After the Jump Showcase - the Music Hall of Williamsburg

Cadence Weapon

Indie rapper Cadence Weapon did his best to entertain, though party beats and quick fire verses seemed downright weird when delivered to a very early room that contained maybe fifteen people. CW took it as challenge of sorts, leaping from the stage during DJ breaks to run laps and deliver unwanted high fives.

Yeasayer

I know that Yeasayer were one of the few groups to achieve some degree of critical consensus at the fest, seemingly playing dozens of shows that converted even the toughest of spectators. Honestly, I wasn't feeling it. At some points, like the shaggy dog epic "2080," the band ebbed and swelled in all the right places. But mainly, I was put off by their bloated AM radio excess, baffled by the crimes against haircuts and jackets on display, and completely annoyed by the affected mannerisms of singer Chris Keating. If spastically "jumping back" every few seconds is your idea of a David Byrne tribute, brother, you gotta go back to YouTube.

Galapagos Art-Space - Non-CMJ party

Cadence Weapon

When I stumbled next door into the Galapagos art-space, there again was a moonlighting Cadence Weapon, who ironically seemed less pumped to be playing to a later crowd that was at least 3/4 full. He was just finishing as I made my way in, so the only thing I saw in full was a completely unexpected and almost completely sarcastic cover of Joy Division's "Isolation." You read that right. Amusing.

the New Violators

The duel bill going on in the venue's back room featured the very European pop stylings of Norwegian new wave recreationists, the New Violators. Their lead singer looked like an even gayer version of U2's Larry Mullen; his aging screenwriter's sunglasses a little yellower, his earrings a bit sparklier. The triple stacked synth alter set up on the left seemed only for show, unless those six notes played up high demanded a triple decker. I'll give them credit for sharp musicianship and a couple catchy riffs, but mainly they resembled a Scandy wedding band freeze dried since '86. That description suggests a degree of guilty pleasure, and I'll cop to that. But anyone who tells you that this is some kind of boundary pushing band that you need to keep tabs on is, quite simply, shitting you.

(back to the) After the Jump Showcase

A Place to Bury Strangers

A Place to Bury Strangers were completely overwhelming, bordering on sadistically punishing. Aggressive sounds are the heart of their debut album, but honeyed vocals place them in the Jesus and Mary Chain malt-shop where noise and melody share a milkshake straw. In concert, most of the vocals are sacrificed for intensely brutal sonic textures. The kind of sounds that render you deaf for 24 hours to come, but leave you grinning dumbly at the memory of their sheer audacity. To compound the sensory shock, the band's stage lights were near total eclipse with only strobe bursts and rapidly shifting geometric projections allowing you to locate the band's flailing silhouettes. You felt a bit like a hostage, being broken down by enhanced interrogation techniques. A very effective brain wash method, as I'm now even more wholeheartedly devoted to their evil cause.

*Note: Those of you sneering at the "Loudest Band in New York" hype, just bring your ear plugs to their next show. Don't be a hero.*

Below, thanks to Abbey Braden and 'Sup Magazine, a taste of the nasty:

Chouette Party, Cake Shop

the Papercuts

Papercuts, who had previously come at least slightly recommended, sounded sort of mushy and indistinct. They had a reverb heavy sixties via Peter Bjorn & John sound, but nothing resembling a dynamic performance. I've been assured that their record plays better, and they may well have been the victim of some on the fly festival sound, but I really wouldn't know.

Deerhunter

photo by Devon Banks

This was the third time I'd seen Deerhunter this year, in the smallest space. Though it was probably the worst performance of the three, it was still wildly compelling. Bradford Cox pouted his way through the set, slapping petulantly at the wide array of vocal effects pedals laid before him. He perched on the front of his band mates' drum kit, breaking his between song silence only to laconically remark, "It's dreary outside," in his best Eeyore drawl. You could feel that their year of instant stardom, backlash, and overexposure had perhaps gotten the best of them. That yet another fickle industry showcase was the last place they wanted to be. But still, those moments in their songs when the formless white noise gave way to a rush of intense guitar crunch were transporting. The fire they brought to a cover of Swell Maps' "Midget Submarines" was formidable. They proved to me yet again that those folks who claim Pitchfork recognition as an unearned cause of their success have a fuckin' tin ear. If only all the bands that clog the venues of the next CMJ Fest could "suck" as sublimely as these Atlantans.