Brent Smith, Author at Jankysmooth

Brent Smith

Satanic Manic: Lethal Amounts Honors Anton LaVey on Halloween with ‘Disobey’ Gallery

Brent Smith November 9, 2017

I was a Catholic boy/ Redeemed through pain, not through joy. Now I’m a Catholic man/ I put my tongue to the rail whenever I can. Jim Carroll, “Catholic Boy” Still feeling those post-Halloween blues. There’s nothing worse in adulthood than the end of the most mischievous night of the year, followed by the prospective onslaught of family holidays for the next two months. Particularly when you’ve had a good Samhain, the kind that has you making love to ghosts, and stirs your dead-belly energy to remind you the world isn’t some grey financial dead zone ‘til the grave. Writer Paula Guran once wrote, “The farther we’ve gotten from the magic and mystery of our past, the more we’ve come to need Halloween.” related content: Halloween At The Roxy w/ The Evil Ones: Roky Ericksen & Death Valley Girls My Halloween in this foul year of Our Lord, 2017 (fouler than last, but who could’ve seen that) was spent in the speakeasy dungeon of Madam Siam below Hollywood Boulevard—more catacomb labyrinth than cocktail bar—with no cell service, and plenty of great beasts. It was a night honoring hip Satanist guru, Anton LaVey, and the 20th anniversary of his death

Echo Park Rising (Five Pointed) Stars: Twin Temple

Brent Smith August 28, 2017

The vast miasma of artists at Echo Park Rising 2017 was an elating reminder of the fact that we’re drowning in a sea of stellar underground rock n’ roll. In today’s L.A. scene, it’s not easy to stand out, though many manage. Luciferian doo-woppers, Twin Temple, is one such act. In the twilight air of Saturday evening, just days before a historic solar eclipse, the human and spirit worlds brushed each other in a mesmerizing set. Veiled frontwoman Alexandra James and her axman husband Zachary James—swords in hand—wasted no time initiating a proper Satanic baptism to cleanse the soul of humanity. Invoking our old friend, Lucifer: In Nomine Dei Nostri Satanas Luciferi Excelsi On this alter, we consecrate the chalice representing Lilith’s womb And containing the blood of Satan -Swords- To banish hypocrisy and direct the fire of our unholy will In the name of Lucifer, ruler of Earth, I command the forces of darkness to bestow their infernal power upon us. I bid you rise. Will you all give the sign of the horns. O hear thy name. Repeat after me: Hail Satan! Hail Satan! Hail Satan! The seven-piece bluesy murder ballad band then bursted into

Glenn O’Brien is Dead & The Squares Are Back in Power: The Time to Party is Now

Brent Smith April 12, 2017

“We are here to drink beer. We are here to kill war. We are here to laugh at the odds, and live our lives so well that Death will tremble to take us.” -Bukowski In the past year, we’ve lost a lot of artists, icons, and legends in series of celebrity death waves the likes of which America hasn’t seen since maybe the 60s. The best of us have been dropping like flies. It weighs on the psyche, some more than others. The recent passing of writer, editor, and host of the bacchanal public access show TV Party, Glenn O’Brien, hit me harder than any. This came even to my own surprise. I spent the weekend mulling it over. Maybe it’s because he wasn’t any household name, most people have never heard of him. Maybe it’s because I felt a closer bond to the understated legacy of O’Brien than say that of Bowie or Prince—figures of such demigod magnitude that they were untouchable. O’Brien was accessible. I’d catch an infrequent Instagram post or the occasional sardonic dig at Trump on Twitter. I looked up to O’Brien, and always will. For me, he’s canonized, and not in any awe, but in

Between Enemy Lines- Hunter S. Thompson & The 2016 Election

Brent Smith October 26, 2016

What’s this thing you call me It’s scratching just beneath the surface It’s that thing that makes up everyone Every snowflake is unique until it melts And there’s no stopping the sun Mudhoney, “What’s This Thing?” I don’t make a habit of writing politics (writing music leaves you hanging around with plenty of degenerates as is), but this election has made political junkies out of the most apathetic. Unfortunately, the coverage of this election is a Kardashian type of reality that ignores almost all of the real story lines as you help to hijack your own family jewels. Slimy Octopus Rich Kid vs. Dr. Jekyll & Mrs. Duchess of Wall Street. It’s quite the quandary, and the internet has never been so hot-blooded and claustrophobic—like the Vegas strip on New Year’s Eve, it’s no place for any functioning human being. After being mentally and spiritually drained by all the endless word vomit online (in articles like this one), I reached for an old Hunter S. Thompson hardback on my bookshelf, titled Hey Rube, a published collection of his ESPN column he held from 2000 up to his death-by-suicide in 2005. In it—like Nostradamus armed to the teeth and

Omar Rodriguez-Lopez Releasing 12 Solo Albums in 6 Months. For real.

