The Dogs Were Barking in My Backyard

It's not often that a father hears from his son that the father has to see someone who has changed the son's life.

When you hear those words, you hope it will be some philosopher or humanitarian that is making the world a better place. When Street Dogs was the name Matt gave when I asked who was this life changing influence, well , I will admit, I was a little deflated.

It's my own fault, I reckon. After all, both my sons were raised on a steady diet of rock 'n' roll. So, like any dutiful father, here I was, about a first down away from the stage, ready to hear the band that, along with fellow Beantowners, The Dropkick Murphys, had changed my son's life.

It's cold and damp this night, a precursor to what Stockholm has in store for itself over the next five months. Because of this kind of weather (and bad TV), Stockholm has a vibrant club scene. In fact, right after this show, this club, the Göta Källare, will kick us out and reopen as a trendy dance club until closing time. Luckily, I live close enough to the club to crawl home, if I have to.

Surprisingly, the club is pretty nice on the inside, for a club with an entrance on one side of the T-bana (subway) entrance. You enter into a dark, narrow hall, which leads into a larger space containing a second bar, lounge area and coat check.

Check your coat (it's free and secure), go down another flight of curving stairs and you'll finally land on the bottom floor. As you turn left, you're in a small lounge area where now, the bands' merch has set up in spaces where two booths would be. Keep moving ahead and you enter the main hall. Long bar on the left, Living room couches haphazardly set up in the area in front of the bar. Good size stage with dance floor. Mandatory disco ball, as remember, they'll be entertaining the beautiful people after sweeping us out.

I look around for a good spot to set up base camp, and pick a spot on a large pedestal that looks like the ones that hold up mannequins in department stores. Good sight lines, I can sit and be out of the way of Sweden's nocturnal wild life. The one drawback is that I am about five steps from the "smoking room". You frequent fliers might recall those glass enclosed rooms in airports. This one, however, is about the size of a closet, and billows of nicotine come wafting out each time the door is opened, which is often.

I can tell there is something special in store for me tonight. As I was entering the venue, the guy next to me was wearing a Social Distortion T-shirt. Matt and Jessica will be seeing Social D in Atlantic City this same night and I tell the guy so. He seems so flabbergasted, either because A) I am at this show , or B) I know who Social D is. Whatever the reason, he becomes my pal for awhile, talking music, Australian Rules football and he insists on buying me a drink. We never do exchange names, and eventually he drifts away to go play with people his own age. I spot him later taking a header off the stage.

Act I

The opening act is a local Stockholm band known as Tysta Mari, which is Swedish for "Quiet Mary" This is the name of a café on the East side of the city, which means it's a sort of a social comment on the trendy class that lives in that area. Swedes would call it a "posh" area. It also is a a pun because the boys are anything but…as well as quiet.

Our band is a five piece (2 gtrs, keyboard, bass and drums) What they lack in diversity of material, (think thump thump, yell yell, strum strum) they make up for in enthusiasm and swagger. A one line review would be something like, "...energetic boys do Punk 101 over and over to a 4/4 beat."

They could have used some guitar breaks, as even the Pistols did that. They can say, however, that they opened for the Street Dogs.


Strains of Nancy Sinatra's "Boots are made..." come amplified out of the PA, which is a signal that Civet is about to begin...

Act II

Nancy fades down and a female voice says, "What's up, Stockholm! - We're Civet from LA, California, and this one's called , "Alibi!" And this self-described "femme fatale punk rock band" begins to play, fast and hard, just the way they like it. The LA Weekly raves, "This fang-baring foursome clearly have no time for indulgent genre-gilding, bearing down instead with a large-caliber brat-a-tat-tat aggression that shreds any musical bull's-eye they draw a bead on."

They play a little longer then the Tysta Mari, but they are light years ahead in ability and song craft. These girls can play in their hard core way. The drummer, Roxie Darling, bangs away with her oversize Bun E. Carlos sticks. Hard core bands like Civet work only when they have drummers that can keep driving the engine- and Roxie Darling can and did-non stop-no miss. For the life of me, though, I have no idea what kept the corset part of her dress up.

Civet loves to play, that's plain to see. There's a sisterly connection, not just because they are all women. The sisters, Ms Liza Graves on vocals and guitar and Suzi Homewrecker on guitar started this band along with bassist Jacqui Valentine. There are smiles and inside jokes and all the grrls are good looking in that LA trashy look that guys might dream about, but if you ever fell for, you'd end up rode hard and discarded. Tonight, for the grrls, it was just self pleasuring satisfaction. They never really connected with the crowd, who for the most part were just observing the band. There was the perfunctory urging the crowd to get going, but when a band doesn't work for it, they're not going to get much more than lip service.

All and all, Civet is very entertaining, perfect for your next company function. They could definitely motivate the sales force. They need to learn to connect with the audience better. Maturity and experience will teach them to bring the "A" game every night. I give them two pretty good thumbs up, and will be interested to see what, if any, coaching that Rancid frontman and Hellcat (their label) founder Tim Armstrong will do for them.

Act III

Audience relationship is something the Street Dogs have no problem with. With the Ramones, "Blitzkrieg Bop" segueing into Irish penny whistles, the Boys from Boston hit the stage. Their impact was immediate and sincere. They throw a party, and landlord be damned. They lead, cajole, order, and play for their audience all night long.

By the end of the night, there was non stop stage diving, crowd surfing, women fainting and pogo dancing. They don't call it a pit any more, it's a circle, The results are the same. Enter at your own risk!

Stage m.c. roles are shared by lead singer Mike McColgan and bassist, Johnny Rioux. Mike can get a little excited, it seems, as he climbed up onto the rigging a couple of times. That's show business, I guess. You know, when the music moves ya... The bottom is ably supplied by Rioux, drummer Paul Rucker and rhythm guitar Tobe Bean III . Lead guitar is handled by Marcus Hollar. His playing is highlighted by the use of feedback that adds an originality to the sound of this working class band. They definitely got the Viking blood stirring this night. Figuratively, luckily.

It's non-stop , controlled anarchy that the band feeds off. They stir it up and back it up then some. Because tonight, once it started, it did not stop. The stage diving looked like the high dive at the municipal pool. There was a woman's division, as well. Scoring was optional. The women's division was divided into the face front or back stroke division. It was all dependent upon the degree of faceless groping the women were willing to tolerate.

Unlike our girls from California, the East Coasters worked the crowd like a politician at a 4th of July picnic. If there were babies, they would have kissed them,,,wait a minute…I just remembered. Mike did kiss a few of the babes that were preparing to launch themselves into waiting hands of the, by now, screaming, singing and delirious circle.

If there was a message that the Street Dogs were sending, it is that we are all getting walked on by the haves of the world, and we gotta recognize it and not take it anymore. We deserve better. But, unlike Howard Beale, the Street Dogs say we can get right on it after the party tonight.

Right on time, with security checking their watches, the Dogs ended their encore with the guitar on looping feedback and Mike crowd surfing back to the T-shirt area to meet and greet. On the way out, I bumped into drummer Paul Rucker. I told him he and the band did a good job and as an anecdote that my son had seen the Dogs last summer at the Asbury Lanes. "Great place," Rucker said. "As a matter of fact," he continued, "I just found a drink token from there in a pocket. Wasted that one," he lamented. My kind of guy.

So, did the Street Dogs change MY life? Uhhh….no. But they did rekindle the ember in me that rock 'n' roll ain't nuthin but a house party. And for that, Matt, thanks for the tip.