John Freeman and the Dutch Treats

Thursday, December 29, at Dan's Silverleaf

You, in the back--yeah, you, with the Xbox controller in one hand and Billy Bong Thornton in the other. Talkin' to you, so pipe the fuck down. C'mere, lemme tell you a story about something that happened before you were born, about 10 years ago. Listen up, 'cuz my stories are about to come on and I gotta soak my teeth.

Ever hear of John Freeman? Yeah, didn't think so. He left these parts long ago. He was a musician, some said more--genius, I think they called him long before people used the word to describe goddamned everything. Released a CD in 1995 called Greasy Listening on a label called Direct Hit. Not surprised you've never heard of either one. The former's out of print; the latter, out of business almost as long as the sun's been warm. Never heard of Funland, either? Bedhead? Café Noir? Fuckin' kids.

Anyway, Greasy Listeningwas a mighty impressive piece of work--art-school art-rock, as metal as the sneer of a kid wearing braces but so hard it would smack you for your lunch money and then have the balls to show up at your dinner table too. Johnny-Boy swore he was "the dark messiah, spawn of crimson fire"; woulda bought it, too, if he wasn't the nicest, smartest, silliest guy ever to share a stage with a dude named Corn Mo, who looked like Tommy Shaw. I know, you have no idea who Tommy Shaw is. Jesus, just ask your grandpa.

Freeman's been in more bands than you've been in pairs of underpants: The Dooms UK, the Dutch Treats, Duck Duck Annihilation, the Meat Helmets, Punchcraft, The Cock Outs...you get the point. The now-New Yorker brings the Dutch Treats to Dan's Silverleaf for a long-awaited homecoming Thursday night, as part of a bill assembled by Kittenpants, hometowner Darci Ratliff's nifty Web site-cum-CD compiler-cum-lifestyle accessorizer. Also on the bill are current Dentonites Fishboy, Cavedweller and The Night Game. But it's Freeman, the subject of all of one Kittenpants CD and most of another, who you gotta see--this one last blast from the past, in the flesh (or close to it). It'll be worth your eight bucks, swear to God. Just ask your folks to drive. Hell, they're probably going, anyway.

 
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