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February 29, 2008
Neon Lights: Eamon Hamilton
The final performer on Saturday's kick off to the 2008 Neon Lights calendar is Eamon Hamilton, better known to the blog-music devotee as singer and songwriter for Brakes (you can triple that if you feel so inclined). The Brighton, UK band is signed to Rough Trade in the UK, which has brought us such flashes in the pan as the Smiths. He wrote one of the most laser focused political songs of these dark days containing only the lyrics, "Cheney, Cheney, Cheney, Cheney, Cheney, Cheney, Cheney/ Stop being such a dick." Their latest record, 2007's The Beatific Visions drew Trans-Atlantic praise that most bands would murder for in publications like NME, Spin, Pitchfork, and the BBC. With that record's successor on his mind already, Eamon's solo set will see some newbies mixed in among the proven oldies. He's been touring this set around the UK, opening for his old band mates British Sea Power, and occasionally wrestling behind them on national television. This will be the first time this material will be played in this manner, for US audiences. Not too bad for our first ever European import.
A smattering of audio-visual evidence for review:
Brakes - "Hold Me in the River"
In which our man, the pugilist, tries his hand at suburban boxing and gratuitously mentions Scarlett Johansson.
Brakes - "Hold Me in the River"
Brakes - "Hi How Are You?/"Heard About Your Band"
(live @ Trash, London)
This first rant against mid-song audience chatter will likely greet any patrons whose late night drinking has effected their internal volume control. And the second war against incessant self-promotion likely applies to Williamsburg in even greater depth than in did to London.
Brakes - "Beatific Visions"
(live @ Chop Suey, Seattle, WA)
You'd think that the song above, a sweet melodic pop song, would translate best to a man-and-his-guitar revamp. Or perhaps it'll be the tender country winders such as the one below that are best suited to the troubadour act...
We'll all find out together on Saturday night/ Sunday morning, I suppose.
And even though I don't think he was with them at this point, how about a song from Eamon's running buddies British Sea Power, just for kicks.
British Sea Power - "Fear of Drowning" (early single version)
Remember folks that you still have a pair of opportunities to gain free admission to the extravaganza, and see Eamon along with Crystal Stilts and Titus Andronicus. For the first, check the details at Prefix and for the second just avert your attention to a previous post on this very site. Your reasons for resistance are looking ever thinner...
Posted by Jeff Klingman at 09:35 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
February 28, 2008
Video: Pavement - "Stereo," for Korean Hyundai commercial
From Brighten the Corners to a newfound home raking in the cash for Malkmus and company. Foreign shilling supplementing the career, via Korea, Korea, Korea...
Pavement - "Stereo"
Posted by Merry Swankster at 10:03 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
Video: Beach House "Heart of Chambers"
I wasn't quite on board with the debut, but this album really is quite lovely...
Beach House - "Heart of Chambers"
Posted by Jeff Klingman at 08:45 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
Neon Lights Ticket Giveaway!
This morning, over on Prefix, I offered the site's registered users a chance to come to this weekend's much discussed Neon Lights show. While signing up to be a user there has plenty of benefits beyond my little show on Saturday, I'd be remiss to not offer our own dedicated readership a similar chance without even minimal strings attached.
So, if you want to see Eamon Hamilton, Titus Andronicus, and Crystal Stilts at Galapagos on March 1st, for the grand price of nada, all you gotta do is drop us a line at neonlightsnyc at gmail.com with the subject line of "Entering contest now." We'll pick one at random and grant thee a plus one to score you some points with the ladies/fellas. Fair enough? Have at it...
Posted by Jeff Klingman at 02:00 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
Numerology: Giving Our Regards to 42nd Street
In The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, the number 42 signifies nothing less than the meaning of life itself. The members of Level 42, London-based purveyors of vaguely danceable smooth pop in the ‘80s, named their quite successful band after this mind-bending sci-fi classic by Douglas Adams, but in the world of music, 42 stands for something only slightly less fraught with possibilities than life itself: 42nd Street. Ten of the 11 songs surveyed herein refer to this once-notorious stretch of Manhattan real estate that was sanitized during the Giuliani years. What’s more, there is no mystery about the definitive 42 song: it’s “42nd Street.” You know the one: “Come and meet those dancing feet/On the avenue I’m taking you to/Forty-second Street” But show tunes are out of bounds here. Bob Dylan (who wrote in Chronicles Vol. 1 that something vital clicked for him as he sat watching a performance of Kurt Weill’s Threepenny Opera) would disagree, but for me, the vast majority of show tunes don’t feel like they belong with the songs on this list. Blues and country songs, on the other hand, make perfect sense because blues and country are essential elements of rock & roll. I do realize that there are elements of show tunes in music I like and admire, from the Kinks and Bowie and Kate Bush to people like Rufus Wainwright and Nellie McKay. But a song like “42nd Street,” whether the Depression-era ditty version by the Boswell Sisters or the belted-out Broadway showstopper in the Tony Award-winning 1980 revival, just doesn’t make sense at this particular party. What a show tune—this show tune, at any rate—lacks is edge, the edge that characterizes rock & roll and its close relatives. The fact that I cannot turn up a single rock version of the song seems to bear this out. To have “42nd Street” sitting cheek by jowl with “Map Ref 41 N 93 W” would stop this juggernaut in its tracks.
Through the years of unchecked raunch—the ‘60s through the late ‘80s—42nd Street inspired songs that mirrored its nasty side. Folks as varied as first-wave English punkers the Angelic Upstarts, Billy Squier’s first band, Piper, and Golden Earring, the longest-running rock band in history (you read that right; the Dutch outfit best known for “Radar Love” formed in 1961, two years before the Stones) all had songs called “42nd Street.” None were great shakes. The Upstarts, making good use of a police siren, lose points for the social critique of the verses, which rings a bit hollow next to the chorus about “the girl I’d like to meet.” In the song by Piper—from the 1976 eponymous LP that Circus. magazine declared the greatest debut by an American band—the heart of the red light district and recycled Thin Lizzy riffs are but a backdrop for Billy Squier, who howls that he is a man of “repu-tay-shunnn,” “obli-gay-shunnn” and “conster-nay-shunnn.” The Golden Earring song starts with traffic noises and kicks up a frantic ‘70s hard-rockin’ groove before making the expected references to misfits, perverts and losers, and fading out with, you guessed it, a police siren.
IIn the one-off whatsit department: R.E.M.'s Out of Time-era outtake called "42nd Street Song" should have remained on the kudzu-covered cutting-room floor; Flaming Lips' "Miracle on 42nd Street" is a sound collage that leaves little lasting impression, and Malcolm McLaren's "42nd Street," from his 1998 tribute to himself, Buffalo Gals Back to Skool, speaks for itself. Ineligible but worth mentioning for the clear enunciation of "42" are two tracks that employ the tried-and-true street address and phone number strategy: the B-52s' "6060-842" from the classic 1979 debut, and the obscure girl group known as the Pixies Three, whose "442 Glenwood Avenue" is a sassy invitation to a swinging party.
