Arlington, 1.25.2025

Went to Growl Records in Arlington to see a damn rockaroll show. My old Stoogeaphilia singer Ray Liberio kicks the traps in a new band, Bull Nettle Jacket, with Rick Sharp (Vorvon) on guitar/vox and Tony Medio (Dragworms) on bass/vox. Also on the bill were C.I., a band that includes old friends Ben Schultz (Magnus) and Bob Nash (Raging Boner) alongside Peter Hawkinson (Inverted Candles), and Andrew Tipps (who also plays with Ben and Bob in the reformed Caddis, who practice at 7am on Saturdays!), and Bone Leech, a new trio fronted by Peter's Inverted Candles bandmate Jack O'Hara, with Candles drummer Brandon Young and 8-string bassist Patrick Michot (Oil Spill). Whew!

I hadn't seen Ray in a minute, so it was good to have time to catch up. His girlfriend Laura was kind enough to ask if we would consider doing a Stooge reunion, which made my heart glad, but I explained to her that Ray and Jon Teague are the only irreplaceable members of that band, and JT now lives in Albuquerque. Later on for old times' sake I went to the pizza place next door and bought a pie which wasn't bad but no match for Big Joe's, the Stooge band's jam room fave. (It was once suggested that we change our name to "And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Mexican Beer Bottles and Empty Pizza Boxes.") And I told Medio about the time we were playing at the Moon on Berry Street and had a Perrotti's pie delivered to the stage (back when JT's Yeti bandmate Eric Harris was delivering for them).

Bull Metal Jacket's opening set started promptly at 8pm. I never saw Vorvon, so this was my first time hearing Ray drum and Rick Sharp play guitar (although I've played through his amp on a couple of shows). Their sound was doom metal with some garage and punk elements (a couple of Rick's songs reminded me of early Pretty Things, always a welcome association), and it felt good to be swept away on a tide of distortion and feedback. Rick plays an SG Special with P-90s and the big scratch plate, same as my first "good" guitar, and Tony rocks a Rickenbacker. The vocals are rough and ready and Raymond is a terrific kick-and-snare man, using tumbling fills as punctuation. Glad I got to see 'em; I'd do it again.

I missed Bone Leech's set while waiting for the aforementioned pizza but I saw Jack O'Hara later and he hipped me that he'd had the songs ("sludge metal about video games") for a couple of years but only recently was able to recruit musicians to play them. Jack and his pal Alex Atchley are in so many bands I wonder how they can remember which one they are from one gig to the next. They have a bunch of shows booked so I'll have to catch one. Their subject matter is of interest as I'm reading a mystery novel about gamer culture (Terry Miles' "Rabbits;" thanks, Larry Hill!).

Who knew; Bob Nash has a fan club! A bunch of Arlington punk kids who hang at a coffee place he frequents showed up for his gigs wearing DIY "Bob Motherfucking Nash" (with Anarchy A) T-shirts. It seems they've adopted the superannuated skater punk as an elder, sort of like the way some Denton music peeps have your humble chronicler o' events. (Speaking of Denton noisicians, was pleasantly surprised to see Louise Fristensky there with Jack.)

Before C.I.'s set, I asked Bob what the initials stood for and he told me, "It changes with every album. For the first one, it was Contemplating Impermanence. For the second, it was Cenotaph Inscriptions. For the new one, it might be Constant Irritation. Or Car Insurance." C.I.'s an instrumental outfit (their last album featured vocals on one track) that purveys a heavy math rock powered by Andrew's thunderous blast beats, with Ben and Peter's percussively picked guitars alternating unison, harmony, and contrapuntal lines, and Bob splitting the difference between Andrew's foot and Ben's guitar. Since reading Jonathan Haidt's The Anxious Generation I've been thinking a lot about awe -- of the natural beauty around us, or of music and art. Or as I usually say, when I see something I don't understand but know is real, I call it magic. So I'll call C.I.'s music magic -- loud, in-your-face magic, but magic nonetheless.