Thursday, June 26, 2003
Copyright © Las Vegas Mercury

Cover Story: Worth the cover charge

Four acts rise to the top of the otherwise so-so Vegas scene

By Newt Briggs

It's about time that all of us come to terms with the truth: Las Vegas is jam-packed with bands that, frankly, suck. And if you've ever laid down a $5 cover to grit your teeth through one of the loud, lousy and otherwise completely unremarkable acts that frequent our city, you should know exactly what we're talking about.

If you're like most people, though, you fall back on superstition--some whacky voodoo called the "Vegas curse"--to explain why smaller cities (Minneapolis or Gainesville, Fla., for example) revel in a glut of music industry triumph while Las Vegas wallows in a morass of failure and shattered dreams (rare exceptions being hair metal stalwart Mark Slaughter and Franky Perez, whose earnest pop is getting heavy radio play these days). But take off the blinders of optimism for a second and look at the supposed curse's latest victim, Clockwise (formerly Phatter than Albert). On the advice of RCA execs, Clockwise scrapped its name and butchered its sound to conform to the more conventional hard rock appetites of the music-consuming public. Unfortunately, the gambit backfired, and after its premiere single ("Lay Her Down") perked up a few ears, Clockwise's debut LP Healthy Manipulation sputtered and died. So much for superstition.

But as the Chinese proverb says, "Better to light a candle than to curse the darkness," and with a plethora of new acts flooding the scenescape, Las Vegas again threatens to put an end to its legacy of patent suckitude. No longer constrained by the creative shackles of rap rock and nu-metal (a trend which promised to sink the scene faster than the ill-fated Lusitania), local songsters are now exploring heretofore uncharted panoramas of sound--art rock, progressive metal, old-school punk, classical, glam and alterna-pop. Among them, both transplants (Sarah Thiele, The Displaced) and natives (FFI, Pilot to Orion) are setting the pace.

Of course, the news isn't all good. After promising garage rockers the Black Jetts contracted to re-release their nine-song LP Sonic Blast! (new title: Bleep Me) with L.A.'s Dead Beat Records, the band splintered, ditching its bassist and drummer in the process. In the immediate aftermath, rumors of their demise flourished, but according to frontman Gabe Stiff, it was just a minor setback. "We've got a couple of shows at the Double Down next month, and the album's scheduled to come out in August," says Stiff, who quickly found replacements for the supplanted members. "It's not the first time something like this has happened to us."

So the bands play on, charging into an uncertain future with PAs blazing. These days, though, the promise of future success looms large. Or as local music magnate and president of Big Lizard Records Ryan Kinder puts it, "The local scene is certainly thriving--more so now than it has been in a while. You've got a lot of new promoters trying to bring in some great new talent. You've got the seasoned vets still busting their collective asses bringing in great bands, and giving up-and-coming local bands a chance to play out. You've got great new venues like the Rock and the Palapa Lounge supporting local bands, and with the reopening of the Boston, that support will only get stronger."

Boy, would it suck if we're wrong.

Heart transplant

Perhaps the most palpable sign of a sucky band is a bad name, and Vegas is littered with them. The list is almost endless--Poppermost, The Holy Moleys and Mechanizm, to name a few--and no matter how good these bands might be, a bad name is a burden not easily shucked.

Thankfully, The Displaced's moniker seems a perfect fit. Uprooted from New York and then San Diego, the itinerant trio landed in Vegas almost a year ago with a trailer full of gear and two self-produced albums in tow. Why come to Vegas, of all places? "We saw an opportunity in Las Vegas to reach a new, receptive audience," says singer/guitarist Simon Mandel. "Vegas is under no curse. It just needs someone to set the example."

During their short tenure in town, they've done just that. Already regulars at the Rock, the Huntridge and the Cooler Lounge, The Displaced have brought a refreshing subtlety to the scene, opting for a less-is-more musical philosophy over the familiar excesses of bygone local rockers. According to Mandel, "We treat our music like a perfect piece of juicy steak. You know, trim off all the fat, keep cutting it down to basics. It works for production, arranging, songwriting and structure. We try not to put in anything that's not absolutely necessary."