The Trees Community - "Psalm 42"
Certainly the hardest no. 42 song to describe in mere words is “Psalm 42,” a 12-minute symphony of sorts by the Trees Community, a monastically minded troupe whose first release, Christ Tree (1975), was too baffling for any widespread recognition. In recent years, the absolute singularity and authenticity of the project has led to an unlikely wave of positive reappraisal. The sonic landscape that opens “Psalm 42” could almost pass for something from Eno’s Another Green World, but it doesn’t last long; soon there is vocal interplay suggesting plainsong, and there are Eastern bells, and oboes, and voices chanting songs of praise. And that’s only in the first half. It’s fascinating, to be sure, but it isn’t definitive. It’s kind of the opposite of definitive.
So, back to the problem at hand. The need for a suitable 42 song has been a conundrum for longer than I care to admit. I briefly considered the spry Django Reinhardt instrumental “Swing 42.” After all, the three-fingered Django was a virtuoso, trailblazing guitarist who influenced generations of players, including people like Jerry Garcia and Mark Knopfler. Then I was excited when I stumbled upon “Fire on 42nd Street” by Austin’s The Lord Henry, but in the end I couldn’t pull the trigger on either the classic jazz instrumental or a decent-enough song that sounds a bit too much like Franz Ferdinand. But this quest has reinforced my abiding faith that there is a good and suitable song for every number, and finally that song appeared.
The Lord Henry - "Fire on 42nd Street"
East River Pipe is the musical alias of Fred Cornog, a reclusive yet prolific songwriter whose weary voice hints at the hard life he’s lived. After a brief flirtation with major labels in the early ‘90s, followed by years of homelessness and drug addiction, Cornog has persevered, finding stability and sanity while continuing to write songs marked by understated beauty and a wry and incisive lyrical touch. It took me a listen or two to fall for the simple charms of “Down 42nd Street to the Light” but I now see its strengths clearly: the weary sense of resolve and hope in his voice, the ramshackle but just-right musical accompaniment, and the hypnotic singsong of the backing vocals, like a child’s voice issuing from the backseat of a car. But if I needed something extra to prove to me that I had found a 42 song I could really live with, it was that Cornog mentions my hometown: "We could fly from here to there and back/Tenafly or maybe Hackensack." I assure you: references to good old Tenafly—also the hometown of Ed Harris, Leslie Gore and Bob Guccione Jr.—are few and far between in the world of popular song. It was all the sign I needed. The superfluous sign, which was just plain odd, is the name of a 1995 East River Pipe release: Poor Fricky.
Fricky was the name of my cat growing up in Tenafly. You can ask my dad.
East River Pipe - "Down 42nd Street to the Light"
Numerology is our pal Dave's ill advised quest to find the definitive song for every number from one to a hundred. It's starting to creep everybody out.
Previously: No. 1, 2-4, 5-7, 7 (counterpoint), 8, 9, 10/11, 12/13. 13 (counterpoint), 14/15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26/27, 28 , 29 , 30, 30 (counterpoint), 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 41
Posted by David Klein at 11:40 AM | Comments (3) | TrackBack
February 27, 2008
Retrohump Night: 90's on 90's Crime
the Breeders - "Shocker in Gloomtown"
(Guided by Voices cover)
I've been listening a bit lately to the digitally liberated Breeders album, Mountain Battles and though not entirely knocked out, it is clearly a pretty solid record. But unavoidably, when a long time artist of some considerable nostalgic heft releases a new disc, thoughts turn quickly to greater glories. Searching through the YouTube flotsam, I came across this Guided by Voices cover that I'd somehow missed in its heyday. The GBV song came from 1993's Grand Hour EP, and the cover's conception is easily traced to the two bands' shared Dayton roots. I never really saw the Breeders as lo-fi Ohio refugees. Whether It was their Convertible riding "Cannonball" iconography, or just lingering Pixies associations, I always had California on the brain. So the imagery of this video is surprisingly appealing in theory. I'd like to think of small rainy Midwestern towns in the nineties having row after row of garages filled with kick ass bands. But in spite of that lo-fi romanticism, this version (released on the band's Head to Toe 7") doesn't quite work for me. Some Pollard songs would benefit from flexing the guitar muscle, but not this one. I'm now daydreaming about what the Deals could do with "Glad Girls" or "Back to the Lake" though.
Posted by Jeff Klingman at 09:20 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
Neon Lights: Titus Andronicus
photo by Bryan Bruchman
As you know, the first Neon Lights show of 2008 is going down this Saturday, at Galapagos in Williamsburg. The second in our slate of Saturday night bands, is Shakespeare's/New Jersey's vicious Goth-slayer, Titus Andronicus. This slightly folk, sort of punk, definitely crowd-awing band of youths has been playing all around the Tri-State area in advance of the moment when indie stalwart Troubleman Records releases their debut, The Airing of Greivances, and they can seriously blow us all off for good.
For the here and now, a couple:
Titus Andronicus - "Titus Andronicus"
This self-mythologizing number sounds like a drunken fistfight between two long time friends that briefly becomes a teary-eyed man hug, before returning to sloppy haymakers. Also, kind of like Wolf Parade being tricked into playing a St. Patrick's Day Parade. And why is it so perversely fun to chant along to the climactic hand-clap accentuated breakdown? Maybe because screaming "Your life is over!" at anonymous members of the crowd implicitly suggests that yours is still chugging along quite nicely. So why's everyone else chanting it in your direction as well?
Titus Andronicus - "Upon Viewing Bruegel's "Landscape with the Fall of Icarus" "
I'm not certain how Dutch Renaissance man (as in a man who lived in the Renaissance, I don't know if he could do a lot of other stuff) Pieter Bruegel reflects the exalted Jersey ennui of this 2006 EP track. Are there mythic beings drowning to general indifference in the Passaic on a regular basis? It's another raggedly melodic punk basher whose lyrical dread is performed with enough cymbal bashing brio to trick you in to believing that the whole sun-buzzing endeavor might not melt your wings this time, if you want it badly enough. Or maybe it's an expression of the dread resulting from lugging that god damn plow around everyday while golden boys in the distance get to splash around in the water all day. William Carlos Williams was a fan of that painting too, and he was a bitter man who ate others' cherished fruit for kicks. So maybe it's just a favorite among artistic types with issues to work out. Thrash therapy was the pharmacist's prescription here.
My biased words are echoed by triumphant trumpeting of the band that is starting to filter in from all corners:
- Pitchfork: "...perfectly clangorous pop songs..."
