There’s no better way to void your home game hangover than with an early Sunday rock show. Thanks to Proud Larry’s, Jim Barrett, and The Orwells, this was made possible. It was well worth the missing of the evening sermon. Can I get an “amen”?
Still playing around the similar sounds and song structure of Young Buffalo, Barrett’s solo material mashes up high end harmonies with a haunting tone of hollow echoes that you can’t not tap your foot to. Accompanied by friends/local musicians, the bass was picked like a jazzy lead guitar followed by a pounding bass drum that not even a cement block could hold down. There was this western-esque groove feel to the entire set, like a modernized Tarantino soundtrack. The progressive tempo intertwined with sudden impulse of harmonics, while Jim counted out riffed bridges in unexpected, but pleasing time signatures, before jumping back into the fundamental build of bar chords. We saluted Jim Barrett & friends while we waved on The Orwells.
For those unfamiliar with The Orwells, they are a punk rock band of 18-year-olds who bring hope to the O.G. garbage bands they live for. They are the antithesis of the American Idol generation. While most of their senior class filled out scholarship applications, they signed on with Autumn Tone Records. To say the least, they are rock stars who have taken on the role of the super heroes of punk rock, and they wear their capes well.
With influences from The Misfits, Led Zeppelin, to Iggy Pop, it’s not surprising that their sound is deep, filthy, and vicious. “We are The Cunts and we’re from Denver, Colorado,” they exclaimed. Guitars were slung around into amplifiers with copious amounts of feedback, over stoned surfer rock bass lines. The front man straddled the mic chord, dancing around it like a flapper in a juke joint, then going on to wrapping it around his throat like a noose. At one point, he fell off stage, trumping through the crowd, stirring the ingredients for a mosh pit, lost his shoe. The shoe ended up back on stage where it was stabbed repeatedly with a stray drum stick.
The almost awkward stage presence mashed with the band’s complete lack of shame further tells who this band is. With a wide range of scattered vocals, it was like the front man jumped back and forth between splitting personalities, reminding me too much of Jack Torrence with his uncomfortable eye contact and the grin of a possessed child. To finish the night off, they covered Iggy Pop‘s “I Wanna Be Your Dog” while the front man reached with all his might to the projector screen above the stage, pulling it down, blocking them from the crowd. As the song drew to the end, he released pressure, sending the screen into a frantic ravel and with our hands in the air, we praised The Orwells, altered alcohol laws, and Sunday rock shows.