Well, here are my old reviews for the Noise, which is one of Boston's oldest 'zines. If these seem uncharacteristically terse for me, it's due to the relatively stringent word limitations. Believe me, it was an exercise in restraint to attempt to write only 150 words per band...

Dennis Brennan Band at Toad 11/28/95

Umm...I don't recognize anyone here, and this isn't Asa Brebner singing. I hope Asa gave me the wrong date, or he's going to be pissed. Anyhow, these guys sound pretty cool, so I'll stick around. Obviously everyone else here came to see this band; I feel like I've walked in on a private party, but nobody seems to mind. I do like the music though, organic and rootsy, kind of a cross between Nick Lowe, Bob Dylan, and John Hiatt with a little Lyle Lovett mixed in (although I think the Lyle connection has more to do with the singer/guitarist's appearance than his sound).

Wait a minute, I'll bet this is Dennis Brennan. People have been telling me for months to get out and see this guy. Yes, it is in fact Dennis, as he just pointed out. What do you know--my friends were right, I like this music. Tasty country/blues/rock guitar work accenting Dennis' acoustic strumming, catchy groove ( yup, I see some toe-tapping) and intelligible, interesting lyrics. What else could you ask for? Well, perhaps a little elbow room, this club is about the size of a Back Bay studio. I don't think this horde of rabid fans seems to mind though.

3Ball at the Rat 12/96

What better place for a new band to kick off its career than The Rat? Although 3 Ball may be a new enterprise, the four members are hardly strangers to the Boston music scene. Lead singer and guitarist Paul Ketterer hails from Love Sauce, saxophonist Brad Barile toots for Doobious Leghorn, drummer Jon Cohan bangs the skins with the Tarbox Ramblers, and bassist Lyle Mays (no, not that Lyle Mays) thunders behind Porn Star. The collective experience of these lads shows immediately as they power into their set. Without mincing any words, they let loose in a fury of punk-pop. (Or is it alterna-punk, or ska-punk rock? Whatever, you get the point).

Immediate comparisons to Green Day, Morphine and Rancid come to mind--I mean that in a most positive fashion. Plenty of punch and mass, but tempered by melodic hooks and dancing sax lines. The grooves waste no time in causing bodies to sway and hop, the melodies stick to the brain like musical JuJubees and the lyrics tend towards the Joe Walsh, rather than the Richard Thompson, side of the spectrum.

As I scan the crowd, I see a packed house genuinely enjoying themselves. One does not need to attend a lecture at Berklee to appreciate 3 Ball, there is no sleight of hand going on here, just hooks and grooves. Not to imply that their music lacks complexity altogether, I've counted more than three chords in each song so far, but they belong to the Beatles/Nirvana school of creatively understated songwriting.

Despite the somewhat murky mix, the funky "Green Eggs and Ham" paraphrased "Drunken Melody" and the redneck send-up, "Trailer Park" cut through with wit and humor. "Able" rocks in the big-bottomed tradition of Morphine, and "Living Hell" skillfully blends pop, ska and rock influences. Each successive song sounds distinct and original, these guys aren't padding their set with outtakes or other exploitations.

Unfortunately, the only weak point of the show is Paul's failure to engage the crowd between songs. Musically, they come across like a polished and practiced machine, but the first-gig nerves are evident as Mr. Ketterer struggles with the public relations portion of the set. At least he manages to plug the t-shirts and cassettes, a sign of a true professional. Well, given the strength of the songs and performance, and the obviously receptive audience, these boys will have plenty of opportunity to work on intra-song joke telling.

Four Piece Suit at Toad 1/14/97

I like this club--it's too small, too loud, but a great place to see a band. Personally, I jump at any opportunity to see the Suit, especially when they play a small club. At the same time, a band of this caliber should not be relegated to the obscurity of "off-the-beaten-path" clubs. Granted, the same could be said of any of the artists which regularly play at Toad.

Anyhow, the Suit makes the walls throb and sweat as they pump out their original, and sometimes twisted, blend of lounge, surf, exotica and R & B. These gents demonstrate a rare musical virtuosity; this fine-tuned machine inspires even the comatose to shake their hips. Hey, if a band can move me to tango they must be doing something right. Mambos, tangos, surf tunes, spy music and crime jazz reverberate through the room washing over us in torrents of instrumental bliss. This is as close to a mystical experience as you can get on a Tuesday night.

