King Tuff, Lee Bains III & The Glory Fires

Parade of Flesh presents . . .

King Tuff

Lee Bains III & The Glory Fires

The 1969s

Mon, September 29, 2014

7:30 pm

Club Dada

Dallas, TX

$12.00

This event is all ages

King Tuff
King Tuff
A more charismatic, enigmatic nomad of a furioso frontman/artist/guitar legend could not be imagined. You can't make this shit up.

Grinning gold teeth behind blonde shades, in black, skeletal denim, with a studded "KING TUFF" across the shoulders where feral locks fall around his infamous "Sun Medallion." With an acoustic guitar slung over the shoulder, King Tuff slinks through the abandoned halls of Detroit's Malcolm X Academy. His baseball hat reads "VERMONT." It's the 4th of July.

Will somebody please snap a photo of this animal before it escapes back into the wilderness from which it came??!! 

Magic Jake pulls up on a motorcycle, riding left-handed with his bass guitar hanging from the right arm, shoeless. 

Kenny arrives in a rusted van, drums stacked in the back atop a shedding sofa complete with coffee table and a thermos full of god knows what.

Captain Cox, prodigy engineer, is attempting to "fix" the mixing console, on his back, under the wires, a flashlight between his teeth and soldering gun in hand.

"COX!" I bark, "What the FUCK are you doing?" 

"Just trying to get these channels to work," he laments.  

"What's wrong with them?" I lean under the desk and practically fall into a pile of live spaghetti. 

"I built them," he confesses. 

King Tuff sits, center stage between Magic Jake and Kenny, his trademark guitar, Jazijoo, on his lap while the rhythm section diligently loops the groove under Tuff's frenetic fingering. 

Silent on a marble staircase, a ghost of a child, King Tuff, expressionless, leans back into a half shadow, with rays of silver rings leaping under incandescent light. The sessions go long into the bordering hours of morning.

Never a dull moment. King Tuff exclaims, "I'm an expert on the vibraphone." I laugh, and then he performs one, perfect take. Seriously.

My familiarity with Was Dead, his last release, was limited. Under the avalanche of thirty-something demos, I'd selected 16 to record for his Sub Pop debut.  

After investigating Was Dead I realized that, with his latest offering, his songwriting was stretching far beyond the thrill of the immediate dance-floor reflex and now revealed a songwriter with a keen eye inside everyone. That was the stuff that I was interested in. Embarrass me! I don't give a fuck about your ex-girlfriend.

King Tuff: "You always want to erase the imperfect in your beautiful face, and you think about the time you waste in this impossible place."

"Loop those fucking beats, Kenny!" was my mantra. I shout at the session! Millions of albums arrive daily, yet for Tuff, this is the only one. And I understand that perfectly.   

King Tuff sang 16 songs in two days. We chant: "Nobody gives a shit!" This is not precious, it's priceless—ART. Make it, don't molest it. 

But how? More frustration! More saturation! More immediacy! Filthier! Frighten me! Shake it 'til you break it! It's a perversion of a language that sounds like Rock & Roll. But new, again.

Rock & Roll is dead. King Tuff Was Dead. Rock & Roll is alive. King Tuff is dead. The passion is all there is. We ARE wild strawberries.  

An artist should never be careful, nor should the audience covet. Take the shot! Embrace the imperfection. Create more music, carelessly.  

We've created something here. King Tuff should not be inspected or even listened to with critical ears. Cut your ears off. Rock & Roll is meant to be blasted into your cells, penetrated, and absorbed. It's a visceral experience.  

Seek solace in solitude when you're dead. If you aren't able to recognize the genius in this epic album, then you're already dead. Kill yourself. Or get a job. 

Your choice.

Stop here. Don't pay attention. Blast it! It's not precious; it's real. It belongs to you. Do what thou wilt. It's yours.

All that aside, this album fucking rules. I should know, I've heard it about a million times.
Lee Bains III & The Glory Fires
Lee Bains III & The Glory Fires
LEE BAINS III & THE GLORY FIRES

What awaits you when the needle drops on Dereconstructed, the new album by Lee Bains lll & the Glory Fires? Nothing less than pure f**king heaven, that’s what.

