With Against Me!, Sleater-Kinney and Bob Mould turning up in the top slots in the summer festival line-ups this year, it would be easy to think that queer rock has abandoned the gay ghetto for the burbs. As evidenced by a batch of LGBTQ artists, old and new there's plenty of raging queerness in the city ( and out of state ) to keep things hopping. This is the first part of what I found cooking in what has clearly become a constantly shifting music scene.
First up is Yoko and the Oh No's, which has grabbed a lot of buzz as the latest "must see" local band. The band is a great idea and a great mix; take well-crafted pop songs, give them to an above-average vocalist who is not afraid to let loose and put that in front of a rock band that plays with muscle. What comes out of is radio-friendly music with teeth and the kind of rich, addictive sing-alongs that are so good you swoon from just hearing them.
"She Knows It" and "She Ain't Mine" are highly polished rockers propelled by Stef Roti's hard knuckled drumming with the hooks lodged right up front. Max Loebman ( on guitar ) and Joey Lucente ( on bass ) give that rush a cohesion that turns those hooks into snarling anchors and the effect is hard, but catchy. "Love U" is even better with it's bracing boomerang chords, a snaky beat and a jolly abandon. The icing on the top is vocalist Max Goldstein, who sings with a supple baritone which exudes control, sexiness, and authority. I mean, I hate to say it, but Goldstein may be the best voice you haven't heard on the radio.
Granted, the relatively new Yoko and the Oh No's CD is essentially a collection of three-minute slices of pure pop pleasure, but the semi-ballad "Nobody Wants to Know" takes it to another level. The band bites into the midtempo without turning the song to dreck while Goldstein sings with a carefree dismissiveness that makes it sad and slightly melancholic.
If Yoko and the Oh No's sticks out by showcasing an oddball musical dynamic, then the quartet Atta Boi goes one further. What we have here is a bunch of scruffy white guys of differing looks ( one looks like a metal head, another like a stoner and the third like a sweet-natured innocent ) who make up a ragged abrasive punk band fronted by a flame-throwing queer Black woman with gospel/jazz/soul/rock seasoned chops and attitude to burn.
Alabama Shakes this certainly isn't, and its jarring to hear punk rave-ups "Petty Smith," "Buddy Bolden" and "Brickwave" fueled by Jolene Whatevr's pungent and erotic vocals. The band ( Andrew Downs on guitar, Noah Jones on drums and Jerrod Schoder on bass ) plays with a scrappy fury but the combination of the vocals and that playing is nothing short of explosive. I doubt Atta Boi was planning on making a political statement but the music on the recently released CD Salt sounds like the soundtrack for our times. Rage, thunder, menace, brutality: This is music that speaks to gays and straights, Blacks and whites, and men and women ( and others ) without limits.
And then at the very close of the record, Atta Boi pulls the rug out from under your feet with a violent turnaround: the ballad "She's My Everything." The song is so heartbreaking, so powerful ( albeit in a different and unexpected way ), so sincere and so quietly powerful that it clobbers the listener in a way that the punk ravers couldn't.
At Yoko and the Oh No's homecoming show at Schuba's on Sept. 18, both bands floored a mixed audience. Openers Damn Gila's pleasant low-key pop failed to prepare the uninitiated for Atta Boi's naked comical fury. Seeing them is an entirely different experience from just hearing them with Schrober noodling away, Jones bashing his little heart out, Downs staggering around endearingly and Whatevr stalking the stage and attacking the punk songs with unadorned soul. The kicker of course was "She's My Everything," and it was clear that Atta Boi's Sapphic fans adored the song as they immediately lip locked and created a massive kiss in.
If Atta Boi upped the game for the night, Yoko and the Oh No's went for the throat. Where Atta Boi looked like they were going to hurl themselves off the stage, Max Goldstein sashayed with attitude and masculine sass. Dressed in a multicolored one-piece, he has the stridency of a coiffed Peter Pan with the vocal punch of Bobby Womack. Yes, the band reached nirvana with the second song on the set, "She Ain't Mine," and the band upped the power of the recording by a good five notches—but I still found Goldstein mesmerizing and electric. His way with performance and queerness is something I haven't seen before and it's at once refreshing and stunning.
