Music: Take a Bow

Local quintet Loom brings down the house; ruins the carpet.

Most of Salt Lake City’s bike-riding, yoga-practicing, NPR-listening youngsters are quick to claim cultural enlightenment. Truth is, however, the bulk of kids who attend rock shows recoil when they see a violin onstage. The last instrument most beer-swilling bar patrons want to hear is a violin unless they have season tickets to the symphony or could double as extras for Saturday Night Live’s “Goth Talk” sketch.

Loom violinist/vocalist Kim Pack is well aware of audience members’ tendency to stereotype the band’s music when they see the bowed strings. They expect to hear something slow, melancholic and down tempo. “A lot of people don’t know what to expect,” she says. “Some say ‘Oh, this is going to suck,’ but once they see our set, they usually change their minds.”

Audiences across the country—from Washington to Georgia—opened their ears and embraced Loom, violin and all. Perhaps their success owes something to pop-punk act Yellowcard whose own strings help spice up an otherwise bland sound. Then there’s Salt Lake City’s Subrosa whose violin use is more dark and gothic. Perhaps a trend is starting?

Could happen. Consider Loom’s quick growth. Though barely a year old, the local quintet has released an EP, signed to locally owned and operated Exigent Records and toured extensively. Their sound is a hard, tense tangle of explosive, intricate instrumentation and sweeping harmonies. It is, in short, the antithesis of down tempo.?

The members of Loom share a house on Paxton Avenue—formerly occupied by fellow local rockers Paxtin—where they live, practice and play shows. Their invigorating live performances, replete with a light show orchestrated by vocalist Josh Devenport, leave witnesses in a state of mild euphoria. Just ask the kids from a sparsely populated, seldom traversed town in North Dakota who squeezed into a musty barn to catch Loom on tour. They came, they rocked, they spent their last pennies on merchandise—probably hoped to get inside the rockers’ heads. But can outsiders really comprehend the nuts and bolts of Loom?

“If you want to discuss our taste in music, you would really have to write five different articles,” drummer/vocalist Jarom Bischoff deadpans. Guitarist/vocalist Mike Cundick (aka Dork) believes disparate influences are part of the driving force behind Loom’s musical vitality. “All five of us have different backgrounds. Punk, jazz, hardcore, classical … there’s a little bit of everything,” he says.

Pack points to a small collective of bands that each of Loom’s members cite as influences, including local favorites Form of Rocket. However, judging from the playful jabs exchanged by Bischoff and bassist John Finnegan—who says Bischoff is never shy about voicing his distaste for things he doesn’t like—disagreement is key to Loom’s creative fire.

And, despite some contentious practice sessions, Bischoff says that Loom is the band he and his bandmates have always wanted:

“We’re currently writing our first full-length album, and we’re hoping to do a split 10-inch with [Exigent-signed, Portland-based] Prize Country. Our goal is to tour six months out of the year. Based on the hospitality we received last time around, we can definitely make it happen.”

Finnegan notes that Loom’s first tour was punctuated by all sorts of rock & roll antics. Loom members skinny-dipped in the Atlantic Ocean at midnight, inadvertently sleep-walked into a bed populated by a married couple, and—in a late night drunken stupor—mistook a DVD player and a set of pristine white-carpeted stairs for a urinal.

Pack explains that Loom’s new tour motto involves refraining from indiscriminately pissing beyond the toilet, so potential hosts across the country can rest assured their electronic devices and hall carpets are safe. If mayhem ensues, Pack can always apologize profusely and soothe ruffled strangers with her unassuming violin.

Music: Prime Numbers

Rock minimalists tone it down to the lowest common denominator.

It’s hard to explain Numbers to those unfamiliar with the Bay Area trio. It’s not that their music is convoluted or pretentious—it’s just difficult to convince people that Numbers are a band. Seriously. Tell someone that you’re interviewing Numbers and the smartass might even ask which number you’re interviewing (Single-digit? Double? Odd? Even? Prime?).

It’s also hard to track down facts about Numbers on the magical World Wide Web. Type “Numbers” into Wikipedia (That’s right: Wikipedia. We do intense research at City Weekly), and you’ll get a fine description of the concept used to describe and assess quantity, but nary a mention of rock music. It doesn’t help to refine your search with “Numbers band” either, unless you’re truly interested in learning the intricate mechanisms of toll-free telephone numbers. They might as well have called their band the letter “A.”

