WALTER'S

1120 Naylor Houston,TX 77002

PROTOMARTYR, SPRAY PAINT, MUHAMADALI, SNOOTY GARBAGEMEN, CLEAR ACID, LACE

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Doors: 7:00 pm / $10 Adv / $12 Door

PROTOMARTYR

I asked Joe Casey once why he chose to start his first band with a group of guys roughly ten years his junior. His answer was simple: He needed them, needed this, needed Protomartyr. He didn't want to end up singing classic rock covers in a carport or dive bar one night a week. At 35, with no musical background and crippling stage fright, he needed friends who were young and hearty enough to want to write and record and practice and tour and be heard as badly as he did then. He'd just lost his father to an unexpected heart attack, and his heartbroken mother to the beginnings of Alzheimer's shortly thereafter. He'd come to understand, all too intimately, how brutal and finite a life can be. Consider then the urgency with which he joined his bandmates—guitarist Greg Ahee, drummer Alex Leonard, and bassist Scott Davidson, fellow alums of the University of Detroit Jesuit High School and Academy—for thefirst time, in a basement full of unsuspecting onlookers. Consider the urgency with which they've approached everything since—three albums in three years, each more extraordinary and rewarding than the last. This music is inherently, unassumingly high stakes. I can think of no other band that moves me like they do. This October marks the release of The Agent Intellect, their third and finest work to date. Named after an ancient philosophical questioning of how the mind operates in relation to the self, it's an elegant and oftendevastating display of all that makes Protomartyr so vital and singularly visceral an outfit. Over the courseof several months, Ahee waded through more than a hundred song fragments until he reached the bottomless melodies of "I Forgive You" and "Clandestine Time", the inky depths of "Pontiac '87" and titanic churn of "Why Does It Shake?" Lyrically, Casey is at his most confident and haunting. He humanizes evil on "The Devil in His Youth," and, amid the charred pop of "Dope Cloud," he reassures us that nothing—not God, not money—can or will prevent our minds from unraveling until we finally fade away. We are no one and nothing, he claims, without our thoughts. It's a theme that echoes through the entirety of the record, but never as beautifully as it does on "Ellen." Named after his mother and written from the perspective of his late father, it's as romantic a song as you're likely to hear this or any year, Casey promising to wait for her on the other side, with the memories she's lost safely in hand. I remember a story he told me in Detroit. A few months earlier, he'd been driving with his mother as a Protomartyr recording played on the stereo.

"Joe," she asked him. "Who is this?"
"This is us, Mom," he told her. "That's me."
"Oh!" she said, "This is very good." 

—David Bevan, July 2015

SPRAY PAINT

After an action-packed year of touring the world, Spray Paint return with their second LP of 2015, Dopers. It was recorded last August in the middle of 87 shows in 66 cities and in 12 different countries by Chris Woodhouse (The Oh Sees, Ty Segall, Mayyors). You can almost hear the tape melting on this record. Easily the most hi fi they have ever been recorded, but without losing the scum. Moments of Jesus Lizard, Glenn Branca, Sister-era Sonic Youth come to mind at different points.

