May 2014 – Page 2 – Audiofemme

LIVE REVIEW: The Haxan Cloak @ Lincoln Hall, Chicago

[fusion_builder_container hundred_percent=”yes” overflow=”visible”][fusion_builder_row][fusion_builder_column type=”1_1″ background_position=”left top” background_color=”” border_size=”” border_color=”” border_style=”solid” spacing=”yes” background_image=”” background_repeat=”no-repeat” padding=”” margin_top=”0px” margin_bottom=”0px” class=”” id=”” animation_type=”” animation_speed=”0.3″ animation_direction=”left” hide_on_mobile=”no” center_content=”no” min_height=”none”]

Filled with a gorgeous mix of brooding bass and sulky rumbles, The Haxan Cloak show at Chicago’s Lincoln Hall last Wednesday was quite the immersive tour through producer Bobby Krlic’s bone-chilling soundscapes. An otherworldly performance, the sparse crowd was a bit of a disappointment, but somehow the empty space also added an appropriate sense of alienation to the experience. And as “isolation” is the big buzzword surrounding his most recent release, 2013’s Excavation, there was something gratifying about floating amongst the pockets of black-clad Chicagoans, swaying to the echoes of haunted drones and ominous rumbles.

Serving as an opener was local act Kwaidan, a doldrums-flecked trio who also specialize in stewy buzz and ghoul-ridden whispers. An impressive act in their own right, they provided a satisfying taste of drone-y demise in preparation for the impending spook-filled storm.

Krlic’s brand of all-encompassing doom is gorgeous in its simplicity, an incredible achievement when one considers how expansive his intricate soundscapes feel. Krlic’s dirges seem incredibly straightforward, simplistic even, as all his work can be boiled down to a similar series of rumbling bass beats accented by the occasional guzzling burble or echoey reverb effect. But it’s striking how multifaceted he can make even the most repetitive sequence of tones sound. When the bass is deep enough to rock a room, it’s typically a sign that I’m already far too drunk and at an event where sonic appreciation isn’t exactly at the top of my priority list. But this instance of vibrating ribs was obviously more breathtaking than booty-shaking.

Crafting an absorbing purgatorial soundspace, the entire show was akin to some billowing misadventure through an imagined land of foggy, pitch black gloom. It was brilliant “explore your swirling headspace” music, the kind that forces you to make that ugly face of grim concentration and contemplate what kind of impending shitstorm awaits you in the real world. Seeing Krlic live is like being bludgeoned in the head and waking up in a fantastical reality that somehow manages to be simultaneously thrilling, terrifying and thought-provoking. A mesmerizing experience for the introspective and imaginative that’s worth every single show ticket cent.[/fusion_builder_column][/fusion_builder_row][/fusion_builder_container]

LIVE REVIEW: Lazyeyes @ Mercury Lounge

On the closing eve of a very shitty week, I am standing on the corner of East Houston and 1st Ave, drunk dialing my best friend in Seattle. I lament my mundane failures, slurring and shouting a bit over the traffic zipping by, the ambulance sirens, and whatever other unidentified noise pollution that is turning my phone call into an extreme sport. It’s one hell of a way to start the night.

I’ve had five drinks since work got out, which for me is equivalent to licking a poisonous frog. Some combination of the motivational phone chat and my inebriation has me back in a hopeful spirit nonetheless, and I decide that instead of leaning creepily against the exterior of the Mercury Lounge, I should stagger over to that group of guys and trouble them for a cigarette.

“I beg your pardon gentlemen, but would it be terribly possible that I could perhaps buy a cigarette from you?” There is no explanation for the need I feel to become an English nobleman from the 19th century when I’m drunk. It just happens. One of the guys hands me a cigarette, refusing my rumpled dollar bill, and I’m relieved. Let’s be honest, no one who offers to pay for a cigarette does it without a burning reluctance, and if the money is accepted, it is seen as the most despicable offense to the occasionally-smoking public.

The four of us start chatting. They’re a chill group of guys who eventually score mucho points in my book when they invite me to a BBQ the following day. “There’s going to be a keg and about 100 lbs of steak, burgers, and hotdogs.” Be still, my heart. I ask if they are here for the show tonight.