Then again, Numbers have never been big on content, and the mystery surrounding their persona might be more than a clever journalistic conceit for segueing into the band’s growing infatuation with minimalist music.

Formed nearly seven years ago during San Francisco’s burgeoning no-wave, dance-punk scene, Numbers launched when guitarist Dave Broekema and keyboardist Eric Landmark left their similarly tech-oriented band Xerobot to work with drummer/vocalist Indra Dunis—an addition that, while slight, set the foundation for Numbers’ distinct edge. Their first label, Oakland’s Tigerbeat6, “specialized in the bleep-rock, whatever-you-want-to-call-it, electronic genre, and that confused a lot of people,” Broekema says in a phone interview. “We do have electronic aspects to our band, but having a live drummer really sets us apart. We were essentially a rock band on an electronic label.”

While they found an audience who ate up their spastic dance-rock and earned a notorious reputation for playing an instrument called the Berserk (“Which was mostly a homemade noisemaker that specialized in making irritating, jarring sounds,” Broekema laughs), they’ve since gravitated toward a more mellow sound and a new home in indie-label heavyweight Kill Rock Stars.

“It’s exciting to find a label that’s superresponsive to what you want to achieve and come to your town and just be supportive,” Broekema says. “We’ve been on certain unnamed labels that will put a CD out but won’t answer your phone calls and hide from you after they do it. I think it’s important that, with that kind of different direction we’re taking, we need that kind of label.”

?As for the sound sway, Numbers simply outgrew the need for speed. “We kind of did the dance-punk thing to death,” Broekema says. Our first couple of albums were kind of spazzy and fast-paced. But on [the group’s second release] We’re Animals, there are some elements that are pretty new we decided to carry that through.”

If Numbers thought they did dance-punk to death, then their latest album Now You Are This is the nail on that coffin. Taking cues from their idols, Kraftwerk (their name actually stems from a Kraftwerk song title), Now You Are This explores all the facets of electronic minimalism to create a very somber, very beautiful sound. Dunis’ voice and heavy beats clash wonderfully with eight-bit, NES-style droning. But like any good experimental band, Numbers never forget to add some pop-sensibility to counteract any sterile robotics that might alienate fans.

“We have consciously developed ourselves in that [minimalist] style, but we write for ourselves first of all,” Broekema says. “You’ll always get people asking us if we’ll play our old stuff, people who just want to freak out, but it seems like people are getting into what we’re doing now, even though it’s not the same style. We definitely don’t get the immediate audience reaction that we used to get, but it seems like we’re slowly winning them over.”

As for those hoping for a Berserk comeback, you’d better exhale: “We’ve since retired it to Eric’s basement. We’re into making pleasant sounds now.”

Music: Comfort of Strangers

Laura Gibson finds home off the map.

It’s easy to picture Laura Gibson strolling wide-eyed through Portland’s neighborhood streets, looking skyward and just completely digging autumn’s shifting palette. She says she loves to watch the leaves turn colors, loves to feel the air turn crisp, then cold. Something about seasonal change brings out the best in her. The pensive 27-year-old folk artist doesn’t sweat the small stuff—she thrives on it.

“None of my songs are huge, dramatic events,” she says, her young nephew chattering in the background. “I think that life is really grand with the pain and romance and all that. I definitely view the world as grander than a day-to-day grind. But I’m enchanted by little things: random people you meet; conversations that you have. That makes me really excited and inspired.”

Passion for detail pays off big time on If You Come to Greet Me, Gibson’s full-length debut on Portland’s Hush Records. Strapped with her trademark nylon-stringed guitar, she brushes the album with spare, intimate strokes of insight largely sourced in her late grandparents’ romantic writings.

“I moved back to my hometown, to my mom’s house, for a month. She told me about these two huge boxes just packed with letters between her mom and dad when he was in the Navy. I never really knew my grandparents on either side, and I was going through this period where I wanted to know who I was and where I came from,” she says, adding that reading their words revealed much about their and her own personalities. “I’ve always liked that era—the ’40s and ’50s—so I kind of got caught up in their world for a while.”

