Gig impressions: Sads

Having missed out on seeing Kameleo, I was very happy to be invited by the lovely Mayumi to see Sads a couple of days later – and for free, too! Sads are a pretty big band, so the ticket prices were high, so this was an opportunity not to be missed.

I can’t say I knew much about Sads. I vaguely remember having heard their name before and thinking, ‘Is that an awkward translation of Les Miserables into English?’ But I’d never heard any of their music before. As it turns out, they seem to have been a band that was pretty successful in the early 2000s over here, broke up and then reformed in 2010 with a heavier sound. Well, I say ‘reformed’, but by the looks of it the only original member to return was the charismatic singer Kiyoharu.

The gig was actually one of the weirdest I’d ever been to. For the very extended intro, we just had the guitarist onstage solo, widdling along to some backing tracks. He had some fast alternate picking work going on, but I can’t say I was very impressed by his chops and there was nothing you’d call original there. It seems like the general idea was that the singer is a diva so the guitarist has to entertain the crowd until he feels like arriving, but from a practical point of view that seems a bit unlikely, given that the guitarist was accompanied by constant playback. It wasn’t exactly horrible, but it was very much like watching a guitarist practice in his bedroom.

The band eventually made an appearance and played a single song. I was quite surprised and amused by how old-fashioned it was – it was very Mötley Crüe, even with some flashes of Poison. The stagecraft was tried-and-true Visual Kei stuff, albeit with a harder rock edge, with lots of posturing, teasing homoeroticism between the singer and guitarist and diva-ish prancing from the aging but still remarkably youthful singer. Aesthetically they were visual-kei-cum-hard-rock, like a fashionable Japanese stylist was trying to recapture the feel of 80s Judas Priest. Yes, ultimately, it was all very 80s.

Things got weirder as after one song, or possibly two, the band stopped playing and for a good ten minutes, the singer chatted to the crowd. He was quite a comedian, and obviously the crowd would laugh politely at whatever he said (I only understood about 40%, I have to say) but it went on and on...and then after only another one or two songs, the main musicians left and the drummer played a drum solo! This felt like a band with only 30 minutes of material padding out a show to an absurd extent. The drummer was a bit bad, having learned a few Portnoy toolbox fills and milking them for all it was worth, but hey, the toms were so swamped in reverb and the triggered kick so loud that it sounded decent anyway.

After that, thankfully the show actually got started, and I’m pleased to say that it really did get pretty good! Occasionally the band would go into all-out thrash rather than pedestrian hard rock, and the vocals would get more aggressive, and they genuinely did sound good. I very much enjoyed the heaviest parts and wanted to be down in the pit, where there was an absurd amount of crowdsurfing right from the third or fourth song. There were seriously a constant stream of them, at least three at once all through the heavier songs. Hilarious in the pretty posh Ex Theater with its posters of Paul McCartney!

While the less aggressive numbers didn’t ring as true, I enjoyed the more quirky, swinging ‘Gothic Circus’, and I have to give praise to the sound in the hall: the bass was the crunchiest I’ve ever heard for a live player, and every element except those toms was clear and crisp and pleasant to hear. The guitarist seemed to have a slightly higher opinion of himself than perhaps he deserved, but at times he’d switch to something a bit more experimental, if not exactly innovative – Morello-style jagged pick-up work, tritones that brought to mind Munky and Head – and there was such obvious relish to performing these little tricks that I found it charming. Of course, the focal point was the singer, whose self-satisfied swagger, strong voice and costume changes all added to an entertaining spectacle that put me in mind of Marilyn Manson.

The plan was to go to the after-party, but as soon as I heard that the general idea was to gather lots of girls, I knew that wasn’t going to be an option for me! And indeed, as soon as Mayumi said, ‘Hey, I’m really sorry, but...’ I could finished her sentence for her, haha. That was fine, though – we went for absurdly tasty (and cheap) pizza and I made some great new friends I hope to see again soon! 

Plane Film 2: Nightcrawler

If there’s a trend for characters like Simmons’ in Whiplash – clever, driven, irascible geniuses you’d hate in real life but enjoy watching tearing others down and heading inevitably for tragedy – there’s also a fascination with characters like Louis Bloom in Nightcrawler. Bloom is a sociopath, utterly indifferent to the feelings of others and yet sufficiently understanding of how their minds work to cleverly manipulate them. Like the Fletcher character, Bloom is contemptible, terrifying and likely to end up in very deep trouble eventually, but is compelling to watch and charismatic. This is probably the performance from Jake Gyllenhall I’ve enjoyed the most, and it’s good to see him play creepy, which he does very well indeed.

The fact is, we are fascinated by monstrous people, and the quiet unassuming ones chill us more than the insane babblers. And Bloom has been given a clever and funny quirk – he made a study of business, so often regurgitates trite marketing buzzwords, which is actually a small bit of brilliance.

At first, Bloom is just a petty criminal, stealing and selling on whatever he can. But he encounters the freelance cameramen who follow police radio calls to get footage of accidents and scenes of violence, which can be sold to local news stations. These stations have realized that gaudy violence is what gets viewers, especially when they can directly relate – ie, violence enacted on people just like them. When a sociopath who cares nothing for breaking rules, rearranging crime scenes or letting violence he likely could have prevented unfold for the sake of a better shot. The tension ramps up as Bloom gets involved with something bigger, and can begin to actually manipulate how the story will unfold – and get there for the footage.

