Evan is a funny guy; when he isn’t creating thick metal/hardcore with Biohazard, he’s developing a pop sense to rival Dennis Miller’s or (ahem) mine by gorging on mainstream radio. "It’s become compartmentalizing, like the single-oriented radio pop one-hit wonders of the 1950s, but not even that widespread," he says, "because America can only sell seven bands at one time."
That’s right, and four of those bands–Linkin Park, Disturbed, System of a Down and Staind–owe their success directly to Biohazard, who have been doing nu-metal since the 80s, "but in a hardcore fashion," according to Evan. Their latest effort, the excellent Uncivilization, was released on 9/11; they play this Thursday as a farewell to their New York faithful before embarking on a nationwide tour.
"In addition to being the greatest summation of our life and work to date, this album is poignant and just dead-on," Evan explains. "I mean, it’s released on 9/11 and it’s called Uncivilization? C’mon. Plus there are two songs on it that are just straight-up about government conspiracy."
Evan thinks we are definitely in World War III and he’s concerned with the American attention span. "It’s becoming an unpopular war already because we didn’t get the instant gratification of blowing everybody up. I turn on CNN and see the new daisy-chain bomb that we’re going to use to blow up some, uh, sand and it doesn’t make me happy... We’re instant-gratification kind of people."
Biohazard’s Thursday show goes down at scrungy Brooklyn nightspot L’Amour (1545 63rd St., betw. 15th & 16th Aves., Brooklyn, 718-837-9506). Doors open at 7 p.m.; the coheadliners are Southern stoner rap/rockers Clutch and jazz/metal act Candiria; American Standard opens. This event is going to sell out quickly, so get your tickets now from ticketmaster.com or the L’Amour box office. They’ll run you $20. And Evan has a special message for you:
"People of New York and the Tri-State Area: it’s going to be an urban tribal ceremony. It’s going to be a bonding experience. We’re going to vent all our frustration and release all our negative energy in a positive way... Also, give me a shameless plug that I’m going to be continuing to star in the HBO series Oz." No problem.
...At the opposite end of the musical spectrum from Biohazard, but with some of the same principles, a singer/songwriter named Sam Bisbee plays this Thursday at the Living Room. Bisbee resembles Mark Greene–the doctor from ER, not the drunken-looking man who managed to lose the mayoral race–and his songs sound like what Dr. Mark Greene would write if he had any talent. He hits the themes of corporate disquietude, alienation and closeted pedophilia that permeate both ER and contemporary American life; I’ll quote some lyrics from "Cubicle Love Song" and you decide if you like the guy.
"’Cause a cubicle love song would give us all something/We could sing along to/While we try to get through/The work our bosses are told by their bosses to tell us to do." That’s from Sam Bisbee’s latest, and his first in five years, Vehicle, which he put out himself after kicking around demos for the latter part of the 90s (he also kicked around demos for the early part of the 90s with his old band, Bisbee). Luckily, in that time, Sam cobbled together an impressive list of musical colleagues (Philip Glass, Leona Naess) to assist in his efforts, and Vehicle is the fine result.
It goes without saying that this is for fans of Elliot Smith, Rufus Wainwright and all-purpose wusses everywhere. Sam Bisbee appears at the Living Room (84 Stanton St. at Allen St., 533-7235) Thursday at 10 p.m. There’s no cover but there is a one-drink minimum.
...Performance artist Steve Bird calls his act the show for people who hate one-man shows, but I have to disagree. I dig one-man shows when they’re done right–i.e., when they feature some nut ranting for my amusement, without too much politics–and Steve’s new offering certainly fits the bill. It’s called Sarcastic Passion, and to give you an idea what it’s about, in a recent performance Steve entered the stage in a purdah and bellydanced while tossing off one-liners like, "I said cable, not Kabul!"
Now, not all of Steve’s jokes are funny, not by a long shot, but he does seem to be genuinely disturbed. ("There’s a little anorexic girl inside me that screams, ‘Destroy! Destroy!’") Much of his show is gay humor and theater humor, so if you are involved in either of those worlds, take special interest. Don’t go with a date; go only if you’re brave and want to be utterly offended. Sarcastic Passion plays this Friday and Saturday at Collective Unconscious (145 Ludlow St., betw. Stanton & Rivington Sts., 254-5277). It costs $10, begins at 10 each night and runs about an hour.
...If you’re by the Chelsea/Flatiron area and you’re looking for a drink this Tuesday evening, proceed directly to Tiki Room (4 W. 22nd St., betw. 5th & 6th Aves., 646-230-1444), which recently started hosting "Parrotville" nights of Jimmy Buffett madness. "Parrotville" itself is a good-natured Buffett cover band that does the steel drums electronically and brings the appropriate stage banter ("Hey man, I’m never getting married again!"). But here’s the surprise: Jimmy Buffett has a New York following, consisting of Indian men with cellphones that never stop ringing, girls who think they’re in St. Barts and boys who were born after Buffett got all the good albums out of his system.
Flatiron’s out-there residents make this a worthwhile night. It seems that the non-yuppies who got purged from the Lower East Side ended up here, plus some of the non-gays who got purged from Chelsea. Tiki Room’s drinks are proper; there is no cover; and the men’s room has a trough filled with ice, so guys, you can really feel like you’re making your mark on the world when you pee and cause a mini-meltdown! "Parrotville" starts at 7 p.m. and runs until, oh, whenever they play "Margaritaville."
...Mini-Blurbs from a Sunday Night in the Lower East Side: Here’s how I watched the final spastic twitches of the Yankees. Started at Nevada Smith’s (74 3rd Ave., betw. 11th & 12th Sts., 982-2591), a thoroughly standard and pleasant place, where I sat behind the lone Diamondback fan and stayed silent as he cheered every Yank mistake. ("Fuck you!" a Yankee fan yelled at one point, which is usually the high point of Yank/non-Yank discourse.)
I really made the day of two underage girls by giving up my seat in the fifth inning, by which time Nevada Smith’s was packed, to check out Three of Cups (83 1st Ave. at 5th St., 388-0059). There, a man recounted for me the bomb scare that took place on his recent plane trip. "Basically, someone opened their food tray and a piece of paper fell out saying ‘Bomb on plane,’" the guy said. "But I was cool. I remember checking my watch at 7:35 and thinking, ‘Well, we have until 8 at least, because bombs only go off on the half hour.’... Once the plane was cleared we all got free drinks."
That was upstairs at Three of Cups; downstairs, the lounge had good music but offensive clientele, so I headed to Botanica (47 Houston St., betw. Mulberry & Mott Sts., 343-7251) where DJ Sharkbite plays a fabulous selection of rock/pop on Sunday nights. The music was great and the atmosphere (a spruced-up basement) friendly, but the people just weren’t there. Stranded next to a couple at the bar, and having just heard news of the Yankee defeat, I finally realized what Michael Bloomberg looks like. He looks like a frog that got kissed by Mel Brooks.