The ties that bind aren’t delivered point-blank on Greet Me, with lyrics lifted directly from one letter or another. Instead, Gibson’s fascination with Billie Holiday and buried ancestry winds through the album’s occasional waltzes and the overall nostalgic feel that perfectly complements her timeless voice. Since teaming up with Norfolk & Western’s Adam Selzer—a collaboration that led her to Hush—Gibson has fine-tuned her delivery for stronger, more self-assured effect. The result is several heartbreaking moments of understated genius strung along bits of musical saw, violin, lap steel, trumpet, upright bass, accordion and other instruments played by herself, Selzer and a crew of polished indie-folk musicians. When asked if their relationship is a natural extension of Portland’s hip, thriving music scene, Gibson laughs. Not exactly, she says.

“When I first moved here, I didn’t get that Portland had such an amazing music scene. My understanding of indie music and bands was just like, ‘Oh, they are really cool and that doesn’t seem like my thing at all,’” she says, adding that she’s never been one to pursue new, cool groups. “I could never keep up. I love music, but it’s more music that finds me.”

Which isn’t to say Gibson’s not proactive—or cool in her own right. How many artists get their start performing in convalescence homes? Gibson picked up a guitar eight years ago but didn’t play out until five years later, booking gigs at senior centers while pursuing math in college. When she moved to Portland, resolving to make music full-time, she wanted an outlet more meaningful than traditional concert venues. “My father had cancer from when I was 11 to 14. He passed away. We did a lot of hospice in our home,” she says, adding that she always hoped to work with similar programs in the future. She met a woman who ran a hospice for patients with late stages of AIDS and began performing every Tuesday. There, she established a bond with the audience that carries over into nearly all of her shows today.

“I’ve played a few shows in loud bars where you just don’t feel that connection,” she says. “I always have this understanding of me giving something to the audience and the audience receiving something. There’s an interaction there that’s hard to put into words.”

It might seem like an obvious perk of musicianship, but many bands overlook the unique opportunity to connect with strangers on a very personal and emotional level. Gibson says she is not an entertainer, but she loves to be onstage. Some interpret her stage presence as quiet and shy, which is only true to the extent that she never walks into a room and shouts “Yo! Let’s get crazy!” Pay closer attention, however, and you’ll notice Gibson’s charming speech—a spontaneous, wayward ramble between songs.

This is the sort of unpretentious, non-self-aware quality that helped endear Gibson to Hush Records. At Selzer’s prompting, she sent an e-mail to the label’s co-founders who, in turn, listened to her demos. No hoops. No fuss. And, one year later, they released her debut. “The people and timing were right,” she says, acknowledging that it’s not always so easy.
And, of course, there’s more work to be done. Gibson recently recorded an EP which she plans to distribute on tour, but not to reviewers or record stores—just a little something for the audience. She’s also working with a composer in hopes of producing a more planned-out, orchestral sophomore album.

“I have a certain aesthetic that’s just me that will remain on the next record, but I’m excited to try different songs,” she says, adding that planned collaborations might add an interesting twist to her solo work. “I’m always going through different processes and trying to approach things in new ways. You just never know how it’s going to translate.”

Music: Future of the G-G-G-Ghost

Local trio aims to exorcise the music scene.

It’s a question that marks the beginning of casual campfire conversation, often escalating into a sleepless night for its participants. It’s also a question that I find fitting for an afternoon with the band The Future of the Ghost. I like to think, sitting in a deserted Nobrow Coffee & Tea, surrounded by band members Will Sartain, Cathy Foy and Tommy Nguyen, that I can evoke some of that campfire excitement. Come on: They, like—yoiks!—have the word “ghost” in their name.

“There’s a ghost in our practice space,” Nguyen says.

“Yeah, Tommy saw a ghost there—some sort of dark shadow,” Foy adds.

Sartain is a skeptical: “I don’t know,” he says, shaking his head. “There aren’t ghosts there.”

A haunted practice space seems right for a band who is trying to shake up old spirits. After the breakup of Stiletto, Foy—who played drums in the all-female Salt Lake City group—called Sartain (of The Tremula and solo fame) to discuss a new band over coffee. Describing her apathy about a music scene that was relatively … er, dead, the two recruited Nguyen (The Rubes) to breathe new life into it. But how does a band subvert a scene that each member’s past band had a part in creating, or, what makes The Future of the Ghost different?

“I want to be a punk band,” Sartain says. “But not in a traditional sense. I want to be interested in society. I think that a lot of bands now are shallow. I want to be in conjunction with the real world and a band that can be amazing on a social level.”

“You have to respect the people who come see shows,” Foy adds. “We can do our part: We want to make more of a dialogue between the band and people who come see us.”

