Apollo Sunshine - Concert Review

1/3 JJ Jazz Band Roots

Apollo Sunshine, Martyr's, Chicago, March 10, 2006--

Trying to explain what’s so good about Apollo Sunshine is like trying to explain which part of the cow tasted best in your all-beef frank. (Vegetarians, substitute Ben & Jerry’s.) All that’s obvious is something somewhere went right. As intangible as Apollo Sunshine is, their recent performance at Martyr’s in Chicago hinted at why the current media scramble to define their sound will soon end, and they’ll simply be known as A Great Band.

Apollo Sunshine lives in a farmhouse in Western Mass and makes music like they’re a trio of Yankee Craftsmen. Their show mixed future favorites with originally executed classics. Complex layering was subtly visible. Their set gave off a gleam of effort and practice, but didn’t try to sell anything over-lacquered. They chose not to attempt the most challenging forms, because they know that simple, flawless and neatly joined is more than enough. They’re happy to let someone else cover Cliffs of Dover.

But what good is a cherry dining room set if you can’t bring people together around a complete meal? Even a host with a prize-winning garden knows that the dinner often requires something raised by someone else. And so it was only organic that Apollo Sunshine shared Mazarin’s New American Apathy after their own Flip!, then uncapped Jimi’s flaming hot sauce, Crosstown Traffic.

Ever gourmet, Apollo Sunshine also knows that any course too big can spoil dessert. They hit the brakes on Crosstown Traffic just before merging into a jam with no local exits, stood on a second of silence (hold your breath), then powered instead into I Was on the Moon. Maybe a few in the room with telepathic iPod shuffle functions had heard the transition before and weren’t surprised. Everyone else got blasted into orbit. The change tied a chain straight to Hendrix, who towed Apollo Sunshine another inch toward the planet where the Rock Gods live forever.

It’s one thing to deliver pure entertainment. It’s another to have a habit of catching people off-guard when pure entertainment is all they’ve been expecting. Jimi set his guitar on fire. Apollo Sunshine prefers to ignite a spot in the mind that’s usually lost in the shadow of ego. Without picturing pet immolation, think of this spot as a puppy that’s been beaten and kicked since humans got names. But no matter how much abuse it takes, this spot is a puppy that wags its tail when it finds a bone of The Truth.

Apollo Sunshine doesn’t call to this spot through a disregard for future gossip and the subsequent release of heartbreaking personal details (although they take this path occasionally). They just cover you with glee like silly string, take it or leave it. Any cynic used to the former will attack Apollo’s blatantly positive lyrics (even when the lyrics aren’t 100% positive, they still carry a sparkle), but really, who can argue with “Today’s the day to act like today’s your day and you will be surprised that it is, that it is” and the aural illusion of rhyme generated by its giddy delivery? Or try, “You can say there’s more to life than this, but there’s always more to life,” for a complete philosophical rendering of the pointlessness of bashing Apollo Sunshine, or anything else, for as long as your heart works.

At times the lyrics edge towards being defined as scripture—things we really should remember but tend to forget too fast. The only thing keeping Apollo Sunshine from full-blown prophet status is that their words are memorable. And it isn’t a painful nag, either, like a slice of Muzak cheese heard in the grocery store and picked up like the flu. It’s a recurring, intoxicating dose of knowing you’ve discovered another good thing in this world. An inner loop very similar to trying to fall asleep after your first tongue kiss. A conviction that things will work out fine after all. But catchy and cleansing as their show is, nothing lasts forever. So next time they shine your way, see them and get reminded.

G-Money'$ photo ganked by me.

