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Byrds of a feather
Animal Hospital, Thee Electric Bastards, Captain Tipsy
BY SIMON W. VOZICK-LEVINSON
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Dinner at ZuZu was drawing to a close around 9:30 a week ago Thursday when yet another bearded, bespectacled gent slipped through the door. Unlike the other patrons, Kevin Micka wasn’t carrying loads of blasé attitude and fistfuls of cash for the $8 mojitos. (Strong and fresh: thanks, asymmetrically coiffed barkeep!) Instead, the hoodie-clad multi-instrumentalist, who’s best known for his drumming in the Common Cold, carted in box after box of gear — a guitar, a drum set, and a wooden case that opened to reveal a small flotilla of effects knobs — for a gig by his ambient one-man band Animal Hospital. By 11, all remaining yuppies had left the premises, and a sparse crowd of artsier types sat stock still as Micka intently noodled out a couple of notes, then grabbed his sticks for a heavy drum fill. He held onto each instrument for no more than a few seconds, but a slow-building loop effect preserved every sound until the room was filled with repetitive scales, squeals, and occasional yelped vocals. A few people tried awkwardly to dance, and the headphone-wearing Micka fidgeted along with them, perpetually leaning over to twiddle one of his knobs for a slight adjustment in the soundscape. But most of the audience were simply compatriots who’d come to be hypnotized by their friend. "His girlfriend used to date our bass player when we all lived in Santa Fe," explained Night Rally drummer Luke Kirkland. Micka’s infinitely reflecting sonic mirror game seemed the perfect soundtrack for a vaguely incestuous indie evening. Over in Somerville the following night, a T-shirt displaying the words "We’re not hip yet but we’re getting there" hung above a bartop that displayed classic football and baseball cards under glass. That slogan seemed just about right for P.A.’s Lounge, a clean, well-lit pub where a handful of shaggy dudes in the corner joked about the tribulations of giving up pot. They turned out to be Thee Electric Bastards, and soon enough the five-piece were tearing up the club with power chords and doubled lead vocals recalling shades of camp from Bowie to Queen to Jack Black in School of Rock. "We’re too friggin’ huge for this stage!" shouted frontman Johnny Northrup — a boast that would have been more impressive if his band hadn’t been perched on a small platform in a rainbow-lit room vaguely reminiscent of a junior-prom space. Northrup rocked the crowd anyway, climbing triumphantly atop an amp and frequently dropping to his knees for guitar solos. Earlier, the Snowleopards, a two-guitar duo, echoed the room’s low-rent vibe by unleashing their searing licks and Stevie Nicks–ish vocals over a recorded drum track. Not bad for a room that’s been booking live music regularly only in the past two years. C&W connoisseur Joe McClure, a/k/a Captain Tipsy, gave the weekend a woozy, country-flavored comedown on Sunday night at River Gods. McClure, an illusionist who used to run the weekly magic shows at the Green Street Grill, sipped vodka on the rocks and spun an hour’s worth of gems from Gene Clark, the late, vastly underappreciated ex-Byrd. Clark-penned hits like "Eight Miles High" and "I’ll Feel a Whole Lot Better" mingled with the harmonizing hayseed’s lesser-known post-Byrds output, and songs with hints of psychedelia and Motown shone alongside a soulful slide-guitar cover of the Beatles’ "Don’t Let Me Down." As the wistful tunes floated out from the atmospheric watering hole’s DJ booth, it was possible to imagine a universe where Clark got the credit accorded such Byrds-of-a-feather as David Crosby, Roger McGuinn, and Gram Parsons. If his music isn’t hip quite yet, it’s getting there. Simon W. Vozick-Levinson can be reached at vozick@fas.harvard.edu.
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