review by: Nikita

This is my lucky night. It's been on my calendar for a couple of months now and I’ve been dreaming about it. I even bought a new camera and a bulk supply of earplugs. It’s a double bill at the Avalon Ballroom with King’s X and Fishbone. Here are two bands with a track record.

King’s X is a perfect trio - the Head, the Body and the Grinder.

Massive, fat succulent arrangements for three guys that know how to fill space with big, driving, chunky sound, while still keeping frequencies separate, clean and listenable. Guitarist Ty Tabor seems like the head of the beast. Less the showman and more the divining rod, this guy breathes cohesion and confidence. With a remarkable purple hardwood guitar and armed with a great voice, he¹s got a silent guiding touch with the rest of the band.

Tabor’s guitar work is well developed and flawlessly executed - like a good pool shot. And like a good pool player, his ego is never in the way. It’s about the shot, not his perception of himself making the shot. Do you know what I mean?

I can actually decipher enough of the lyrics to know this is a group of aware, experienced, smart guys. They also never ever trade in their raging testosterone for just their smarts. Where the guitar man-o is “the calm,” the bass player is doubtlessly “the storm.” He is definitely a snack on the loose. Nothing like a 1/2 clad, strikingly ripped and fully eccentric bass player that effortlessly anchors a band and plays his instrument way down low over the groin. My, oh my.

They can all sing too - harmony like it takes splicing and dicing in the studio till dawn for other bands. This is live and it makes the hair on my arms stand up. Rather than the more predictable, pedestrian concept of harmony, I think these guys are surreptitiously working with the Platonic system of sacred harmonics or something. They don¹t go for the obvious but move together with ease to create satisfying and unique harmonic relationships.

Now, this bass player, Doug Pinnick, has a scream on him that makes you turn from the bar to breathlessly ponder his lung capacity. WOW. This is truly an art form ? to call up this kind of intensity in a scream and not fry your vocal chords in a single show. This guy knows what he is doing. You are also going to love this drummer, Jerry Gaskill.

Gaskill is a backbone, the grinder, leader and follower all at the same time. He is not pulling the cart, he is pushing it and the band just magically morphs with him. I was struck by his good looks and his relentless jaw work. I hate to say it but this guy is going to need a dental guard before long. When they all harmonize and grind that slower, sexy groove I start screaming too. I can’t help it. It’s raw, it’s full, it’s flamboyant and best of all, it’s got brains.

The crowd is in their sway, facing forward, watching the show? demographically they are heavily male in big black shoes. You won¹t ever find a better reason to dance or throb around than right here, with King’s X. I’m doing it down low like the tart I am, imitating the bass player. My extrasensory crowd detector tells me that the audience here will give themselves up before the show is over. We all wanted them to play the encore BAD? and they gave us a serious hit rocker called “Black like Sunday.” Ty Tabor’s compelling voice takes wing here and creates a haunting story. By the end of the show, it was clear that there were more fans made than had originally come to the show. As the Kings made their exit, many in the crowd were motivated to approach the stage to show their devout appreciation with a handshake or the affirmative two thumbs up. This show rocked all my senses. And the bass player ? well, I hope it was me he was watching fire up on his fierce groove.

“What’s the wildest band you’ve ever seen?”

“Fishbone,” I said.

When I was in a gigging band, the biggest shows we ever played were with Fishbone (who opened FOR Niki. She can’t say it but *I* can - Roberto). They were, hands down, my favorite band. I would sit backstage awe-struck at their musical might. They mesmerized the crowds and rocked the house down to its knees. It would actually rain down sweat on the hoards of dancing maniacs.

Fishbone had their own language and came from their own planet. If you can even imagine, this band just gets better. The fish are still reeling the hammer, slamming funkadelic vibes with a New Orleans twist in an unforgettable amalgamation of category defying virtuosity.

Where many performers are physically obstructed by their inner chaos, this lead singer is a Buddha. His ego is fully released and he freely channels the voodoo spirit. His energy blows and flows like steam under pressure escaping into the ether. Watching him is a treat for any theatrical enthusiast. His body, his hands, his feet, everything speaks and explodes with his own unique, unfettered chaos.

Although very different fish in the sea, every one in this band is a rock solid player ? synchronistic like a cloud of sardines. They are a constant spectacle. The lead singer, Angelo Chistopher Moore (the Tuna), comes out on stage dressed like a lawn jockey. Complete with suit, tux shirt and derby. He goes from playing a tiny soprano saxophone to playing the largest saxophone you have EVER seen. He goes from fully clothed to barely clothed and he is sweating like I remember.

By the time he pulls out that bass sax, the sweat is running off the bottom of the instrument and unto his shoes. With the fluids this guy loses, I hope he watches out for his kidneys.

The trumpet player, Walter Adam Kibby II (the Sea Turtle), goes from playing a big beautiful gold coronet to a trumpet, literally the size of a peashooter. Every time I look and then look back ? it’s a different raging scene.

Now I¹ve been holding out on the bass player. I have to digress to describe this. John Norwood Fisher (the Angler Fish) really inspires rampant postulation. How does he manage with this projecting bobbing twist of natty dread? Is there a coat hanger in there? Does he pin it up at night? Does he tickle his girlfriends belly with it or hypnotize the bank teller? He’s in the dazzling authentic outer robes of a Catholic priest. If you’ve seen these things ? they are absolutely open on the sides and he is absolutely naked underneath. (I believe this to be a political statement) The amazing thing is how he manages, poker faced, to seriously drive this band in this balls-out outfit.

Thank god for the guitarist, Spacey T (the Sting Ray), and the drummer, John Steward (The Shark King). They are totally integrated and ripping in their own rite. Still, it’s kind of a relief to know there are stable points in the voodoo nut-house. This is a fabulous, eye-popping show in a morass of all too many grungy, dress-down bands. This is a full tilt aquarium.

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