Technorati Tags: Apollo Sunshine, Martyr's, Chicago Music, SpinART Records, Da Bomb, Hendrix

Paranoid

Travis says:

"'explain paranoia? explain what it is? well...it's the residue of a decadent imagination, of an unchecked curiosity, it's like drinking from the most turbulent stream of your consciousness, it's the bacteria of,' and then i took a long-ass pause, like it was the end of the world coming, and said, 'post-evolution,' which was really just the articulated tip of this iceberg: it's a texture, a certain dark texture that's usually counterproductive in a pragmatic sense but never irrational or self-defeating, really, since it's usually just the prolonged manifestation of surival-mode that never extends beyond the framework of subjective possibility, that never lacks an opaque and redemptive foundation, given it's fundamentally reactionary, given it never deviates too far from some kind of genuine humanism, however tangential the means to the end are...but the essence of it, really, is this: it's the last signpost on the road to absurdity, and in that sense, it's very optimistic, and it's active, creative, passionate, the antithesis of apathy...it is, perhaps, the last hope of true liberation in an uncompromised framework, the last therapeutic embers of post-modernism burning beneath the wreckage."

Photo by foltzwerk.

El Camino de Chicago

I walk out from between buildings and see the church. For the last eight hours, I’ve been preparing for this. I cut through the small park in front of it and look up at the stone figures. I’m just a chip compared to them. I head towards the door and can read the words above it: “Queen of Angels”. At the last second, I turn and follow the sidewalk past the rectory. When it’s behind me, I know I’m halfway to the train station.

I can hear the trains coming and going. I used to pay attention, trying to time my arrival to be among the last to squeeze in. But I’ve been walking this route for a while, and now I take what I get. I can wait for the next one. It works out fine.

Strangers and I arrive at the door of the stop. Our credentials are validated and we’re let in. Usually it’s crowded, but mostly we keep to ourselves. Everyone is solemn, seemingly serving a penance. Most wear black. We’re taken past places we don’t normally see. Sometimes there’s magic out there. But more and more often, it’s words and numbers on signs.

We carry gear. Some travel light or have nothing at all, others are clearly overburdened. Most view the way as strenuous, as shown by the popularity of sitting. Some rush with a contagious urgency. Some even race, up escalators or toward empty benches. A few break the solitude with cell phones; others turn their way and frown.

We hold doors and give directions. We read the day’s page for information to help us through it. We share this help by leaving the page behind. Some of us travel in pairs or groups, but most are alone. Only a few go the opposite direction. Sometimes the same face is seen four days in a row, then not again for two weeks. Every age, every heritage is here, each for a reason. Not everyone knows that everyone has a destination.

Photo by eddieq.

Genes

In some parts of the world, a lifespan is broken into two. In the first half, people try to stay awake as much as possible. In the second half, they sleep. That’s it. They stay awake until around age 30, their growth is stunted and their thoughts uncontrollable. They usually go blind. They keep babies awake by banging pots and pans, and later with herbs. Education is a lost cause.

For the ladies, there’s a sort of ongoing feud designed to keep each other awake. Each carries a tattoo needle and an ink vial, ready to stab a dot onto the face of anyone caught sleeping. Men refuse to wed dotty-faced women. To avoid getting tattooed, the women travel in pairs, and each partner is charged with keeping the other awake. Men avoid sleep by walking in circles around the perimeter of the village. It’s hard to fall asleep while walking, but some do. When they fall, they usually break their nose or some other feature. Unlike America, a man with a bashed-up face doesn’t have the tough genes.

Photo by Lynnell My Belle.

Let's Hear It

Watermelon Man

What have you been working on lately? Leave some links/notes/self promo in the comment section so we can check it out.

Photo by Bob Jagendorf.

Granada 3

Last night I met a dentist and an oral surgeon. They were out at 3am, drinking Coca-Cola and beers. They said they had to work in the morning, and after a brief discussion of which nationalities are best in bed, they headed off to the biggest disco in town.

Photo by Arkangel.

Granada 2

Mercadona

Listened to cello on the radio while cooking my lunch today. There’s something I like about a culture that lets you take a mid-afternoon break for Yo-Yo Ma and pasta carbonara. Our apartment is decorated with parts of telephone booths. And yes, that’s a sperm bank poster above our dinner table. A lot of people ask how we got the shopping cart in here. I don’t know. I do know that the store it's from is half an hour away.

Photo by Xavi Calvo.

