THE BAD IN THE GOOD
Sometimes there's a difference between a good band and a good bar band. There are plenty of great, amazing, capable musicians in town, plenty of "good" bands, but occasionally I wonder: Do they realize that technical wizardry may not be the first thing you care about, perched on a bar stool somewhere, one eye on ESPN, the other on your cheap beer, while scarfing down a burger? Sometimes people ask me why I don't like this band or that band, this guitar player or that saxophone prodigy, and I tell them, "It's because they're boring." And then the person says, "But they're so talented/good/knowledgable. How could you not like them?" And again, my answer is, "It's because they're boring."
And this is when the person gets really mad at me. "You don't know anything about music," they'll say. "So-and-so has been playing guitar since he was 3. His vocal range is unbelievable. His fingerpicking is the most technically proficient in town!" To which I want to reply, "I do know something about music, you insane twit, but when I'm out hearing music, I don't give a shit about diminished fifths or three-part harmonies or studio wizardry. That stuff is boring. What I want to know is, does the band groove? Do they have energy? Do they have soul? And by soul I don't mean literally R&B or soul music, I mean, do they have that
thing
, that rock 'n' roll
thing
? Proficiency at an instrument or prodigious musical knowledge might be important, but it isn't everything. And sometimes it isn't anything. And sometimes it's really boring. Take Kenny G for instance. There's a person who knows a lot about music, who obviously is a 'very good musician,' but is that who you want to hear on a Wednesday night at the Cowgirl?"
Well, that's what I want to say. Usually I just mumble, "Um, you really should write a letter to the editor."
This is not to discount ability in general. Sometimes, when skill and soul come together and join in the joyous nexus of sloppy sexiness, whiskey and attitude, all you can do is grin stupidly and whisper to the person next to you, "These guys are good." Sometimes we're lucky to have it both ways. Such is the case with the Sean Helean Band-who top the heap of bar bands. For starters, the members of the trio-and I hate to say this-are able musicians, rather seasoned Santa Fe players for their relatively young ages: Lehra Gordon on bass, Bjorn Hamre on drums and Helean manning guitar and vocals. This group is clearly Helean's baby-he wrote and arranged all the songs on their new self-titled CD, a CD that doesn't quite do justice to the trio's live prowess. It's a solid enough recording, especially the rockabilly number "Conjungal Visit," a simple, high-tempo dance-floor tale of a bank-robbing couple, which stands out next to the subdued Beatles-esque "This Suicide." Midway through the album I realized, Helean is a master of occupying that rare, genre-less space, where blues and catchy pop and John Lennon reside all at the same time: a place I call "rock."
If you care about Santa Fe music, it's a CD worth owning (you can pick one up at the release party, 9:30 pm Thursday, The Cowgirl, 319 S. Guadalupe St., 982-2565), but live is when the Sean Helean Band really shows its stuff. This is not a flashy group; Helean doesn't knock you over the head with his ability, but his razor-sharp guitar playing sneaks up on you, his soulful voice snakes out to your table and works its way in, and as you order your chile relleno and Tecate you find yourself leaning over to your friend, whispering, "These guys are good."
BAND-ITOS
What would happen if you took the ferocious, Charlie Manson intensity of Chicago's Oh My God!, softened it a bit and stirred in a little metal guitar cheese plus a smattering of Calexico? You'd have my new favorite band, Ca'Guama. Comprised of three bizarre banditos from Juarez, Ca'Guama has been put on this earth to smash any preconceptions you might have about border music to bits. Then they reassemble those bits using a glue of dark, pumping bass, vocals that swing between punk-ish shouts and gorgeous Mexican melodies and drums that snap like a six-shooter. This is one of the most original bands that's ever made its way to Bar B (331 Sandoval St., 982-8999) and thank God I happened to be there. Even the hipsters were grinning.
Midway through the show, however, my heart kind of sank. I haven't been to Bar B or the Paramount in a long time, and, honestly, it's because the air, the energy, the vibe in there has grown stale. Is it because the club is in its death throes? Or simply because dance music seems to be waning in popularity? Or do people just not go out anymore?
Whatever, it doesn't matter. The sheer energy, the blast of cathartic creativity showered on us by Ca'Guama reminded me, "Oh yeah-we need this place." The energy of clubs and venues always waxes and wanes. Bar B and the Paramount are clearly in a waning phase, and that's a shame, though it seems natural in the Darwinian world of nightclubs. But this would be a tough one to lose: Quick, can you name one place in town that would have dared house Ca'Guama? That would have taken a chance on newbie Can He, who opened for the Juarez-ites with a set of his own dark, superb originals? Can you think of anywhere in town where worshipful members of the High Mayhem collective can dance with such spastic abandon and freedom (except maybe their own living rooms)? Didn't think so. Go see the Sunday night shows at Bar B, go before the club closes or changes owners or becomes office space or whatever. Go, go, go.