“Will and I have talked about this philosophy of punk,” Foy continues. “I remember the bands I would see five or so years ago, playing at Kilby Court. I didn’t go to be critical, I just wanted to move and be moved. We want to recapture that spirit, the heyday. We want to light a fire under everyone’s ass.”

“I just want to rock,” Nguyen says.

It might sound ambitious, but consider their track records. In just six months, the three have already written half of a second album before they’ve released their first, the scary-good Freak Out. Oh, and they’re also planning a six-month tour.

“We’re definitely ambitious,” Sartain says.

“But we’ve all been in bands since we were 17, and we kind of know the deal,” Foy finishes, referring to her band’s uncanny ability to gel—a chemistry that propels their music. Freak Out combines the professionalism of seasoned musicians with the erratic spontaneity of a band willing to risk everything to save the music they love so much. Mixing the right amount of garage-punk, rock, pop with some dark undertones and socially anxious lyrics, Freak Out could be this year’s most eccentric, self-aware rock album—and a thick slap in the face to all the up-and-comers who sacrifice originality for hipster cred; interesting sound for predictable, slick production (Freak Out is also a completely analog record; no computers were involved). It will indeed light a fire under your ass.

And, whether or not they buy into the whole supernatural world, they have a whole lot of exorcising to do before they can safely deliver Salt Lake City’s music scene from arguable evil.

Music | Review: Shut down and turned on with Liars and Interpol at In the Venue.

  I figured the recent Interpol/Liars show would be popular, but it wasn’t until I drove down 200 South and saw a line that snaked around In the Venue that I realized how seriously it would go off. It was nice to see the show moved from Orem to Salt Lake City (a move that screwed fans who bought $40 tickets for the original Orem show while the rest of us shelled out $27 or even $10), but I hadn’t seen a crowd that big there since Moby in 2002. (Please tell me you remember Moby. No? Man, I’m old.)

I’ve dealt with lines before, I thought, this is no biggie. Little did I know the ensuing night would go down as one of the most beautiful/chaotic nights in Salt Lake City concert history.

Shout Out Louds, a playful Cure-ish band from Sweden, opened and sounded pretty good, albeit muffled, from the line outside. Apparently those tickets don’t lie when they say “Show at 7 p.m.” I reached the front of the line, ready to assume the position when some burly bouncers shouted “No video cameras, digital cameras or … camera phones!” That’s right: After giving you a nice rub-job, they searched your phone for picture capabilities—it felt downright Homeland Security-ish. These requests are usually made by the band, so it got me thinking: Did Interpol have some freaky accident that left them hideous and photographically unsuitable? Because God forbid low-res, pixilated images of bassist Carlos D’s mustache appear on the Internet. The question would haunt me for the rest of the night.

I then saw a dude with wild, skunk hair and a “Drum and Bass for a Fucked Up Place” T-shirt pounding on the gate from within the drinking area screaming, “Interpol!” I wish I’d had a camera phone.

Over my concertgoing years, I’ve come to the conclusion that In the Venue is primarily a dance club that was blessed with a couple of good stages because, like a baby in possession of a Nintendo Wii, it doesn’t know how to operate or run the gifts bestowed upon it. Country-punkers Lucero were also scheduled to play that night at Club Sound, In the Venue’s more intimate side. Since the two share the same bar, I was able to catch some of Lucero opener Bobby Bare Jr.

I felt sorry for those Lucero/BBJ folks because one bar plus two shows equals eternal lines and few chances to get drunk. And what self-respecting Lucero fan isn’t drunk when the band plays out?

Back on the Eastern block, the kids were not alright. They didn’t get Liars who, despite a blistering (although somewhat short) set of primal, percussive-heavy art-rock, just freaked them out. They just stood stiff throughout the performance, arms folded in hipster indifference. Some girls near me were particularly terrified by frontman Angus Andrew; dressed head-to-toe in a white three-piece suit. The 6-foot-plus Aussie romped around onstage and screamed through a trippy effect-laden microphone while maybe 10 people shouted in approval. Oddly, he kept saying how much he loved us. Maybe Aussies show their appreciation by frowning and cringing.

But all the hipster babies, the unjust ticket prices and even the jerk bouncers were forgotten the moment Interpol came out. “Pioneer to the Falls” introduced the well-dressed boys in top form, and they obviously thrived in the small venue—not only playing to the fans before them, but above and around them as well. Guitarist Daniel Kessler proved himself a star—far from the sparse strummer from Interpol’s three albums. The New York City band rolled through a set that included plenty of hits, but they absolutely killed when things slowed down with “Not Even Jail,” “Rest My Chemistry” and “Pace is the Trick.” The crowd swooned. It was the closest I’ve ever come to feeling romantic at a loud rock show.

