Nashville Music Blog

Photos by Brad Hodge

Check out the slideshow for more photos.

For 90-odd minutes Monday night at Bridgestone Arena, Muse gave a crash course in Arena Rock 101, at a time when such education is so direly needed. What started with many asking how Muse became big enough to play a venue that size ended with several thousand people wondering how they ever fit themselves into Mercy Lounge to see the same band years ago. LED walls leftover from the Vertigo tour? Check. Lasers? Check. Tommy Lee's rising, spinning drum riser? Check. Giant confetti-filled balls on loan from the Flaming Lips? Check. Mid-set acoustic/piano break? Check. Audience sing-alongs? Check plus. The only missing elements were an inflatable pig and Freddie Mercury in a leotard, but at least that leaves them somewhere to go next time.

Photos by Steve Cross

Check out the slideshows for more photos: Part 1; Part 2.

Once upon a time, The Spin wasn't quite so old. In fact, we too were once acne-speckled youngsters just looking to puff on a doobie, down a few cups of keg beer and get rowdy in a mosh pit before curfew. It was a healthy, tightly knit, fun-lovin' punk scene that makes us a little weepy-eyed when we think about it -- not unlike the one around these parts, into which we poke our grizzled head from time to time.

Photos by Lance Conzett

You can always tell the specter of South by Southwest is looming over us when random Pitchforkable indie bands start trickling into town on their way to Austin. We arrived on Elliston Place and waded through a sea of metalcore fans outside Exit/In, expecting to cross the street catch and catch And The Relatives laying down some Pavement-style jams. Burned again by The End's MySpace page, we were instead witness to a somewhat crippled Flora Shakespeare.

Our photographer got in an accident. He's OK, but no pics. Sorry.

Certain corners of the Internet like to accuse The Spin of being arch-hipsters so convinced of our own coolness that our hair has evolved into a perfect razor-sharp point that we use to gut the less hip and drink their blood in sacrifice to our god, Allan Sherman. What they don't realize is that we are not, in fact, cool. They might be right about the blood sacrifice, but we are stone cold nerds -- like, toss-our-20-sided-dice-at-the-drop-of-a-hat type nerds. Anime fans pick on us.

That said, Sunday night's sold-out They Might Be Giants show at Exit/In was totally our jam!

Steve Cross

Check out the slideshows for more photos: Vetiver; Scout Niblett & Caitlin Rose.

We were told Friday night's show at Exit/In would start promptly at 9:45, so we told our indecisive potential date to enjoy nexting jackers on Chatroulette, or whatever they decided to do, before making our way down to the Rock Block, where we gave our plus-one to a pleasant shaggy-headed fellow who said he used to be a roadie.

Steve Cross

Check out the slideshow for more photos.

Last time Jonathan Richman was in town, it turned out to be a bit of a head-cracking disaster for us -- so much so that when somebody knocked over a chair at the bar late last night we had a minor panic attack. Short of crash helmets and body armor, we were about as prepared as could be, though, having done a thorough overview of Mr. Richman's catalog, and actually showing up on time for once. We weren't nearly as prepared as we thought.

Steve Cross

Check out the slideshows for more photos: Part 1; Part 2.

Well, that didn't work out. We cast our vote and we were robbed. We smell a goddamn conspiracy -- Heypenny totally should have won. They were totally right there in the crowd for the whole show, wearing jackets and stuff. We can't believe they didn't take the trophy at the first installment of the second annual Road to Bonnaroo at Mercy Lounge -- we're thinking that the fix is in. Sure they didn't actually play this year, but considering we got to cast three votes and we only liked two bands, we had to vote for someone, right?

Maybe we're just a little sore because Rock 'n' Roll Trivia had been abbreviated to make room for the evening's festivities, or maybe our Spider-sense was giving us a headache in advance of the mind numbing mediocrity we were in for.

Steve Cross

Check out the slideshows for more photos: Surfer Blood & Turbo Fruits; Cy & Holiday Shores.

Considering the fact that we've been spinning Surfer Blood's debut Astro Coast pretty relentlessly for the past few weeks, checking them out at The End Saturday night with Turbo Fruits was basically a no-brainer. As it turns out, every blog-reading 18- to 22-year-old in Nashville had roughly the same idea. It truly was one of the youngest crowds we've come across in a hot minute, complete with the sort of hot stink you can only get when a standing-room-only crowd of proto-scenesters inundates one of our two favorite Elliston Place establishments.

Infinity Cat's Cy Barkley kicked things off at precisely 10 p.m. with a brief set of sloppy, by-the-books three-chord punk rock. Cy & Co. had apparently suffered some sort of gear issues, but thanks to an equipment loan from hometown heroes Turbo Fruits, they breezed through their set with no hitches.

