UMS 2010

Written by  //  July 6, 2010  //  The Problem of Leisure  //  No comments

The Denver Post Underground Music Showcase has made it through a decade! We’re gearing up for a huge summer festival July 22-25th and there will be more bands than you can shake your SXSWangs at. Donnybrook will help get you up to speed.


Bad Weather California

 

Cinquain of Bad Weather California

This sort of Bad Weather will make you happy,
Embrace the moment, embody the spirit
Sing songs about love, without being sappy
Shout songs of protest without being preachy
You know, punk is an attitude, so show up and hear it.

By Anton O Masia

Dan Kaufman Superstar Eruption

It’s Friday night and I find myself sliding onto a familiar piece of vinyl at the Sputnik bar. Glancing down to my right I spot Dan Kaufman, obvious namesake of Dan Kaufman Superstar Eruption, here to play the Hi-Dive Hullaballoo. We exchange smiles, head nods and familiar “Hello’s.” Then, sine denuntiatio, without warning he pounds the unsuspecting man to my left with a furled-brow question, “What’s up with that Michigan t-shirt, man?” turning back to his companion, not waiting to hear the man’s feeble “From there…” response.

Dan Kaufman Superstar Eruption features Dan on lead vocals/guitar, Dustin Lawlor (from The Getdown!/now The Vicious Women) on bass and Lucas Rouge (formerly of Monofog, currently Cannons) on drums. A DKSE (everyone loves acronyms, right?) performance follows a similar schizophrenia. The sound jumps back and forth from the lulling drone of fuzzed out guitars to a full on assault on your ear drums, with loud, chunky bass chords, screeching guitar wails and the combined pounding of live drums and backing drum tracks. Projected images of penis and trees, teeth and rotting landscapes stain his white shirt, already colored with blood from self-inflicted abdominal gashes. As a cuddly koala flashes on the screen, Dan rips his shirt off, picks up a tambourine and flaunts about for a few seconds then, without warning, he leaps from the stage, runs around the room with said tambourine, goes outside sits at the bus stop, runs back in and jumps back on stage. He’s writhing on the stage floor now, shirtless like his bandmates and with open cuts across his abdomen and chest. After the show I walk up and talk to him about how it went… “They started bleeding too soon,” he says, clearly unhappy with the way the blood had worked out.

By Baron Chrysler LeBaron

The Hollyfelds

It helps that this group, for inexplicable reasons, has grand affections for Uncle Sid that are rivaled only by those of the Colonel. Again, I can’t lie; it’s a shameless pushpull of ego-exhaustion. But let us bracket that. If we can.

Dig it: the ‘felds aren’t pushing the go-to alt-country hot buttons; leave that to a slew of indie bands who didn’t have the looks or chops to go up against their wall-of-wail contemporaries and jumped into the Wilco pants, chasing the Slim Cessna dream. That’s fine and good. But all that disingenuousness will catch up to them, too. The Hollyfelds crank out straight old-style country music. Boom. What the fuck are you looking at? It’s roadhouse romance time. You can either dance with the pretty young thing in denim or dance with the end of my pool cue. Your choice, you sumbitch. Either way, you’re gonna get something broke.

The winding and warm harmonies of singers Eryn and Kate sounds like a well-intentioned, whiskey-fueled, gingham-fight between Patsy Cline and Tammy Wynette; held down by a pad of expert players who can pick, pluck, twang, and slide as their forefathers intended. If anyone is old enough, or dorky enough, to remember the band Texas – from Scotland – I’ll give a nod and say there is some kind of crossover here; but will admit defeat at defining it. The Hollyfelds are better than Texas. No doubt. The band, and the state. Take a break from the mosh pit and/or [more likely] half-heartedly ignoring another walk-on band with an animal in their name and too many effects pedals and catch up with my friends the Hollyfelds this UMS. Don’t worry -you’ll still want to kill yourself afterward. I promise.

By Sid Pink

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