I couldn’t see any visible deformities on any Interpol members, but I did notice that singer Paul Banks wasn’t wearing a tie—and, as part of a band that prides itself on fashion, I can see why he wouldn’t want people taking his picture in such slobbish attire.

Sayde Price

SLC songwriter keeps it simple

Photo by Erik Daenitz // Sayde Price

Sayde Price has a look that turns quickly from young and innocent to piercing and contemplative. Her actions appear well thought out—from the way she peels a sweet potato to how she readies herself to sing.

It’s one of the first sunny spring days when City Weekly catches up with the Salt Lake City singer-songwriter. After cooking a light vegetarian lunch, she sits adjacent to her Avenues home’s garden and plays a song—yet to be titled.

Unraveling the newest in her small repertoire, her eyes roll back and her lips curl as her ghostly falsetto soars in a rapid crescendo. She fingerpicks her way through the song simply and delicately—an example of her conscious shift forward musically.

Price wants to move forward musically because, she says, her recent debut, Wilt All Rosy, is already outdated—its contents are 3 years old, written when Price, now 20, was “just a child” living at her parents’ Fairview, Utah, home. Unfortunately, she still can’t get booked in any of the over-21 venues in town.

To bolster her musical career and to move beyond the now-dated tracks, Price recorded the album independently in April 2010 with producer Scott Wiley at June Audio, with a slew of local musicians. It was picked up by Northplatte Records in early 2011.

Although Price feels it’s outdated, the album glows. Arranged in the order of when each song was written, the album documents the time in Price’s life and the 10 songs’ specific, if not similar, goals.

“It is about creating specific images, and that doesn’t necessitate that each lyrical turn of phrase has some sort of deeper metaphor,” Price says. “For me, that’s not necessary. It’s just the vulnerability—or even the texture of a sound—where the value comes from.”

Price is calculating how to strip away layers to arrive at the bare essence of the humanness of being, playing with the sparseness of sonic possibilities for her next conceptual album.

“I want to make an album that’s like a beet that was just pulled out of the ground and it still has the dirt on it—an exploration of the minimal,” says Price. An apt metaphor for a farmer’s daughter.

Price’s parents—owners of Sunbridge Growers—encouraged her to pursue whatever path she wanted in life. Price began violin practice at 5 years old and picked up the guitar some years later. But there wasn’t anyone to play with in her hometown, so she’d mostly write and play in her closet. “There was something really special about being in that confined space,” she says.

A friend eventually persuaded Price to play an open mic at Muse Music Cafe in Provo, where she performed two songs: “a rough sketch preceding the first finished song,” she says, and “Clam, Crab, Cockle, Cowrie” by Joanna Newsom, to whom she still garners comparisons.

She caught the ear of some prominent Provo scenesters while playing more open mics. Velour owner Corey Fox eventually helped her land some opening slots, while McKay Stevens and Joshua James—Northplatte Records’ co-founders—invited her to demo at James’ home studio. Nothing much came from those interactions until three years later, when she had moved to Salt Lake City and recorded Wilt All Rosy.

After one listen to the album, it was a no-brainer for Northplatte to sign her, Stevens says, specifically because of her voice—which he describes as “angelic, tender but piercing.” And because she’s a true artist.

“She has such a huge vision, and she is very opinionated, which can be good and bad with a musician. She’ll turn down opportunities that don’t fit her vision,” Stevens says. “She’s a creator with everything she does, whether it’s her [clothing] style, music or art.”

Price complements the label’s stellar, mostly Provo-based lineup: Joshua James, The Vibrant Sound, Desert Noises and Parlor Hawk.

Northplatte gives her autonomy as she prepares the pieces of her next effort. “I don’t feel any pressure now to adhere to an aesthetic or a sonic sensibility. I don’t think they’ll ever hold me to a creative standard,” Price says.

So now she just battles herself.

“One of the most difficult things is self-doubt. Ultimately, I want to create something that I’m interested in and that compels me,” Price says. “That is so exciting of an experience.
“I never want to feel like I brought something into the world that felt inauthentic or contrived.” 

Music: Get On the Bus

Earl Greyhound wants you to ride with them.

