Midwest Music Summit 2006: My Take on Day Three.

So we’re standing outside the Vogue after Dr. Octagon finished playing last night—he had to get off-stage by 11:30 so the club could have their non-MMS-related dance party night thing (which explains the removed red marquee letters above)—and someone asked me if I thought the whole thing was a success. My immediate answer, of course, was yes. Mainly because, um, who says no, but also because from a personal, marathonpacks-related perspective, of course it was a success. I saw a bunch of live performances by local and regional artists I would never have seen otherwise, met (and, errr, networked with I think) tons of label reps and artists and PR people and writers and the occasional other blogger-type, and came away with much more well-rounded appreciations for how bands and artists live and eat and drink and drink and travel &c, and obviously for how the whole behind-the-scenes promotional architecture works and where everyone (including my grass-roots ass) fits in the grand scheme of things. Now if I were to speculate as to if the MMS were a success from a city-wide perspective, if it worked to change the mindsets of the local movers and shakers and especially radio-station owners to do something to promote regional and local music, yeah, it wouldn’t be too optimistic. But let’s not go there. And if we’re there, let’s split. Okay, on to the recaps. But first, coffee. Okay, that's better.



I started the day off (after peeing out that morning’s incredible amounts of coffee) at the Alleycat, which used to be a cramped, dank, smoky, nasty dive bar (read: my favorite bar ever), but now is a less-cramped, renovated and more airy but less-divey bar that I can still enjoy, if it took me a few minutes to get used to the new surroundings. Where my friend Justin once threw a succession of beer glasses at the wall is where the extended bar is right now, and where I used to play pool while sometimes standing in what might have been pee was yesterday the concert area. I went there to see Vandaveer (above), which is actually Mark Charles Heidinger (who was great), the lead singer from the solidly rootsy Lexington, Kentucky band the Apparitions, but stayed for the free (yes, I said free--see below to look at my hand holding a cup of it) Bell’s Beer. If you’re not from the Midwest and haven’t had Bell’s Beer (from Kalamazoo, MI), it’s of really high quality, especially when it’s free at noon. I went back and forth between Vandaveer and the outdoor stage, which actually sat in the alley that gives the bar its name, to see what was going on. A quiet singer-songwriter dude was strumming away in the place where over the past 6 or 7 years I’d seen countless almost-fights, a couple flashings, many pukings and a few peeings. His name was Hayward Williams and he was from Milwaukee, and he did a quiet, pensive take on “Thunder Road” that sounded really great with two beers in my stomach.





I dicked around a little bit until 2:45 or so, when Brooklyn’s Pela (above) were set to be playing a sort-of unannounced set at Rouge, which used to be called The Patio. Okay, tangent for a second. The Patio was sort of a live-musical institution in Broad Ripple and Indianapolis for the better part of the last two decades. Then it was bought by someone else and cleaned up a little and renamed. And that’s what gets me. The name. “Rouge?” Fucking Rouge? The Patio was such a great name—conjuring the activities I do on a patio, which is relax and get drunk and generally enjoy myself. Now, with Rouge, I think of people putting on makeup or whatever. Perhaps they’re looking to draw the semi-illiterate crowd who thinks they’re going to the Vogue down the street. Who knows. Back to Pela. For those that don’t know, they’re pretty similar to the de rigueur New York dance punk of Stellastarr, but with a darker theatrical aim toward the National. Actually, this Sally Forth comic sums it up pretty well. Lead singer Billy McCarthy is a large, jut-jawed presence onstage, totally belying his speaking voice, which is mannered and almost feminine in its delicacy. Their show wasn’t on the printed lineup most people had, but it was on the massive online version (check it), so they flew from New York to play to me, my friend Jolie, Joe, the dude from WOXY, and a few others. They were great and energetic, if not really my type of hype. They covered the Pixies’ “Holiday,” though, which was pretty great even if the lead guitar was too low in the mix. They finished their set and started walking offstage when McCarthy remembered that they’d brought their keyboard and hadn’t used it. So they plugged everything back in and rocked out one more keyboard song, which I determined must have been the musical equivalent of stepping out of the shower and feeling that you didn’t rinse the shampoo out, but having already sort-of started to dry. Or something. After the set, I thanked McCarthy for essentially flying to Indy to play for 12 people, which I thought was a pretty great gesture, and he told me that they had to hurry and get to the airport because he had to work that night at 9pm back in Brooklyn. Sweet.



On the way to Pela, I was handed a sticker from a quartet standing on the sidewalk. The image on the sticker was a Suicide Girls-y chick with strategically teased hair and a come hither/I might kick some ass type look on her face. So my natural instinct was to ignore it. But then I got curious after Pela ended and we had an hour to kill, and I'm glad for that. Sid and her band were playing in Indy CD and Vinyl, which, as a concert venue, makes a great record store---especially for the type of music Sid Maudlin plays. Sid herself is the tiny lead singer with leather pants and highlights in her hair and black eyeliner, and was singing her heart out over a synthetic, Sheila E-style drum kit and Gary Numan/early Nine Inch Nails gothy electro-dance music that her brother was playing behind her. And well, in the midst of all of the punk-derived indie and strummy singer-songwriter music of the past two days, it was like a massive B-12 shot of different energy. Girls with voices like Sid’s should never sing in a place without stage monitors and significant amounts of vocal effects, but hearing her voice in its natural state (off-key and strained) was actually pretty riveting. She was singing super-earnestly about the evils of commercialism and relationships ending and how super-awesome it is to have so much fun, but the live equivalent of the primitive demo version that no one ever hears with this type of music. And I really liked it, mostly out of curiosity—what if, just what if, the archetypical American indie group wasn’t the Michael Azerrad dudes/guitars/vans thing, but trios of electro-goth-pop kids from Chicago? And what do they go through when they’re playing a style of music suited to huge dance clubs with pristine equipment but need to promote themselves by playing in indie-rock clubs and record stores? What if Sid Maudlin's band could be your life? What sort of success metrics do groups like this have, without the established online support community of indie rock, and how do they push themselves to keep making music? I know this sort of music has its own behind-the-scenes DIY thing going on, and I want to know details about it. And when I get the details, it's going to be my book eventually so don’t steal the idea. Oh, one more thing, that Sid mentioned before the band started playing their song “The Good Stuff.” As it happens, that song is currently the theme for NBC’s fall promos, so go figure. Good luck, Sid Maudlin.