$5

Dr. Dre

What's five bucks? Starbucks. A week of gas station drip. Deli. A week of sandwich. Capital. Twenty temporary tattoos. Half of valet parking. A bar beer. An Oatmeal Cream Pie party. Laundry and a lollipop. The tax on on sale sneakers. A gallon from concentrate. Bum bait. The cover band’s cover. A rose, steel wool and a crack crumb. A sock full of quarters. Gnome airfare. The center of Ohio. Fifty unanswered texts. Five stripper tricks. A whim at the checkout. A walking-distance taxi ride. Jukebox occupation. Ten pounds of citrus. An hour of disagreeable work. An Indian holiday. Warm-up on the foosball table. A 50% stake in a Yankee Stadium beer. My kinda haircut. The start of a stamp collection. A night of goosebumps. A lawyer uncapping a pen. Two hours in front of the TV. The plastic on a Benz key. A row of baby teeth. Donativo. Overpriced champagne. A dirty piece of paper.

Photo stolen from a future Senator by mayopants.

Sentence Stories

She dug through the toolbox, grabbed the biggest wrench and brought it down on the spinning record.

He hoisted the flag, turned to face the grandstand and took a bullet in the nose.

She looked at the stack of receipts, the bud of the orchid and the mailbox.

He took a swig of moonshine, turned up the Holst and lowered the snowplow.

She peeked over her shoulder, tilted her plate and dropped the fish into her purse.

He jumped off the roof, flipped one and a half times and landed just shy of the deep end.

He lit the M-80, dropped it in the Guinness and slid the glass down the bar.

He opened the laptop, typed an eighteen-digit acronym and blacked out Scandinavia.

He signed the guestbook, slid off his ring and snapped his suspenders.

He climbed onto the tracks, turned north and opened his trench coat.

She ordered a Pabst, took off her sweatshirt and turned her attention to the bassist.

He finished the opera, stepped out of the shower and into a bear trap.

She dove to the bottom, searched in the seaweed and spotted her diamond in a jellyfish.

He climbed the steeple, clung to the bell’s clapper and checked his watch.

He sauntered onto the boardwalk, grabbed a stick of cotton candy and exercised confidence in the construction of his diaper.

She stopped at the river, felt the rocks around the fire pit and slashed the van’s tires.

He opened his umbrella, stirred the spaghetti and hoped for a passing train.

She lit a cigar, spun the roulette wheel and called the number pasted where the ball landed.

He fell from the airplane, tucked his limbs and aimed for a basketball hoop.

She shook the spray paint, looked down and inched closer to the billboard.

He left the baby on the grass, spat black and ran back in the burning house.

Photo by danatteo.

Jay

Although he sat listening to his favorite band on a Bose stereo, Jay gnawed at his lip. In fifteen minutes, he and Samara would converge on the Golden Angel Pancake House and share a table. A table three blocks from his bed. He forwarded to the next song on the album and pulled chapped skin with his teeth. He tried to remember what shirt he wore when he saw her last. He couldn’t remember, so he picked something he hadn’t worn in a few months. But on the chance his body’s unfamiliarity with the garment would give him an air of awkwardness, he put it back.

He settled on a stripe-based Oxford and hung it on the closet doorknob. He chose the boxers that had been present for something he’d never talked about and tossed them next to the jeans on his bed. He only had one pair of going-out jeans. The denim had begun to blister into a white spot near the bottom of the fly, and he had no idea what he’d do if it erupted into a hole.

Photo by pjchmiel.

Granada

Barcelona, so what.

Every night they bring out the firehoses and wash the dog shit down the drain. You’d think the firehose guys’ boss would tell them to respect the neighbors, but at 3:45am they’re still belting out opera. Maybe they’re giddy from the neon-green jumpsuits. Maybe they’re drunk via osmosis from passing students. Maybe they’re criminals. You can ask. I’m not about to sneak up on a Latin man holding a full-tilt firehose between his legs and tap him on the shoulder.

Photo by zota.