“Oh yeah, we’re actually playing it.”

“ Oh, what band are you in?”

“Lazyeyes.”

“No shit! I’m supposed to be covering you guys tonight. I’m from AudioFemme.”

“ Oh, well, be nice!”

“ You already gave me a cigarette and invited me to a BBQ so I’d say we’re on pretty good ground at the moment.”

I’m already feeling better, maybe even a bit more sober. I order water at the bar like a champ and head into the venue. Lazyeyes take the stage and begin their energetic set-a fittingly gritty mixture of shoegaze and garage pop. The rhythm guitair and vocals are far-off and softly distorted in a manner reminiscent of Sonic Youth. The tang of lead guitar prickles in and out of the more ambient soundscape.

They have a solid stage presence and all seem equally enthusiastic as they do focused while playing. Jeremy, who invited me to the BBQ, is a more than adequate drummer, and he and the bassist have an affectionate stage rapport. The lead singer seems to be in his own world, putting on more of a self-conscious performance than any other member. He’s a pretty man, and he dances around like he just might know it. Then again, this could be my par-drunken interpretation of someone who is truly enjoying himself, not giving half a shit what onlookers think. Behind the boys is a swirling projection of wandering ink in fuchsia, emerald, and royal blue. I look to my left and there are two guys bent over a projector, one pouring shallow pools of pigment on the surface, the other meticulously blowing through a straw to make it sort of slow dance across the stage.

Next on the bill is Stardeath and White Dwarfs, a band that seems to be pretty successful according to the pre-show research I did. I listened to a few of their tracks earlier in the morning, and I wasn’t so thrilled to see them, unlike Lazyeyes, whose discography had me eager for their set. Like Lazyeyes, Stardeath feels the need to dress their stage with special effects. Though while the former did so in a low-fi manner, Stardeath played amid imposing columns of neon light that would be more fitting at laser Pink Floyd.

Their front man Dennis Coyne-nephew of Flaming Lips lead singer Wayne Coyne-is all Jim Morrison with long tangled hair and a sheepskin vest. The whole band is giving off that Rockstar vibe and it’s a little too much for me to handle. I suddenly feel relieved that I’m here to cover Lazyeyes and not Stardeath, a band that is described as “ experimental rock,” and yet sounds as clichéd as, well, a musician in a sheepskin vest. To their credit, they did do an impressive cover of David Bowie’s “ Life on Mars” which is not the easiest song to tackle given the vocal range it requires. Oddly enough, it was bassist Casey Joseph who stepped up to the microphone and belted it out.

After Stardeath’s set, Jeremy bought my friends and I all shots of what was called tequila, but what I think may have been an ulcer-inspiring blend of rice wine and acetone. The rest of the evening melted away with every cigarette I lit, beer I drank, and the vital late-night tuna sandwich I ate on the walk home. I never did make it to that BBQ the next day, but at least I made it through the week.

VIDEO OF THE WEEK: The Vickers “Senseless Life”

A couple months back, Italian group The Vickers put out their Ghosts album, a slow burner of a collection with a generous helping of sixties haze. Everything this quartet creates seems to come wrapped in layers of gauze: the beats are pillowy, the bass line, though too mellow to be show-offish, tugs on your sleeve all album long, and the vocals sound like they’re being filtered in over the airwaves from a far-away alternate reality. Though the group made international headway with “She’s Lost,” the first track off Ghosts, the band has a 7″ and four full albums under their belt. A project that began as a couple of classmates messing around with psychedelic covers of Blur and The Kinks songs has grown into a sound that’s eclectic and uniquely billowing. Listening to The Vickers, you get the sense that you can trust these guys to do more than just repeat the Beatles’ Revolver era.

Given the album’s gentle loopiness, the sun-faded, sweltering video for “Senseless Life” comes as no surprise. From the smudged perspective of a shaky camera, the video takes us at a lazy pace through a sunny day in the country. Its first images are abstract, fading in and out of a picture we can recognize until it settles on sunspots and a close-up shot of a concrete animal statue’s head. We’re in a garden of some kind. The visuals accompanying the song–like the music itself–evoke a soporific idleness that’s so acute you can practically feel the humidity. About halfway through the song’s four minutes, the shot seems to flip around and zoom out, showing a man–the first person to appear in this video–holding a camera to his eye.