- Brooklyn Vegan ( in fairness, more of a spare, sorta neutral mention that prompted the band to post about it on their MySpace under the title: "Brooklyn Vegan to Titus Andronicus: "You Exist")
- Said the Gramophone: "...shirtless, jangle-barking..."
- Oh My Rockness: "...so damn delightful, it's enough to soften even the shells of die-hard Spiderland fans."
- Breakthru Radio: "...about to explode."
Preceding Titus into the void will of course be Crystal Stilts, to whom you've recently become acquainted. After them will be Brakes' Eamon Hamilton who we've yet to discuss at length. If you're the find your Christmas presents early type, you can get all the info you need right now, right here. But I'll be filling in the gaps very soon because, as you know, it goes down this Saturday.
Posted by Jeff Klingman at 05:55 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
Déjà vu: Maxim reviews new Nas without hearing it
Bottom of the barrel bloggers > Maxim.
RAPPER Nas was shocked when Maxim gave his new album, "N - - - - r," a 21/2-star review - because it isn't even finished yet. "I'm finishing the album now, and it will be out April 22," Nas told Page Six. Maxim has since apologized for the premature review, but Nas doesn't care. "I'd prefer [a review from] Playboy," the rapper said. "That kind of stuff doesn't reach my radar or effect anybody around me. I don't know what a music rating from Maxim is . . . I don't know what it even means really." (via)
Previously:
Maxim reviews new Black Crowes without hearing it
Posted by Merry Swankster at 11:56 AM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
February 26, 2008
Neon Lights: Crystal Stilts
As previously threatened, this is the week in which I go over the bands playing Saturday night's Neon Lights show at Galapagos in minute detail. The first and only group of native Brooklynites on the the bill for Saturday's show will be the great, gloomy Crystal Stilts. I was unaware of the band when I stumbled into their coveted slot as an opening act for Kiwi legends, the Clean. They are sort of a conundrum. There's lots of space surrounding everything in the mix, but it's still urgent and vital. It just sounds like that vitality is happening in occurring in the direct center of a very large cave or something. It was glibly suggested to me at the show that they were "the Jesus and Mary Clean," combining the echoed legend of the Brothers Reid with the immediacy of the Brothers Kilgour. I'm not sure I'd be so reductive but even conceding the point, you'd have to admit that it does sound like a tasty recipe.
Also, Swedish people like them, and you know you need to be on the ground floor when that happens...
Crystal Stilts - "Converging in the Quiet"
The steady drumbeat that starts this track gains is given more power by a sparse set up that's all kick drum and no rattling cymbal. The vocals are far away, delivered in a dreamy accent that seems to come from a more world weary place than modern day Brooklyn. The winding guitar line that forms the song's spine is where that errant Clean comparison really rings true. I'm thinking inspired '82 stuff like "Fish" or "Point That Thing Somewhere Else." Good company.
Crystal Stilts - "Crippled Croon"
This one has a bit more spring in its step, though the regally detached voice could still coming from a chilling radio program, revealed to be emanating from beyond the grave in a Twilight Zone episode's final minutes. And none of this really suggests the spark that their very active, usually standing drummer brings to their live show.
For more exact details, like right now, go here. More to come on the full night in the next couple days. You won't have to look very hard for it, trust me.
Posted by Jeff Klingman at 07:30 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
February 25, 2008
Denver/Boulder: Shows this week | 2.25 - 3.2
[Built to Spill]
Monday, February 25
Black Cobra @ Larimer Lounge
Hieroglyphics @ Fox Theatre
Katt Williams @ Paramount Theatre
Tuesday, February 26
The Hives @ Ogden Theater
Mahjongg @ Larimer Lounge
New York Dolls @ Gothic Theatre
Sole And The Skyrider Band @ Hi-Dive
Wednesday, February 27
Goatwhore @ Larimer Lounge
PENG(I)N @ Gothic Theatre
The Shadow Sessions @ Fox Theatre
Thursday, February 28
Appetite For Destruction @ Fox Theatre
Arsonists Get All The Girls @ Marquis Theater
Built To Spill @ Gothic Theatre
Ghost Buffalo @ Larimer Lounge
The XYZ Affair @ Hi-Dive
Friday, February 29
A-Sides @ Hi-Dive
Airbourne @ Bluebird Theater
American Relay @ Larimer Lounge
Avenged Sevenfold @ Fillmore Auditorium
Bone Thugs-N-Harmony @ Ogden Theater
Mark Farina @ Fox Theatre
Savage Henry @ Soiled Dove
The Stigmas @ Walnut Room
Synthetic Elements @ Gothic Theatre
Saturday, March 1
Astrophagus @ Hi-Dive
The Crimson Red @ Gothic Theatre
Dartanian @ Marquis Theater
Gil Mantera's Party Dream @ Larimer Lounge
John Oates @ Boulder Theater
Kyle Hollingsworth Band @ Fox Theatre
Oakhurst CD Release Party @ Bluebird Theater
Sunday, March 2
Lifehouse/Matt Nathanson @ Paramount Theatre
Adrian Belew Power Trio @ Fox Theatre
Dilated Peoples @ Bluebird Theater
Schedule appears courtesy of Mystik Spiral.
Posted by Merry Swankster at 09:45 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
February 24, 2008
No Age/ High Places/ Rings/ Skint @ Market Hotel, Bushwick, Bklyn 02.11.08
photos by Devon Banks and myself.
The first thing you notice about freedom from corporate oppression is that it reeks of cigarettes. Upon entering the unmarked door of Bushwick’s new D.I.Y. venue Market Hotel, the combined scent of several hundred righteously lit smokes offered immediate welcome. The smell had to be tolerated due to the warmth that came with it, like begrudgingly accepting a hug from a slightly rank relative. After ten face-chapping blocks of bitter cold desolation (punctuated by oddly-named bodegas) from the nearest L train stop, we might have welcomed a chicken-storage garage with a space heater. Due to outside appearances, we could have been walking into just that. Freedom from corporate oppression is also hard to locate, obviously. Once safely inside, the sufficiently hip could dream of no better celebration for their protection from Big Brother’s gaze than to flick their Bics and inhale triumphantly. In a converted loft with no windows or ventilation of any kind, the suffocating freedom was thick enough that the clothes and hair of those lucky enough to co-mingle with its torchbearers would carry their proud scent for days to come.