Beverage, 3Ball, and Canine at The Rat 1/31/97

According to the doorman, Beverage seems to be the popular attraction. As they begin their set, I wonder why. I'm not revolted, but I'm not impressed. I'm pleased they actually solo and stretch out--taboo in this era of concise, bland music. Unfortunately, the musicianship doesn't save the songs. I consider the beverage in my hand far more interesting.

Even the crowd, allegedly full of Beveragites, lacks enthusiasm. I find the band engaging and witty as far as banter goes; they obviously enjoy playing their music. I wish I enjoyed listening to it. I'm not turned off, but given a choice between Guinness and Sprite... There's potential here; these kids aren't lacking ability.

I'm not the only one with this opinion as most of the crowd seems more interested in chatting, drinking, etc., than listening to the band. Of course, it's possible that the flock of Hell's Angels upstairs is making people too nervous to relax and enjoy the music. Who knows? I'll just enjoy my Guinness.

Next, 3 Ball make their debut, and the collective experience of these lads shows immediately. Without mincing any chords, they let loose in a fury of punk-pop-alterna-ska-stuff, ala Morphine, Rancid and Green Day. The grooves waste no time causing bodies to sway and hop, and the melodies and sax lines stick to the brain like musical JuJubees.

Scanning the crowd, I see genuine interest. One does not need to attend Berklee to appreciate 3 Ball, there's no sleight of hand here, just hooks and grooves. Not to imply their music lacks complexity, I've counted more than three chords per song, but they belong to the Beatles/Nirvana school of creatively understated songwriting.

The only weak point of the show is the band's failure to engage the crowd between songs. The first-gig nerves are evident as they struggle with public relations. Given the performance, and the receptive audience, 3 Ball will have plenty of opportunity to practice intra-song joke telling.

Now from the corner pocket, Canine takes the stage. I was impressed by how tight 3 Ball was, but these snarling rottweilers turn on a dime. These boys practice! They lean a little more to the Metallica/Soundgarden side of the spectrum, although perhaps a little too literally. Wait, isn't that Kirk Hammett on guitar? (The pre-alternative Hammett, that is.)

Canine has all the growl and bite the name implies, but despite the chops, the songs don't move me. The heavy, driving beats don't bounce, the melodies don't linger and the chord progressions seem too reminiscent of Zeppelin and Soundgarden songs. I think these guys are trying too hard to be something, instead of simply rocking like they mean it. People slowly make their way to the door or the bar, I shall do the latter.

Asa Brebner and Chandler Travis Philharmonic at Green Street Grill 7/16/97

I love the food here but my wallet would fare better if I paid the cover and skipped dinner. Oh well, I heard TMax is going to start reimbursing writer's expenses...Yeah, right.

Anyhow, Asa and his band finally tear themselves from the buffet and ease into their set. Ever the sage, Asa knows better than to assault the crowd immediately after eating. He does the 60's British pop thing in ways Oasis could only dream about. Hardly a cheap retread, he adds his own unmistakable touches to the genre.

His guitar playing blends the stagger of Page with the twisted modality of Richard Thompson. As he solos I feel I'm leaning back in my chair about to tip over, yet he pulls me back just in time. His perspicacious lyrics tend to the mordant, cynical side; sometimes he sounds downright bitter and spiteful, but despite the crotchety facade, you can see his Carlin-esque glimmer.
Asa deadpans, ALA Steven Wright, smugly between songs as the set crescendos. Just to make sure the ya yas are out, he ends with the blistering Phil Haynan classic "Jack's on Drugs."

As the walls sweat and Chandler makes room for the 83 piece philharmonic, Emcee Ruane steps to the mike and apologizes for overcharging. He offers anyone who feels cheated a $1 refund. No one responds.

Chandler and the gang, bedecked in some of the most fashionable bedroom-wear I've seen, charge into their unmistakable "psycho-jungle-dixieland." The horns and percussion duke it out as Chandler--looking increasingly like Charles Manson--proudly conducts the chaos. It seems everyone in the room is somehow in the band. Instruments appear out of nowhere and random people jump up and sing. Despite the apparent anarchy, the band is as tight as...a really tight thing.

Just to prove he's the king of the world, Chandler croons "You Killed My Love" and out Vegases the icons. Crawling around the floor, pouring drinks on himself, Chandler brings schlock to ever greater heights. This man should either be locked up or made emperor of the planet. The latter would be a blast.

