The Sailor Jerry Blog

08/01/2007

Again...

Ok... I know we've been talking about this Jay Reatard thing alot.. but it serious was fucking awesome.

Here's what the Philly Weekly had to say:
How a band from Memphis managed to own Philly last Friday.
by Brian McManus

All HOHO needed to be reminded he loves Philly was a trip to Colorado. Ooph. He doesn't mean it like that. In spots it's a gorgeous place, of course. Mountains. Streams. Grass. All that.
But damn if most of it hasn't been swallowed whole by America's ever-increasing suburban strip mall sprawl, that fast and cheap cookie-cutter sameness guys like Joe Bageant write about so eloquently. At least that's the rapidly formed, very unfair impression HOHO took away from a recent weekend in Fort Collins, a town filled with nothing but restaurant chains and far too many grownass men wearing sandals.
But perhaps it's because of said trip that HOHO was primed and ready to drop giant globs of hyperbolic giddy all over the mega-amazing punk rock throwdown that stopped in Center City last Friday. After a weekend in God's pristine country, he was ready for a dirty hot mess like this.
The place: corner of 13th and Sansom. The band: Jay Reatard. The venue: Sailor Jerry. The result: a surreal mix of young kids crowd surfing into trees and traffic as yuppies across the street put their blood orange El Vez margs on pause to not-so-subtlety wonder what the fuck was going on.
Not to be outdone on the alcohol tip, the folks at Sailor Jerry were good enough to serve their namesake rum along with beer from Triumph Brewing Company free of charge for the crowd. A young, tiny girl hopped on a countertop with the following instructions: “Listen up! The show's about to begin. Before it does, I'd like everyone to get as fucked up as possible! Don't be shy about grabbing the free drinks—that's what they're here for.”
Soon just about everyone was swilling something called a Blackbeard—a concoction of dark beer, Sailor Jerry rum and Coke that tasted oddly like coffee stirred with a chocolate swizzle stick. Too kidlike for its pirate name, but too weird and delicious to put down.
Before HOHO knew it, Sailor Jerry was packed to the point of discomfort. Jay Reatard began setting up on the sidewalk, and a good number of the crowd followed him outdoors. Half of the already too-narrow 13th Street was roped off by yellow tape, and even before the music started, well-dressed gawkers from nearby Vintage wine bar started raising eyebrows and standing on the toes of their wingtips to get a better look.
And then it happened. A drum intro kicked in, followed by a 20-minute ear-scorching blur. This is Jay Reatard, the Memphis man whose mind-melting album Blood Visions has been a HOHO house favorite since it came out late last year. It's a 15-track behemoth that quickens the pulse and accomplishes the very helpful and much appreciated task of making HOHO think his wasted youth wasn't all that wasted after all.
If the sound of Joan Jett's “Bad Reputation” being fisted by the Buzzcocks' “Orgasm Addict” were caught on quarter-inch tape, Blood Visions is what it would sound like—fast and precise chords beaten to death out of amplifiers that are coughing up blood. Devo and Wire both sit bedside to watch, chiming in every once in a quick while to give direction. In addition to being naked and fierce, their instruction makes BV highly danceable.
Somewhat of a punk rock prodigy (if such a thing exists), Reatard recorded and played every instrument on Blood Visions himself, and such a daunting task on such a high-octane album must make him feel like he looks on the album's cover. Broken. Defeated. Covered in blood. Naked except for a Speedo. (Think the Dwarves' Blood Guts & Pussy without the boobies, though somehow not as unappealing as that sounds.) If nothing else, it's how you'll feel after the opening title track turns you inside out.
It's quite simply the perfect song. Reatard's heavenly slice of aural bliss, one that's been fermenting for years while he's honed his art in the 200 or so bands he's been a part of since age 15.
And as he served that particular slice of musical sourdough, the crowd outside Sailor Jerry went batshit. Kids flipped over and on top of one another, grabbing tree branches to steady themselves while on top of the crowd. Old homeless men poured out of the alleys to dance. A 13th Street tranny or two stopped soliciting business for a minute to take it in. Carefully coiffed diners leaked out of El Vez and looked on, befuddled. It was an incredible thing to watch on a Center City street while the sun was still up.
Many passers-by seemed to agree. Parents with strollers and old people with canes all stopped to watch the commotion. A few even crossed the street to get a closer look. Some seemed put off, but most seemed happy, united for a moment by a band a great deal of them had never heard of. Passing motorists grinded to a halt, rolled down their windows and idled in the crosswalk to try to make the moment last.
The afternoon was a demented fever dream. One all the snow-flecked mountaintops in Colorado couldn't compete with.