You Can't Catch Me

You Can't Catch Me
Can a banana change its spots, or make a wish for a potato?

by Don Allred
November 10th, 2003 4:00 PM Issue 46

The idealistic, stubborn, twang-twining, tree-bearded, tight-jawed Suntamana
photo: Bryan Leitgeb
The Suntamana
Another
Drag City

The Mars Volta
De-Loused In The Comatorium
Universal

Dysrhythmia
Pretest
Relapse


The Suntanama: idealistic, stubborn, munchkist name for rusticrustacean
whiteboys, amidst tall buildings; secret name, chewed and growled over as if by a
cub, spit carefully onto the stray leaf, curled and stuck pointing (in) to
where another precious moment of seeking, noticing, forgetting lets you know
you're still alive. So the Suntanama front you (yet!) Another (CD, that is). Sun
through enough such leaves leaves a spotty tan. 101 golden radio-spots of garble
spark the lyrics, az written and semi-ticulated (perhaps tighter-jawed
descendants of pioneering psychedelibillies Holy Modal Rounders, now rattling
infectiously through finally released Live in 1965? Your Momma should know).
Twang-twining, tree-bearded arrangements find themselves, headphonically (calling,
"C'mon in, the water's fine"). Another gets better as it goes along, 'til
starseed's glorious gathering/farewell, "Late Night At the Fountain." Bound to hitch
a ride on yon school bus, westing to . . .
Mars Volta. Whose big bananaspots slip electrically elsewhere: through stabs
of light (purple bursts of trans WhoZepYesRush-
QueenQueensJaneRageSystemRedHotFugaziSantanaAtTheDrive-InEmoScreamo trajectory),

which nevertheless tend
to bounce off crystalline towers of voice, on account of "Joycean wordplay" in
the midst of Revelation. It's a challenge, but appropriately so. For inst.
(one of their easier pieces), song-title "Cicatriz esp" can refer to headshrink
and/or vaccination mark: Either way, you're in goood hands, Mr.
De-loused at the Comatarium blackhole-visionary guy. Whose defiantly
creative/self-destructive internal cosmography (runs) rings through
ricochet-maze/shields of gloved ones Mars Volta's implosively arty art. Once, before
artist-junkie-De-Loused dedicatee Julio Venagas woke up and finally succeeded in killing
himself, he and MVs/ex- At The Drive-Ins Cedric and Omar were friends, and it shows.

Philadelphia's Dysrhythmia got no weird words (except the name). They're an
instrumental-"only" rock trio, which, on Pretest, can mean a theme dreamed like
Medusa's hotcombs through their own zone-variance of ricochet-maze (incl. not hummable
tunes but tunefulness: reassuring/intriguing bait). Sideswiping fusion, prog,
punk, and metal, Dys are Deans of Fairplay Rockspoticism. They never push
originality or influence too hard (unlike heroes of previous paragraphs). Results
speak: "Running Shoe of Justice" was slam-dunk-christened by an audience member,
when he first heard the untitled instro. But Dysrhythmia aren't just about
smelly ol' shoes, smelly ol' justice; they're loud and mellow too. Guitar-bass-drums and back,
playin' a little keep-away, like Suntanama, Rounders, and Mars Volta after
all. (Smoke signals seem to read: "Soon as listeners think they completely get
any music, they basically stop listening." Untrue, guys! [ Guys?])

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