Bukowski Lives!

By Lucas Yarbrough. October 15th 2019.

The Bukowski Brothers' Broken Family Band (their actual band name) has cornered the market on indie bands fronted by dead writers. Spirited frontman Jaymie Bukowski (his actual name, according to social media) claims to have been born the very moment that Charles Bukowski (probably not JB's actual ancestor) died, a story which this reviewer can so far neither confirm nor deny. Whether or not there's any credence to his tale matters very little in light of the performance that the BBBFB delivered last Friday night at a house show put on by Lo Wave, a new and promising group of local promoters.

The Bukowski Bros.’ show begins with JB monologuing about his at-birth Bukowski possession and the ensuing emo nature of his childhood. For a man whose entire youth has been a continuation of the life of a curmudgeonly, alcoholic, gambling-addicted septuagenarian, JB is surprisingly energetic. The first song, a catchy upbeat scorcher of a tune, is about how terrible all the other writers except him are.

Though the term "indie rock" may be too broad a category to be descriptive, The BBBFB's guitar- and synth-centred sound falls firmly on the darker side of this genre—JB presents his lyrics with a frantic theatricality that combines an indie aesthetic with punk rock performance art. Four songs into the set, JB appears to be wasted (but is, I suspect, not actually wasted) and is yelling a nonsensical drunken diatribe against whichever god controls the outcomes of horse races in California, with no accompaniment but a tipsy walking bass line, the band's tight pop sensibilities temporarily set aside for a brief freak-jazz meander. It is, in a word, madness.

Guitarist Jo Connors (maybe an actual genius) is perhaps known to a select few long-time local scenesters for her stint in the punk band The Ballet Llama. We're 25 minutes into the set and she's shredding scales and notes and whatever else you shred while JB performs an onstage costume change. Connors has left behind her days of palm-muted power chords played at blistering speeds, but she hasn't lost any of her intensity. This guitarist is something to behold. Jo, can we go on a date? Just kidding, it's 2019, and that's inappropriate.

JB's wardrobe switch fortunately doesn't include changing his underwear, which, it is soon revealed, are horseshoe-patterned.

The enraptured female faces in the front row suggest that JB is the type of classic manic pixie dreamboy that young fans love to lust over. He has somehow done what very few musical acts have been able to do—Jaymie Bukowski has captured the hearts of both jaded hipsters, on the lookout for literary references, and teen girls alike. (And, I'm sure, a few rad young folks who fall in the centre of that Venn diagram). Mind you, there may be few people outside of those demographics that he would appeal to—the BBBFB are just too weird.

JB puts aside his synthesizer in favour of an electric guitar and manages to play it whilst jumping up and down on the balls of his feet and singing a ceaseless stream of lyrics about his 9 cats, almost to fast to make out, in a choked half-whisper, for an entire song. If he breathes at all in this time, I don't catch it.

We're nearing the end of the set and JB leads the rhythm section (his actual family) into a gentle ballad that, upon closer listen, seems to be about the singer's penchant for ‘getting drunk and jacking off in bed’ (an actual line from the bridge), and I think to myself, Why are we all here? We're going to get ourselves fucking murdered.

You'll have no doubt heard about the most recent show-related tragedy by now. You'll have heard another outburst of repeated warnings to stay in and watch Netflix and let the local music scene founder and die. But we will not stay in. Indie rockers, trend-setters, crust punks and metal heads and music lovers of all kinds, I remind you all (not that you actually need it): this is a city that goes out to see their friends' band in the thick of a January blizzard, and threats of (actual) danger won't stop us either. Shows like this are the reason why.

Bukowski finishes the set lying on his back, the band executing a live fade-out around him as his keening tenor diminishes to a whisper. The audience cheers. This young Buk has proven that our music scene is far from dead.

RIP Kenton Wiens