Though I’m not sure why, for the first portion of the song, when the lyrics are written like subtitles at the bottom of the screen, it does feel as if many different layers–images over watery silhouettes, sharp text over blurred background–combine to gear “Senseless Life” up to its apex. When that moment comes, with crashing drums and golden rays over a smeared horizon, it seems as if the focus of the video lies in the accumulation of flecks of light that flicker, fade, and resonate with one another. The music is like that, too: echoed and aesthetic-indulgent. Although much of the Ghosts album feels too optimistic to coincide with the “touch of nineties spleen” that The Vickers refer to when they’re talking about the contemporary twist they bring to their classic sixties sound, there is a certain heat-borne apathy that pervades “Senseless Life.” But the effect is more meandering than disillusioned, more directionless than bored.

TRACK REVIEW: Turn to Crime “Forgiveness”

Turn to Crime, Derek Stanton’s new experimental art punk creation, will soon be releasing their debut. The album, titled Can’t Love, is full of what Stanton has described as “post-whatever” music. A keyboardist, drummer, and vocalist, he recorded most of the album himself. The track “Forgiveness”, recently released, has obvious influences from art rock and punk masters Lou Reed, David Bowie, and Iggy Pop. It’s a fun, modern examination of that milieu with a wildly different geographical focus. Turn to Crime herald from Detroit where “stepping on” others is not like it is in New York. In smaller towns, Stanton says, when you get stepped on you “tend to feel it more.”

From the start there’s a pleasant simplicity in the relationship between the instruments. They seem to be having a casual conversation with one another. Stanton’s vocals definitely recall the late 60s/early 70s style of Bowie or Iggy. There’s less Lou Reed in the vocals, but definitely a bit of the Velvet Underground in the music. The singing is not particularly smooth or soothing, but rather shaky and dramatic. This performative quality is tempered by the easy instrumentation. The kind of in-between Stanton created fits perfectly with the forgiveness concept: to forgive may seem like a straightforward action, but there’s a lot of weight carried in the interior decision to let things go. It also distances Turn to Crime from David Bowie by emphasizing the “small town” quality and uncomplicated acts between more ordinary people (as opposed to Bowie’s rock star focus). This is a rather effortless look at pain and compassion. It could definitely have more insight. But it’s an enjoyable, classic ride.

Look for Can’t Love when it comes out July 1st and in the meantime give “Forgiveness” a listen:

TRACK OF THE WEEK: Landlady “Dying Day”

Before forming Landlady in 2010, Brooklyn-based musician Adam Schatz already knew he wanted two drummers and two people playing keys. That’s the basis for the group’s complicated choral pop arrangements and powerful sound. But it takes more than bodies to orchestrate a song, and Landlady’s energy is matched only by the control the group has over the way the music sounds. There’s nothing chaotic about it. Each instrumental thread is fastidiously shaped and as pronounced as it’s meant to be, every dynamic shift is calculated for contrast–every move the music makes is palpably intentional. But though Landlady may be meticulous, their playing has too much melody and sheer pop-infused heart to seem sterile. Their latest song, “Dying Day,” is proof.

“Getting better every day,” the track begins with unembellished vocal delivery from Schatz. “I think I’m getting closer to my dying day.” “Dying Day” is a completely palatable experiment in idiosyncrasy and weaving self-contradiction. The lyrics correct themselves and mull over meanings and instrumentally, the song behaves similarly. The rhythms bounce along nonchalantly, and sometimes lean with their full weight into the backbeat in a sauntering pose that makes the music seem–for all its jumpy complexities–carefree. Although the song’s mood is hard to pin down when you look at it under a microscope, a less aggressive listen–road trip soundtrack? mix tape opener? These summery chords are damn versatile–makes for just plain fun.

“Dying Day” will be included on Landlady’s forthcoming album Upright Behavior, which will be out this July on Hometapes. Stay posted here.