After Sid, we stuck around for Apollo Up (above, top), simply because they’re without a doubt one of the greatest current live rock bands (along with the M’s and Catfish Haven) that you’ve never heard of. If you didn’t read my Desdemona recap, they’re in there. But quickly for here, they’re exactly the sort of melodic punk rock that I really wish was more in favor right now, or ever. It’s the Elvis Costello circa-1979 model—super tight but not jittery, and with enough room for some sweet-ass hard rock soloing. Dig them. Then it was off to the Alleycat again (free beer was long gone, unfortunately) to see Early Day Miners (above, middle) as part of the Secretly Canadian showcase. Real quick note to MMS: if you’re hosting a showcase for the best rock label in Indiana and want to show that shit off which you do, don’t stuff them in the corner of a dive bar with shitty sound, surrounded by wood paneling and under the watchful eye of Dale Earnhardt, Jr. I’d for some reason never seen the Bloomington-based band live, and while this wasn’t the best place to hear what sounds their dense guitar-psych (there were 7 people crammed onto the stage, and only three weren’t playing guitars), they pushed on and managed to work through a 45-minute set that was enough to make me recommend them. Odawas followed with a set much more tepid and hollow than when they opened for Danielson, which is too bad because when they want to shred, they can flood a room. Catfish Haven (above, bottom) was next, and duh, they’re the most reliable touring rock band out there—each show packing enough soulful Southern-style dance music to make hipsters sweat and shake (read more from me here and here).



Then it was off to the Vogue for the Summit headliner, Dr. Octagon. Local hip-hop stalwarts the Mudkids (you may know them as the Indy hip-hop lifers that didn’t hook up with Kanye West, but can rap circles around the guy who did) were playing when I showed up. Russ, the tall, dreadlocked, incredibly amiable and amazingly thin main Mudkid, is representative of everything ever that’s great about Indianapolis indie music. He’s been on the scene forever—playing in the rap-rock pre-Rage band Birdmen of Alcatraz for ages—and dutifully promoting all manner of local music and culture, while unfortunately being essentially ignored by everyone outside of the city, which is a damn shame. For the most part, rap music is strangled by geography, and no one wants to hear about I-465 or Peyton Manning apparently. Anyway, they made way for Cutmaster Curt, the DJ for Dr. Octagon, otherwise known as Kool Keith, or Dr. Dooom, or Robby Analog, or Black Elvis. Curt did a half-hour or so DJ set which doubled as a self-promotional showcase and which bored the hell out of me. There’s nothing less entertaining than watching a bunch of people watch someone spin records and not dance, which is what people there were doing, and which is what they were pretty much supposed to do, I guess, because it was billed as a concert and not a dance-thing. Now, to Dr. Octagon. He was an weird choice for a Summit headliner, to say the least. Understandably, it’s probably tough to get major acts to come to Indy for not a lot of money, and Octagon is probably looking for some free publicity for his garbage-ass new record that isn’t selling for anything right now, but it’s still weird, because I don't know to exactly whom he appeals right now. A decade ago, Dr. Octagonycologist (thanks in no small part to DJs Shadow and Qbert and Dan the Automator) was a huge, huge deal and slightly shifted the focus of rap music for a little bit. Before that, purists and heads know him as the amazing creative force behind the Ultramagnetic MCs, but I just don't know what MMS people were supposed to assume about him. He’s been out of the spotlight (save a few middling albums) forever and changes his name enough so that only geeks can keep track of the extent of his discography. But everyone who paid for a bracelet or a badge was there, and I’m sure there were a few rap fans in Indy (which never ever gets big rap shows) who showed up too, and the Vogue was at about 80% capacity, which is cool. The first part of his set was pretty great—he was clearly happy to be there and was engaging the crowd, the sound was good, he played “Blue Flowers” from Octagonycologyst and even part of “Ease Back” from the great Critical Beatdown. Then, befitting his well-deserved reputation as weirdly sleazy chick fanatic, he invited about 20 girls of the low-self-esteem set onstage to writhe around while he rapped and tried to get them to take their clothes off (above, from afar). It’s a trend in live rap music right now, and an unfortunate one (Ghostface did it with a bit more restraint here), but all the same it provided a bizarrely engaging, crowd-involved capper to the three-day event, in a really sleazy manner. And, judging by the scantily-clad, ready-to-freak crowd waiting outside for Jager bombs and house music, it was a perfect segue back to Indianapolis normality.

Thanks to all of those who set up and came to the MMS. You can read my thoughts on day one here, and day two here.