Radio Free Chicago

Tales From The East... Theodore Treehouse

It’s was a warm summer Saturday night in Portland, Maine. I’m standing outside Space Gallery on Congress Street chatting with my old friend Jeff Roberts (of the band Pinksy) and David Lopez. On this night, Dead Man’s Clothes are having their much anticipated CD release show. I’ve come out to support my favorite local band as have many other friends and well-wishers. There isn’t a hint of moisture in the air as a slight breeze coasts down the road towards Monument Square.  It’s coming up on 9 p.m. Better make our way inside. I shuffle in behind a group of crust punks. Godammit. I hate being downwind. Whatever. I’ll be fine once I grab a beer. I pay my six bucks for cover and head right to the small bar inside. The girl at the counter has a PBR with the cap already popped off and waiting. She must be able to read my mind. Or just notice the fact I’m wearing Van slip-ons, cut-off shorts and a flannel. Shit. I slip her two bucks and throw another in the tip jar. The air inside is in stark contrast to where I just was. There’s hardly any ventilation, save for the open front door. The converging smell of cultures hangs in the air. I actually like the odor though. The beads of sweat running down my back I could do without . I’ve heard a lot of buzz about the opening band. They’re called Theodore Treehouse. What an odd name. Here they come. Well, let’s just hope they put on a good show.

Jesus Christ. They are doing just that.

I feel as if I had robbed myself. The Portland area had been raving about Theodore Treehouse’s live show for months on end, and not once did I have the opportunity to check them out. That night in August, I did myself a favor. Ian Ferrel, Asher Platts, Sam Chandler and Dylan Verner showed me just one part of what Treehouse is all about: a non-stop flow of musical dynamism. It was impossible to stay still that night inside Space Gallery. Those not starting an impromptu dance party in front of the stage were moving where they stood (or sat, though I don’t recall anyone not being taken over by the music). I left that night with another band to obsess over. It would be a few months until their December release of their full-length debut, Mercury Closest to the Sun, but the wait was absolutely worth it.

Theodore Treehouse - Maple Syrup Moon

Mercury captures all the energy and emotion of a live Theodore Treehouse show and crams it all into 12 fervent tracks.  Their opening salvo is “Maple Syrup Moon”. Asher Platts’ pulsing bassline grabs you by the hand and pulls you out of your seat and onto the dance floor. Ferrel’s hoots kick in just as your body begins to whip around to the frantic melody . The initial auditory barrage of the album shows just what type of disparity in song structures Theodore employs on Mercury. The song ends with the band chanting “It was the path I chose long ago” repeatedly in a very sing-along style. This is one of the many examples of the live show atmosphere the band brings along on the album. From Ian’s “Ooh-Ooh-Oohs” on the British Invasion-esque “My Apartment is a Boat” to the band's opening chants on “Springtime,” it’s hard not to sing along to the album on its subsequent playthroughs.

Tales From the East...Wesley Hartley and The Traveling Trees

There’s something peaceful about driving on the highway at 1:30 in the morning. I’m all alone in a vessel that could kill me without feeling any remorse. White lines fly by me, flickering like static from late night television. I don’t even look at the speedometer. I’m assuming I’m going somewhere around the speed limit based on the sounds coming from the engine of my 1999 ford Taurus. We’ve reached the point of symbiosis where I feel what the car feels, but probably not vice versa. Let’s face it; it’s a hunk of metal, cold and unfeeling. It doesn’t care what I’m feeling, it just wants gasoline. But the pavement below me is causing it to hum in the background. I’m lost. Not geographically. I know exactly where I am. I just passed exit 11 in Merrimack. But my mind is somewhere else. As the streetlight glares on my windshield, acting like hooks pulling my car along, I think about how I don’t want this trip home to end. I want these next twenty minutes to become hours, and days. I’m at peace in the driver’s seat. I choose my music wisely for trips such as this. It makes all the difference in the world to me. On this night, it’s Narrow Gauge Quad Trains by Wesley Hartley and the Traveling Trees. I turn the volume up. Tonight, we head out west.

