Eugene weekly., May 26, 2011, Page 28, Image 28

music
PHOTO BY TODD COOPER
These Aren’t LeRoy Bell’s
Only Friends
Yelawolf with No Walls
Any shlub or shlomo with earholes at the Wiz Kalifa gig last October at WOW Hall — no, fuck that, anyone with
red blood cells and a head screwed on proper had they shit totally torn down and reorganized by a righteous piece
of skinny white trash who stomped and stormed the boards with the good-to-go charisma and genius chops of a
deep South rapper on the cusp of superstardom. Man’s name is Michael Wayne Atha — Yelawolf to you and me — and
he is a pure product of Alabama, a lupine-eyed intensity of Caucasian and Cherokee descent who grew up rough in
Faulkner country with those eyes open, sucking through the gills the thick, swampy air of his culture — Lynyrd Skynyrd,
dented truck doors, chicks, pills, poverty, meth, violence — he feels called to represent that American South in all its
authenticity. He discovered old school hip hop, NWA blasting straight out of Compton, let it into his DNA, mastered
it, and transformed hometown Gadsden into his 8 Mile. Recorded a slew of badass songs. Yela signed to Interscope
recently. Any fucker at WOW that night — me included, photographer Todd Cooper included — felt the sheer power and
truth of Yelawolf. That dude, only a matter of time, people. That time is now.
I had the very good fortune of spending post-show with Yelawolf at WOW. Guy scared the shit out of me — he
exuded the kind of amped energy and outa-my-way drive that peels all falsity from the room. But we talked and talked
and talked. I told him I hadn’t had my skull popped like that since the fi rst Nirvana show, and he was genuinely touched
and humbled. It was one of the most intense and rewarding interviews I’ve ever done; I left that room vibrating with
excitement. Yela is real, in the realest sense of real: Focused, crazy talented, principled, on a mission to bring it, stay
true, keep moving, take it as far as it will go. So fuck you, fuck you, fuck you and fuck you, like the song says. Feel the
love. Yelawolf loves you true, for real. He ain’t no savior, but he wants the music to save you, tell you that no matter
what shit you ate all your life you gotta own that shit and then rise above it.
Stoked like hell for Radioactive, Yelawolf’s fi rst studio album for Interscope, due to drop sometime this summer. For now,
you got the man himself arriving in this land of bud, toejam and jam bands for one night. That’s not enough, but we’ll take it.
Yelawolf plays with some other fuckers at 5 pm Sunday, May 29, at Cuthbert Amphitheater; $41. — Rick Levin
For a guy who doesn’t look that old, LeRoy
Bell has been around the music business for a
long time, and he has the resume to prove it. As
a young staff writer for his uncle Thom Bell in the
late ‘70s, Bell wrote songs that would go on to be
recorded by such big names as the Spinners, The
O’Jays, Rita Marley, The Temptations and Elton
John. In fact, Elton John earned a Grammy nod
in 1979 for his performance of Bell’s song “Mama
Can’t Buy Me Love.”
You might expect that someone in the
industry this long would’ve put out a solo record
by now, but it wasn’t until last year that Bell
fi nally checked that off his to-do list. Traces is an
acoustic journey into deeply personal area — life
and death, love and loss.
The year 2010 marked another momentous
achievement for Bell when he participated in
the re-recording of the historic 1985 classic “We
are the World” with artists like Michael Franti,
Youssou N’dour, Angelique Kidjo and Lila Downs.
Bell also contributed his track “A Change is
Coming” to the digital compilation We Are The
World/United in Song.
Musically, Bell treads the same easygoing
folk/soul/pop territory as relative newcomers
like Jason Mraz, Ben Harper or John Mayer. But
with his longevity and credentials, Bell defi nitely
shows those whippersnappers how it’s done.
LeRoy Bell and His Only Friends play Friday,
May 27, at the WOW Hall; $12 adv., $15 door.
— William Kennedy
Kill the Shamrock, Pass the Pipes
What happens when you combine Irish pride with roaring metal, in-your-face lyrics and biting vocals so magical delicious
you want to light Guinness on fi re then chug it? You get Flogging Molly.
The cult band of Irish punksters began in the mid-‘80s, when Dave King decided to bail on the band Fastway in order to form
a new band. He was actually bailing on the future members of UFO and Motörhead, but whatever. His new label said he was crazy
for wanting to play hard rock with classical Irish instruments, but he knew it was genius. Freaking leprechaun-choking madness.
The band went nowhere for a few years, eventually emigrating to America. Playing regularly at the Los Angeles bar
Molly Malone’s, gathering a fan base of rowdy patrons. After landing a record deal, they took a name in honor of Molly
Malone’s — after all, the audience must’ve been sick of them by then.
As much as Flogging Molly’s been sliding into metal the last couple of years, you can’t help but love them because they’re
not fully metal. They’re Irish metal, a completely different beast. They still use mandolins and uillean pipes in addition to their
craggy vocals. Their new album, Speed of Darkness, will be released May 31st, and is likely going to be a calmer kickback from
last year’s Live at the Greek Theatre. But just wait; one second Flogging Molly’s got the pub-goers singing, the next everyone’s
head-banging. Flogging Molly play 7:30 pm Wednesday, June 1, at the McDonald Theatre; $25 adv., $30 door. — Brit McGinnis
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MAY 26, 2011
EUGENE WEEKLY
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