Tonight, at Velvet Lounge, a super solid, if not super flashy indie rock show is going to happen.
Anchoring it is one of Charlotesville’s hotter new acts (with the hottest imaginable name): DRUNK TIGERS. To describe them, it is easiest to say: it sounds like what you imagine indie rock sounding on the most primal, basic level. Zach Carter, the man behind and in front of the band, was in a couple of post-punk bands in his young life, and after Fallout Countdown (which featured Gavin Holland in his pre-DJ days) disbanded, started Cataract Camp which recorded and toured with Travis Morrison and, in the end, turned out an EP with Tigers that goes has from fast and furiously shredding to oddly intimate in a matter of minutes. Check it out:
This started out as a much slower, dreamy little pop song Matt wrote, with lots of chorus on the rhythm guitar. By the time we finished it, it was a punchy rock and roll song with an organ and big countrified leads. When I laid down the lead guitar parts, the engineer joked that we were channeling Skynard. I don’t care who it sounds like. This is one of our favorite tracks to play live.
We usually collaborate on lyric-writing, but this song is all Matt, and they’re some of my favorites. Once you take a corporate job, it’s only a matter of time until it completely dominates your life. You’ll watch your close friends move away and eventually you’ll start looking forward to the lame-ass corporate holiday parties where you can get totally blasted with co-workers you don’t know very well. Matt came up with some one-liners that lighten the mood a little, including a piece of advice I have never given nor received: ‘don’t take your pants off, there’s gonna be a dance-off.’ And that’s exactly how they get you. Hey, the office isn’t so bad, somebody brought in brownies today. Bam. You’re 45.
Outer Banks, Inner Peace
Our drummer Mike wrote my favorite line in this one– ‘Scotch and soda in Texas on a flight delay.’ Nobody drinks scotch and soda in Charlottesville. Bourbon is the cool liquor to drink, so much so that nobody ever even thinks about ordering scotch. And if someone does order it, they’re making a statement by ordering an outrageously expensive scotch that you wouldn’t dare dilute with soda. This behavior is arbitrary, meaningless and pervasive. But when you’re stranded in an airport with nothing to do, things you never do at home seem suddenly appealing. On a whim, you order a scotch and soda. And it tastes novel, bright, refreshing– you’re surprised to find yourself feeling a little bit better. But you’re still kind of bored, because it’s a fucking airport.