LIVE REVIEW: Slasher Flicks at Bowery Ballroom

Embracing their name’s camp vibe, Slasher Flicks had the Bowery Ballroom decked out last Monday night in floaty columns of oversized white plastic skulls that hung ghoulishly in the pre-show spotlights. Skulls notwithstanding, there’s nothing all that spooky about this trio, unless you happen to be afraid of painfully hip indie musicians. The evening had been billed as “Avey Tare’s Slasher Flicks,” but that maneuver was mostly strategic. To be sure, Animal Collective’s experimental guitarist Avey Tare, alias Dave Portner, was the biggest name in the lineup, and Slasher Flicks’ recent full-length Enter The Slasher House does bear plenty of family resemblance to Animal Collective’s dissonance and oddball angularity, but when they played live, it was ex-Dirty Projector Angel Deradoorian who had the biggest presence onstage.

“How you guys doing tonight? I can’t heeeeear yoooou,” she doofused between songs. “Just kidding. I can totally hear you.” The stage was lit up in technicolor, pixellated neon flashing across the skulls’ white faces and then, with similar effect, Deradoorian’s. Pockets of color lit up the band members’ faces, and between them, abysses of darkness cropped up. The shows’ aesthetic had been planned within an inch of its life.

Avey-love ran rampant in the crowd, even if Deradoorian was doing most of the talking. “I love youuuuuuu,” bellowed a slack-jawed, flannel-clad stick figure standing beside me. Between songs, he’d been overcome by emotion. “Play ‘My Girls’.” Portner looked up and grinned appreciatively. What looked like hundreds of super-fans were standing around the stage, all agog–stoner nerds who looked young and overgrown, many of them stand-spooning their girlfriends and staring up at the stage as if they were watching history get made. “Wow,” one of them huskily murmured into the hair of the girl he was holding the first time Portner emerged onto the stage. Very few of them danced–not even to Slasher Flicks bouncy and thoroughly dance-worthy single “Little Fang”–though standing squarely front-and-center was a blond guy who spent the entire set shaking his chin-length hair wildly in the technicolor beams of light aimed for the skull decor onstage.

The riffing between Portner and Angel Deradoorian–who, unsurprisingly, are a couple in their extra-musical lives–is at the crux of Slasher Flicks, and it was easy to feel a little sorry for drummer Jeremy Hyman (of Ponytail, Dan Deacon), whose complex, meticulously shaped lines resuscitate many of the hazier moments of Enter The Slasher House. He came across as a supporting member to Deradoorian and Tare’s musical synchronicity. In fact, Hyman hadn’t known the pair before Portner recruited him to be part of Slasher Flicks, but a bandmate from Ponytail, Dustin Wong, was there to open for Slasher Flicks’ set. It was a stark performance–Wong played alone on stage, with only a mic, a guitar, and the skulls that hung all around him–but the set’s minimalism added to the intensity of his vocal acrobatics. He zoomed in towards the microphone and then cut away just as quickly, with powerful vocal control. It was a pretty extraordinary set, with a sense of order and minimalism that contrasted effectively against Slasher Flicks’ chaotic and kooky performance.

The difference between studio renditions of Slasher Flicks’ songs and their live performance came mostly in vocal delivery–though much of Enter The Slasher House was catchy, I thought that its angularity often manifested as muddled, overworked production that stood in the way of the emotive power the album was able to hold over a listener. Like the group’s live aesthetic–the glowing skulls, the bursts of technicolor between abysses of darkness–Enter The Slasher House was too flinchingly self-conscious. However, “Catchy (Was Contagious)” and “Roses On The Window” were two surprising highlights of the evening. Deradoorian belted out her vocal line, flecking the songs with unexpected drama, even diva-ishness, that drastically dialed up their power.

Check out “Roses On The Window,” off Enter The Slasher House, below:

LIVE REVIEW: Sonic Celluloid’s static & shimmer on Chicago’s North Shore

Misty seas, microscopic slides and mannequin shots dominated this year’s Sonic Celluloid showcase at Northwestern University’s Evanston campus last Friday night. Well-attended by students and community members alike, Sonic Celluloid is now celebrating its twelfth year as one of the most exciting experimental music and film events put on by WNUR 89.3 FM’s Rock Show and the Block Museum Cinema. Providing live scores for art and archival film reels, it was promised to be an event to “reconfigure your consciousness.”

