the Urban Artist Group presents...

Allentown is a moldy slice of American pie located on the easternmost edge of central Pennsylvania, and a rather small slice at that. Mostly in economic decline since its few industrial giants shut down years ago, the steel mill being the most notable of the lot, the area's population has somehow continued to steadily increase. Only an hour outside of Philadelphia and a little over two hours from New York City, Allentown is ideally situated in the heart of what is called the Lehigh Valley, making it a desirable home for those who choose to commute to work in the big cities. On the outskirts of town, suburban communities and strip malls have spread like an all-consuming disease, replacing a verdant landscape once rich with agriculture, small businesses and lone homesteads. From those same outskirts one can look back toward town and see hundreds of dark structures silhouetted against the apocalyptic horizon like so many rotted teeth, grotesquely phallic smokestacks and geometrically boring warehouses roofs, as well as the few exceptionally tall buildings that almost create the illusion that Allentown is in fact a real city. The buildings are old and in varying stages of disrepair all along the town's main stretch, which was once lined with a wide variety of stores, ornate lampposts and long glass-topped awnings. Now, however, one can only see pawn shops, liquor stores, sex joints, corner bodegas, and the few remaining vestiges of the way it once was. The crime rate is high; and upon first glance, one can clearly see the poverty of the downtown neighborhoods, while uptown seems reserved exclusively for the upper crust of the social hierarchy. All in all, Allentown is simply another American town inching its way toward the urban finishing line.

It was in the bowels of Allentown that I found myself on Friday, May 29th, down the block from the courthouse and right next door to the homeless shelter toward 4th & Hamilton. From up the hill, one can see the huge letters atop the mission illuminated in bright red, "GOD IS LOVE," like a beacon to the down-and-out and the destitute, the famished and the unwanted, the winos and junkies and criminals. It makes a solemn promise to the lost, "Here lies your salvation, heathens." Moreover, it promises bread and blankets, prayers and soup, warmth and safety, but only temporarily, for such things are only a brief reprieve from what awaits them when the streets begin calling at sunrise. Speaking of heathens, I was in that particular part of town to see some very specific heathens at the Sterling Hotel---a dark, seedy venue for underground bands and singer/songwriters when they pass through town on tour. I was there to see the Goddamn Gallows.

Before entering the joint, one observes a large plate glass window on which gold-colored lettering boasts the Longest Bar East of the Mississippi. When one walks in, the bar area is a long, dim aisle lined on one side by barstools and on the other by a handful of booths. At the far end of the establishment there's the stage, the setup of which is pretty typical of small venues throughout the country. In many ways it was similar to dozens of other bars and clubs I'd been to for such reasons over the years...hell, to bars and clubs I'd been to when I was in a band playing shows of our own.

There were far too many bands booked that night, to be sure, as I entered the Sterling to a two-piece instrumental death metal act with loads of misplaced talent, and then there were a number of other bands ranging from alterno-slop-rock to punk (and anyone who's a true music lover knows that good punk is hard to find these days!). After six or seven bands---and I am absolutely convinced that this act saved the show from complete and utter ruin for me!---a one-man-band who called himself Mosquito Bandito took the stage. Since I was actually there to see the Goddamn Gallows, it was nice to discover a singer/songwriter I had no previous knowledge of, whose songs I was able to really appreciate. And it was fantastic the way he strummed his guitar in a frenzy, all the while banging his hi-hat with the head of his guitar (with so much force that I couldn't believe he didn't knock his guitar completely out of tune!), and controlling the kick drum and snare with his feet. While playing, he shook his head like an old blues musician, screaming and singing out the words from deep down in his gut. His set was short. And when it was over, my only thought was, "Wow. He was phenomenal! I hope this isn't the last time time I catch one of his shows."

After Mosquito Bandito, the Goddamn Gallows were up, at last. Now, I only had gotten my hands on their first full-length album at that point, which featured three of the members present that night---Mikey Classic on guitar and vocals, Fishgutzzz on standup bass, and Baby Genius on drums. Suffice to say, I was more than a little surprised when a fourth member accompanied them to the stage. It turned out that this fourth member, Avery, a scruffy-faced and long-haired wildman, played the washboard and accordion, and he did so in a spastic manner almost like he was possessed by the music itself, sort of dancing from foot to foot, shuffling about. His arms flowed up and down the washboard or worked the components of the squeezebox depending on what song was being played, and it was really quite a spectacle. There were a lot of things about the Gallow's set that were spectacles, though...like when Avery wiped snot on Fishgutzzz' strings (and Fishgutzzz continued pullin' and pluckin' and slappin' 'em as though Avery had never touched 'em)...when Avery and Mikey went back to back until Avery was hunched over and Mickey was lifted precariously over him all while playing their instruments, never missing a note, a chord, or a run on the ruts of the board...when Fishgutzzz put a sweaty hand on Avery's forehead like an Evangelical holyman at a revival tent service...when Avery took a moment from playing the washboard during the song Pass Me the Bottle to play Mickey's larynx, quite literally, to help create the spooky wails that are so much a part of that song...and, finally, as a finale of sorts, when Avery set fire to the end of his washboard and blew huge flames across the stage.

The first song was from the new album, "Ghost of th' Rails," and it showed a slight shift in sound for the Gallows, which was more of a country riot, old-timey blues, and roots rock sound, with the pyschobilly punk almost as a secondary element. Despite the slight shift in sound, they certainly hadn't sacrificed any of their energy or original appeal.

All considered, it was a brilliant set, with Fishgutzzz plucking and slapping away at the thick strings of his upright and tipping his hat to his fellow musicians and the crowd in turns, occasionally wiping the sweat from his strings with a bandanna which hung loosely from his back pocket. One of the things that stood out most about ol Fisgutzzz, even more than the fact that he was evidently an intriguing character, was a full, English-style mustache which curled upward at the ends like the beginnings of a handlebar stash.

Baby Genius was obviously absorbed by the music, too, perfectly timing out every boom, crash, and tap on the kit. What Baby Genius lacked in stature, he certainly made up for with a big sound. With a youthful countenance only betrayed by a few random tatts, Baby Genius seemed part innocent and part deviant, but all punk. One of the finer drum moments was at the very end of the set, when Fishgutzzz dragged a floor tom and snare down the aisle of the bar while Baby Genius played along the music still going up on stage, not once missing a beat.

Mikey Classic---singer and guitarist for the Gallows---appeared to be a fresh-faced, sharp-dressed rockabilly cat who looked almost like he should have been a young man in the early 1950's. He was exactly the type people referred to when they said, "He was born too late." Of course, there was also something undeniably punk about him, which placed him in the here and now, which fixed him to this modern City Earth of ours. I could see it in the way he formed the words, passing them through the microphone while the threads of restraint unraveled all around them, finally giving way to the spitting, snarling, wailing, and echoey vocalizations that his songs inevitably became. It was also in the way he strummed and picked and beat his guitar almost as if he were a preacher trying to exorcise it of its demons. An endless well of talent and style, Mikey Classic skillfully navigated the neck of his Gretsch and belted out, crooned, screamed and sang his lyrics with vocals that established him, at least in the opinion of this writer, as one of the great frontmen of our times.

Gutterbilly Blues is the term the Gallows have coined to describe their sound of psychobilly, punk, roots rock, blues, and country riot. And it really is quite fitting, I think. After all, these lads all-out refuse to be inserted into existing genre categories in modern music, which also makes sense; I mean, why recycle the same old hooch that has been brewed again and again in the same filthy, boring tub. No, this is a whole new brand of firewater, folks, and it burns fantastic the whole way down!