If Mandel's musical philosophy smacks of haughty New York minimalism (or a disturbing obsession with beef), bassist Jen Jansen explains that it's grounded in far more practical realities. "We were traveling in a Ford Ranger for a while, and we didn't have a lot of space for gear. In all truth, we didn't have any choice but to pare it down to the bare necessities."

Whatever the origin of The Displaced's approach, it certainly seems to be working.

Fusing the harmonic interplay of Mandel and Jansen's vocals with Dennis Gardon's eclectic rhythms and a furious bass assault, The Displaced's sound most closely approximates that of the Pixies--edgy art rock on a pop curve. As such, The Displaced have quickly snapped up a fan base of teenie-bopper mods, listless punks and band-weary locals.

And with everything apparently hitting on all cylinders (that is, except for their Astro Van, which crapped out on a recent trip to the East Coast), they've got no plans to motor anytime soon. "Right now, I think we're all pretty comfortable," says Mandel. "There are some really awesome bands here and there's a lot of great talent to go see. And it definitely doesn't hurt that we've already gotten a bunch of good feedback and appreciation."

Too cool for school

From the time she was 3 years old, it was obvious there was nothing sucky about Sarah Thiele. Born in Flagstaff, Ariz., Thiele's parents weren't even thinking about preschool (much less music lessons) when they discovered their daughter had a mind-boggling gift. "Back then, my parents were really into Lionel Richie, so his records were always playing around the house," says Thiele. "One day, they walked into the living room, and I was up on the piano playing along with the melody. They just lost it."

As it turned out, Thiele had perfect pitch--a skill that allows her to identify and reproduce any tone at will. And we're not talking about just any musical note. Thiele can actually sit down at her piano and duplicate any sound, whether it's a middle C or the beep of the buttons on a microwave. Besides being fodder for a carnival sideshow, Thiele's innate ability (and her years of classical training) won her acceptance and partial scholarships to seven of the country's most prestigious music schools--among them, Cal Arts, USC, Boston Conservatory and California Berkley. UNLV, though, swooped in with a full ride, and soon the 19-year-old siren was on her way to Vegas.

Almost immediately after arriving, her professors were captivated by her musical talent. "Sarah is definitely one of the most gifted students I've ever had," says UNLV music professor Jocelyn Jensen. "Because of her ear and because she understands music so well, she is able to create on a level that is quite extraordinary for her age--or really any age for that matter. ... She was born to do music."

But UNLV confronted Thiele with challenges she'd never faced before. Says Thiele: "I went in there, and I got kicked out and kicked out and kicked out of classes, because the teachers said, `You're too good. You don't belong here.' I was removed from three classes within a month."

Now 21, Thiele's no longer taking classes at UNLV. While she mulls a transfer to USC, she makes ends meet by bouncing around the Vegas lounge circuit and playing keyboards on Wednesday nights at the Railhead with country rockers Derek Sholl and The Shooters. Her true passion, though, remains rooted in her singer/songwriter act, which she performs sporadically at the popular Acoustic Asylum in the Palapa Lounge at the Palms. Often compared to Tori Amos and Fiona Apple, Thiele insists she's working toward a novel sound.

"I would like to think that I'm trying to do something no one's ever done before," she says. "Recently, I discovered how to do distortion on my piano. It's pretty incredible."

To Fort Worth and beyond

Unfortunately, there's no tried-and-true litmus test for musical suckiness, but here's something worth trying. Gather a few friends, play a show, and see if--on the strength of that single performance--a complete stranger will rent you a Winnebago and send you on an all-expenses-paid trip to Texas. That's exactly what happened to Pilot to Orion.

