Blowout Night Two Recap

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Goddamn, that was loud.

I kicked off Blowout night two at Kelly’s Bar to see the Phantom Verses, an acoustic trio of dual guitars and bass. They brought to mind that whole late 90s, post-grunge sound coupled with the kind of alt-metal hooks that short hair-era Metallica were known for.

Over at the Polish National Alliance Lounge I caught Passalacqua. They killed, as usual. There are few duos that can match the energy generated by emcees Bryan Lackner (a.k.a. Mister) and Brent Smith (a.k.a. Blaksmith, also of Cold Men Young). I’ve always dug how the two are able to seamlessly switch between their bouncy, pop rap cuts and the smoother, old-school-aping ones.

Over at Small’s I checked out the end of Electric Fire Babies’ set. Their closer was one of those characteristic wild, percussive dance jubilees, full of poppy chants, rough guitar and booty beats. I don't think I've ever seen a band have so much fun on stage. Questions axeman Chris Krzeczkowski joined the band on bass and trumpet.

Back at the PNA Lounge I caught psych-rock trio Sisters of Your Sunshine Vapor. It’s been interesting to track this band’s development. They began as SikSik Nation, who were a fairly good garage band writing fairly good tunes. Now, after morphing into Sisters, they now craft dark and moody psychedelic explorations. They’ve also sharpened their song-craft and some of their newer cuts have shades of Syd Barrett, Joy Division and Spacemen 3. All the while, they still leave room for noisy meltdowns and extended jams.

I capped the night off by seeing the masterful instrumental stoner metal duo Beast in the Field at the New Dodge Lounge. They made my night. You knew you were in for something amazing once you witnessed their massive, eclipsing wall of amplifiers. And, man was it fucking loud. After seven or eight minutes you felt your legs slowing giving out as the duo repeatedly pummeled you with blown out riff after riff. They ended their set with some extended guitar drone that was as entrancing as it was suffocating. I left the New Dodge feeling battered, but elated. As I stammered tiredly to my car I heard someone quip to a friend about the band; “That was the fucking real deal right there.”

 

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