Redeye - Driving stoned, rolling on November 08 2006

Apropos of nuttin’, I’m rolling down the interstate this weekend when “Tumbling Dice” comes on the radio. And it gets me thinking about what’s wrong with rock. “Men” are so worried about products and placement and how white the media and its whores think a man’s shirt should be that they have forgotten what makes a man is simply women.

Listening to the Rolling Stones, you can imagine them — at any age, creepy or not — splayed across the courtyard of a French villa, maybe in L.A., working up arrangements through a bleary haze. There are silky scarves strewn everywhere, mostly around the men’s necks, and even when there are no birds around the room smells like sex. It’s like musky muff was rubbed everywhere. And this fierce grasp of the feminine, dear friends, is what gives the Rolling Stones swagger.

Now I start to imagine a modern band — from the Killers to Nickelback, Panic! At The Disco to the Fray — and all I can think is, “Man, I bet they smell like balls.” I’m not saying they’ve got balls; actually, I’m saying precisely the opposite. There’s this stench of desperation in today’s rock that smells like skid marks, like friction-streaked lotion and dead, droopy skin. It’s the smell of trying to take talent out of first gear but burning out the clutch. What passes for rock today is often so masturbatory and forced that it is not just crazy it’s nuts.

With that out of my system, let me tell you why I like Atlanta’s own the Close. I can’t honestly claim there will be no smell of balls onstage; I don’t think I’ve ever seen bassist Dustan Nigro in anything but the same pair of black pants — when he’s not disrobing in the crowd, that is. But desperation I do not smell. Additionally, Nigro is balanced out by keyboardist Theresa M.F. (the “gamine indie rock diva,” according to the press release I have no choice but to poke a little fun at), who I’m sure smells purty. Also in the band is Brooks, the tallest lead singer/guitarist in ATL indie rawk, as well as drummer Air Justice, who does an uncanny imitation of the percussionist in the band’s touring music video.

I caught these steadfast underdogs at the Earl on Sat., Nov. 4, where they were celebrating the release of the band’s first album in three years,Sun, Burn (Goodnight Records), by playing it in its entirety. Unofficial fifth member Marc “Hoss” Crifasi chummed it up with me front-and-center as chiming wisps and taut sincerity issued forth. I’m not calling the Close the Stones — the Close is wiry but akin to Karate, the Van Pelt and Impossible Five. Nor am I commenting on their pungency firsthand. But I will applaud the band for making songs of weary soul(s) seem effortless and not overpowering. It’s ballsy to confront emotions, not just force them out. Bands that don’t seem in a rush eventually provide a bigger one once they’re in the pocket. While the rest of the motherfuckers are playing pocket pool.

RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to redeye@creativeloafing.com, but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred.