LIVE JOURNAL: Cheekface @ The Vera Project w/ Rosie Tucker, Rat Queen

Photo by David Lee.

This is either going to piss people off or make them go, “Huh, I can relate to that,” but I have to drag myself to shows sometimes. It’s not that I don’t enjoy them, or that I get a kick out of patronizing people who work their hardest to put themselves out there in intensely courageous fashion. It’s mostly because I’m a terribly shy person who normally doesn’t think ahead to invite people to go, and I end up going alone and not talking to anybody and reading some book on my phone in between sets, and that can be a drag. Some people go see music with the expectation of being social, maybe by dressing up or expecting to dance, but I would rather just be invisible: just a blurry speck in the crowd enjoying whatever’s being delivered to me at a safe emotional distance.

Sometimes, however, it’s hard to do that if you’re dealing with certain performers. Some of them innately understand how hard it can be to engage concert-goers – especially people as oft-debilitatingly self-conscious as underground music fans – so they sneakily work to get around it. Greg Katz (and Cheekface) did a fine job of that last night: polling the audience with two options and forcing them to part like the Red Sea, or turning the last song of their new record into a sing-along that doubled as a meta-commentary on its chordal ubiquity. No singling out, no forced schtick, no irritating attempts at the old “I can’t hear you” approach: just a trio who understand the increasingly-Herculean task of pulling a group of generally dispassionate listeners out of their comfort zones and getting them loose and limber.

Not that they needed to win the crowd over. Though they’ve only been around since 2018, Cheekface have built up a dedicated cult fanbase on the strength of their first two records, both of which feature simple song structures, universally tight playing, and Katz’s deadpan lyrics. That last ingredient is what truly sets them apart; any rising musician worth their salt can write in Tweets nowadays (it’s almost a necessity), but Katz effortlessly balances solipsism, snark and sincerity in a way that feels archetypically millennial, like a blown-up parody of his generation. Over twenty years after James Mercer declared caring creepy, people like Katz are still taking that sentiment to a conclusion in unique ways, and it’s thrilling to see it done so effectively.

But we’ll get to more of that in a second. Here’s how the rest of the show went.

All of these thoughts are solely mine; all of these experiences are solely mine. If you don’t like it, you can go [have a really nice day because you deserve it.]

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RAT QUEEN

This set demanded a local opener, and ramshackle punk group Rat Queen readily stepped up to fill that role. If you haven’t already, go check out their 2018 debut record, Worthless. It’s candid, tight, breathlessly simple and straight to the point, its songs shooting across the ears like arrows hitting their marks. It’s good feels (“Drugs”, “Scene//Seen”) and it’s bad feels (“I Think I Lost My ID”; “Anxiety”; “Worthless”) but it’s never not real. I love how it ends too, just a fucking blast of energy that leaves you wanting more. If you’re a fan of punk music done with a lucid downer edge, I’d strongly recommend it.

Here’s where I’ll knock myself down a few pegs; I got to Vera early enough to catch the whole set, but not only did I neglect to purchase a ticket ahead of time, I stupidly forgot that the venue required cash to buy on site. Cue me walking an embarrassing amount of time around the adjacent five blocks bordering Mercer St. trying to find the ATM the ushers told me was somewhere around Dick’s. I used to live down the street. Clearly moving out the city proper has turned off my natural GPS.

By the time I returned to pull out a crisp $20 bill (that actually cost me $23, what a great thing ATM fees are) and get my wrist stamped, Rat Queen were already on their last song. I didn’t recognize it, but it was a candle-burner, and it ended with lead singer Jeff Tapia bringing their voice up to a series of sweet high notes. I’m assuming a new album is in the works, and if what I heard is part of it then I’m even more stoked to hear it, but it sucks I essentially missed the set. Many apologies, Rat Queen! I promise to make it up to you by catching y’all down the road wherever you’re playing and drowning my worst impulses along with you.

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ROSIE TUCKER

I imagine most of the crowd (including me) was there that night to see what’s been self-described as “America’s Local Band,” but Rosie Tucker was a huge surprise for me. This band left a big impression. Despite a few technical problems – primarily a malfunctioning pedal board that delayed the set – the band moved confidently as a complete, synchronized unit. Each player was excellent, but I was especially taken with Jess Kallen’s guitar playing: textural and tonally ideal for Tucker’s varied takes on singer-songwriter rock.

Tucker themself was utterly absorbing in the spotlight. Dealing with technical errors on stage, especially in a situation as high-stakes as a return tour in a post-vaccine world, is difficult no matter who you are. But Tucker handled it with a sublime dose of light-hearted comedy to which their bandmates readily assisted. A series of erroneous chords led to an anecdote about Tucker’s “tour parents” in the area, while song intros were peppered with a spirited camaraderie. Tucker had stage presence down to a T; not a moment passed between songs where they weren’t infusing the space with a dedication to honesty that bordered on stream-of-consciousness. Though they played nervous, it was a confident nervousness, as if they were harnessing the magnified energy from being in the spotlight and channeling it into their songs.

Which, if you haven’t already listened to Sucker Supreme, I’d also recommend it strongly (see above). Released back in April, the record (produced by band drummer Wolfy) is a masterclass in incisive songwriting, taking a well-worn format and breathing life into it with ersatz chord progressions, an inspired ambience and a voice that cuts with power. I can’t believe it flew under my radar. Go check out Rosie Tucker if you haven’t already, they deserve your attention.

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CHEEKFACE

Starting their set not even ten minutes after Tucker’s final chords, Cheekface launched into a rendition of “Eternity Leave” that set the tone for the rest of their rapid-fire set. Nothing was out of place, and not a moment passed that wasn’t regimented or thought about in advance. Drummer Mark “Echo” Edwards counted off each song like clockwork, while Katz (dressed like one of Steve Irwin’s kids) readily pantomimed to particularly juicy stanzas as bassist/cowriter Amanda Tannen bounced along with him, taking moments to support his logorrhea with a Kim Deal-like set of accompanying coos. The formula worked as well as ever, except experiencing the Cheekface machine in person, surrounded by a crowd who knew exactly what to do during a call-and-response song like “Listen To Your Heart. No.,” was something else entirely. This is a fun band to go see live.

The show ended with a callback to the opening track, playing into its existential absurdity as if it were a widely more successful version of Everything Now. And then it was over. It was a killer show, but I made a grievous error soon afterward. As I was making my way out of the venue, I saw Katz talking with someone near the barrier, and I didn’t recognize him until after I had passed by. There was no reason not to try and chat him up; we’ve done a podcast together, and I’ve been a fan of the band since Therapy Island. But to take a page out of Rosie Tucker’s book, it just wasn’t working out. Sorry Greg; you killed it last night, and I wish I wasn’t so awkward as to let you know in person.