The venue, a large and empty space situated above a Korean grocer, is another in a long line of creatively appropriated properties used by Brooklyn’s indie promoter kingpin, Todd Patrick, less formally known as Todd P. The man deserves a lot of credit, for the most part. His booking taste is fairly impeccable and big publications and traditional "Midas Touch" venues like the Bowery Ballroom have been following his lead for years. His attempts to stage intriguing bills in spaces beyond the traditional half dozen "anointed" prime NYC spots have empowered many people to take the reigns and throw their own events. But success is not a steady plateau that you reach and stand atop. Once you've earned your reputation as a tastemaker, more and more people are going to be flocking to what is still essentially a shoestring operation. Three hundred people crammed into a space that would have made a pleasant concert experience for a hundred and fifty isn't as "cool" as it purports to be. And all the talk about utopian inclusiveness goes right out the window when only the terminally plugged in, the responsibility free school kid, and the day job-less bohemian can get to the middle of nowhere in Brooklyn on a chilly Monday night.
In a 2005 interview, Patrick said, "I want to have people that are fairly normal, nice people working behind the door or behind the bar, because why have this uptight, alienating atmosphere? How could you have a good time with that, unless you're one of those people that enjoys the feeling of elitism? Which I don't." Now, it is very much true that the those involved in Todd's endeavors are nice people who don't project an air of superiority at all. But a scene is a scene is a scene, and those who don't fit the Euro-hip Brooklyn/Lower East Side stereotype were almost entirely absent from a truly inconvenient and uncomfortable time and place. He went on to say, "there's nothing worse than for it to be boring." Even after replacing the old standoffish order with a kinder, gentler one, that's easier said than done.
Perpetually running behind is one of the vestiges of Manhattan’s stodgy live music scene that Todd apparently deems worthy of maintaining. An urgently worded press release sent earlier in the day insisted that the show would start promptly at 9:30 and be completely finished at the mostly reasonable weekday hour of 12:30. At ten o’clock the only evident performance was a group of fishnet festooned girls on stage, theatrically reading the newspaper and giggling while raunchy rap music and well-worn college radio favorites blared from chintzy speakers. We would soon learn that these were the members of Skint, the evening’s first act. Not band, mind you, act.
Skint
Skint is an all-girl performance art/ dance troupe/ experimental music entity that likely seemed better when merely the climax to a fevered 3 A.M. conversation, and not a physical reality. Their schtick consisted of writhing on the floor in front of the stage, dressed in bright American Apparel reds, with eyes made up to look lightly punched. They staggered faux(?) drunkenly, or flipped feet over head, in presumptuously close proximity to the semicircle of confused folks who had a clear view of them.
It was hard to discern whether or not they had thought these motions out ahead of time, though some portions, like when one girl repeatedly ran full speed and flung herself against opposite walls, must have been preordained. For those gathered towards the back of the room, this spectacle was completely obscured by rows of gawking bodies. To them, the entirety of the baffling performance was the droning electronic soundtrack, peppered with live drumbeats whenever one of the girls deigned fit to climb onstage.
Occasionally they would move to one of several scattered microphones to voice an incomplete sentiment like, “Come on everybody...” only to trail off as the crowd awaited further instructions. It was the pop song equivalent of tapping your grade school classmate on the shoulder, only to duck out of view when they turned around. Though the entire thing was kind of can’t-look-away compelling, it mainly generated vicarious embarrassment. I felt most embarrassed for their blonde pixie member whose improbably tight white jeans refused to go that extra inch towards concealing a chronic plumber’s crack. In her defense, the fashion crime was considerably easier on the eyes than one perpetrated by an actual union tradesman.
It’s important to note that Skint includes two members of the band Telepathe, whose music I have lavishly praised in this very space. So, I don’t mean to say that there were no talented people involved, merely that it doesn’t take talent to do what these girls were doing. All their routine required was the balls to go in front of people to do it. So, kudos for self-confidence, I guess. But let me just say that if my girlfriend were a part of such a performance, I might be inclined to assure my friends that she was going to go on a bit later than posted, and then sheepishly apologize to them when they got to the club after the “set” was completed. “I’m sooooo sorry that you missed it, everybody,” I’d say. “They were amaaaaazing...”
Rings
This was the second time I’d seen Rings perform, though the first since they’d changed their name from First Nation. Both names were bestowed upon the same frustrating band; watching their performances almost seems like being invited to a loose practice session in order to give constructive criticism. The girls play off each other, forming loops of beats, bleats, keys, and scraping guitar that only very seldom lock into a pagan groove. Just when you’d think they had finally caught their stride, it would all crumble just as quickly. There’s an entire branch of the seventies underground that worked on the notion that pop songs were more vitally exciting when teetering on the precipice of collapse. Upstart female artists like the Raincoats created tension with their missteps, so that when a track finished without completely imploding, there was a dizzy sense of wonder and relief. But that trick only works when your rickety components gel more often than they clash. Despite any glimpses of greatness the band might cough up, they still can’t deliver on a consistent basis.
A special medal of valor goes to drummer Abby Portner, who was constantly on a different level than her band mates. She happens to be the sister of New York experimental golden boy David Portner, aka Animal Collective’s Avey Tare. Lest his influence over the Paw Tracks label her band is signed to gives you dismissive thoughts, let me assure you that she possesses formidable gifts comparable to brother's. Vocally, she can maintain a loop of distorted yelps so exact in its repetition that if her lips weren’t moving you’d swear someone was hitting buttons on a sampler. Her bashing is so powerful and intense that she ended the set by splintering a drumstick and puncturing her own hand with it. When leaving, she parted the thick crowd with a blood streaked fist. If they ever do pull it together, it’ll be because she set the standard to which her collaborators lived up.
I will note that the chances of sustained inspiration weren’t aided by a crummy sound mix that forced the performers to stoop down mid-song to frantically adjust their own levels. If Todd is going to put together bills that attract hundreds of people, he needs to put in the effort to live up to the position he’s now attained for himself. If a full-time sound man isn’t in the budget, then surely a sound check must be possible. It wouldn't harsh everybody’s homey art-vibe, I promise.
High Places
High Places were, as always, absolutely delightful--potential redeemers of any annoyance filled evening. The weatherbeaten PA system that they lug around town with them kept sound difficulties to a minimum. A few errant squawks managed to creep in anyway, but nothing short of a sarin gas attack could blunt the duo’s adorable brand of guileless sunshine.
It’s a precarious, precocious line that High Places walks. Mary Pearson's vocals might be too sweet and innocent to bear if the band's oddly specific mix didn't render them dreamlike. Her lyrics might be too blasted positive if not for the swirling abstractions that surround them. And all of it might be way too twee and airy if not for the very substantial, positively heavy rumble coming from Rob Barber's wondrous suitcase full of circuitry.
High Places - "Freaked Flight"
Take a song like "Freaked Flight" for example, with a baby bird narrative just waiting to be cynically dismissed. But its wobbly, exotic trappings, and thudding steel drum fantasia shelters such simple, forthright statements from corrosive judgment. When performed live, it's strange how exactly it adheres to the recorded version, how precise her echoed tone is and how ably he bends the warped elements to life again and again.