Toboggan, Crazy Ass Liquors, 3Ball, and 8 Ball Shifter at The Middle East 7/18/97

Ack! Loud, really loud...earplugs, must commandeer earplugs...Ok, crisis averted. Let's see, still loud, maybe because the room is practically empty--must be a reason. Song over, singer babbling about "mother-fucking" something, must be some variation of angry white rock. Not in the mood, I'll pass thank you. So much for Toboggan. Time for a sandwich to kill time before Crazy Ass Liquors. I hope they're half as cool as their name.

Good sandwich, terrible service. Time for some Crazy Ass Liquors. Hmmm...I'm sensing a strong Black Sabbath influence here. I'll bet these guys kill in the 508's. Great Beavis and Butthead music. However, they don't do much for me. The audience seems receptive, but no one tries to mosh or stage dive as this music calls for. These guys do their thing well, respectable musicianship and all that, but their tunes don't stick with me--as soon as each song ends, I can't remember how it went. But hey, the crowd doesn't care, the band has plenty of energy and they're certainly enjoying themselves, and that's what it's all about.

As the Liquors clear the stage, one of my favorite new bands prepares to unleash their alterna-ska pop fury. Yes, I do love 3Ball. They rock in ways that weeny bands like Weezer and Better Than Ezra could only hope to; in fact, those bands would have to grow a couple of balls just have any in the first place, and they'd still be short of 3Ball.

Anyhow, 3Ball immediately lashes out with their unmistakable thunder. These boys groove with a mass that can shake any room, let alone a packed closet like this one. Still, despite the heft of their sound, they still manage to balance catchy pop melodies on top--kind of a Green Day on steroids thing. Granted, 3 Ball has twice the chops and at least one more ball than Green Day. That's another thing I love about these lads, they have a level of musicianship rarely seen in today's pop scene. Plus, Brad the sax player can smoke and play sax at the same time; you gotta admire that talent.

The rest of the packed house and I give 3Ball a hearty round of applause as they make way for 8 Ball Shifter. I've been hearing a lot about this band lately, and I'm anxious to hear their psycho-swamp rockabilly, or whatever they call it. As soon as they start playing, I'm struck with a sense of fear--these guys are scary looking and they probably like to beat up obnoxious critics like me.

Fortunately, I have nothing but nice things to say. Like 3Ball, they have a unique sound which defies simple description. How about, Credence meets Soundgarden with Keith Moon on drums? Maybe. Heavy, swampy grooves with sick drumming--is that a 30" kick? Loose and raw with plenty of energy. Despite the thinning crowd--most likely due to the hour and not the band--these guys refuse to relent as they pound out rocker after rocker. 8 Ball Shifter makes a great bill with 3Ball, they have different sounds, but both bands have unique and original styles and plenty of energy. To top it off, the boys in 3Ball are some of the most vocal members of the audience cheering on their ball counterparts. Nothing like band camaraderie.

Maybe next month someone will be clever enough to put together "Ballapalooza" adding Honkeyball, Underball, Stu Kimball, and a reach, Jennifer Kimball to the bill. Or maybe not...

Rob Jeffries Tribute Show, featuring: Charlies Girlfriend, The Subterraneans, Robin Lane, The Mearles, Amphibian, One Thin Dime and Barrence Whitfield at the Middle East 10/7/97

Warning: I am departing from my usual caustic and back-handed approach to provide a more somber and reverent review of this event which should not have happened in the first place. When I returned from a long weekend in California on September 22nd, there should not have been a message on my machine from Ducky Carlisle informing me that Rob Jeffries had passed away. The 36 year old bassist and anchor of half a dozen local bands had no business departing for other realms leaving behind myriad friends and placing numerous bands in the dubious position of looking for a new bassist to replace one of the best this city has seen.

Anyhow, I entered the Middle East through the new bank-vault doors to the haunting sounds of Charlies Girlfriend. Although Rob never played with this duet, they were long time friends and unofficial roommates at one time or another. CG provided a sublime yet austere opening for the evening's musical profferings. Alison Freeman's rich and plaintive voice blended with Austin Nevin's ethereal guitar work called everyone's attention to the fact the night would be marked by reminiscence, pathos and guarded celebration.

As I looked around the room I could see that the music would ultimately provide a backdrop for the primary activities of reminiscing, consoling and commemorating. The room swelled with friends and musicians, many of whom hadn't seen each other in ages, who were genuinely enjoying each other's company, all the while lamenting over the circumstances that brought them together. People exchanged stories and pictures and tried to maintain a sense of levity despite the eerie gravity of the occasion.