The first sound that exits my speakers is from “Ol’ Texas”. The galloping guitar and drums are Folsom Prison-esque, but the pace is quickened, and Hartley’s vocals are gritty and world-weary. His lyrics are turning my car into a four-wheeled, traveling saloon. “I sell my horse, and I’ll sell my range. And I’ll hit the trail upon a northbound lane.”  My driver’s seat is a barstool and the grip on my steering wheel is becoming a tight grip on a shot of bourbon. Thanks barkeep. I down my shot as the album moves on to “Jet Fighters” (an early Dead End Armory tune, Hartley’s former band). It slows down the pace as my steed is now moving along at a slow trot across the open plains. I ride through the cacti, six-shooter lazily slung from my hip. Two tracks in and I can see that Wesley Hartley and the Traveling Trees are doing a marvelous job at creating lo-fi, raw alt-country. It fits in perfectly between bands like Songs: Ohia and The Old 97’s.

Wesley Hartley and The Traveling Trees - Ol' Texas

Throughout the album there is a satisfying amount of songs with an amalgam of tempos and structures. At times, I find myself bobbing my head and wanting to stomp my foot, but I realize constant acceleration and deceleration are probably not the best for my automobile. I throw caution to the wind during “Shot n Shots”. My car is now fluctuating in speed, wreaking havoc on the engine. I realize my trusty steed is crying out in pain (and that I’ll probably get pulled over soon) and decide to take it easy on the old boy.  There are other times on the album that I find myself wanting to drown my sorrows in a pint at my local pub. The song “Label Peels” has this cowed feeling to it, but it also happens to be my favorite track on the album. “I went and wasted another month/And held it together with scotch tape/And I have been dreaming a lot these days/Oh, about nothing you would understand”. I feel as if Hartley is in the passenger’s seat as I relay the story of my life, scrawling down these lyrics as he draws inspiration from my tales. But unless he is a pack of gum, I am still alone on this voyage.

Tales From the East - Have Phun with Phantom Buffalo

It’s 8:17 P.M. on a Sunday as I write this. I’m just now emerging out of this weekend’s dreamlike haze that has consumed me for the past 48 hours. My beer-can castle is slowly being deconstructed. The sulfuric smell on my clothes from the firework residue is currently being washed away along with whatever spills remained on my clothes. Tomorrow I return back to being a make-believe productive member of society, where my empty husk will put on a week-long stage production of “Bill at work”. But, for the next 55 minutes, I will remain in my euphoric state with the help of Phantom Buffalo’s Cement Postcard With Owl Colours.

Phantom Buffalo (formerly The Ponys) has been one of Portland, Maine’s longest tenured indie-rock bands. Since 1998, the band has gone from playing basement shows and art schools, to being invited to SXSW and playing shows alongside the likes of Elf Power and the Microphones. The band’s third full-length release, Cement Postcard With Owl Colours, is a vast release providing almost an hour of profound and comprehensive auditory experience. The opening two tracks, “Listen to the Leaves” and “Greenstar Botanical Airway”, blend seamlessly into one another.  Lead singer Jonathan Balzano-Brookes’ voice has a trancelike, falsetto quality about them that reminds me a lot of Chad VanGaalen. His chanting melds perfectly with the chime-like guitar creating a surreal, illusory environment.

 

Phantom Buffalo -  Ray Bradbury's Bones

“Greenstar” is a slow burn that pays off at the end with reverberating guitar and whipping percussion, ending with Brookes singing “You are the furthest point from the darkest star; you are the black orchid photographer.” Many of Phantom Buffalo’s songs seem like they could be several songs, each with their best parts dissected out and then constructed into magnificent harmoniousness. Songs like “I Bring the Sun and the Nightmares” and “Frogman” could be broken down into four or five separate songs, but their beauty resides in the way the structures and melodies blend effortlessly into one another to create five minute anthems of a sunny, summer afternoon laying in the Eastern Promenade.  There are numerous instruments thrown in throughout the album including synth, piano and even accordion which really help to add depth and power to an already tight arrangement of songs.

