The ever sartorial Matt Jones . . . so let us begin at evening’s ending, yes? Dressed down, as it were, in a sport coat, our Jones, the mensch, did most certainly and without question distinguish himself as the only of the evening’s vocalists whose vocals were mostly decipherable. “A weird show, but a good show,” he remarked, mid-set. I durst not ask him why so many computer-typed blokes are up in arms over the band name Master/Slave (Feature Podcast). At any rate, ’twas a rollicking good time indeed seeing Matt on stage, holding court as a solo act in the absence of Ephraim, his drummer–though the end of the set did bring all the members of Vows to the stage. They joined Matt for a stout finale and an exceptionally well-written, penultimate number about Reno, NV, the biggest of littlest rubbish heaps. The rock and roll is there, friend. Oy! And thanks for tweaking your levels, mate, so we could pick the words out. Cheers.
Before Matt Jones, it was Vows: hear, hear! Two drummers, a guitar, and bass, lots of vocals washing about, nearly a kilometer in ladyboy hair, good structure to everything they played. Songs like “Beautiful Perfect” demonstrate a pretty handsome knack for metapop styling, both in the precocity of the lyrical content and the sonority of vocal lines, the latter which travel from grinning duet to earnest foursome and back again. Methinks I did overhear some bloke or other in the audience say, “I believe those may be the ugliest birds I’ve ever seen.” Yes, the sort that inspire a bit of, shall we say, consideration but for a blind old punter like yours truly, that is, until a certain discovery be made: bollix. Bollix on all of them, pretty as a picture, mate. Drat.
First to play: Pants, Pants, Pants, and weren’t they a fine, buggering mess? The lady singer goes by Lauren; also a talented baker she seems, and a proper yank (Brooklyn). Her sound and her cupcakes did abound in equal measure. She projects on up-tempo, well-meaning indie tech hop songs, although she’d ought insist her mates turn down just a hair. We can’t understand you, love. According to bassist / trombonist / tech-supportist Steve, “She’ll cut you.” Or at least leave you a-dangling there at another stellar public house wishing you weren’t such a dastardly boor, wishing, old boy, that you knew the first thing to say to a woman with a voice like that. She also plays melodica in her spare time. Who doesn’t, then? Her party-boy buddies serve up a lurid, though somewhat novel, electro-rock cocktail, Ivan busying himself about his funk batterie, Steve alternately holding down bass and synth and cpu, we reckon. Like Matt Jones said in a fake British accent, “a weird show, but a good show.”
If they were a bloke, Pants, Pants, Pants would be the puff with the long-legged, proper fit, glorified-cupholder ladygirl girlfriend who is not allowed to sit by him, really, or look him square in the eye, ever; even better, Pants, Pants, Pants’d be the soundtrack to same dude’s electric memoir movie.
FInal notes: weird show, good show; very sexy, well-dressed show. Oh and apologies, dearest Dillon (sp), for attempting to snatch the handky from your kind hind pocket. Would you hadn’t stolen it away black in 1985.