. She was over forty and a little jangley.

I wasn’t going to let them get the best of me, no way. So, I had to give up my seat. No biggie. Didn’t mean I was going to abandon my post. So I stood behind her date, a dorky guy with a British accent. Diary, please believe that this man had no Bowie aura whatsoever. He seemed like this lady’s date and was dragged to the show. Granted, I mostly saw the back of his head. But still.

I got into the show, but this huge bodyguard stood right behind me the entire time, practically pressing into my back. Who the hell was this lady who needed a body guard all night? They quickly went backstage before the show to meet the band. When they wanted to leave, the lady nodded to the burly guard who practically lifted me up and moved me out of the way.

When I left the show I called Agent Amy Phillips to do some internet recon and look up the lady's name. Amy came up with this. Duh. I am dumb. Still, I gotta say, in person Bowie comes off as a dad. A dad who was into the show. As was I.

All said, a good night Diary. A good night.