To help facilitate altered states, this year’s roster of musicians included multi-instrumentalist and former Emeralds member Mark McGuire, as well as local Chicago-based drone artists, Vertonen and Kwaidan.

Vertonen is the rumbly experimental project of Chicago noise veteran Blake Edwards, who also runs local record label Crippled Intellect Production, better known as C.I.P. Playing over a Prolepsis, an experimental art film composed of pixelated night club promos, ABC news footage and panning clips of mannequin heads, his concentrative set was almost meditative in its adherence to the hovering camera shots and precisely timed transitions.

Like the film itself, Vertonen’s music was very cyclical, slowly building upon a lazy, droning buzz as the film drifted between helicopter hover shots of craggy human faces and topographic maps. Gradually layering wobbly synth, cartoon-esque glitch and choppy radio transmissions into one chaotic mélange of noise, Edwards eventually descended back into a lulling drone that served as a satisfying finish to his jagged, corrugated set.

Up next was Kwaidan, who borrow their moniker from Masaki Kobayashi’s classic 1964 horror film. Just as ghoulish as you’d expect anything named after an Oscar-nominated ghost story to be, their set followed the narrative of Jean Epstein’s Le Tempestaire, a folklore-influenced story about a surly old “Tempest Master.” Worried about her sardine-fishing beau in rough waters, a woman sets out to find this tamer of sea winds to Kwaidan’s ominous score. Most prominent was an indefinable sense of impending dread, tense and intimidating. Featuring Neil Jendon’s wandering keyboards, Andre Foisy’s croaky guitar and Mike Weis’s weighty percussion, the trio crafted a portentous soundscape perfectly suited to the film’s threatening premise. Looming and foreboding, Kwaidan had the audience on the edge of their seats, leaving many still unsettled despite happy endings.

The last act to take the stage was headliner Mark McGuire, who thanked the audience for bringing him to such “a beautiful building and beautiful campus with beautiful people.” Known for his adventurous, wonder-filled guitar work, the two short films selected for him were perfect in their geometric and naturalistic simplicity. The entire set felt like an otherworldly journey, whether it followed the cycle of crystal formation or the reproductive habits of octopi, filled with blissful tessellations and oscillating riffs. Glimmering and kaleidoscopic, he did an incredible job of improvising his set and adapting to the organic flow of the films. From the sensual slow jams of the alien-like octopi to the accelerating riffs of rapid crystallization, it was a grand, gliding adventure that truly took the audience to another realm of “reconfigured consciousness.”

LIVE REVIEW: Young Magic Album Release @ McKittrick Hotel

The making of Young Magic’s 2012 debut Melt was as international an affair as the band itself; Isaac Emmanuel was born in Australia, Melati Malay in Indonesia, and though the two met and started making music in Brooklyn, they’ve rarely been home for a breather since. May 6th marked the release of their sophomore record, Breathing Statues, on Carpark Records, and much like the album that came before, it was written and recorded all over the world – Morocco, France, the Czech Republic, Australia and Iceland to be specific. During a recent stop in NYC, Young Magic played an album release party at Manderley Bar in The McKittrick Hotel, the iconic location of long-running immersive Macbeth re-imagining Sleep No More. The setting was a fittingly opulent and evocative space in which to showcase Young Magic’s latest material, which is a good deal darker and far more sensual than their earlier work. The move has served them well, taking the shoegaze-infused dream-pop that characterized Melt and adorning it with a tribal flourish.

Young Magic’s core duo were joined onstage for a few numbers by a harp player, though she was admittedly difficult to hear in the mix, and also by their touring drummer, who punched up Emmanuel’s drum machine and synth rhythms. Malay manipulated her own vocals from a black box attached to her mic stand and let her voice dissolve in and out of the music. Clad as she was in a nearly-sheer, pearlescent tunic, she seemed both mystical and spectral, her stoic vocal delivery cementing this impression.