You don’t see Earl Greyhound comin’. Their name, and the ostensibly pretentious cover of the Brooklyn trio’s eponymous debut EP, conjures a tea-sippin’ neo-wave band. The album art for their LP bow Soft Targets (Some Records) showing a rearview of be-‘froed bassist/singer Kamara Thomas in repose further complicates attempts to divine the group’s essence without, you know, actually listening to the music. And you gotta hear these guys.

“Because we’re from Brooklyn,” singer-guitarist Matt Whyte says, admitting misconceptions about his band, “most people either assume it’s gonna be a snarky Williamsburg band.” Whatever that means, Earl Greyhound isn’t that—isn’t a lot of things—and a guess gets you nowhere.

Even when an Earl Greyhound song, says “S.O.S.,” starts with bright, chunky chords and a rumbling bass line, barreling into a moaning chorus, perhaps telegraphing a doom-y Zeppelin-esque Viking quest (and it kind of is), you don’t foresee Thomas’ cooing backup vocal or Whyte’s fingerpicked staccato bridge riff evoking such left-field references as .38 Special and ELO. And it gets crazier. “All Better Now” pumps up the soul tires on the MC5’s Detroit-sonic wheels; “It’s Over” appears to meld Otis Redding to Cheap Trick; “Like a Doggy” takes The Pixies’ loud-quiet-loud aesthetic to Motown; “Back and Forth” feels like Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes backed by Black Sabbath on white pills.

Fact is, there are surprises all over Soft Targets, an album that makes a rock fan weep convulsively and beg for more like a homely girl in the throes of a G-spot orgasm orchestrated by some Hollywood dreamboat. Only Earl Greyhound’s rock & roll ass-kicking, according to Whyte, is anything but intelligent design; it just—pow—kind of happens. “Kamara and I have been making music together for a few years now,” he says. “That’s one of the great things about any collaboration. … Things can develop organically.”

Those organic origins, with a bit more detail: What happened was, beginning in 2002, Whyte and Thomas played together as a piano-and-guitar duo, working mostly with Whyte’s songs. As their sound evolved, growing taller and louder, the need for a drummer materialized. They found Christopher Bear and, by January 2003, they were playing out. In 2004, Ricc Sheridan joined, and Whyte says that’s when Greyhound started to move at a “much, much faster” clip. The Earl Greyhound EP came later that year, and Soft Targets was released last summer to copious applause which, incidentally, meets Earl Greyhound at every tour stop.

But even with word-of-mouth and good press, nobody seems to get the license plate of that proverbial bus. And the closest we get to a mission statement is the band’s motto: “Rock Your Faces, Mix the Races,” which Thomas has elucidated in the past. She swears that once you catch their live show, pre-existing boundaries instantly begin to fade. They are, she says, part of a new cultural phase re-defining lines of gender and race.

That’s the thing, though. We’re conditioned to crave boundaries, parameters—some little cubby in which to keep everything neat and defined and digestible. Sure things and soft targets allow us to not waste time, money or thought in our efforts to be entertained. We don’t need to be blown away; we’ll settle for being occupied. Then comes Earl Greyhound.

Soft Targets is one of the best rock & roll records this year, this decade, century, millennium and any other exaggerated time span including Zep’s long, lonely times. It pilfers an array of genres and subgenres (garage-rock, soul, power-pop, metal, stoner rock, classic rock, blues) to create cool, propulsive sing-alongs that are easy like a Sunday morning, but turgid as a Saturday night.

It’s so simple, but so complicated; there must be an Architect—but Whyte maintains it’s just a happy accident. Thomas, he says, is relatively new to the bass and therefore more navely creative on the instrument than schooled bass players, relying on her vocalist’s knack for harmony to guide her. It’s just one example of Earl Greyhound’s Big Bang, but it’s telling. Some things just sneak up on you, and it pays to be ready when they do.

For instance, Earl Greyhound is sneaking into town as the support act for Soundgarden vocalist-turned-Michael Jackson-tribute-artist Chris Cornell. Unless you’re a Soundgarden fan looking for reliable greatest hits by one-fourth of the original artists, and your expectations are comfortably low enough to endure his solo crapola, you might miss one of the best bands that’ll ever come through Salt Lake City. You’ll get your $39.50 worth from Earl Greyhound alone—they do, in a convenient phrase, kick ass.

“How much ass do you kick?” Whyte paraphrases the question for Thomas, riding beside him in the Greyhound van.

“Mucho.”