After the set closed with their anthemic best, "New Grace," the crowd was a unified, rippling grin. “They are so good. Every time,” started a conversation behind me, articulating the obvious.
As Rob and Mary repacked their case of with recorders, and bell bracelets, and clattering whatnot, the large crowd begin to creep forward ominously. I was momentarily distracted to the sheer size of the swelling mob by a high school girl next to me, standing in front of the shrieking speaker, clearly rolling her face off on some pharmaceutical grade ecstasy. On a Monday night. In February. She would ask anyone in her vicinity incredible questions about the music coming from the magic box she was leaning on. At one point she asked me, unironically, if the songs coming from it were “all prerecorded.” When a bearded Brooklyn youth moved between her and me, she began rubbing his back intensely and asking him questions about Guatemala. Though we’d never met, or even exchanged glances to that point, he felt it necessary to mouth the words “I don’t know her” to me in an incredulous manner. There are some moments when you just need a witness, I guess.
No Age
Considering their chosen nomenclature, No Age’s strong kiddie following is hardly a surprise. But as the band hooked up their myriad effects pedals, the sheer crush of impossibly young bodies towards the front of the stage had us feeling a bit panicked. I mean, it horrifies me to find myself typing this, but who are all these children, out at 12:30 on a Monday night in deepest Bushwick? Who sold them beers (not to mention ecstasy) and where do their parents think they are?
I can't legitimately begrudge it, of course. If there had been a place to see forward thinking art-punk and drink beer in Salem, Oregon when I was sixteen it would have been the best thing ever. That single week before the cops and city council banded together to demolish it forever would have legendary. But no single thing has perhaps ever made me feel as old as a quick 360 degree head swivel in the moments before the California band's set began.
No Age - "Every Artist Needs a Tragedy"
And when it began, dear God. As soon as the fuzzy intro to "Every Artist Needs a Tragedy" cleared and its sharp edged guitar lead set in, the front of the stage was a terrifying youthquake, with no shelter to be found. Look at the video below to get a good feel for the melee. Look at the gravity-free jumble of airborne legs, and the hundred fists all pointed skyward. Then imagine trying to mind your own business in the thick of it.
No Age - "Everybody's Down"
Teenage enthusiasm on record is one thing, but having that enthusiasm crash down violently on your head is quite another. I had flashbacks to the Nirvana-colored youth culture of my own high school days, and how an event as un-macho as a Weezer show would erupt into inappropriate moshing. Honestly, I wasn't so keen on it then, either. A song or two in, a few snapshots taken, and Devon demanded we get the fuck out of there. Cognizant of my inability to shield her from all sides, and not, you know, enjoying it myself, I quickly agreed.
From many paces back, the show's appeal was quite limited. The sound was muddy and the sightlines poor. I could appreciate the band's energy, and you'd have to tip a hat at the fervor they evoked, but it seemed like storm and bluster spurned by little. The band weren't so amazing as to incite a riot, but since that's what one does in these situations, one erupted anyway. I wasn't the only one who wasn't ready for the maelstrom. Almost immediately, the crowd's irrepressible motion knocked out a few key sound cords, and rattled the tiny speakers to the point that the band had to stop the show entirely for five or ten minutes just to set things right. That was it for us, and we sidled towards the exit.
No Age had played another show in town that week opening for Liars at Warsaw in Greenpoint, another Brooklyn space that had long ago been turned towards rock concerts from an earlier "un-hip" utility. That stage is high from the ground, and the sound professionally managed. Opinion would probably shift wildly as to which gig was more "fun," which experience was more "authentic." Whether it's a function of age or pure subjectivity, I know how I'd vote. As a car pulled up in front of Mr. Kiwi's Fruits and Vegetables, we could hear a pretty excellent riff radiating from the room behind us, where the sound had finally been restored. There wasn't even a tiny part of me that didn't want to get inside and drive far away.
Posted by Jeff Klingman at 09:10 PM | Comments (28) | TrackBack
February 23, 2008
Videos: These Are Powers
Pat Noecker, former Liars' member who split before their descent through Wiccan dementia, comes back with a loveably instable band of his own...
These Are Powers - "Silver Lung"
These Are Powers - "Little Sisters of Beijing"
(live @ Death by Audio, Brooklyn 10.24.07)
These Are Powers - "Little Sisters of Beijing"
Posted by Jeff Klingman at 05:15 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
February 22, 2008
Maxim reviews new Black Crowes without hearing it
Back in November of 2006, in a review of Asobi Seksu's Denver show, I wrote the following:
I have always suspected critics' most detrimental reviews are written ahead of music actually reaching their ears. While I have no way of proving this theory, and I would eagerly accept suggestions that debunk me, I believe that a measurable percentage of critics consistently practice the type of reprehensible journalism my conspiracy rich imagination allows me to concoct. One would really have to try hard to get caught writing a review for a Rolling Stones concert that they didn't attend. Sprinkle in the obligatory walking dead mentions, adjective synonyms for awe at Jagger's still swaying hips and Reynolds-wrap it with a longing to witness the band 30 years ago and voila! Ready for print.
Hey guess what Maxim magazine just did?!
Of course, we always prefer to (sic) hearing music, but sometimes there are big albums that we don’t want to ignore that aren’t available to hear, which is what happened with the Crowes. It’s either an educated guess preview or no coverage at all, so in this case we chose the former.’”
One reason why this is not important: the journalistic integrity of Maxim is not exactly rubbing elbows with the upper echelons of literary giants.
One reason why this is important: Using a relevance scale similar to mother nature's food chain, legitimate magazine writers for magazines occupy a higher slot of influence than music bloggers. Naturally within the magazine caste exists its own separate hierarchy depending on the reputation of each publication, but surely due to immense reach and cultural penetration, even the sleaziest magazine gets more eyeballs than the best music blog. So while it's easy to write off a lazy, stupid decision by a "journalist" at Maxim, truth is it does matter. (via)
Posted by Merry Swankster at 07:41 PM | Comments (7) | TrackBack
February 21, 2008
Video: Kanye West & Daft Punk - "Stronger" Live
Kanye West & Daft Punk - "Stronger" Live at 2008 Grammys
I didn't watch the Grammy's this year. I got to keep a few hours of my life that would've otherwise rotted in a slow, painful, miserable, lifesucking manner during the broadcast. It also meant I missed an(other) awesome Kanye Grammy performance. With Daft Punk. Or neon outlined imposters piloting the pyramid and the sweetest touch screen synths known to robots. I have a fair share of violently cynical convictions, but I don't believe masquerading tricksters are the beings beneath the helmets. Why would Bangalter and de Homem-Christo pass this stuff up? Would you? About that touch screen.