The release party was populated mostly with masked attendees spilling over from the evening’s final Sleep performance, so it’s unclear what they might have been expecting after disoriented explorations through the three-story warehouse. But aspects from Sleep spilled over, like remnants in a dream – a male dancer performed some breathtaking interpretive maneuvers to a few of the most provocative tracks, beginning with “Something in the Water.” Like most of Sleep No More‘s cast, he was incredibly lean, wearing only trousers made from the same cloth Malay dressed in, each muscular striation visible under the skin, his ribs on display for the counting, in every sense a living, breathing statue. For “Cobra,” his movements seemed to channel a Trans identity, figuratively acting out motions that felt like references to gender reassignment and other transformative processes. Though there was no costume change, as the number went on the subtle cues and movements seemed to grow more feminine, his gaze challenging the audience right along with Malay’s breathy words: I’ll ask you to believe it. His thoughtful performance elevated Young Magic’s songs, highlighting all of the intricacies and possible interpretations that the band have built into the new record. It’s a record that shows growth in the more atmospheric and intimate approaches it takes.

The album is available now digitally as well as from Carpark.

ALBUM REVIEW: Melaena Cadiz “Deep Below Heaven”

Brooklyn-based singer songwriter Melaena Cadiz is a a great storyteller. This Michican native combines folk, country, and pop in her music to create scenes which showcase lonely lives across America. Her new album Deep Below Heaven, out May 20th, is what Cadiz calls a book of short stories. The title comes from a Sam Shepard story about a man who has the sense of being deep below heaven when he falls off of his motorcycle during an accident. Cadiz’s own collection of stories chronicles Americans who are all struggling in their own universe, but united in that space deep below.

Cadiz has a great voice, eloquent and elucidated. Though she tries to lend each of her characters the emotion and energy they deserve, she can come off as almost too cerebral, lacking a bit of soul. But a strong sense of wanderlust is palpable in the music, a good reflection of the words. These characters are all “striving for a better place in the world” or a way to “quiet the deep ache within their bones.” They attempt to find an escape from their inner demons, wandering around, searching, but not finding any true release. Everyone is in transit on this record, physically or mentally. The track “Home Town” is great example of this movement. It’s a very personal account of someone who feels alienated instead of comfortable in their home, someone who decides to travel West, and the catchy tune mimics the gusto with which someone might attempt such a feat.

At times, Cadiz falls into a more pop-oriented indie vibe, which can feel out of place. But for the most part, her voice and lyrics keep it all from becoming too generic or one-note. In the same way that she explores different people and parts of America, the music moves between genres. There’s the occasional rasping trumpet. Sometimes there’s a simple, classic country feel and Cadiz’s voice has the timeless echoes of Tammy Wynette. But other times it bursts with modern undertones, reaching toward something more thumping and lively like KT Tunstall. Her strong references to Americana roots haven’t appeared so dramatically on the indie scene since Saddle Creek’s days of shelling Bright Eyes or Rilo Kiley releases. Cadiz, however, is perhaps a bit too ambitious. She has wonderful, engaging ideas, but she fails to capture them in their entirety, especially in the music, and she doesn’t completely own them or make them fully hers. But ultimately this is a fun, thoughtful ride.

Listen to “Hometown” below and check out the rest of Deep Below Heaven May 20th!

ALBUM REVIEW: Haley Bonar “Last War”

Last War is immediately, unmistakably different than any record Haley Bonar‘s made before. Her catalogue is impressive: with ten releases in just ten years, and four full-lengths excluding the newest one, Bonar, pronounced bawn-er, has put a solid stake into her style of dark, quiet, vocal-heavy folk music. Her voice is cradle-rocking singalong, and she tends to end verses in extremely sad-sounding sustained notes that back the bleak lyrics of the lines she’s singing. On her sparsest album, 2006’s Lure The Fox, Bonar’s minimalism crosses over into what feels more like a live recording than anything laid down in a studio. String squeaks and between-verse breath exhalations creep onto the tracks; listening to it is like sitting in Bonar’s lap. That kind of microscopic access to Bonar’s vocal acrobatics is a treat, but interior minimalism piled on top of grim lyrics makes for a bit much of a muchness, and sometimes the bleaker extremes of Bonar’s early stuff drag her voice from prettily sorrowful into dour and self-indulgent.

