HUMP (Apache Cleo, DJ Whores, Jonathan Francis)

The Press Club – Wednesday, March 24, 2010

When I used to hear the word “hump,” two things would come to mind. The first was those annoying dogs you don’t know that always want to mount your leg even though they’re neutered. Annoying. The second was being 13 and getting hot and heavy with my girlfriend Molly’s jean skirt while she was still wearing it. Awkward. Now, thanks to DJ Whores, HUMP conjures up a much happier memory for me. His Wednesday night slot at the Press Club is an oasis in the middle of the workweek.

HUMP is a dance music night, for starters. It’s a night for the sweatmakers and the drinkers. DJ Jonathan Francis is towering over his laptop, face lit from the glow of his screen, and he’s busy selecting just the right tech-house and electro tracks. He likes variety, but tonight it’s funky bass lines cut with choppy vocal samples and noisy bridges with lots of cymbals. It’s hard not to move to this. The criticism is that it gets old after a while, but so does your grandma and you still love her. He throws on a Friendly Fires remix, and I’m sold.

DJ Whores steps up to the plate. It’s 11 p.m. and everybody is primed and ready for one of Sacramento’s best selectors. He opens up the sound, choosing big vocal house cuts with chewy bass lines and devastating kick drums. Whores’ track selection is like a binder full of hall of famers. You’re stoked on a Ted Williams and then he hits you with a Mickey Mantle. It’s tough to say that he’s “warming up” Apache Cleo, tonight’s headliners, because Sacramento shows up just to hear this guy spin on a regular basis. Tonight is no different and I hang on his every mix, watching his fader carefully, anticipating the change like a nervous prepubescent.

As per a typical Midtown crowd, the club starts filling up around 11:30 and all the nightowl regulars are starting to show their hoodie-shadowed faces. Whores is in full swing by now and the randoms attracted to the word “Club” on the marquis have filtered in, too. All the right players occupy the dance floor, and all the while the lights are spinning and the drinks are weighing in. The sub is rattling frames and feet are sashaying across the floor like cursors on a Ouija Board, their movements uncontrolled.

The stroke of midnight finds Apache Cleo poised and ready. The duo is an attractive, young couple, with cute matching his-and-her laptops, whose DJ merits are defined by their individual styles that sonically mesh. Usually they perform together, but due to issues with the airport on Cleo’s computer, they are unable to link up and will be performing separately. Apache makes his way up first, preparing for his intro cut. It’s a dark house break, dissident and not the friendliest dance floor groove. Cleo circles him, dancing behind him and snapping photos of his every move. She seems to lighten his mood a bit because the next track he mixes in is a funky, disco banger that changes the atmosphere entirely. This is his way of letting the dance floor know he still cares–but not for long. His next track is just as ominous as his opener. The rest of his set is equally as unpredictable, but still full of gems that separate him from the others. He finishes with a Blondie remix that seems to summon Cleo, who saunters to her laptop. Her opening track is a strange rock anthem that sounds as if Cookie Monster is the singer. Again, her set is scattered yet enjoyable, even though she seems to be suffering from some technical difficulties. By this point, a couple is damn near making babies on the dance floor as a Missy Elliot lyric rings out, “Doing it, and doing it, and doing it well.” That’s my cue. I’m all humped out.

Mike Farrell, Lite Brite
Old Ironsides “¢ Wednesday, Nov. 25, 2009
Words by Adam Aaake “¢ Photos by April Fredrikson

In our last issue, no. 47, local musician and show promoter Ira Skinner said that “Sacramento’s music scene is probably in the worst condition that I’ve seen it in my life.” Sadly, I’ll have to agree with that. But in the season of giving thanks and on the eve of our nation’s holiday, I was thankful for the bands that are continuing to kick ass year after year, night after night.

A crowd of over a hundred gathered inside the warm walls of a familiar Sacramento venue that happens to be celebrating its 75th year of operation—Old Ironsides. Jerry Perry, another icon of our local scene and the man responsible for the majority of the booking at Old Ironsides for the past who knows how many years, has put together an all-star series of shows featuring the best acts our city has to offer. Last Wednesday’s bill began with a block party set from the always entertaining Lite Brite. Imagine Buzz Osborne with a voice like Howlin’ Pelle Almqvist, a drummer from the school of Tom Bonham and a bass player with a warm and fuzzy Rickenbacker; throw in a solid lead guitar player and you’re close to their sound. Their opening song, “Space Shuttle” lifted the crowd from their seats and had them orbiting around the stage like well lubricated satellites. Singer Eddie Underwood was belting lyrics through his thick, dirty-blond hair that sprawled across the front of his face, flailing his arm to the ceiling and arching his body forward as a he played an arpeggiated guitar riff with his free hand. An exhibitionist? Maybe. Pretty bad ass? Definitely.

Their fourth song in was ghostly reminiscent of Far circa Tin Cans With Strings to You. What added to this poltergeist was Far bass player Johnny Guttenberg looking on from the side of the stage. Later he would play with Jackpot, who was also on the bill that night, so I guess it wasn’t too strange. It’s great to hear and see the influence that a great Sacramento band like Far continues to have on the current scene.

A skinny-framed man with a tight fitting white T-shirt and a thick head of greasy brown hair that was slicked back over his head approached the stage. He slowly picked up his guitar and slid it over his shoulder in a routine manner, adjusting the leather strap that was decorated with the suits of a deck of cards. A dense crowd was surrounding the stage at this point and it was clear that they were here to see the next act. His name was Mike Farrell and he needed no introduction. The second his guitar was strummed and the set began, the experience and tenacity of Sacramento’s guitar legend proved true once again. This time with his own band, Farrell played a set of grimy rock ‘n’ roll tunes that were layered with keys and violin from the talented multi-instrumentalist Liani Moore. Veteran drummer Mike Curry did his thing on the skins while keeping the back end pocket with bass player Shawn Hali.

This performance was all about Farrell, though. When he solos you listen; touching every part of the guitar and producing sounds from his instrument that seem otherworldly. He raised his hand over the guitar as it hummed, controlling it like a shaman—he owns its soul. His mouth pursed, and he stepped to the microphone and muttered his lyrics, more concerned with the noise of his chord that continued to linger.

His music is a rare fixture of the scene that we as the local fans have the pleasure of seeing, and that, my friends, is what I am thankful for. I am thankful for the huge crowd that gathered on a brisk Wednesday to support a bill of favorites and a venue that has housed the sounds of thousands of bands over the course of its live music lineage.

Tonight, Ira would be proud.