Steve Cross

Check out the slideshow for more photos.

We don't want to get into the whole hipster-this-hipster-that discussion again, but we feel pretty confident in saying that the cool kids were not at the tan salon-sponsored showcase this past Monday night. Which is not to say that the cool kids were at The Basement to catch New Orleans pop trio Generationals either. That's not to say the cool kids didn't show up -- 'cause they did -- it's just that nobody was expecting them to play first and, uh, start promptly. Obviously Generationals are not from around here, which honestly is kind of a shame -- their brand of indie guitar shake was right on for where we were at.

Ash Wright

Check out the slideshows for more photos: Black Eyed Peas; Ludacris & LMFAO.

We tried. Honestly, we did. The Spin went to The Sommet Center to see Black Eyed Peas with as much of an open mind as we could muster, but we still left with a sour taste in our mouth. We had been taken to task by a dear old friend for re-circulating a blog post titled "Everything Is Will.i.am's Fault," and because we trust the aesthetic judgment of our buddy, and because she personally vouched for the character of Mr. ".am," we decided to check out the world's biggest poop group -- er, pop group. We swear we tried to give it a fair shake. Honestly.

Lance Conzett

Check out the slideshow for more photos.

We've been Of Montreal fans since the olden days of the early 2000s. We first saw them at Red Rose in Murfreesboro and moved up and over with them -- first to The End, then to Mercy Lounge, and Saturday we saw them yet again at their sold-out show in The Cannery Ballroom.

Unfortunately we got sucked into the Sarah Palin Teabag manifesto, so we missed opener James Husband. When we finally moseyed over, something strange hit us: Of Montreal somehow has a fan base that is perpetually 19 years old. The band's evolution into a gaggle of psychedelic sex fiends lets them make them the perfect soundtrack for the awkward college freshman eager to bang that photography major while the roommate is out of town. Have these people even heard of Cherry Peel? The mind boggles. The Spin felt like a geezer, and was half-expecting the joint to go Logan's Run at any second.

Ash Wright

Check out the slideshows for more photos: The Features; Cortney Tidwell & Majestico.

Selling out a show in Nashville is easy: All you have to do is start a rumor that Kings of Leon are playing. One look at the mass of unfamiliar faces packed into Exit/In Saturday to see the very familiar Features, and it was obvious some folks didn't get the memo that rumors (reported in the British press) that Kings would open for their record label signees were bogus. Inevitably, the rumors flared up again on show day, so even we wondered if something unexpected would take place as we made our way down to the Rock Block.

Steve Cross

Check out the slideshows for more photos: Girls; Magic Kids & The Smith Westerns.

Maybe it was the week of cold weather and the promise of jingle-jangly sunshine-y power-pop to warm The Spin's cold soul (and colder extremities), but somehow we managed to make it to Exit/In on time Saturday to see San Francisco's Girls.

By 9:45, the room was filled with the expected mixture of beards, cardigans, skinny jeans and those preposterous oversized glasses. But, curiously, we also saw more polo shirts and tucked-in button-downs than we expected. Of course, the brahs had Muffy and Tiffini hanging off their tribal-tatted arms -- "OMG me and my sisters LOVE that 'I wish I had a boyfriend' song!" The first band, The Smith Westerns, had an aesthetic that reminded us of The Katies in the late '90s -- all striped sweaters and stringy hair and, weirdly, a flannel shirt. They sounded to us like sped-up Del Shannon, except dronier.

Steve Cross

Check out the slideshows for more photos: Times New Viking; Heavy Cream & Ocelots.

If you tell people from Ohio that maybe some people didn't come to their show because of the snow that fell four days ago, they will probably laugh. If those people from Ohio are in the band Times New Viking, it will be a good-natured guffaw, a mildly jolly chortle, a bemused but friendly shrug. So yeah, there weren't as many people at The Basement Monday night as a Times New Viking fan might have hoped for or expected, but those who did make it out got a real treat for their effort.

​Reviewing stand-up comedy isn't normally part of The Spin's job description, but given the slew of shows canceled by this weekend's whiteout, we were forced to improvise. If Mother Nature doesn't want us to rock, then we'll have to laugh instead. So we headed over to The End last night to catch Neil Hamburger. The thing is, we would've been idiots to miss this show. Anyone who writes a joke like, "Why did the Red Hot Chili Peppers go under the bridge? Because there was a plate of shit there they wanted to jack off into," is easily worth our time and attention.

Fans lovingly refer to him as the world's worst comedian. Of course, Neil Hamburger is merely a persona, and his act a put-on. A hard truth made all the more evident when we saw him entering the club out of character, shattering the illusion of the bespectacled curmudgeon. Even more surprisingly, he was accompanied by Canadian comedy ambassador Tom Green -- who had just appeared throughout the weekend at Zanies. More on him later.