Brent Smith August 23, 2016

With a stoic stare through horn-rimmed wayfarers, framed with a short mane of dark, wild hair, sporting a button-down against a beaten brick wall on some street, Omar Rodríquez-López invokes Bob Dylan’s iconic 1966 visage—the most elusive and most possessed of Dylan personalities. López’s output is just as inexhaustible too; no doubt inspired. Never mind his work with Mars Volta or At the Drive-In, his solo work in the last decade is enough to make the likes of Ty Segall shake in his boots (mind the age gap), and apparently he’s nowhere near finished. His latest solo effort upholds the current indie dictum: be prolific or die. In an unprecedented move to release twelve (that’s 12) albums from now until the end of the year—one every two weeks—López, in collusion with Ipecac Recordings, looks to bombard us with his pure, unadulterated schizophrenia. Three of the twelve LP’s are already out (and streaming on Spotify, you broke motherfuckers), with the release of the fourth just days away. They very much speak to his forays in acid jazz, space rock, poetic-spitting vocals, and sentimental pop soundscapes. Sworn Virgins is experimental without being hardcore. It has a postpunk sheen, darkly textured with effects,

Janky Smooth Presents: FYF 2016 Preview And Janky Mixtape

Brent Smith August 10, 2016

It’s that time of year again in L.A. FYF is OUR festival and the evolution of a fledgling, independent, local event in Echo Park called Fuck Yeah Fest organized by some local scene kid named Sean Carlson, has transformed into a world class festival with world class talent in a world class setting in Exposition Park. To all our faithful fans and haters; please enjoy streaming or downloading our annual FYF 2016 mixtape by DJ Justin Cornwall and festival preview by our very own wordsmith, Brent Smith. Love, The Jankiest, Danny Baraz It’s 2016. Bowie and Prince are dead. Reality T.V. has assimilated the political sphere, summer fires are stoked and well-fed, and trigger fingers seem itchier than ever. This is Fuck Yeah Fest’s moment. On August 27 and 28, FYF looks to put on a hell of a clinic, going with moxie over showmanship. Headliners feature Kendrick Lamar, Tame Impala, LCD Soundsystem and Grace Jones—four acts that inhabit a paradoxical interzone between indie and mainstream. FYF has all the cred of Coachella or EDC without the obnoxious baggage or neon-gaudy self-importance. FYF’s reputation now is one of coveted, cunning formidability; like a million-person kill count it’s almost too big

New Album Review: CCR Headcleaner- Tear Down the Wall

Brent Smith June 20, 2016

Tear Down the Wall is something else. That’s not an empty idiom. The San Francisco mind-ravaging outfit CCR Headcleaner gives us its strangest trip yet, and in today’s saturation of garage racket, it’s not easy to make such a conspicuous deviation. In only 8 tracks, the hardcore psych noise of Tear Down the Wall is heavy enough to leave you with a biting LSD hangover, but still terse enough to be hungry for more. Taking more hits is a given. Tear Down the Wall is out via In The Red Records June 17th, though I figured at first it was something coming out of the Sacred Bones camp, which would’ve been just as well, as CCR has toured with Fuzz, Human Eye, and Destruction Unit alike. I was reminded a bit of Metz, just more unhinged (if you can buy it), or the heady savagery of the Butthole Surfers, just more revved up on the thrash. All the songs are inhabited by ominous melodies and minor vocals that could score a Jim Jarmusch film set in decrepit Detroit. Though chaos is the name of the game, the songs are nonetheless stitched together with keen methodology; short bursts of crunchy insanity, and long,

Ty Segall And The Secret Show: A New Tradition in Los Angeles

Brent Smith June 1, 2016

I caught wind of the secret—and free—Ty Segall and the Muggers show at the Griffin from a Mikal Cronin tweet around 10pm. It turned out being a hushed triumph for the community, the local scene—now largely represented in the hip enclave of working class L.A. artists that arches across Los Feliz, Atwater Village, Eagle Rock, Highland Park, and Mt. Washington. Luckily I don’t live too far, otherwise I would’ve just as easily succumbed to the old Angeleno proverb of “I’m staying in tonight.” I’m glad I decided to go, it provided some much needed reenergizing, and highlighted our special moment of L.A. music history. Even L.A. Weekly (that old, tired whore of a culture rag) was sage enough (however contrived) to dub Segall “L.A.’s most prolific and enigmatic rock star”—which would put him in the running for such a tag worldwide—and he doesn’t need ticket sales to prove it. I showed up to the Griffin maybe 5 or 10 minutes late, tops, sauntering to the back of a line that was definitely sizeable for a Wednesday night, and the Muggers were already wellinto their set. This was my view for a good portion of it. As it turned out, never

