Joe Romano soulfully blew some laidback sax for our frozen bones on Friday at The Montage Grille. The joint was cozy, cool, and warm. And here's the guy to play in the background on Valentines Day, or when you simply have to say "I'm sorry."
When we're not busy downloading celebrity nudes, my know-it-all buddies and I love to debate punk rock's necessity, legitimacy, and worth. Was it necessary? Is it still necessary? Must it die to live? Who the hell do Blink 182 think they are anyway? The whole discussion can get pretty tangled and usually ends with someone in tears. For there is no clear answer. And with the industrial-strength suction found in commercial payola-driven radio, we need one, dammit. Guess what? I found it. It's here in our own front yard, amidst the Impalas on cinder blocks, dead grass, and lawn jockeys. It's loud, it's snotty, it's legit, and it'll no doubt die eventually, as all good things do. Never mind Sandra Bullock, it's The Shakletons.
Two Saturdays ago I saw this band for the first time. It played squealing punk rock with a general disregard for anything but the form and its own transgressive mischief. The energy quickly flashed throughout the room, causing the audience to genuinely act-up. Lead vocalist and wrangler Patrick (first names only, please) held an expression of mock confusion, quasi-anger, and genuine glee while the band pounded out its bruising beat. This is one of the best bands I've seen here in a while. Dig 'em, punk.
Flew out to California to see James Intveld play some slick country rock 'n' roll, dance to The Eddie Reed Big Band, eat at Roscoe's Chicken & Waffles, and wish former Rochesterian and current Maroon 5 tour manager Ron Mesh a happy 40th. And just when you thought it couldn't get any better, Quiet Riot and Skid Row are coming to town. Cum on feel the noize.
--- Frank De Blase