Tales From the East - D. Gross

It’s no secret my musical interests run quite the gamut. On a given day I can go between The Pastels on vinyl to an LCD Soundsystem MP3. But I truly have a soft spot in my musical heart for Americana. Nine times out of ten, you can woo me with some banjo picking and an accompanying tune on the harmonica. (Don’t get me started on the saw; the instrument of the gods). It’s hard to say what about this type of music I find so appealing. Perhaps it’s growing up with classic country playing in my house as a child. Maybe it was my study on the roots of rock and roll through college. But whatever it may be, Portland’s Dana Gross has the talents and know-how to scratch my musical itch for good old fashioned bluesy sadness.

On his sophomore release We Left The Roadside, Gross expands his sound a great deal from his previous release Pirate Love Songs. Showing extensive delta blues influences, almost every song has an appealing hook that grabs a hold of your foot and gets it tapping. And don’t worry about your head bobbing either. That’s not an involuntary muscle spasm, that’s just Dana Gross’ manipulating of those steel strings getting into your nervous system. (If it persists more than one week, please see a doctor). Each song feels like a piece of classic country. I was half expecting to somehow hear June Carter’s angelic voice chime in on a few tracks. And Gross’ vocals have taken a large step forward with this release. They are an ideal blend of raspiness, heart-warming, regretful, and a slight hint of a southern slur.

 

D. Gross - Roll On

Gross somehow makes every song overflow with countryside charm. The song "Roll On" sounds as if it’s coming right out of your grandparent’s Gramophone player. It has a great “ride the rails” feel which, looking like a vagrant as I sometimes do, I can appreciate. It also has some fantastic washboard playing that will have you looping the track as you pack up your bindle, put on your stovepipe hat with the top cut out and just generally aspire to be a cartoon hobo. This is in stark contrast to "Higher Ground"’s slower, subjugated tempo. Along with "Steady on the Staircase", it’s one of the moodiest tracks on We Left The Roadside. Listening to both had me imagining staring out the window on a humid, stormy southern night in quiet reflection.  "Family Man" and "Hand in Hand" are two of the albums most narrative driven songs. "Family Man"’s story of missed opportunities ends with him letting us know that “Before we turn back to dust, a door opens somewhere along the way”.

 

The whole album is strengthened by the addition of various backing instruments. Jason Ingalls provides the drums throughout and Duane Edwards brings his talent of the upright bass. One of the most fascinating pairings is on the song "Hummingbird". Gross furiously picks away at his banjo while Amos Libby adds percussion from the tabla. Being a traditional Indian instrument, it was amazing to hear how easily the two meshed together and made me hope for more unforeseen pairings on future releases.

 

D. Gross - Hummingbird

Tales From the East - Dead Man's Clothes

When you move to a new town, you never forget your firsts. My first valentine’s day in Portland, my truck was towed during a snow ban and got a flat tire while I was out at the bar. The first place I ever sat down to eat was a Denny’s off exit 5. A fact that I’m not proud of whatsoever given Portland’s reputation as a great culinary city. But after forcing down that grand slam, the first Portlander I met was Don Dumont, the front man for the Portland based group Dead Man’s Clothes. After spending time at his Houlton street apartment, he invited us down to the open mic he hosted. That night, I had my first listen to an acoustic session of DMC material. It was by far the best welcoming gift I could have received (just ahead of that copy of Soul Plane on DVD. Thanks, Josh!). I devoured their whole first album Aplomb later that night and immediatly became a certified Dead Man's Clothes fan.