We pride ourselves on our reckless abandon, our flagrant disregard for our own safety and our unflagging willingness to do stupid shit to keep you, our dear readers, entertained in the face of adversity. We are an unstoppable force on a incorruptible mission -- we stare adversity in the eyes, inhale its foul breath and rip off its nose with our teeth. We are The Spin and there is no way that we'll be impeded by something as silly as inclement weather! Well, except for this week. We totally bailed on the Clipse show at Phatkaps this Friday.

​Avid readers of The Spin may find themselves asking just how in the hell we managed to be at both The End and The Basement on Friday night. We'll tell you how: We're the gawdamn Spin, that's how. So don't worry about it. We showed up at The Basement just in time to catch an attentive audience checking out all-new material from familiar local garage-rock faves The Clutters, and their set -- raucous as ever -- did not disappoint.

We tried our best to take in a smoke on the patio among a sea of aging hipsters and faded black clothing, but we ended up tripping over loads of names being dropped by someone rehashing a recent trip to Chicago -- did we indeed hear someone claiming to have fraternized with indie god Frank Black? We piped up and turned around to find none other than local celebrity Bobby Bare Jr., who was in attendance to see friends and frequent collaborators Ghostfinger, spilling said names.

Lance Conzett

Check out the slideshow for more photos.

We love the life we lead -- however degenerate it may seem to everyone else -- but good goddamn were we ready for last week to be over by the time Saturday rolled around. Between the Mercy Lounge's anniversary parties and what seemed like every other venue in town booking great local shows, we had rocked out for seven nights straight and our livers were in need of a breather and a good night's sleep. We weren't about to let a little thing like logic or discretion interfere with our Saturday night, though, so we hopped in the hoopty and headed to The Basement for Glossary's CD-release party for their kick-ass new record Feral Fire.

Brad Hodge

See the slideshows for more photos: Part 1; Part 2.

Friday night practically had The Spin's soul torn in two: attend the cavalcade of local talent at Mercy Lounge's free anniversary show, or jump on what may have been our last chance to catch MEEMAW in action? It was a decision we questioned several times during the night, starting with the moment we walked into The End and were met instantly by a wall of youths who'd packed the place well before 10 p.m.

Steve Cross

Check out the slideshows for more photos: Jemina Pearl; Daniel Pujol & The Ettes.

We'll kick off this very special edition of The Spin by announcing with great enthusiasm that Nashville's favorite brazen, plus-size sound guy, Brad, has returned to The End. Missing for most of '09 for health reasons, he's back and sassier than ever, giving you even more reason to frequent the Rock Block's most rockin' hole in the wall.

Oh, also, we saw a show there.

Steve Cross

Check out the slideshows for more photos: Part 1; Part 2.

We were a more than a little surprised to arrive at the Exit/In for the first Rock the Block event of 2010 to find that not only was the place warmer than our frigid flophouse, but it was also full of people -- fuckin' sweet, dude. And we don't want to jinx anything by saying it out loud, but we're definitely thinking that the Meltface music collective may be the harbingers of the Murfreesboro comeback we've been not-so-secretly hoping for. This was definitely the most forceful display of Blue Raider rock prowess the big city has seen in awhile.

Lance Conzett

See the slideshow for more photos.

We're not gonna lie: We didn't escape Snowmageddon 2010 completely unscathed. As the city shut down over less than an inch of snow, and as hysteria crept in, we barricaded our door, fearing a combination of icy roads, bad drivers and punk-ass neighbor kids with enough snow to construct a single snowball aimed at our heads. But that was Thursday. On Friday, weary of our Yankee friends calling us wusses, we abandoned our milk-carton-and-bread-loaf fort in favor of The Secret Spot.

Photos by Steve Cross

Check out the slideshows for more photos: Part 1; Part 2.

There was a seven-foot-tall ice stalagmite sticking out of the back porch at the Mercy Lounge Saturday night. Almost a foot in diameter, the frosty phallic wall sculpture was a reminder of the stone-cold dickin' Mother Nature had strapped on the midstate. How so little precipitation can shut down an entire region will always be a mystery to us, but we have to say we're glad that the Great Snow Flurry of Twenty-Tennessee didn't stop the city's dubstep massive from scraping the frost off their windshields and rolling out on a gelid Saturday night.

​The Spin has weaseled, connived, schmoozed and sneaked our way into our fair share of shows over the years. Hell, we even made it into Kings of Leon at the Sommet after initially being refused tickets. So why in the fuck did we have such a massive ass-pain of a time claiming our press tickets to Trans-Siberian Orchestra's 3:30 matinee on a Sunday nine days after Christmas? Your guess is as good as ours, but we think it was because the tickets we suspected were ours were saved under the name "Paul." There's no Paul here.