//Kanye West - "Stronger" buy
Posted by Merry Swankster at 11:31 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
R.I.P. Jim Jones, (1950-2008)
I was sad to learn of the death of the Cleveland-based musician Jim Jones, at age 55. He had a history of heart problems and died in the middle of a phone call to a friend on February 18. He was perhaps best known for his work with the legendary Pere Ubu. I saw the Jones incarnation of the band play in New York several times in the early '90s, and Jones was an engaging performer who added a regular-guy vibe to a band that was always eccentric in the extreme. Indeed, the records that Jones played on represent the poppiest stuff that Ubu would ever record. A great example is "Breath," the lead track from Cloudland (1989), which features Jones's lyrical guitar playing, is surprisingly radio-friendly, and still sounds cool as hell at this late date. He contributed to two of the most recent Ubu releases as well. Jim Jones was, by all reports, a truly excellent person and an inspiring musician, who will be sorely missed.
Pere Ubu on MS, previously:
Numerology: The Big Three-O
Numerology Counterpoint: Dirtier Thirty
Posted by David Klein at 06:00 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
February 20, 2008
Retrohump: John Lennon, contrarian
I just watched the 1988 John Lennon documentary, Imagine: John Lennon and it got me nostalgic for an era that I didn't even live through. Not so much the hippie idealism that most children of boomers tend to latch on to (often with dreads, patchouli, copious marijuana use, Marley, etc), but more of the straight up uncynical critical thinking that drives people to question societal and governmental conventions. That's it really.
John Lennon - "Jealous Guy"
Though recorded in 1971 for Working Class Hero, the film sets the song during the so-called "Lost Weekend" era of Lennon's life, where Yoko threw John out while basically ordering him to live carefree in what was a strange type of de-facto marriage separation. Ono dispatched the couple's personal assistant with him along as a caretaker-slash-lover. What ensued was an 18 month bout of drinking, partying, and assorted excesses typically associated with La-La-Land rock star types.
John Lennon & Yoko Ono - "Give Peace a Chance" - Montreal bed-in
John Lennon was many things: an artist, a musician, a father, a husband; but possibly his greatest strength, especially during his solo years, was the ability in which he would create attention from controversy and then let the narrative of the aftermath, fallout, whatever become the story. His views drove people crazy. Mostly the one's who perceived danger from his influence on the youth with a naivety in sizing up the world as a broken system needing fixing -- its wars, religions, governments and social establishments were common targets. For a contemporary example: George Clooney speaks about Darfur, Rush Limbaugh has a conniption, right wing radio hosts and assorted television personalities fuel the echo chamber, mainstream media picks up on it and without reference to the actual cause trying to be furthered, start broadcasts with rhetorical questions like, "Do we need Hollywood to tell us what to care about?" Oh brother.
Lennon was a self-billed "Working Class Hero", a type of Robin Hood for ideas and social change. Without delving into the specifics of his various causes it's important to understand the post-Epstein days of John Lennon, and to a larger extent, the other Beatles, who were also very much colored by rebellion from the tightly controlled script of a "safe", mop-topped, boy band who just wanted to "Hold Your Hand". (Ed note - For the purposes of this framing, we must ignore the completely un-safe threats of domestic violence from songs like Rubber Soul's "Run For Your Life".) Lennon toyed with the media, so much so that they all showed up for fourteen days during a "bed-in for peace" in a Montreal hotel, most likely to see what would happen. Lennon taunted the press questions of the bed-in by mocking the fact they showed up to see raunchy bedroom activities. Perverts. They itched to report on the debaucheries of a former Beatle and his oddball Japanese artist wife, instead they provided a platform for one man's anger, frustrations and hope for peace.
If you do catch the film there is a terrific segment where John is confronted by an argumentative cartoonist attempting to debase pretty much everything John claims to stand for during the bed-in, achieving some success until his own vindictiveness towards the progressive movement gets the best of him and he comes off looking totally douchey.
John Lennon - "Instant Karma"
I think ultimately John Lennon had a hopeful view of humanity. Something that adds an even more tragic note to the horrific violence that killed him.
Related: Retrohump quickie: Maharishi
Mayor of Strawberry Fields
Posted by Merry Swankster at 08:25 PM | Comments (3) | TrackBack
I Talked with Bradford Cox about the "Eternal Drone"
The epic interview with Deerhunter/Atlas Sound songwriter Bradford Cox that I mentioned here long ago is up now on Prefix, to coincide with this week's release of the Atlas Sound debut Let the Blind Lead Those Who Can See But Cannot Feel . While I'd love it if those who had the time went over there to read the whole damn thing, I can offer the short attention span set this video distillation, lovingly put together by videographer Ryan Penny.
Posted by Jeff Klingman at 10:50 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
February 19, 2008
Numerology: Lines of Longitude and Latitude
Has anyone else noticed that as the numbers go up, the subject matter gets darker? Recently we’ve had the Milgram experiments, soccer carnage, a lethal toss of Big Ed’s knife, and now we reach 41: ‘Zounds! I had no idea that to some numerically minded Bible enthusiasts, 41 signifies the 39 lashes, the spear in the side, and the crown of thorns suffered by Christ. I can, on the other hand, confirm that turning 41 might be your first grandly depressing birthday. (Turning 40, as traumatic as it is, at least involves a big blowout; 41 is nothing but a lethal comedown.)
Bruce Springsteen - "American Skin (41 Shots)" (live)
Unlike many of the crooked numbers we’ve encountered thus far, 41 has strong footing in the rock firmament, and that’s due to tragedy. In “American Skin (41 Shots)” Bruce Springsteen lamented the death of Amadou Diallo, the 23-year-old native of Guinea who was met with a barrage of 41 NYPD bullets in 1999 when he made the mistake of being black and reaching for his wallet in a dark storage facility. Springsteen risked the wrath of the law-and-order types in his fan base by writing this stark and affecting elegy, which certainly ranks as one of the biggest songs by a major artist to go viral on the Internet without any official release. To my mind, “41 Shots” is something to be played sparingly, in the same way that even the most diehard Spielberg fans reach for Raiders of the Lost Ark more often than Schindler’s List (the soundtrack of which contains another dark 41 song: “Jewish Town (Kracow Ghetto – Winter ’41)”
So what’s in 41’s favor, you ask? Iggy Pop said he chose Sum 41 to back him on the single from 2003’s Skull Ring, “Little Know it All,” and subsequent TV performances “because they have balls.” So that’s a positive thing. The 41st Side by the rapper Lake takes its name from an unforgiving housing project in Long Island City where he, as well as Nas and Mobb Deep, grew up. My favorite specific enunciation of “forty-one” comes from Tom Petty’s “American Girl”: Yeah, she could hear the cars roll by/Out on 441/Like waves crashing on the beach.” Of course the song is ineligible to win anything here except my undying affection; I only mention it because it still catapults me into the stratosphere whenever I hear it, conjuring teenage dreams, as well as the scene in Silence of the Lambs when the senator’s daughter sings along to it in the car, in her last free moments before her memorable captivity. Although it was rumored that the song memorialized a woman who committed suicide at the University of Florida, Petty has emphatically refuted the notion that he was referring to anything more than U.S. Route 441, which begins in Miami, passes through his hometown of Gainesville, FL, and winds north to Tennessee. I’ve never been much of a map reader, but I’ve always dug the way Tom spits out those numbers. (And by the way, that map reference, far from being arbitrary, is what we numerologists refer to as foreshadowing.)
