Big turd, small pond. The more Local Bastard endeavors to constructively criticize in this cozy little North Valley hamlet, the more he sees that Chico can’t handle the truth. In the small pond, opinions, especially those about the big fish, can make quick enemies. And, while L.B. might be out to shake things up, his goal has never been to divide.
Does this mean the shit slinging is over? Hell no. We just need to get a bigger fan to aim it at. So, without further ado (and with a tip-o-the-hat to Red Bluff Phil for the killer idea), L.B. presents the equal-opportunity Chico rock slam, where every local music crew—the good and the bad—is given its due critique.
The Abominable Iron Sloth: The only feeling coming to me is one of vertigo, which is probably the whole point. Agent Meecrob: Beavis: “Pull my finger.” Butthead: “I can’t. I’m taking a dump on stage.” Arrangement Ghost: Where’s the rock? There has to still be some Replacements in there somewhere. The Americas: Touring is cool, but it’s time to belly-up-to the bar. Do the work. Get yer bad selves on a label already. Aubrey Debauchery: Yeah, you’re cute, but can you still scream? Prove it. Bear Hunter: All the instruments are locked and loaded for bear, but that bear call is a little thin—more of a squirrel call. Becky Sagers: Ten, eleven years together and they still haven’t started a band. Berkow and Becca Band: For the love of Mike and the Mechanics, enough with the cheesy promo photos. Birds of Fire: The elephant in the corner says, “Sometimes, it is a space jam.” Botchii: If you say that no one likes you enough times, no one will. Boy Tiger: Alright. You can do soft and pretty and you can do hard and tough, but can you breakdance? Brain in a Cage: The metal is pure and true, but the effects processor needs Viagra. Brighten: See Cair Paravel. Buffalo Creek: NOT the Mother Hips, not by a long shot. Cabrini Green: NOT Number One Gun, but not such a long shot. Cair Paravel: If I were a white, 14-year-old, Christian, virgin girl (or boy), I’d be so horny. Calimocho: Who? Crazygrass: SID LEWIS!!! and others. The Deer: “I was rollin’ down the road tryin’ to loosen my load, and Graham Parsons and Poco were the only 8-tracks in the glove box.” Deerpen: Great vocals. Great songs. Who cares? Dialecs: If you actually have one, you don’t have to say “with an attitude.” Esoteric: “Light up a spliff and…” I can’t. Too easy. Failure Face: Shit or get off the pot. Gruk: Is it really a band, or just a built-in excuse for bassist Brad to quit his job a couple times per year? Hooliganz: Have you seen those cell-phone commercials with the poser hip-hop dudes? Not saying these guys sound the same, but the look? Know what I’m sayin’? Josh Funk: So emo-tional you could just slap him. La Dolce Vita: When playing live, remember: More Clinton, less Gore. La Fin Du Monde: An experimental band in Chico with no vocals? Isn’t that another way of saying jam band? Lee Simpson Band: Close your eyes. The sun is going down, and three smelly hippies are twirling in the dust, and the music keeps going, and going, and going… Lott Lyzzyrd: Pabst Blue Ribbon + extensive record collection + one school teacher and two journalists = no time or money for a haircut. Machine Green: Careful with that bio full of ’80s influences—Me thinks there be a little bit too much Billy Idol in the mix. The Makai: Cookie Monster. Miss Piggy. Cookie Monster. Miss Piggy. Cookie Monster. And so on… MC Oroville: Oh yeah? Well, this is Fiddy Durham/Pentz: “Straight outta Concow! A crazy-ass tweeker/ I poke holes in your speakers/ and run away with your sneakers! Unh!” Mike Comfort: “With arms wide open/ I will copy Creed, oh yeah.” Nothing Left: Social Distortion has long left the building. Number One Gun: Admit it. It’s Christian rock. Say it. Saaay it. Oubliette Perish: Let me get my abacus out here: Time-signature X divided by Tourettes plus one double-shot equals A.D.D. The Party: Aging indie rocker plays music in bedroom. P.A.W.N.S.: Punk Anarchist Warriors Need Some red meat and hugs. Pyrx: Pass. Red With Envy: Shirts. Please. Think of the children. Rev. Shelby Cobra: Tattoos? Check. Greaser haircut? Check. Outlaw facial hair? Check. Hank/Cash/ Merle/Willie name dropping? Quadruple-check. The Shankers: Buddy Holly called-uh. He-uh wants his hiccup-ah back. Hooo, baby baby. Sleepyhead: Kind of like a Dungeons and Dragons club, with vintage effects pedals instead of multi-sided dice. Slow Down Theo: Can’t wait till high school and the Cosby references are replaced with cheap beer and broken hearts. Squirrel vs Bear: Your drummer quit and you got a drum machine? It’ll never last. West By Swan: I wonder what those scientists are wearing under their lab coats?