We finally managed to wrangle a pair of gratis tickets and make our way into the arena as one of the many hammy metal songsters we were to endure that afternoon began some epic ballad about a Christmas wish while garbed as a hapless but large-hearted vagabond. That one probably lasted 24 minutes. Once the house lights came up, we were genuinely surprised to see a nearly full house of grandmas, kids and middle-agers of all sorts. Seriously. Big turnout. At 3:30 on a Sunday nine days after Christmas.

Ke$ha barfs on Paris Hilton (artist's rendering).

​We have to admit it was hard as hell to tear ourselves away from the Cats 101 marathon on Animal Planet and cart our asses down to 12th & Porter Saturday night for the weekly Coach vs. Kase dance party. We had eaten twice our body weight in turkey and chocolate over the previous 48 hours, it was colder than a snowman's snow-balls outside and despite our desire to get more exercise than just walking back and forth between the couch and the fridge, we just couldn't rally a whole lot of energy. All of our Christmas cheer had been exhausted by our creepy, fundamentalist in-laws on Thursday night, and we were just ready to hide out until springtime--but we decided to put on our dancing shoes and call a cab.

Lance Conzett

See the slideshow for more photos.

We wandered into the Little Hamilton warehouse Saturday night to find a DIY winter wonderland waiting for us: glittery shredded paper covered the floor, somewhat resembling snow, white sheets hung down from and covered the ceiling and a fully adorned Christmas tree towered in the corner over a makeshift living room set complete with a TV and hi-fi. We were also reminded why we so often show up late to these things: Showing up early sucks.

Photos by Megan Woolfolk

Check out the slideshows for more photos: Part 1; Part 2.

The Spin woke on Saturday with only one thing on our agenda: some serious X-ma-kwana-hanna-rama-christma-kah-danz-mas partying, as Chuck Mead might say. We spent all afternoon slaving away in the kitchen cooking some special holiday treats: hot chocolate from scratch with Nashville's own Olive & Sinclair chocolate, some apple-cranberry turnovers and our special vegan cookie bars. We gotta say, though, vegans sure do complain a lot--especially when you put 'em in the Cuisinart--but they taste so good with a little nutmeg and cinnamon! By the time the sun had set and our serving platters were garnished, it was time to celebrate the season with the cream of Nashville's rock crop.

Photos by Ashley S. Wright

Sleigh bells rang, were you listenin'? In the lane the, uh, rain was glistenin'. Not really a beautiful sight, but we were happy on Friday night pretending that Nashville was a winter wonderland. If it weren't for the craptastic weather, The Spin's excursion to the Cleft Music Christmas party at Billups Gallery in East Nashville could have been a goddamn greeting card or a some sort of made-for-TV movie, just without Meredith Baxter or any former cast member s from Beverly Hills 90210 teaching us a heartwarming lesson about love. There were friends and family, food and booze, and a heaping helping of holiday cheer which, when multiplied by plenty of sauce, makes for a pretty sweet shindig.

​Who won Friday night's battle of the vintage bands? "Beatles, Beatles, Beatles," griped one Stones-loving observer. Despite the injustice, the event felt like a big love-fest--a festive crowd filled the Basement as The Privates played their set: "Run for Your Life," "Happiness Is a Warm Gun," and "Everybody's Got Something to Hide Except Me and My Monkey," complete with cowbell. In Grimey's estimation, "they killed it."

Reno Bo's band attempted to address the imbalance. The stylishly dressed group launched into a full and loud version of "Stray Cat Blues," with Zack Setchfield's slide guitar giving it a bluesy feel. The followed with an appropriately sexy "Ventilator Blues." The song's rhythm inspired a few ladies to writhe around by the stage, one in black sequined hot pants. Bo called for more keyboard in preparation for "Loving Cup." Of drummer Dillon Napier (formerly of Mother/Father), our companion noted, "best drummer ever," and we agreed. They closed with "Let's Spend the Night Together."

Photos by John Brassil

When we showed up at The 5 Spot around 9:30 Friday night, the room was emptier than we were expecting--then we remembered that the prototypical East Nashville band, Hands Down Eugene, were playing across town. Firebirds of the Arctic Ice took their sweet time getting set up, and they were one those bands that has one guy with a big amp who turns up his big amp real loud like, "Hey, listen to me, I've got a bigger amp than everyone else in my band," and depending on where you're standing, that dude's guitar is pretty much all you can hear. The band, which features former members of Kill Devil Hills, said they were from Albuquerque, then they said they were from Wisconsin, but they sounded more like they were from 1998. Like if Dave Mustaine got tricked into playing in a Victory Records band with a lot of feelings.