SNOOTY GARBAGEMEN

Houston supergroupage : You might be familiar with guitarist Tom Triplett from such groups including but not limited to The Real Energy, No Talk, Hammatsu Tom & the Kroger Sushi River Band and the Homopolice. In more recent times, perhaps you've stood, jaw agape, stunned by Tom's performances and recordings with OBN III's or BLAXXX. Now, in the summer of 2015, Tom emerges from the shadows of those acclaimed projects, preparing to cast a huge shadow on HIS NEXT BAND. Tom is accompanied by drummer Josh Wolf (Secret Prostitutes, Sick Abuse, Crime Wave, The Real Energy, Bloody Hammer, Lysol S.S. and many, many more) and bassist Manie Chen (Titan Blood) “And it weren’t enough one of ‘em pick up a harpsicord, and another a drum or a psaltery or penny whistle, but then they insist on shining ‘em up to start a tune. Cats, caterwaul, howler monkeys, howl, but none so dire as this. To the music of harps, lutes, gitterns, they danced and played at dice both day and night. And ate also…though the dustbins be up-ended and their contents piled half to Babylon, this up-reaching company ever lingers about the pub hearth, crowing and plopping about like three grand Neros. There is Toff-in-Gaiters. Of course his real name is not Toff, but Tomm Triplett ; we only call him Toff as a joke, partly because he is a dustman, and partly because he will dress so showily, and get as much gold on him as a baron of the Middle Ages. He plays guitar and also sings. And why should he not if he likes? And t’other gentleman, who would be known as Harold Uppermast or Renard de Villiers or some similar sobrequiet likely cribbed from a garden registry , though he be born Josh Wolff, is more milk and watery wit you than I’ll be. But he hasn’t borne the Roman yoke as I have, though a drummer he in harness to a drum, such a harness compares not thereby, nor yet he hasn’t been required to pander to your depraved appetite for miserly characters know, so of course we jest with him. The only one to eschew the climbing hothouse ivy of a fanciful name, Manie Chemin remains. Manie Chemin. Of music, and his attachment to the bass guitar, however, he is wont to speak : in my father’s house there were seven grand pianos. After further drinks, he will gladly increase the number of pianos, and even the number of fathers, though his hands —- engloved as they were —- perhaps chilly, perhaps emblazoned with the ribald history of South Sea seamen, his hands say mum. About the justifications for music and the needs for it to be played at all times, and in every place we are in concord with the protocols of Austin. There must needs always be more music then, and for all occasion. Thus, thence these Snooty Garbagemen hastened, to zither and harp and tambor as the lark tambors, to the attention of microphones and other attuned devices as deemed fitting and decorous by Orville Neeley The Third, of the Austin Thirds, for two summer days in 2014. In my father’s house there are nine of ten grand pianos indeed.” - Tex Kerschen, On The Custom and Goings On of Snooty Garbagement

Houston supergroupage :

You might be familiar with guitarist Tom Triplett from such groups including but not limited to The Real Energy, No Talk, Hammatsu Tom & the Kroger Sushi River Band and the Homopolice. In more recent times, perhaps you've stood, jaw agape, stunned by Tom's performances and recordings with OBN III's or BLAXXX. Now, in the summer of 2015, Tom emerges from the shadows of those acclaimed projects, preparing to cast a huge shadow on HIS NEXT BAND.

Tom is accompanied by drummer Josh Wolf (Secret Prostitutes, Sick Abuse, Crime Wave, The Real Energy, Bloody Hammer, Lysol S.S. and many, many more) and bassist Manie Chen (Titan Blood)

“And it weren’t enough one of ‘em pick up a harpsicord, and another a drum or a psaltery or penny whistle, but then they insist on shining ‘em up to start a tune. Cats, caterwaul, howler monkeys, howl, but none so dire as this. To the music of harps, lutes, gitterns, they danced and played at dice both day and night. And ate also…though the dustbins be up-ended and their contents piled half to Babylon, this up-reaching company ever lingers about the pub hearth, crowing and plopping about like three grand Neros.

There is Toff-in-Gaiters. Of course his real name is not Toff, but Tomm Triplett ; we only call him Toff as a joke, partly because he is a dustman, and partly because he will dress so showily, and get as much gold on him as a baron of the Middle Ages. He plays guitar and also sings. And why should he not if he likes?

And t’other gentleman, who would be known as Harold Uppermast or Renard de Villiers or some similar sobrequiet likely cribbed from a garden registry , though he be born Josh Wolff, is more milk and watery wit you than I’ll be. But he hasn’t borne the Roman yoke as I have, though a drummer he in harness to a drum, such a harness compares not thereby, nor yet he hasn’t been required to pander to your depraved appetite for miserly characters know, so of course we jest with him.

The only one to eschew the climbing hothouse ivy of a fanciful name, Manie Chemin remains. Manie Chemin. Of music, and his attachment to the bass guitar, however, he is wont to speak : in my father’s house there were seven grand pianos. After further drinks, he will gladly increase the number of pianos, and even the number of fathers, though his hands —- engloved as they were —- perhaps chilly, perhaps emblazoned with the ribald history of South Sea seamen, his hands say mum.

About the justifications for music and the needs for it to be played at all times, and in every place we are in concord with the protocols of Austin. There must needs always be more music then, and for all occasion. Thus, thence these Snooty Garbagemen hastened, to zither and harp and tambor as the lark tambors, to the attention of microphones and other attuned devices as deemed fitting and decorous by Orville Neeley The Third, of the Austin Thirds, for two summer days in 2014. In my father’s house there are nine of ten grand pianos indeed.” - Tex Kerschen, On The Custom and Goings On of Snooty Garbagement