Simply put, Last War is Bonar’s scuzziest record. In the pros column, the greater dose of reverb and percussion here rescues the album from any danger of turning weepy. In fact, she sounds sadder than she does pissed off, especially on early single “No Sensitive Man.” For them that would complain that her most acoustic stuff gets boring, Last War offers a more twisted take on Bonar’s alt-country licks and lullaby lonesomeness. On the other hand, I’m inclined to argue that shaking up the style comes at the expense of her voice, which still paints broad-brush singalong arcs and still hovers in a held note over the emotionally ripe ends of each verse, but is on this album less of a focal point. Bonar’s vocal line gets swept up along with the larger machine of grit and distortion on this album, and that really saps the liveliness that made her folk persona so remarkable in the first place.

Now, that isn’t true from cover to cover. Last week I criticized Bonar’s disparaging vocals on “No Sensitive Man” as bored-sounding: I really struggled with the way she brought lyrical themes of exasperation into her vocal lines, which ultimately weren’t any more likable than the feelings the song describes. But other tracks, like “Bad Reputation,” display a lot more complexity on both lyrical and musical fronts without letting go of Bonar’s large, flexible vocal range. “I got a bad reputation,” she sings on that track, “I probably need medication.” Baldly delivering grim sentiments in a pretty voice, Bonar finally seems to hit the right balance between showcasing her vocals and showing us her teeth.

Still, she’s ultimately a singer best appreciated under a microscope. This album represents several steps in the hookier direction for Bonar, but it’s still not a record that will necessarily grab you if you’re hearing it passively. That’s why I’m puzzled by so much of the noisier parts on this album, which aren’t as rewarding to an intimate listen as Bonar’s voice would be unadorned. She proves on this album that she can turn out a decent rocker, but with a songwriterly vision like the one she showed us on Golder in 2011, or the Sing With Me EP the year before that, why would Bonar want to? Compared to the intricacy of those albums, the reverb-y sections on Last War seem to water down the album more than they enhance it.

Last War comes out May 20th. Preorder here via Graveface. Til then, try “Bad Reputation” on for size! You can also listen to “No Sensitive Man” and spend more time with Haley Bonar on Facebook.

TRACK REVIEW: Amen Dunes “Lonely Richard”

In 2006, during the Northeast’s creepiest and most beautiful time of year–fall–Damon McMahon started recording his tightly knotted, introspective guitar melodies in the Catskills, never intending them for public consumption. Thus Amen Dunes was born, and thus–essentially–it remains: the music is simple, lonesome and woodsy, with a healthy dose of the otherworldly-creepy sensation you get from spending a lot of time alone with the Hudson Valley’s sinisterly beautiful landscape.

“Lonely Richard,” off the forthcoming album Love (out 5/13 on Sacred Bones) illustrates McMahon’s penchant for interiority–his voice, small-sounding and thick with melancholy, takes a back seat to the guitars, which screech and whine and slide all over this track. There’s a folky simplicity at the heart of it, but much more immediate is the drone of the instrumentals–how the guitar lines repeat and loop over themselves, how the strings maintain such a constant pitch that they lose form by the end of the song, assuming an atmospheric presence that evokes wind, or clouds, or something else just as environmental. The track builds low and slow, then fades away just as subtly. It’s sort of an anti-social number, but the simple chord structure underlying it keeps “Lonely Richard” from being unfriendly.

In typical fashion, Amen Dunes have released a single that reveals practically nothing about the album to come–the track wouldn’t be gripping enough to save a lethargic album or to temper an overly sweet one, but by itself, “Lonely Richard” has a deceptively compelling low-grade catchiness that will, if nothing else, awaken your curiosity. Wet your whistle with “Lonely Richard,” via Soundcloud:

FILM REVIEW: Mistaken For Strangers

Save the strawberry blonde hair, the baritone speaking voice, and the obvious affinity towards the arts and everything creative, Matt and Tom Berninger have nothing in common. Matt, who heads one of the most popular and critically acclaimed rock groups of the present, The National, is sarcastic, moody, introspective and intense. Tom, on the other hand, is non-committal, lighthearted and irresponsible. He is the person that we all know, who is clearly very intelligent and capable, yet for one reason or another just can’t get his shit together.