It’s hard to pinpoint just what type of genre Dead Man’s Clothes falls under. In an interview with Sandwich Zine, Don described their sound as being “the brontosaurus of music; a combination of many things that create something that never really existed before.” One listen through a given amount of their material and you’d understand why. Psych-rock blends with surfer-jams topped off with straightforward energetic indie rock to create a blazing sound. They’ve released three albums, with their latest Ice Is War being released this past August. Though the lineup has changed over the years, drummer Elliot Heeschen and guitarist/lead vocalist Don Dumont have anchored the lineup since the band’s inception.

Dead Man's Clothes - A Fire

Tales From the East - Lady Lamb The Beekeeper

I’m not from the Midwest. I’ve lived on the east coast for the majority of my life. But if there’s one thing I love above all else, it’s music. And that’s one thing New England and the Midwest have in common; some of the most amazing music scenes in the United States. So if you don’t mind, I’d like to give you a look into some local acts here in exchange for the wonderful bands RFC has exposed me to.

In the winter of 2007, I moved from the sprawling suburban nightmare of southern New Hampshire to the great town of Portland, Maine. I knew little to nothing about the city, other than it shared a name with the more popular Portland west and the lobster is worshiped like the cat was in ancient Egypt. Everyone knows Portland Oregon as one of the meccas of great music. And while the Vacationland equivalent may be lesser known, it has one of the tightest knit music communities you can find in all of New England. I quickly fell into the Portland routine; work by day, trudging through the slush and snow of Congress Street at night to one of the local bars for a few rounds of PBRs and Shipyards. Each Wednesday was spent at Slainte, a quaint little wine bar, for open-mic. On a cold snowy evening, a petit girl headed to the stage with guitar in hand. She couldn’t have stood much taller than 5 feet. But what came out of her mouth could not be measured.

She was Aly Spaltro or, as she is known, Lady Lamb the Beekeeper. Her voice was like an orchestrated mix of Janis Joplin and the deep soul of Billie Holiday. I have no idea where she kept this kind of voice in her tiny frame, but I didn’t care. I turned to my roommate, and in not so many words uttered “I am completely in love with this girl.” Some people need the backing of a great band to compliment their voice. But Lady Lamb needs nothing. She wouldn’t even need her guitar were it not for the way she manipulates it to carry both rhythm and percussion. That night I witnessed one of the many musicians would make my stay in Portland a memorable one. (I also think I ended up throwing up in front of Cumberland Farms and answering an adult personal from the Portland Phoenix, but that’s a tale for another time).

It’s hard to get everyone in a bar to be quiet and focus on what’s on stage. Between clanking beer bottles and loud drunken conversations about why Animal Collective just plain sucks, it’s amazing how Lady Lamb can captivate a crowd. Listening to her is like throwing all your thoughts and emotions in a blender and drinking the mixture, chasing it with a cigarette. Child-like whimsy mixes with the thoughts of your first love tearing your heart out. But the taste left in your mouth can only be described as satisfying. Lyrics like “Hey stranger on the street. May I please have a piggyback ride?” make her instantly adorable. Songs like “Until I Am Bones” and “He Comes Galloping” create surreal visuals in your head that might remind you of Alice Through the Looking Glass. It’s innocent love with a twist of macabre.

Lady Lamb is not just another girl with a guitar bemoaning the days of past of loves. Leave that up to Paramore. (Question; Is Paramore still around?). She is an artist, plucking the thoughts floating above your head and constructing them into an image that somehow makes perfect sense. Lady Lamb is now moving on to greater things. A few weeks ago she started the new chapter of her life by moving to New York City. Her farewell show was an emotional night with support from other great local artists like Don Dumont, Elizabeth Taillon and Jacob Augustine. If it sounds like I am gushing, I sure as shit am. If you ever have the chance to see her live, you will understand. She is an endearing person who makes the Portland music scene (and now NYC) a presence to be proud of.