Suicide Frankenstein 

You know, sometimes it's fun to look at the guts and the bones they cling to. I'm talking about rock bands here. As they tweak, tune-up, goose, augment, and twist, rock bands are as much fun to watch as the final draft. A lot of the well-oiled machines you dig onstage are put together suicide Frankenstein style; that is, there ain'tno mad doctor to summon the lightening the band ultimately rides. It's fascinating, I tell ya.

In their secret West side lair, The New York Vaults let the violence and power of the music dictate how it sounds. Sure, these guys collectively come from the same reference points --- Iggy, Alice, Lizzy, etc. --- and yeah, it's called practice. But the reality is that the music is already there waiting for five lightening rods to flesh it out. It's in dingy warehouses like this where rock 'n' roll is at its ugliest and prettiest. It's raw and real. So the next time the band next door or upstairs or across the street is rattling the fixtures and gnawing into your sleep, remember that it's not their fault. The music's playing them.

Too fast to be stoner, too precise to be punk, Dixie Witch's music played the hell out of the Texas trio last Thursday night at The Bug Jar. Two years ago I likened the band's drummer to the Son Of Sam if he'd opted for sledge hammers in lieu of a roscoe. They rocked. Rocked.But Canadadon't want 'em, baby. The band lost all their Canadian dates on this tour as they were turned away at the border. So they got cozy here, had a barbeque (those Texans love their barbeque) and delivered a soulful (that's right, metal with soul) set. The bass was solid and locked-in with the kick drum beneath the greasy, meaty guitar. Kinda like Zeke in low gear. And those drums...man... Who knows, maybe this'll be the summer of Dixie Witch. Just no making out in cars, OK?

--- Frank De Blase