Jam Session: An Evening With The Black Angels
Tone, Spindrift and the Black Angels @ the Rock n’ Roll Hotel
The owner of the recent line of H Street venues/bars might have envisioned the new businesses as an eventual impetus of a thriving entertainment district. Even a name like Rock n’ Roll Hotel might invoke expectations of grandeur-perhaps a renovated 1920s hotel with a wide stage area and balcony; something catering to big name acts and pricey tickets, competing with arenas but with the additional benefit of atmosphere. But in fact, the Rock n’ Roll Hotel, along with its sister establishments the Red & Black and the unusual Playhouse of Wonders offer reasonable ticket prices and the District’s usual semi-bohemian atmosphere: tacky decoration and black-clad hipsters, but not the cheap beer or food that would might afford it the quality of an absolute dive. Regardless, the H Street experiment suffers from location. It is inconvenient to the metro and surrounded by little more than all-hours omnibus fast food options, offering little incentive to the frequent show attendant whose mental map of DC rarely includes anything beyond the northwest corridor.
Although still just as much a stage to local and unknown musicians, the Rock n’ Roll Hotel competes with U Street’s Black Cat and the quick-selling 9:30 Club to host more visible performers. The Black Angels, psychedelic rockers of Austin, Texas (featured in the second issue of Montag), headlined a Sunday night bill in early November that also included the DC-based seven piece, Tone, and the California psychedelic rock outfit, Spindrift. Waiting for the box office to open, AC and I sat at the sparsely populated upstairs bar with bottles of Yuengling. Winged guitars lined the ceiling. Cattle skulls assembled to various bodies attached to the wall behind the bar resembled something from a bad horror movie or the contempo-creepy, nonsense art exhibits at PS-1 in New York. Behind the pool tables were two partially partitioned rooms where the decoration looked to be inspired by scenes from Clue and hodge-podge methods of contest-style DIY-décor shows. Spindrift’s lead singer sat nearby hunched over a mixed drink. His face was hidden by unruly hair and a thick mustache and he wore a black blazer covered in a simple moon and star motif. Passing him earlier in the hallway, he plainly said with uncertain sarcasm “It’s good to be back in DC.”
Watching Tone, the first opening act, felt like the first-hand observation of basement band practice. The band, comprised of almost all shapeless men, all dressed in black shirts, looked like an army of daytime IT professionals. On the small stage, the guitarists formed a half-circle around two full drum-kits, although the energetic drum duo contrasted with the lethargic guitarists (except the bassist). The music was structured on odd chords and tempo changes and tensions among some of the guitarists became apparent during missed cues and incorrect chord changes. No one spoke during the fully instrumental set until they were finished and one of the guitarists announced the band’s name as they immediately began packing their instruments.
Between sets, AC and I gave up waiting for the kitchen to open and scouted the streets for food options, although the nearest place open after nine on a Sunday night was Rainbow City, one of the omnibus fast food joints typical to northeastern DC. The awning advertisement of a menu consisting of seafood, subs, Chinese food, burgers and pizza can make even a sober stomach churn from thoughts of the less-than-sanitary food factory behind its doors. The place is built like a bank, with a British-system rotating ordering window and thick panes of Plexiglas which might seem like an effective protection from potential gun-wielding intruders were it not for the pesky detail of the flimsy side door that delivery drivers pass through.
I would learn later that the two men awaiting their orders alongside us were guitarists from the Black Angels. The blond asked me where he could buy cigarettes and a neighborhood man standing to order offered directions to the gas station convenient store. The dark haired musician was finishing his conversation about going into a K-Mart before Halloween and hearing Christmas music, which made him feel like stabbing someone. I noticed the same thing while in an arts and crafts store on Halloween weekend. The two musicians finally got their orders of Chinese food and inspected the paper bags for accuracy, the conversation now moving to Thanksgiving. The dark haired musician said he didn’t need a day to obligate thankfulness when he felt that way everyday. When they left, I stood awkwardly waiting for my food when the neighborhood man said to me, “Can you believe that? He hates Thanksgiving. I bet his favorite holiday is Halloween.” I laughed and nodded politely, amused by the strangely angsty conversation. When AC came back from the ATM, we went back to the car to eat like cops on stakeout.
Queasy from my half smoke and fries mistake, we returned to the Rock n’ Roll Hotel before Spindrift took to the stage. We ordered beers and lounged near the pool tables. In the far corner, an older black man danced near the jukebox as it played some funk-soul track. And when the thumping of guitar and drum sound-checks came through the floor, we made our way downstairs to the stage area, the audience now beginning to crowd the small venue. Girls in long flowing skirts and denim jackets stood alongside generic guys with drab t-shirts and vintage locks-this recreation of the hippie being appropriate for the psychedelic rock schemes of Spindrift and the Black Angels.
In recordings, the two revivalist bands appear divergent. Spindrift draws on a rock n’ roll style characteristic of a band like the Doors; songs that make you envision heat-swamped abandoned highways, which is especially evident in a songs like Red Reflection and The Legend of God’s Gun, the title track of the spaghetti western rock n’ roll DVD promoted by the band at their merchandise booth that evening. On stage, the lead singer, who’s somewhat exhausting disconnect reminded me of the mescaline-filled adventures of Dr. Gonzo, wielded a crisp Gibson. A long-haired bassist strumming a double-neck bounced around behind him. The rest of the co-ed band featured the regular indie rock setup of guitars, keyboards, and drums. And, for this set, a guitarist for the Black Angels, stood off to the side playing the tambourine accompaniment.
On the other hand, the Black Angels in their recordings might be immediately guessed to be heirs of the Velvet Underground’s style, especially in the mellower vocals and drone. Ironically, however, they maintain a standard, physical indie rock band appearance.
But on stage, the two bands were almost interchangeable in certain characteristics such as the echoing microphone effects, hallucinogenic background projection that modeled a Jefferson Airplane Monterey Pop performance (Spindrift abandoned the latter prop for this particular show), and songs drifting from organization and structure into dreamy and cacophonous improvisation.
But of the three performances, the evening’s best was Spindrift, which lends credibility to the “second opening band is usually better than the headlining act” theory that AC had once suggested. Whereas Spindrift particularly distinguished themselves with vigorous guitarists and, perhaps unfairly, as a novelty that made the Black Angels set seem repetitive, the Black Angels set, I was disappointed to conclude about the band I had long awaited to see, was in one word: boring. Even the best tracks like the guitar-heavy Black Grease, and the critical First Vietnamese War and Snipers at the Gate began under an umbrella of a seemingly disinterested vocalist and soon unraveled into lengthy improvisation. Several hours of jam band music can be quite exhausting for an audience.
