The Laymen, Polly Panic, the Pandas and the Molecules
March 2 at the Bunkhouse
BY DAVE SURRATT Let me be the first to say -- no wait, the 70,000th to say -- it would be great if bands got started earlier in the evening, especially on nights when five of them are slotted. It was a problem last Saturday night at the Bunkhouse Saloon. Sure, I'm old and get tired walking up and down the speed bumps in front of Walgreen's, but this time it wasn't me -- it was the rest of the crowd. Most of them left before the last band, which was a shame, because The Laymen were really the ones to see. This has to be one of those crimes that happens somewhere in the world every eight seconds.
L.A.'s The Molecules went first (four guys, swirly innocuous indie rock), followed by The Pandas -- also an L.A. band, but made up of guys originally from Vegas who now live in Vegas again. A Vegas band, come to think of it. They're not bad, but you know how it is when you're waiting for your favorite among the lineup, and I'd seen The Laymen out here before.
Polly Panic from Seattle went third, with drummer Devon Rocketship playing dirgey beats and crashes and Polly wailing P.J. Harvey-style while bowing an electric cello through gobs of distortion. It's an effect that, even if it stuck close to the melodically conservative ground, at least offered enough deep, woozy menace to allow personification; they sound like a giant snake with a stomachache. The trouble is, most Bunkhouse patrons didn't seem to want to hang with a big, sick snake, so they split.
"Thanks to those of you who stayed," said taciturn singer/guitarist Mike Miller about halfway through The Laymen's set. It was after 2 a.m. when the three of them hit their stride, loopy and brooding, like a Bauhaus/Frank Black project. Drummer Caleb Gentry pounded, all arms and eyes, half spiritual advisor and half soccer hooligan. New bassist Dustin Coffey ran down a recently learned Laymen repertoire with more ease than at the last show. Miller did as much with his feet as with his hands, kicking a bank of effects pedals into scores of combinations, sometimes drowning out his own vocals with the guitar he's clearly cozier with anyway. He's not just technically good; he seems to understand what the instrument wants to say, and if it takes eight bars of deep phaser and wah-wah to get a point across, then so be it.
"Zero Four" came late, full of washy, major seventh chords. If you don't know what those sound like, they're heavenly in the right context -- melancholy and brazenly hopeful at the same time. Not many bands waggle them around like The Laymen do. They'll do it again at the divey Bunkhouse on March 10, and they'll be opening for another band, so it should all go down at a not-so-ungodly hour.