I appear to have some competition…that is there are many shows going on this Friday night for all the variety of tastes that listeners young, slightly older, and possibly older than them, may desire. Buts it’s really the generational aspect that entices the eye and the gut: the ageless quality, the community of patches; comprised of the old-punks, the new-hipsters, the college capitalists, and the cantankerous DIY veteran. So supposedly all are welcome to welcome the music.
But if the shows busts than the blame will squarely be placed on the drunken piss waggler in the street with a mighty crunch of the beer can. I cannot vouch for the folks over at Touchdown City 2.0, but a swift kick in the ass may be appropriate in any case if the threat to community ever comes to pass.

That being said, the actual music being presented is brought to you by a collection of four odd-men, three from home-base Kalamazoo and one from the West. That music they play being the sort of “I’m all by myself and this here guitar is my only friend” type, or “mayhaps this will be my murder weapon” sort of string strumming. More so these one-man-acts provide the kind of show that allows listeners to really appreciate the grain in the coniferous wood body of the performer’s chosen instrument and perhaps even whisper the word “intimate” into the next show-goers ear.

Graveling about from the state Oregon, crawling out of  that creative cess-pit of villainy, saxophone players, and liberal-arts majors known as Portland, Ghostwriter (or Steve Schecter to friends) has the sound of an electric guitar that had the pleasure of being crammed into the exhaust pipe of a Ford 4 x 4 along with Tom Wait’s left boot. Schecter is an embattled, entrenched, and entertaining DIY performer that chews out notes like the death rattle of some rusted-pick up that needs a carburetor replaced, all the while keeping passengers calm by the occasional usage of a hand-brake, or more accurately, a pedal-operated tambourine. A treat for the DIT deviants and fans of tin-can, swamp-punk.

Though the namesake isn’t clear to some, Arms Akimbo seems most at home when flaking the skin flecks off the metal banded strings adorned on his southern-lute, or banjo for short. (I don’t plan on addressing the namesake) While the guitar playing is settling, it’s the cracked voice, the uneasy quality in the timbre, the uncertainty bounding from one word to the next in his performance that coddles both wary and ignorant listeners into a bleary past of some golden creation, full of crickets and cat-tails.

Occasionally an ass-fool, Tim Tapper is a prolific son of Vine St., always trying and always contentious. His sound follows suit with confidence, with delicate attention to his instrument–carefully navigating through the muggings, murders, and poverty of the surrounding neighborhood from whence it played. The sour tone occasionally flowing into Tapper’s singing always chains me to this place–Kalamazoo–exposing the flaws in the pavement and the chips in the paint of the wood panels covering the student ghetto residences, whilst sobering dark imaginations.

I sat down with Alex Young the other day in studio. He was barefoot for the most part and carried his coffee in a mason jar. I was late, but so was he so we called it even. With my colleague David had setting-up the microphones and the decade-old Canon postured into my palm, the only bit of business left to attend to was the young-man’s performance. While the orange-lamp glared, the red-camera eye blinked in constant attention, and the dry-wall held its breath, Alex began a few songs that just made the scenery seem something electrically correct. The nasal-pitched voice climbing through vocal chords that sound scratched from screaming is complemented by an attentive electric guitar diddy. Makes the rug under your feet warm, and the wood smell like the city.

Show is at 10 p.m.

If directions to Touchdown City 2.0 are needed, email ditkalamazoo@gmail.com

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