Crashing Up Our Cars for Love (Ambulance Ltd, The M’s, CYHSY at Northsix)

Finally got around to checking out local up-n-comers Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, Friday night.  With a catchy yet cumbersome name and no records, they’ve gotten a lot of notice – and have come together, as a band – fairly quickly.  I like their stage presence, casual, with a good mix of fun and seriousness.  Their biggest strength is lead singer Alec Ounsworth’s voice, which at its best sounds like puberty-era David Byrne; it gives personality to music that is bouncy and regular and sometimes bland.  Folks who thought Stellastarr* were a bit too aggressive and standoffish might find CYHSY’s new waving a bit more agreeable. 

Their drummer looks just like a bearded Will Ferrell, if that’s how you chose your favorites.

I doubt it’s Next Big Thing stuff, but we could all do without another Next Big Thing for a while, I think.

(On that note, The Bloc Party album blared out of the club speakers in between sets.)

I’d never listened to Brooklyn’s Ambulance Ltd. before; all I knew going in was a blurb in the Voice that suggested that I’d be gazing at my shoes.  Heck, their chubby little roadie even had his hair dyed black and Loveless-hot pink.  So I was surprised that there wasn’t much of a drone to their show, at all; after a solid instrumental opener (“Yoga Means Union”?) a lot of the music was backbeat-heavy rock.  And a lot of it was boring.  There’s a difference between contemplating your sandal-stitching and hearing musical paint dry.

The most engaging member of the band was the geeked-out keyboard player, the only one who didn’t look like he wished he’d rather be in The Strokes.  The lead singer was so emaciated I expected to see Sally Struthers rush onstage with a care package.

After their single “Stay Where You Are” failed to make any impression I booked early, which I don’t often do.

The biggest surprise of the night, and I only caught the tail end of their set, was Chicago’s The M’s.  Their sloppy takes on Beatlesque melodies were really exciting; the anthemic “Break Our Bones” could have come from Mott the Hoople.

They had the poor taste to dis fellow Illini Local H at the merch booth – after I’d already bought their CD – and they have a really lousy name (they should pair up with LA’s agreeable The Like on the Ungooglability Tour) – but I was more than willing to see them again.

In fact, had I not known that my Sunday would suddenly be free, I would have caught them the very next night opening for Jesse Sykes & the Sweet Hereafter at the Mercury Lounge.  But I’ve seen Ms. Sykes before, and I had to get up early.

*There’s no footnote.  It’s their damned name.

I gotta get rid of some of these links, so a quick dump:

Hipsters are now going to be called, at least here, “indie-yuppies.”  I find it hilarious that the guy from Vice is touting Bloc Party as part of the solution to VH-1-friendly “establishment” indies (most of whom I like, BTW – and I promise that as soon as I get a Real Job I’ll call myself an indie-yuppie, too...) like DCFC and Arcade Fire.

Whenever I need to smile, I go here.  That guy just always looks so ready and eager to smack the Rad Monkey right off that cowbell.

Chastity Pants? 

Stealth Disco? 

I know I blathered a while back about a post-election red state boycott.  Well, the more positively-titled Buy Blue seems to have its heart in the right place, even if it does sound like a promotional campaign for IBM (or Drano, I suppose).

It’s good to laugh at Something Awful:  Here’s a Photoshop’d take on “Choose Your Own Adventure Titles that Never Quite Made It;”  and here’s what happens when an old wrestler loses a war with his ego.

[I can’t remember where I got the original links from but good suspects are MinorFallMajorLift, Twinkle Twinkle Blah Blah Blah, and All Things Christie.]

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