The Subterraneans took the stage fronted by Joel Cage. Tom Miller had the unenviable task of being the first substitute bass player of the night. The band, powered by the three guitar onslaught of Cage, Marshall Berenson (the evening's organizer and emcee) and Stan Martin of the Mearles, rocked through a gutsy, Stones influenced set. On any other night the crowd would have been foaming at the mouth after such a performance, but the audience needed more time to warm up to the evening's musical fare.

I myself spent considerably more time and energy catching up with old and new friends than I did listening to the music. Not to imply that the bands went unnoticed through the evening, but people came for the event, not specifically the music. As the night wore on, the crowd loosened up and began to celebrate Rob's life. Again, despite the musical virtuosity on stage, this event served more as a wake than a concert.

Anyhow, the music continued as Robin Lane, flanked by Wolf Wortis and Suzi Lee from Slide provided the lounge/beat/swamp set of the evening. As always, Robin rose to the occasion blending her irrepressible coyness with humble piety. She even donned Rob's bass for a song--the first of many who would honor him accordingly.

The Mearles (arguably Rob's favorite band to play in), featuring Kip Martin on Rob's bass and Jim Scoppa on dual lead-guitar, burned many-a-barn with their blistering countrified set. The dueling guitars of Stan and Jim energized the room. Kip humbly eulogized Rob by letting the music do the talking. Rob would have been truly moved by the spirit of that set.

Amphibian followed up with their signature blend of funk, soul and blues and seemed as extemporaneous as always. They do that "I'm feeling a lotta love in the room" thing like no one else. I only wish I had seen their last show at the Small Planet when in honor of Rob they quit in the middle of a set and walked off--apparently a long-time fantasy of Rob's. This night they simply played from someplace a little left of heaven and with every ounce of emotion they had among them.

I knew the next set was going to be intense on many levels. One Thin Dime features Tim Hughes and Dave "Big" Johnston, one of Rob's closest friends. Of course half the people in the room claimed Rob was their best friend, he was just one of those guys. However, Rob's death hit Big as hard if not harder than anyone else, and I hope he realized how much love, friendship and support he had that night. I could feel his longing as he played as much for Rob as the audience.

The piece de resistance of the evening was the swan song of Barrence Whitfield and the Savages. Former Savages Milt Reder and Dean Cassell climbed from the mothballs to join Ducky Carlisle and Kevin Belz for a classic rave-up. By the end of their set Joe Stump had joined in to pay homage to Rob and Jimi, four different drummers were rotating between the two sets and countless other people were onstage dancing and singing along. The scene was exhilarating , yet at the same time haunting. Looking at the mayhem on stage I couldn't escape the feeling that the one person I would expect to see in the middle of the chaos wearing a Cheshire-Cat-grin and carving toothpicks out of his bass was the man we came to honor.

In the end I'm comforted by the fact that the event would have thrilled Rob to no end and the musicians did him right. I'm still upset, and I will be for quite a while, that he wasn't there drinking a beer with me and telling tales of his European tours with Barrence; I know I'm not the only one of that mindset.

The event reunited old amigos, created new friendships and bonds, honored the life a unique, gifted and uncompromising individual, and raised over two thousand dollars for his surviving parents. Kip Martin and Marshall Berenson are discussing making this an annual event, if for no other reason than to keep everyone in touch for purely positive reasons. Rob's death seems to have reminded us all to continue to celebrate life and to find the good in everything. I think it would appropriately honor Rob to hold this event annually; besides, perpetuating something positive will only help preserve Rob's memory and paint him as the singular, charismatic soul that he was.

Drummer Sing II at the Lizard Lounge 10/29/97

Ok, how many drummers does it take to change a lightbulb... Sorry I can't resist such thoughts as 16 of Boston's most respected, celebrated--and occasionally ridiculed--drummers surround me. I'll make sure I speak slowly and as mono-syllabicly as possible tonight. Regardless, this should be one of the most unusual musical experiences I have had the pleasure of witnessing- notice I said witnessing, not hearing, there's a difference.

Joe Donelly has the honor of being the sacrificial lamb of the night. He nervously croons the Steve Earle tune "Tannytown." Immediately the irony of the night becomes evident as I watch this hulk of a drummer timidly sitting in the spotlight fronting a monster band featuring Mike Piehl on drums, Dinty Child playing guitar, mandocello, mandolin and accordion (not at the same time), Ian Kennedy (or is that a young Warren Zevon, I can't tell) on guitar and violin, Jackson Cannon on Bass, Jimmy Fitting on harp and Duke Levine periodically sitting in on guitar.

