“Tomorrow Never Knows” is classic Beatles: the finale of an album, Revolver, that launched a thousand bands. It’s one of the first songs constructed entirely from tape loops, and one of John Lennon’s first forays into psychedelia. To offset the depth of spiritual lyrics, he gave it a throwaway title inspired by reading the Tibetan Book of the Dead while on LSD. Borrowing from Lennon, Schuba’s Tavern has fastened the title to its annual “pop fest” to pitch a mediocre lineup. Forty-two years after Revolver, creating songs from beats and loops is as easy as buying a laptop, and pyschedelic is a catchphrase bands select for their MySpace pages. Many of the acts slated for this weekend’s Tomorrow Never Knows, Jan. 15th-20th, suffer from misappropriation in name and self-proclaimed sound.
THURSDAY: Bobby Conn with NOMO, Baby Teeth and the Hylozoists
The Hylozoists take their name from the belief that there’s life in all matter, but play pop and neo-romantic classical schlock that slowly slays soul. Chicago’s Baby Teeth try to make disco work in the 21st century, but if you know disco, you’ll remember its tragic end. It’s the aborted older brother you never had the chance to meet, or the runny-nose cougar down the street. Don’t support this music again. And remember the cool kids-from-high-school-band? Some of them got together as NOMO, a bunch of white guys from Michigan who attempt afrobeat or island jazz. It’s like the soundtrack to a lost Spielberg Blaxploitation film or the musical equivalent of Nike buying Fubu. Bobby Conn is Chicago’s glam-rock king, but needs a great performance to make this night worthwhile. His music is androgynous and sexual, with one foot in reality and two or three more in a dream. If you like early Bowie, or crave Hedwig with a full unit, check him out.
FRIDAY: The Redwalls with Illinois, Bon Iver and Wax Fang
Wax Fang’s name sums up Friday’s entertainment potential. They call themselves experimental and psychedelic but aren’t. And just because Bon Iver lived in a cabin for three months, writing some pop songs he tries selling as soul, and he’s the new Thoreau? He’s not. It’s lame. So don’t bother. Illinois are sonic shape-shifters that swing from a Modest Mouse to Sufjan Stevens, but can’t capture either. They’re better looking though, so it’s only a matter of time before they’re headlining. Catch them then. Cloud Cult’s last minute dropout for “personal reasons” saved concertgoers from enduring half-assed melodies you wouldn’t find on a Ben Gibbard B-side. Tapping The Redwalls as their replacment doesn’t salvage the evening.
SATURDAY: White Williams with Cadence Weapon, Ohmega Watts, Ecstatic Sunshine and Ghostman & Sandman
Ecstatic Sunshine is two guitar-playing guys with a transcendental sound. They’re utterly fantastic and never worth missing, expect maybe this Saturday night, when they’re forced to open for talentless hacks like Cadence Weapon and White Williams. White Williams is nothing but disco with new sound effects. But analog synths instead of digital don’t make him more credible. Cadence Weapon is just one more in a long line of “intelligent” rappers who talk more about themselves than anything intelligent. See Ohmega Watts too. Ghostman & Sandman are from Ohio and make surf music, which is sort of funny, and not as bad as it sounds.
SUNDAY: The Walkmen with White Rabbit, White Denim and Arcadias
Don’t bother showing for White Denim’s math-emo-glam-punk identity crisis, or Arcadias’ misadventures in Garageband. And if you can manage to miss New York’s White Rabbit without missing The Walkmen, you’ll be better for it. Because one pill makes you larger, and one pill makes you small, and the ones that mother gives you, don’t do anything at all. Neither does White Rabbit. Following them down the hole will make you wish for 2002, when you heard the Strokes for the first time. TNK’s musical finale, The Walkmen, might be today’s worthy torchbearers of New York rock, but they illuminate the same tired alleyways. Even if they’re more tour guides than pioneers, a tour of New York’s seedy underbelly is more fun than a night at the disco. Chicago’s Second City rating is even more deserved.
