This Little Underground: Farewell to music scene clubhouse Bar-BQ-Bar
Plus live reviews of Centuries, Jungbluth, Modern Music Movement’s R.E.M. tribute
Published: September 3, 2014
A huge, heart-heavy pour on the floor for Bar-BQ-Bar, whose shocking and sudden coda arrived this last weekend. Due to some recent changes in downtown’s show patterns and social demographics, it’s been a while since I’ve been a regular there, but I was very much one for many years. I’ve killed countless hours and brain cells there. Because of the concentration of talented artists and serious music heads on both sides of the bar over the years, I’ve had some of my best music conversations there. It’s been some time since the place has been quite that elite as a scene clubhouse, but in its prime, it was unmatched. Over my last beers here, I realized those memories are eternal. Thanks for the high times, Bar-BQ. May your successor be as worthy.
Non-Prophet Organization’s latest punk-centric showcase (Aug. 27, Uncle Lou’s) was a study in both extremity and advancement. Some of these young bands aren’t just pushing hard, they’re pushing the genre outward.
The night’s bookends were decent but undercooked. Though occasionally intriguing with some unusual elements, closing local band Gross has yet to make it all click and stick. The headlong, wall-crashing powerviolence of opening South Florida band Shit Luck was more coherent in style and raged with bleak undercurrents. But for the unforgiving demands of their style, they were a little loose.
The sweet middle where the headlining bands were, however, is the stretch that made the night crack like a thunderbolt. Jungbluth, a PC punk trio from Germany, ripped the room in a progressive hardcore attack. With more relief, sinew and slash than the traditional stuff, they sometimes wrap their toes over the noise-rock ledge. These guys have some seriously beastly recordings, much of it you can find for free on their Bandcamp (jungbluth.bandcamp.com). With this much danger for such little price, it’s an imperative.
But it was the sonic wrath of West Palm’s Centuries that blew everyone else the fuck away. The last time I saw this band was in this bar, and they whipped everyone into such a frenzy that bodies were flying off the pool table like a herd over a cliff. Well, it wasn’t nearly as wild this time, a fact that I know drove die-hard promoter Ryan Pemberton to near insanity. But blame the crowd, because the band did their part.
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