Joe successfully navigates his song to a hearty round of applause--I've never heard drummers clap so loudly. Let's face it, tonight is more or less a drummers support group meeting as they all own up to their inner desires to be the Robert Plants and Steven Tylers of the world.

Andy Plaisted of the Mother Brothers steps up to the mike to sing an archetypical drummer's song "Octopus' Garden"--hey if Ringo can sing... Chris "Garth" Hancock makes his last Boston area performance before moving to Seattle; he tackles one of my favorite songs from the pop archives: "Cars" by Gary "What the hell ever happened to him" Numan. John Sands opens up the Jungle Book to find the bouncing ditty "I Want to Be Like You." Emily Jackson tears up a "Cyclone Fence," and Billy Conway croons "The Man Who Never Learned" (of course, Laurie Sergeant should have played drums). Jim Weston of Ramona Silver fame breaks out a little Credence and delivers a suitably swampy "Suzy Q."

Mike Piehl extricates himself from the drum set to take the mike for his vocal contribution of the evening. I figure he can do one of two things, take the ironic route and sing a nice ballad to contradict his felonious appearance, or he can do a Motorhead tune. Actually, he opts for the latter in concept, but he actually does "King Nothing" by Metallica. He seems to be rather comfortable singing this particular ditty. After this heartfelt rendition I can picture him jumping around the house in a Beavis and Butthead t-shirt singing Judas Priest songs at the top of his lungs...eeesshh, nightmare material.

Terry "Concussionist #2" Donahue has the pleasure of following up Mike's theatrics and he swings the mood back in the VH1 direction with Tom Jones' "Delila." This brings us up to our intermission and gives the second set performers more time to drink away their inhibitions.

I must admit, I have a sadistic side that enjoys tormenting and maligning drummers, but tonight they are taking care of it themselves. Nothing like seeing an otherwise confident and outspoken drummer trembling at the knees over singing in front of his friends and peers.

Anyhow, Ricky Bates kicks off the second set of "Monty Python's Flying Drummer's Kareoke Circus" with Pat Boone's ultimate skeleton "Wang Dang Taffy Apple Tango Mambo Cha Cha Cha." Chandler Travis ( a man whom Pat Boone begged on bended knee not to perform this particular song on the Tonight Show many moons ago) trades roles with Ricky and bangs the skins for this rather surreal performance.

Jerome Deupree, the only drummer with his own theme song, saunters up to the mike to confess to his "Uncontrollable Urge." (A Devo hat would have brought the house down.) Phil Neighbors of Funky White Honkeys fame reaches back to the 60's for the Who staple "Substitute." Jon "we're not laughing at you, we're laughing near you" Cohan, who currently powers 3Ball and the Tarbox Ramblers, leads the evening's jam session. Jon performs an unavoidably comical rendition of Southern Culture's "8 Piece Box," and calls up the entire cast of drummers, I mean singers, for some truly inspired gang vocals.

As the tears dry, Jon Clarke, the Legendary Motorbike, unearths another great British pop tune, the Kinks "Apeman." Tim Jackson, who thought he snuck in unnoticed, is ushered up to the mike for the obligatory polka tune. Nothing like the "Eve of Destruction Polka" to appeal to the activists in the crowd. Tom Hambridge, one of the ringers, gets down with Johnny Cash's "Get Rhythm," a good command for a roomful of drummers.

Just when I thought it was safe, Phil Neighbors gets up for an extemporaneous encore: Frank Zappa's "Cosmic Debris." The redeeming quality to this performance is the fact that the band is as unpolished as the singer, but what a great tune to end the night with.

I must say this has been a rather surreal but highly entertaining experience. I was hoping that all of the songs were going to be tunes originally sung by drummers. I really wanted to hear "Rag Mama Rag," "We're an American Band" and "Honey Don't." Fortunately we were not subjected to any Phil Collins numbers. Actually, the best part of the evening: No Drum Solos!!! By the way, how can you tell when the drum riser is level...

Well, most of the singers in Boston don't have to worry about any new competition- drummers, keep your night jobs. I think the powers that be are planning on a series of related gigs. Next month will be "Singers Loading Out Night," followed by "Guitar Players Reading Charts," "Bass Players Buy a Round," "Saxophonists Doing Math," "Roadies Grooming,"and finally "Harp Players Sit Out a Verse."