SHOW REVIEW
The Bottom Dollars: Live at Brooklyn Bowl,
w/ The Hollows and Rocket & The Ghost
Tuesday, Dec. 4, 8 bucks at the door.
By Mike Tokars
Brooklyn, NY
Brooklyn Bowl is a cool novelty venue–an actual bowling alley, but with a lot of great noise and a lot of great beers. I also noticed a lot of great girls, and would love to elaborate on this, but will hold off–at least for now..
I arrived as the middle band finished tuning, and made sure to be situated with a cool Jack-on-the-rocks before they started off. Sitting alone at one of the floor-lining picnic tables and sipping small sips, I settled into a weird trance watching this middle band, called the Hollows, who offered a twangy C&W/Classic Rock kind of sound–but nothing like contemporary pop country; more bluegrass, and good–all glued together with dynamite vocal harmonies reminiscent of the Beach Boys, and ‘Floyd. They were a cool trip: the kind of thing I’d imagine a drug user could really get into…and three or four or maybe five songs into their set, I was really getting into the Hollows, when a tall crew-cut bouncer stopped me from lighting a cigarette, and broke the trance.
[“Sorry, I’m from Florida, etc.”]
Heading outside to smoke, I stopped to dig the Hollows’ merch booth and ended up with a free download card after signing up for their mailing list; and before I could get away, the cheerfully cute merch-girl speedily suggested “You should buy a poster/we’re going for a world record,” and intrigued, I entertained the notion–
“Ah, do you mean, like–an official World Record?”
and merch-girl replied smiling “Well, no–we’re trying to sell at least one poster.”
“That can’t be true.”
“Really! We’re trying to sell our first one; posters are kind of a lost art–you know?”
And this impressed me, because posters are a lost art; so I bought one for five dollars under the stipulation that she “keep it for me until I’m ready to leave.”
A montage of craft beer sampling and whiskey shots and cigarette breaks outside and girls everywhere occupies the next slot of my memory, and the scene ends abruptly at the back door of the venue, on the sidewalk with hybrid smoke and a few new friends who rushed back in with me upon our realization that the stereo had been switched off and the headlining act was on. I’d recognized the first two songs as being the same loud and catchy perfect 4/4 rock’n’roll I’d listened to all afternoon on Bandcamp–it was The Bottom Dollars, from Brooklyn, NY.
They’re one of those bands that demands your attention, and you don’t mind because you want to give it to them. They’re loud and raw; clean but with that right kind of feedback that stings the P.A. system, reminding the crowd where they are–like how the subtle hiss of tape on a record reminds one why it’s good.
The Bottom Dollars are a force, like a ten-foot fucking wave–
‘Total gusto, true cojones’
They were like Social Distortion, only more Clash and less actual social-distortion, and with a late-80’s John Doe singing lead. Those fiery hot-rod guitar solos were there, as was the admittedly handsome frontman who played them; also present was a tight, four-piece and fucking classic rock‘n’roll rhythm section, and all five members gave an impression of having each other’s backs–on stage, and off; even in a street-fight, it seemed. But still, there was something else–something fresh and Clash-like exploding from all angles–making the crowd wanna boogie-woogie all night; and man, they really did…
After a heavy, heavy rendition of Springteen’s Atlantic City, which featured The Hollows and was so good that I couldn’t look away or sing along or even move until the last note finished ringing and even then I just stood there smiling like an idiot for at least ten seconds before moving to higher ground–near the bowling lanes–where I could watch The Bottom Dollars and their crowd simultaneously:
The band was driving hard through another up-tempo number–the rhythm guitarist hacking out furious ‘Johnny Ramone down-strokes’ poised with knees bent inward looking at his sneakers; the bass player thumpin’ thumpin’ thumpin’ and rockin’ rockin’ back and forth and side to side and screaming into the air, and the drums, after building up gradually culminated high and stayed there crashing forward loud and hard with the keyboardist pressing just as hard and with his own purpose, leaning spastically in whatever direction each note pointed and the frontman, grinning like a gambler holding 21 and buzzing smearing strings through a big-time solo like Johnny B. Goode playing along to Mommy’s Little Monster.
It was huge, and in your face–total intensity–and the only way to keep from getting knocked on your ass was to boogie-woogie-woogie like Footloose-Kevin Bacon on molly, and none went to the floor that night.
Those sock hopping psychopaths couldn’t get enough of the band’s atomic flash. I’d never seen anything like it; not in person, anyhow…Everyone was gyrating, spazzing, very uniquely, incredibly. Squares would probably call it malfunctioning, but we know better. Most were dancing without partners, but proximity was close and I don’t think it mattered to them anyways. They looked like the cast of Peanuts going wild for Schroeder’s piano, and those dancing in pairs reminded me of bebop Calvin and Hobbes; and, luckily, I didn’t see anyone skanking, which could have seriously ruined my night.
This type of electricity is an intoxicating thing to observe. It wouldn’t exist without the band, which is why you can’t find it in most places, but it also wouldn’t exist without the folks who go see The Bottom Dollars–people who dig live rock’n’roll–and dance dance dance because everything could die tomorrow.
I leveled off with another kick of Jack and scribbled something on my receipt; collected my poster and myself, and walked to the J.
The night was refreshing, reassuring, and totally radical. If you’re bummed out on the underground scene, go see The Bottom Dollars, and you won’t be anymore. And if you’re not bummed–if you are in fact stoked–then you were probably there, or at least you meant to be, and will be next time for sure.
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