As it turned out, the trip wasn't all road sodas and late night 7-Eleven Big Bites. First off, the Texans weren't entirely sold on the band's grubby vibe. "We were at the museum of modern art in Fort Worth," says Pilot bassist Frank Salvo, "so you'd think there would be some open-minded, art-type people there. Anyway, one of our friends struck up a conversation with one of the security guards, and during the conversation he mentioned that we were from Las Vegas. So the security guard went on to another security guard and said, `Them dudes are from Las Vegas.' And she's like, `Which ones?' To which he responds, `All them weird-ass-looking dudes with the long hair.'" Needless to say, it wasn't the welcome they'd expected.

Nor was the show--hosted outside an Indy Racing League event--exactly a dream come true. Bookended between the radio-friendly alterna-metal of Slur (which closed with a Drowning Pool cover) and the winner of Texas' version of "American Idol," Pilot to Orion had the misfortune of playing just as the race was beginning. "There were like 90,000 people inside the stadium and two people watching our show," admits guitarist Adam Rushfield.

Still, the fact that the band was even there speaks to Pilot to Orion's instant charm--an appeal built around layered guitars, sturdy drums (courtesy of Patrick Hutchinson) and magnetic power-pop choruses. Add to that frontman Bryan Todd's amicable stage presence and Joe Brailsford's rollicking keys, and you've got the makings of something surprisingly invigorating--a band that combines the virtues of Big Star, Ben Folds Five and Material Issue without sounding stale or derivative.

And this allure hasn't been lost on local scenesters. "They've got a really good indie sound that we don't have enough of around here," says Kat Kellams, booker and promoter for the soon-to-reopen Boston Grill & Bar. "They're unique and bold, and I don't think there's anything quite like them."

Old-school pride

Finally, something's got to be said for longevity, because--all Hemlock jokes aside--any band that endures more than a few years in Vegas has to have something to it. Take FFI: A couple of years back--when it was still dubbed Control Freak--the band was drummerless, creatively destitute and on the brink of disintegration.

"We were so lonely," says singer/guitarist Eric Metzger. So lonely, in fact, that Metzger and bassist Chris "Wiz" Wieczorkowski finally relented and sat down to pen a classified ad. After many beers and revisions, the final product read, "Control Freak is looking for a drummer who can leave town at the drop of a hat, who is a fun-loving criminal at heart, who isn't afraid to pick up a tab when asked, and who has experienced at least one punk rock show in his life."

It took a while, but the pair eventually hooked up with former 12 Volt Sex (another victim of the so-called Vegas curse) drummer Gary Wright. With a new name and the addition of Wright, the band tightened up its chops to new levels, expanding its punk roots into straightforward, no-nonsense rock 'n' roll. Sadly, their apparent progress comes at a time when other priorities--families, jobs and mortgages--take precedent.

"As horrible as it sounds, we're going to need some nice cash flow to convince us to do this full-time again," says Metzger. "If we could make like $40,000 a year, that would be killer. I mean, I can't have my family move in with my mom while I'm in Atlanta playing in front of 11 fucking people. I just wouldn't feel good about myself."

Nevertheless, the band continues to make time for shows and the occasional rehearsal, still hoping the elusive brass ring waits around every turn. They also plan to go back into the studio later this year. "If you're around long enough, people start catching on to stuff. And even though we don't play as many shows anymore, we're in for the long haul," says Metzger. "Probably the only thing that could break us up would be death or money. It'd be great if it was money, though."

"Yeah," echoes Wiz, "that'd be sweet."

A vision of future sucklessness

In the end--thanks to Sarah Thiele, The Displaced, Pilot to Orion and FFI--things might not be nearly as desperate as they seem. And with popular local acts like The Killers, Curl Up and Die, Happy Campers, The Chapter, Romance Fantasy, The Ill Figures and Caleb Lindskoog helping bear the torch, the light of hard work and talent surges ever closer to smoting the perpetual dark of musical mediocrity. Obviously, though, things aren't going to change overnight. But as my junior high woodshop teacher used to say, "Quality begets quality," and hopefully--with a modicum of local support--the coming year will see a significant decline in our current suckiness quotient.

If not, it's definitely going to be time to bust out the rabbit's foot and the Ouija board; this curse is going to be a bitch to break.