Consider the record’s opener, “The Company Man.” It revs up with a riff sleazy enough to clog Rod Stewart’s stomach pump as an incantation that only a Yellowhammer can truly understand is bellowed and then screamed. Before you know it, the joint is hotter than a Birmingham soaking pit while you, the listener, are reminded, lest you forget, don’t ever trust the company man.

No sh*t.

Dereconstructed is a careening, road raging, all night party of a record. Informed by a distinctly southern hoodoo, it is a master class in authentic Gulf Coast choogle. Having cut his teeth in the Dexateens, Lee Bains lll has been properly schooled in how to throw down, so much so that even his hyper literate musings are no match for the blown out distortion that gives this record its blistering urgency.

Songs like “The Kudzu and the Concrete,” “Dirt Track” and the roaring, blissfully shambolic title track could be anthems looking for a stadium, but they’re also reminders as to why Lee Bains lll & the Glory Fires are such a formidable party machine. If your hometown is graced with a scuzzy dive and a few warm bodies to populate it, you’d best believe that the Glory Fires have been there, or are on their way back.

Dereconstructed is Lee Bains lll & the Glory Fires’ debut for Sub Pop Records. It is preceded by the band’s actual debut, There Is a Bomb in Gilead, on Alive Natural-Sound Records (2012).

Lee Bains III & the Glory Fires are:
Lee Bains lll: Guitar and Vox
Eric Wallace: Guitar
Adam Williamson: Bass
Blake Williamson: Drums

HERE'S WHAT PEOPLE HAVE ALREADY BEEN SAYING ABOUT LEE BAINS III & THE GLORY FIRES' DERECONSTRUCTED...

"Lee Bains III & the Glory Fires, a four-man band from Alabama, proudly join the Southern-rock tradition of wild-eyed music hitched to serious deliberation. Dereconstructed, the band’s second album, ponders Southern identity in a welter of cranked-up guitars, bristling drums and rasping, hollering vocals. It’s pandemonium with a conscience." - Jon Pareles / NEW YORK TIMES

"If there's one tradition Bains and the Glory Fires unquestioningly uphold, it's the Friday-night custom of burning down the house. They even once got thrown out of a club for being too loud. In Texas. 'We're going to wash ourselves in fire and water,' Bains announces in 'Burnpiles and Swimming Holes.' Dereconstructed is worth the plunge. - Ann Powers / NPR

[4 out of 5 stars] "As pure a shot of adrenaline as a guitar band will release this year… a terrific album." - Michael Hann / THE GUARDIAN

"Sounds like Flannery O'Connor gave up fiction for a Coors and a Gibson SG." - Jessica Suarez / ROLLING STONE

"A radical, literate update of Southern rock." - John Mulvey / UNCUT

"A raging burnpile of garage and Southern rock, dirty, supercharged blues and soul, Stonesy groove, Crazy Horse howl, and punk slam. With these songs, Bains surely wants to make you think; he surely will make you shake." - Stuart Munro / THE BOSTON GLOBE

"Four Birmingham boys have made what might be the greatest-ever rock record about the South." - Chuck Reece / THE BITTER SOUTHERNER

"Dereconstructed is the second album from Bains and his personal wrecking crew, and they fling themselves into these 10 songs with roughly the same combustibility as tossing a lighted match into a pile of oily rags. It’s a dirty-sounding album, full of scuzzy red-line guitars and overdriven vocals, but even all that speaker-busting grit doesn’t hide the alluring melodies Bains threads among the mayhem." - Eric R. Danton / PASTE

"One of the leading candidates for album of the year." - Bob Mehr / MEMPHIS COMMERCIAL APPEAL

"Dereconstructed is rebel's music, as God, the South and Joe Strummer intended." - Jim Desmond / WHEN YOU MOTOR AWAY
Venue Information:
Club Dada
2720 Elm St.
Dallas, TX, 75226
http://dadadallas.com/