Iron & Wine/Calexico - "Prison on Route 41"
Iron & Wine merchant Sam Beam fairly caresses the same syllables that Petty spits, in “Prison on Route 41,” an evocative waltz-time tale of man who avoids the fate of incarceration suffered by his family members because of the love of “the righteous grand Virginia.” While Beam’s burnished whisper sounds heavenly wrapped in the pedal steel, harmonica, and banjo accompaniment provided by Calexico, the song is just as strong, and perhaps a bit more haunting, delivered in Beam’s usual way, with just voice and guitar. It certainly doesn’t need that overloud drum.
Why is it that one man singing and playing an acoustic guitar can convey depths of meaning, while another man, with what some might call a better voice, a more accomplished technique, and quite possibly a better guitar, says almost nothing at all? That’s how I feel when I listen to Dave Matthews’s “41” after “Prison on Route 41.” If Sam Beam is iron and wine, Dave Matthews is the masterfully constructed, utterly lightweight Triscuit cracker.
Alabama, of “40 Hour Work Week” fame, continues to stalk me, this time with its greatest hits collection, 41 Number One Hits. That’s right. Forty-one chart toppers. Would someone please explain to me how this is possible? “Reason 41” by the Alarm offers nothing in the way of an explanation for the success of Alabama, but I couldn’t even begin to consider it because a) it’s extremely trite and b) the Alarm’s big moment comes later on, when it really counts, in the late 60s. And let’s not forget “4:41 A.M. Sexual Revolution” from The Pros and Cons of Hitchhiking, a concept album from Pink Floyd’s Roger Waters on which he enlisted the help of non-Floydies including Eric Clapton and the late actor and one-armed-pushup master, Jack Palance.
Some songs you love; they touch something in you and you respond by loving them. You get cozy with them and carry them around in your head. But some songs have a different kind of power; they hold you in their thrall. You can carry them around in your head, but still, you’re almost a little afraid of how good they are; you feel the way “Sopranos” heavy Bobby Bacala did when he told Uncle Junior: “I’m in awe-r of you.” “Map Ref. 41°N 93°W” by Wire is just such a song. Despite its strong hooks and soaring chorus, despite the seeming connectedness of various lyrical bits, it’s still a bit of a glorious blur, both sonically and in terms of meaning, like a rainbow in a puddle that disappears when you try to grab it. The specificity of the title and the clearly enunciated attack of the main guitar lines are at odds with the song’s overarching elusiveness. The coordinates in the title, after all, make specific reference to the terrestrial equivalent of nothing at all: a field in Iowa. That same elusiveness and the overall smeared quality of this 1979 song became hallmarks of My Bloody Valentine a good 10 years later. And as far as I know, no one else but MBV has had the guts to cover it , although I can see Yo La Tengo or Sonic Youth doing the song justice.
My Bloody Valentine - "Map Ref. 41°N 93°W"
On a final note, if this quest has taught me anything, it’s that Kenny Rogers was right about the importance of knowing when to hold ‘em and knowing when to fold ‘em. I was wise to hold on to “Rainy Day Woman 12 & 35,” knowing that 35 would be a tough hole to fill, but I’m reversing myself here, using “Map Ref. 41°N 93°W” for 41 and not 93 for no good reason other than the awe factor. But it feels right. By the time 93 rolls around, I’ll probably come up with an argument for “Map Ref” winning that spot as well. Certain songs you’re just willing to go to the mat for. When I reviewed Wire’s 154 for an online data disseminator some years ago, I got fanciful, likening “Map Ref” to “the backing music for a love song between two artificial intelligences.” While that line is clearly indicative of a short-lived Neuromancer phase, I stand by the review’s final declaration: “What can you say? A stunner.”
Numerology is our pal Dave's ill advised quest to find the definitive song for every number from one to a hundred. It's starting to creep everybody out.
Previously: No. 1, 2-4, 5-7, 7 (counterpoint), 8, 9, 10/11, 12/13. 13 (counterpoint), 14/15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26/27, 28 , 29 , 30, 30 (counterpoint), 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40
Posted by David Klein at 12:00 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
February 18, 2008
Denver/Boulder: Shows this week | 2.18 - 2.24
[Drive-By Truckers doing double duty this week]
Monday, February 18
DJ Scooter @ Larimer Lounge
Easy Star All-Stars @ Fox Theatre
Tuesday, February 19
Following His Fire @ Larimer Lounge
Porter Batiste Stoltz @ Fox Theatre
Wednesday, February 20
Darkest Hour @ Marquis Theater
High On Fire @ Bluebird Theater
Iuengliss @ Larimer Lounge
Slightly Stoopid @ Fox Theatre
The Sub City Take Action Tour @ Gothic Theatre
Thursday, February 21
Abinitio @ Larimer Lounge
Alpha Blondy @ Ogden Theater
Bang Camaro @ Fox Theatre
Joshua Novak @ Hi-Dive
The Mountain Homegrown CD Release Party @ Soiled Dove
Underminer @ Gothic Theatre
Wednesday 13 @ Marquis Theater
Friday, February 22
Basia Bulat @ Walnut Room
Drive-By Truckers @ Ogden Theater
Finch @ Marquis Theater
Horrorpops @ Bluebird Theater
Kenny G @ Paramount Theatre
Light Travels Faster @ Larimer Lounge
Poco & Pure Prairie League @ Boulder Theater
RedLine Defiance @ Gothic Theatre
Stockholm Syndrome @ Fox Theatre
Bad Weather California @ Hi-Dive
Saturday, February 23
Bang Camaro @ Bluebird Theater
Daniel Tosh @ Boulder Theater
Drive By Truckers @ Fox Theatre
Guttermouth @ Marquis Theater
Justin Roberts @ Soiled Dove (for the kids - my nieces love this guy!)
Martin Sexton @ Ogden Theater
Opie Gone Bad @ Soiled Dove
Rabbit Is A Sphere @ Larimer Lounge
Split Second Massacre@ Hi-Dive
Stockholm Syndrome @ Gothic Theatre
Schedule appears courtesy of Mystik Spiral.
