When confronted with the realities of a hot summer evening, a poorly air-conditioned room at Fitzgerald’s Nightclub in Berwyn, and a huddled shambling mass of sweating middle-aged bodies, one has few ways of remaining sane but to take on a desperate sense of hope for whatever promised events brought one into this sorry state of being. It was this mindset I took on when I was hit with an unexpected, soul-enriching dose of pedal-to-the-metal rock and roll (perhaps the only way in which one can be hit with such a thing), and an object lesson in the art of profanity as protest and revolution. The teachers of this lesson were the beautifully irreverent five-piece Chicago punk outfit Tuff Sudz.
My bearing witness to such a spectacle was, in a certain way, serendipitous—for almost all of my concert-going career, I have been engaged in the shameful act of skipping the opening band, a practice for which I, one day, will be smited. However, I feel lucky that before that happened, I bought tickets to a Local H show at a small venue and decided to show up early. When the exalted Sudz walked out on stage, I immediately took note of their youthful, doughy faces and remarkably un-gray hair. I mean, how many young people are in rock and roll bands? And how many crusty old curmudgeons are tainting the name of rock and roll with their pre-recorded tapes and their lame stadium concerts? Weezer is playing sold-out shows to drooling, adoring fans on a tour for a 31-year old album (Come on, man! That’s a confession that you haven’t made good music since 1997!) and only getting around to playing it after an hour long summary of the mind-numbing mediocrity that is the past 25 years of their career. It’s never been clearer that it’s time to pass the torch down to those yet unafflicted by baldness or rheumatism. Nonetheless, it’s the statement of musician—and showmanship the Sudz made that really gives weight to their torch-bearing position.
With no hesitation they launched into their set of lively, jaunting punk songs complimented by blues, pop, and surf sensibilities, as well as more eclectic elements like Thin Lizzy-esque guitar harmonies—all presided over by a barked howl reminiscent equally of Mudhoney’s Mark Arm and the sweet sounds of an alcohol-soaked bar fight. Their bearded and beer-wielding singer perhaps wisely decided to wait until after the first song to begin hurling obscenities and rude gestures (whose irony would not become entirely apparent to me until later) at the audience while making direct eye contact with a lucky few members, and after shotgunning a beer with trained elegance, launched into “I Can Tell Ya.” The twin guitarists’ SG and Les Paul crunched together in a flurry of gain punctuated by brutally simple drum fills and stops as the singer prowled the stage, ejecting words like “bile” in a convulsive full-body motion.
Suddenly confused glances were being exchanged all throughout the audience. Could it be? Were we enjoying an opening band? A sense of togetherness and looseness that had nothing to do with the doldrums of afternoon commutes and Excel spreadsheets took over the room as middle fingers from the crowd and band soared and bobbed in the air. As the set moved forward, vocal harmonies and ascendent guitar solos, sometimes richly melodic and other times a Stooges-esque whine, emerged from the three-chord din. The band was never silent between songs, throwing profane jabs at the audience and at themselves. At one point the audience was encouraged to mock demure guitarist Pete , and cries of “**** you Pete!” rang out long after the band had left the stage and Local H started their set. Scott Lucas came out for a duet of the sing-along “Naked and Broke,” singing, “where’s my money/where’s my clothes?” with heart and something approaching believability (after he returned backstage, the band members thanked him by posing the question “who the **** was that guy?”) At the moment singer Josh declared, “I see a bunch of beer cups on the edge of this thing [the stage], and I’ve been spitting in all of them!” I knew I was witnessing an event of a once in a lifetime importance, and the band closed on a rendition of their dastardly, lethargic punk anthem “No Time For Love,” complete with pop backup vocals a la Ramones.
There is no time in the history of music like the one we live in. With alternative music mostly reduced to the jangly, pseudo-country whine of bands like Snail Mail and Wednesday, it seems like the idea of a four-piece rock and roll band running on nothing but but 3 chords and bad attitudes has fallen by the wayside. I had mostly resigned myself to this fact, halfheartedly reassuring myself that there were interesting things before rock and roll and there’ll be interesting things after it, too. But the Sudz’ screaming sizzling stage show that stopped only for sips of Stella turned my world upside down and made me ask the question: was I witnessing the spectacular flare-out of a dying flame, or the ignition of the kindling for a new wave of fine, fine music? We’ll just have to stay tuned to these fresh young gentlemen to find out.
…what was this review supposed to be about again? Oh, right, Local H. The last time I had seen them was at another hometown show at the Metro, which I was disenchanted enough with to leave during the encore due in part to a questionable mixing job (a surprise for a two-piece band), but which nonetheless elicited few complaints from me. So, how’d they measure up eight months later? Well, my friend, as well as two men and a looper pedal possibly can. Standards like “Everyone Alive” and “California Songs” made appearances to warm up the crowd, the bass pickups on Lucas’ modified guitar whomping out droning, bombastic lines that underpinned staple songs and punchy guitar solos.
Lucas also took time out of the show to philosophize to the audience about taking videos during concerts, asking questions like: Are you ever going to watch that? Why is this man shining a bright light in my face? Am I seeing the light of Heaven as my pacemaker malfunctions? During the encore version of “All the Kids Are Right”, when perhaps the sixth or seventh string of the night was broken, instead of switching guitars as had become routine for the night the band simply launched into an impromptu version of “T.V Eye” by the Stooges. The song’s ferocity and tangible rage at the malfunctions of instruments (and the quintessentially punk rock response to keep playing in spite of them) put it firmly into place as a highlight of my slice of music history.
After a grueling extended encore, the band ended their multi-hour stint in the sweatbox. While not the world’s most innovative band, Local H has the potential to remind their audiences of the power of two men to make a whole bunch of beautiful, blasting noise (and to choose eye-popping openers).
I rate this July 12 show 4.5 paws out of 5.