It's not easy to forget what the Mission is like at night, particularly
sitting in the back of the bus when all of a sudden two thugs start beating
the head in of another thug. Great. I don't know about you, but I don't
really make an effort to cruise this portion of San Francisco's cultural
hotbed alone anymore because it's too damn depressing. However, tonight I
planned on staking my claim at the Kilowatt on 16th and Mission, taking in
some perky dissonance. The Noise Pop Festival had returned and I wasn't going
to be a sissy about gang fights. Quite naturally, I was pissed that my
evening had already been thrown out of whack, but you manage to collect your
wits more quickly over the years. I decided to treat myself to some tapas and
sangria because payday arrived and I didn't want to miss the happy train.
The Noise Pop Festival. In 1993, Noise Pop was a one night, local band
showcase which managed to pack the now-defunct
When we first met, Kevin was an underpaid Berkeley grad who worked for a music
booking agency called RBA in Oakland. Like me, he was more of an avid indie
consumer than a fledgling musician. We knew what we liked and what we liked
were a slew of local acts that mixed humble humor and a love for a good pop
song with the free spirit of punk. The capabilities of Marshall stacks were
never ignored. Now here at the Kilowatt, where the haircuts are shorter,
sharper and much more popular with the male crowd, Kevin's devotion has really
transcended into something karmic. He works it. And the bands, crowds, club
management, EVERYTHING pertaining to this event seem to meld into one happy
amoebic life form. People dig this shit.
By the time I was inside the Kilowatt (late of course; I talk too much after a
couple glasses of sangria) the place was well-packed. I arrived just in time
to catch SF's modestly epic
American Sensei, a quartet that manages to write catchy songs with Superchunk-like craft. To my surprise, the Kilowatt's
usually muddy sound system was treating the boys pretty well. Lead vocalist
Chad "yes, I'm from Kansas" Dwyer belted out a fast, furious tune called "Star
Search" which for their second song had me hooked. Mike Drake's red Gibson
kept churning out righteous hooks and no noodling, thank god. The set was a
solid, well-patterned rock performance, quite an accomplishment for a band not
even yet in its prime.
Last, Bob Reed and his new, improved Colorfast took
stage. Drake appeared once again with the Gibson in tow, winning the One Band
is For Wussies Award for the evening. As always, Reed was a vocal powerhouse;
must be the Antioch water that keeps him so passionate. Supposedly this was
the group's third performance together; though the set was fast-paced and
didn't leave any time for fuck-ups, the band seemed to be having a good time
together which always counts for something. Unfortunately, the Kilowatt's
sound system began to wane. By the time Colorfast's fourth song ripped
through the space I was silently cursing the club to get proactive and hire
someone who knows a thing or two about acoustics. Reed writes great lyrics,
setting Colorfast apart from many of the power-pop clones of the land and it's
a crying shame I couldn't understand what he was singing. Oh well, the show
was worth the scrape with crime and hours of ringing ears. Perhaps that's what
it's all about.
Show Review by: Kristy O'Rell
Black and White Photography by Peter Ellenby
Color Pictures by Marc Brown -
taken on the Casio-LCD Digital Camera
mark-up and design of site by
JetPack Digital Media &
JetPack Magazine
© 1996 All Rights Reserved.