Posted by Merry Swankster at 05:26 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
February 16, 2008
Videos: the Fiery Furnaces in Widowed Cities
My love for the Friedbergers' Widow City grows and grows. It was too verbose to sink in quick, I suppose. Some generally high-quality clips of the band playing its songs on parallel coasts...
the Fiery Furnaces - "Restorative Beer"
(live @ the Mercury Lounge, New York City)
the Fiery Furnaces - "Restorative Beer"
the Fiery Furnaces - "My Egyptian Grammar / Evergreen"
(live @ the Troubadour, Hollywood, CA)
the Fiery Furnaces - "My Egyptian Grammar"
the Fiery Furnaces - "Evergreen"
the Fiery Furnaces - "Ex-Guru"
(live, @ KCRW, Los Angeles)
...and a cover that lends my affection a dose of gravitas...
Posted by Jeff Klingman at 07:20 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
Video: Blood on the Wall - "Junkeee...Julieee..." live in Denver
Blood on the Wall - "Junkeee...Julieee..."
(live @ the Larimer Lounge, Denver, CO. 02.01.08)
Blood on the Wall - "Junkeee...Julieee..."
Posted by Jeff Klingman at 06:30 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
February 15, 2008
Your daily political moment
John McCain's daughter is a music blogger (via Pitchfork)
New to me: Joanna Newsom is related to SF Mayor Gavin Newsom.
Posted by Keith O'Brien at 12:58 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
Hot Chip, Live @ Highline Ballroom, New York City, 02.02.2008
photos by Devon Banks
Though Hot Chip's recent show in New York City couldn't be credibly spun as anything but a good time, I'm having a hard time thinking of it as anything more. Which, of course, is perfectly fine. We go to concerts to be entertained after all, to be taken out of whatever other concerns are currently dominating our lives. There should be no grounds for complaint in a fun, tight show. But I think my growing ambivalence about it has to do with how immediate and narrow its scope was. My normal gestation period for these write ups is at least a week, so, in that waiting period, the lingering impressions I have from a show tend to slowly solidify, eventually turning into the tale I wish to tell. With Hot Chip though, the enjoyment was so wrapped up the instant, in the immediate kinetic energy of rhythm and movement, that every day I get further away from its physicality, the less tangible it seems and the less I have to say about it.
Like my advance knowledge of Made in the Dark, the show began with "Shake a Fist" and then worked its way down. In concert, the song is svelte and focused. No "sounds of the studio" spoken interlude, and fewer sounds in general. Stopping the track dead like that is slightly perverse on record, and completely idiotic in a room full of dancing people, so clearly they handle it correctly. "Boy From School" was another immediate favorite for the sold out and dressed up room, who admirably had no qualms about getting down.
But when the motion stopped, so did the momentum. "Over and Over" absolutely killed, as did a more muscular "Ready for the Floor." But when it came to the band's flipside R& B balladry, there was gracious applause but a lack of connection. Maybe they should be content with being an ace party band and leave it at that.
Also, despite a tightness in rhythm that I want to take special care not to undervalue, there seems to be a good deal of room for them to grow as showmen. I realize that as a synth-based band, they are always going to be stuck behind the keys to a certain extent (as you can see from the photos). But in order to excite the crowd consistently, in ways that aren't dictated by tempo, some sort of solution is needed. Be it elaborate sets, a more sophisticated light show, external video, or even just empty space on stage for band members to roam, the set-up is a bit static for a band that thrives on motion. A World Championship replica belt was not enough to make "Wrestlers" less silly or more compelling, alas. To certain degree, I get that the "normal, nerdy dudes making you move" image is one they've taken pains to cultivate, but I think they are missing a certain something.
So, short story short--good show, good fun. Transcending the moment may be overrated, anyway, if the moment is sufficiently pleasurable.
Posted by Jeff Klingman at 12:40 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
February 14, 2008
Two
You really can't sleep on the Deerhunter blog for any significant period of time. This track, from the so-called Orange Ohms Glow EP, sounds much more subtly slaved over than the grand majority of the stream-of-consciousness rough drafts that Bradford Cox posts so prolifically. Its sweet strumming and double tracked self-harmonizing are also warmer than the songs on the chilly Atlas Sound LP by several degrees (a record that is still a little under a week from a proper release, I'll remind you). Perhaps that's a validation of his blog experiment right there. The artist has moved on from his earlier work, but the promotional machine is still struggling to catch up. Those who have avoided all things Cox to this point are encouraged to listen with unguarded ears.
I wrote about this one earlier this week on Prefix and despite that back-of-the head tickle of recognition, it took a chorus of "duh" comments for me to realize the similarity to Little Eva's "Locomotion." But now that I get it, I think it's even radder (to cop singer Jemina Pearl's slang poetics). This is like "Locomotion" with periodic screaming and a girl protagonist sent to jail for "teenage homicide." What's better than that? The Thurston Moore-discovered kiddy corps couldn't be any funnier here, in their depiction of perhaps the cruelest betrayal of all, BFF adultery. That bitch even made Becky a clandestine friendship bracelet! "Now everybody hates me a whole bunch/ just because I made you cry a little bit at lunch." Genius! I don't see how they can get more perfect than this. I fear for Be Your Own Pet: the College Years. Can we arrange for them to be trapped in amber?
Posted by Jeff Klingman at 08:10 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
New Music: Mors Ontologica
Mors Ontologica: DREW CLAUSEN - Guitar, Vox, CROW - Keys,Vox, TIM O'DELL - Drums, JEFF WISEMAN- Bass
I’m now convinced that in an apartment building basement somewhere in the confines of Columbus, Ohio, that there is some sort of force that has been bending the musical timeline like a piece of paper making a direct portal between 1974 and 2008. This is the only explanation that I have for a band like Mors Ontologica, a band that hits on the sound of brazen pre dawn-punk layered with moody textures, but also has the ability to create a landscape that could only have been born as a reaction to the desperate times of the present.
Several months back I interviewed Mike “Rep” Hummel, the lo-fi ear that “lovingly f*cked with" Guided By Voices’ Propeller and Times New Viking’s Dig Yourself. Recently I opened up a package with one of Mike’s more recent projects, Mors Ontoligica’s The Used Kids Sessions. Now most doctors will agree that eight hours is the recommended amount of time for sleep. However what divides their opinion is whether eight hours the recommended time to record an album. On the one side you have the argument for excessive studio sessions; on the other side you have Mike Rep.
Mors Ontologica admits to first being very hesitant about the project. But Mike Rep persisted with the feel of the first Ramones LP in the back of his mind and finally was able to convince the band to go into a whirlwind eight hour session on November 27th, 2006.