Rooney Rocks L.A. For The First Time in 5 Years At Teragram Ballroom

Brent Smith May 10, 2016

The prodigal son returns. In this case, it’s Robert Schwartzman. Rooney’s comeback has gotten lots of people swooning, and the sold out album release party for Washed Away (their first album since 2010) at the Teragram Ballroom was the perfect homecoming. I arrived in the middle of Wild Wild Horses, the British foursome who made me do a double-take to make sure I wasn’t in the middle of an Axe Body Spray ad. I kid. But seriously, is boy band rock a thing? If not, these stallions are paving the way for a potentially treacherous path. Go for it, ladies, they’re there for the taking! The guitar and bassist had a pretty rad dynamic; riffs gave off electro effects, which I thought was interesting. They had me looking around the stage for any traces of digi-programmed tracks, but nothing. I don’t care who you are, making a guitar sound like anything but a guitar is never not awesome. Don’t let their squeaky clean stage persona fool you, either. They curse in cockney accents and can drink with the best of them. Deep Sea Diver from Seattle was up next, and they gave a hell of a set. Orchestrator and mastermind

Beach Slang at the Troubadour by Brent Smith

Beach Slang Bring Their Noughties Revival to the Troubadour

Brent Smith May 9, 2016

Smack dab in the middle of their USA Spring Tour, Beach Slang packed the Troubadour and brought their revived noughties sound that’s got people buzzing from coast to coast. What’s that sound, you ask? Emo revival? So soon? Well, you be the judge. It’s not FIDLAR, but it’s not exactly Fallout Boy either (sigh of relief). Lead singer James Alex is another shining, sweaty example of how it’s never too late to punk—even for dads. Like imagine if Jason Bateman’s character in Juno hit it big instead of creeping on a pregnant teenager. What I was really stoked on were the opening acts: California, Dyke Drama, and Potty Mouth. It’s always nice to get to know some non-local talent up close and personal, and Beach Slang was bringing new noise from all over the map. The night kicked off with newly-formed, SF-based California, fronted by touring-guitarist-turned-official-member of Green Day, Jason White, Jawbreaker drummer, Adam Phaler and Dustin Clark of The Insides. As White graciously introduced each song—tracks like “Bad Direction,” “Cut & Paste,” and “No Hoodoo”—a few circa-2000 punks showed up out of the woodwork, witnessing a 3-piece of alt-rock vets riding the new west coast garage wave, diving in

Deap Vally & Le Butcherettes’ Double Assault on the Regent Theater

Brent Smith May 3, 2016

Rock N’ Roll Dance Party at the Regent this past Saturday, presented by Dance in a Panic and featuring Deap Vally and Le Butcherettes, served as a perfect microcosm for a new reality in rock. The recent Tidal wave (see what I did there?) of Beyoncé’s Lemonade is only the tip of the iceberg when it comes to women’s dominance in rock. Yes, rock. Even Queen Bey is wising up and digging into her rock and roll roots (note “Don’t Hurt Yourself” featuring Jack White), some of which no doubt, lie with unsung female blues singers like Big Mama Thornton and Sister Rosetta Tharpe. Alabama Shakes’ “Don’t Wanna Fight” winning for Best Rock Song at the Grammys was a victory for more than just Brittany Howard (the first black woman to win in the rock genre since Tracy Chapman in ’97). Pay attention and the beacons for the recent shift away from a predominantly male-dominated arena are there. The good news is that it only gets better—much better—the deeper down into that iceberg you go. I’ve never seen KAV live before—the event’s resident band, but they sounded a bit flat. I wasn’t sure if that was a regular thing, or

Inter-Review With Charles Moothart on Eve of CFM Release

Brent Smith April 8, 2016

CFM – Still Life of Citrus and Slime: An Interview with Charles Moothart “He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man.” -Samuel L. Johnson That famed opening axiom is no less true with CFM’s Still Life of Citrus and Slime, in which Charles Moothart goes full wolfman to transmit a bubbly, thick, and no doubt, arresting solo debut. For Moothart—the proper Lennon to Ty Segall’s McCartney—his new LP (In The Red Records) is an analog sigil for some gnarly soul searching. For the rest of us lucky bastards, it’s an incendiary trip of sour neon rock ‘n’ roll that, without it, immediately leaves your record collection wanting. It was more of a vision quest than an attempt to make a rock album. “There was no timetable to worry about,” he told me over the phone. “It was nice to go into a room and shut the door and forget about time and just let it happen as it needed to happen.” Moothart took a piecemeal approach, channeling sounds strung together spontaneously as he jumped from one instrument to the next; any scheming be damned. Though the album was composed as more extemporaneous