The film is a simple one, with a simple premise and a very pessimistic attitude. It taps into the fascination with the American psycho, though Bloom acts indirectly. Its main target is the superficial fascination for violence that feeds TV news bulletins, but of course its entertainment factor derives from a similar desire to be morbidly fascinated.

An enjoyable film with strong performances, but without characters to really identify with and no real closure, it isn’t one I would rewatch

Plane Film 1: Whiplash

I’d hoped this film would be on my plane – and, indeed, it was. I was very keen on the film from its trailer, and of course its profile was raised substantially by its triple Oscar win, including best supporting actor for J.K. Simmons. This has been the year’s small-indie-movie-hitting-the-big-time success story, and it’s about a subject very close to my heart – playing the drums. So of course I was going to love it.

Drums are really only the medium for the actual story here, though. This could easily have been about any high-intensity pursuit, and actually has a lot in common with sports stories. What this is really about is the relationship between a very unpleasant mentor and a determined young acolyte who wants to be the best. But the drums provide for great visuals, those blood blisters can burst and dramatically stain the drum skins, and jazz drumming is probably the best place in music to find a musician having to go through a physically very challenging ordeal while also being subordinate to someone else – the band leader. Sure, there are forms of drumming and other performance that are arguably more intense, but they don’t have the dynamic of someone else forcing them.

So I loved the premise. In more detail, here’s the set-up: in an elite musical school, the ‘studio band’ is recognized as where the best of the best play. They win competitions and alumni go on to impressive careers in the jazz world. And its leader is the formidable Terence Fletcher (Simmons), a man who can just swan into any of the school’s other bands and poach members, and who is generally arrogant, unpleasant and quick to tear people apart psychologically because he believes that’s how musicians can be pushed. Because he’s produced great results and his institution needs him, his behaviour is tolerated and thus he continues to push the boundaries. It’s the same compelling set-up as House: MD, and I’d say these were in fact very similar characters. They’re in a powerful position, intelligent and confident with a cutting wit and a willingness to bring others down, celebrated in what they do and yet inevitably headed towards disaster.

Into this band comes young Andrew Neiman, played by Miles Teller. Initially rejected when Fletcher sees him practice, he is given a chance as an alternate, and that’s when the abuse begins. The stressed Neiman doesn’t lock into Fletcher’s tempo, and Fletcher’s transformation from warm and paternalistic at first to physically abusive is brilliantly done. Prefering to endure abuse than fail, Neiman persists, but soon becomes obsessive. When Fletcher brings in the obviously inferior drummer of Neiman’s previous band, very obviously only to mess with Neiman’s head, Neiman begins practising until he is bleeding badly, punching through the skin of his practice kit and breaking up with his girlfriend – a character really written in only for this gesture of Neiman dumping her because he thinks she’ll get in the way of his art. Neiman is being influenced by an unpleasant person and becomes unpleasant, but that only makes the drama more compelling.

Being late to a performance turns into a huge drama when Neiman ends up in a car accident but still attempting to play. The layers of drama build until one last twist where there’s a devilish attempt for one character to screw another over. But from the start, the story has been about pushing to a higher musical ground, and maybe it remains possible.

Now, I knew while watching this that jazz aficionadoes would be upset because what we see here doesn’t really give any impression of the real lives of jazz greats. Most jazz greats had pretty easy professional lives, doing what they do incredibly well. They loved music, and explored great depths of it. Neiman idolizes Buddy Rich – and as a drummer, pretty much all of us do, even if in the wider jazz sphere he’s considered a bit vulgar – and his idea of pushing himself as a musician is centred on faster single-stroke rolls and double-time swing. There’s a story about Jo Jones throwing a cymbal at stripling Charlie Parker that has been very much Hollywood-ized: the real story is that Parker got ahead and played the wrong part of the song early, and when he didn’t notice Jones’ cymbal cues, Jones threw a cymbal on the floor to get his attention, making him a bit of a laughing stock. Parker pulled his socks up, studied hard, got a regular gig and by the time he went back he was ready to become a legend. The film has it as some kind of James Bond villain encounter where Jones could hurl the cymbal so hard it nearly decapitated Bird. It’s for the drama!

And I believed the story about jazz because while it misses the point about music and expression and individuality, I am also totally sure there are myriad musicians and music teachers who do miss the point. This is obviously a personal story, based on writer/director Damien Chazelle’s experience in Princeton High School. There’s a scene where Neiman’s resentment that mediocre football is considered more laudable than elite jazz is meant to show him becoming less pleasant, but also I suspect is grounded in Chazelle’s feelings and a little cathartic. Band leaders do turn into tyrants and launch into ridiculous arrogant tirades, especially in big-band jazz where the musicians are more like cogs in the machine and have very specific moments to express themselves. Buddy Rich in particular was a monster to his musicians when displeased. Kids do obsess over technical chops and dumb speed, and lose perspective of artistic expression or the fact that beautiful music is uplifting. People get jazz all wrong every day, especially when competitive. It makes sense.

And besides, here are some superb performances. I’m not convinced he played all of the Rich-derived solo at the end, but Teller is clearly playing most of those drums and has strong chops as well as giving a heartfelt performance. Simmons, who I only really know from being Tenzin in The Legend of Korra, deserves all his plaudits. And even if I fundamentally disagree with this film’s depiction of music and a teacher having to be criminally cruel to separate wheat from chaff, I know there are people out there like that, and characters like that are incredibly compelling to watch.