at Local 186
by Scott Hefflon
photo Chris Johnson
Armed with a pre-release (no artwork, lyric sheet or photo) and a press kit with the usual indecipherable blathering, I went to Local 186 to do a live review. Mother Tongue is from L.A. They’re a national band opening for a signed local band, Orangutang. Not a good sign. I had listened to the first thirty seconds of their tape: John Cafferty guitars over Chili Peppers funk with that slacker-rap-G. Love funk-thing-vocals-talking-through-it. At least they don’t suck.
Fade into live show. Mother Tongue strolls on stage and plugs in. Kind of that Ralph Macho (sic) feeling from Cross Roads. Uh-huh. They’re intense and crazy looking, they cooly scope the scene, we stand icy, waiting to be impressed. They start with “Damage,” laying the grooves deep and heavy. The sudden stops are tight and impressive; there is unspoken communication within the band. Their facial cringing bleeds with their devotion to each note. I’m starting to like these guys.
Suddenly, the pace changes and the speed/funk riffing and slap-pop bass is cartwheeling about to a nearly continuous drum roll. The vocals mutate from chillin’ rap to throaty hardcore bellows. The guitarist is stomping mercilessly on his effects and rolling around on the floor as the drummer is housing every piece of his kit and the lead guitarist is totally absorbed in bending notes and sprinting scales. The singer is howling “Burn Baby Burn” with a passion that looks like insane rage, but without the negative connotations. It’s merely raw, muscular, heavy aggression.
By the fourth song, they’ve weaved psychedelic tracers, stomped and roared, and mellowed into a captivatingly “Less is More” philosophy. On the latter, it’s free-form, yet is held together by subtle hints from which ever member is in the spotlight. (Each member is on his own trip, their trips align because they “go with” where the others are going. It sounds dopey, I know, but I was on the bus, so to speak.)
“Broken ” was a perfect song as they broke more strings than any other band I have ever seen. The singer favored his broken ribs, and the guitarist was literally hanging off the stage with legs dangling over the edge, tempting fate and gravity. He never fell. Mother Tongue has incredible body awareness. Dripping sweat and blood (from bashing his bass with a beer bottle until it smashed and then playing the shards), with chests heaving and tattoos glistening and, during “She’s Shaking Like An Addict,” shaking with total muscle control. There was a whole “you’re all gonna die” motif that kinda bugged me, but by the end, the singer admitted, “and I’m dying, too… I’m dying, too.”
They didn’t just perform for the crowd, they were going somewhere and they wanted us to join them. They were inspiring story tellers and we were they’re transfixed audience. Much of the end of the show was a deep groove with spoken word over it; talking about starvation and loss and lonliness. With group claps and shouts of “Come on” and “Wake the fuck up,” it was moving and challanging as he ranted about real pain and real troubles as we clapped, ordered another round and slowly smoked ourselves to death.
As they were packing up, I was drawn to the stage, as were a few dozen others, to say something, anything… I don’t remember what I said, but the bassist smiled back as if it meant something and we shook hands. I walked away feeling inspired and alive and wiped his blood off my hands.