Mistaken For Strangers follows Tom on the road with his big brother Matt and the rest of The National throughout their High Violet tour. Tom, possibly the worst roadie ever, seemingly has nothing serious going on in his life until he receives a call from Matt asking for some help on tour. Tom’s failings as a roadie and general dysfunction were both hilarious and at times frustrating. From forgetting to give the box office the guest list to getting wasted and missing the bus out of New York City (they had to turn around in Beacon, New York to get him) the face-palm moments are endless, and after what seems like a million warnings from the band and management team, Tom is eventually fired.

Tom getting fired from tour is definitely his low point, but it marks the beginning of his creative process as a filmmaker. Throughout the tour Tom had been filming everything from concert footage, to shower scenes (we get to see way more of Bryan Devendorf than we signed up for), to intimate interviews with the band, however none of it seems to make much cohesive sense. After getting fired, Tom returns to Cincinnati with nothing but hours of random and disjointed footage. Tom then interviews his parents, reflects on his childhood and his relationship with his brother, and with some help from momma Berninger, who tells him that he is the most talented out of the Berninger children, he finally starts believing in his talent as an artist.

Slowly something ignites in Tom. He moves to Brooklyn to enlist the guidance of his brother, and begins the tedious process of piecing the footage together. Organizing post-its into categories such as concert footage, funny footage, sentimental footage, interviews, etc, he completely covers the wall of his bedroom. In one of my favorite scenes of the film, Tom tries to explain the method to his madness to a very dumfounded and overwhelmed Matt, and for the first time we really get a sense of Tom’s unique creativity. Slowly all of the footage mapped out on the wall gets pieced together into the movie that we are watching.

The movie ends on a hopeful note. We are unclear as to where exactly the future will take Tom, but we know one thing, throughout the movie we’ve been rooting for him to just to commit to a project enough to make it great, and in that he has had his first creative success.

My favorite aspect of the movie is its sincerity. Because Tom wasn’t going for anything specific when he was filming the band, the footage ended up raw and unmanufactured. Therefore we were able to get a real sense of the dynamics of the band, and the dynamics of the brother/brother relationships (both the good and the bad). We see moments when to be perfectly honest, we hate Matt. He comes off as a pretentious pampered asshole. Then at other moments, we see Tom bring out Matt’s playful side (like when he made him stand in front of a fogged up mirror with nothing but a bathrobe and his trademark red wine to recite “I am not The National, The National is everybody’s now”). In my opinion, the sweetest brotherly moments where when we see Matt get sincerely frustrated and pissed at his brother over his shortcomings and failures. These are the moments when we see just how much Matt cares for Tom.

So what about The National? Well, film title aside The National’s tour is actually a secondary plot in a film that is mostly about self discovery. Tom is our protagonist, and we get to know him intimately. Throughout the film we come to understand his creative process, his strengths and weaknesses, and his vulnerabilities. He is the most relatable character, because we have all been him at one point or another. Okay so maybe we haven’t had brothers who have sold out the Barclays Center, or have been featured in The New York Times, but we have all been in someone’s shadow. The film shows a very inspiring depiction of someone emerging from that shadow and striving for happiness and personal success.

At the end of the film, Matt and Tom Berninger came out for a Q&A with the audience, and pretty much everything was discussed: Tom’s taste in horror movies and metal concerts, Matt on how it feels to give a good/bad live performance, the fact that Matt is always drinking red wine. We learned some things that maybe were best kept unsaid (Matt was a huge fan of Barry Manilow and the Grease soundtrack before his eldest sister brought home The Smiths and The Violent Femmes). One thing however was made astoundingly clear: Tom is EXACTLY like how he was portrayed on film.

Mistaken for Strangers is real, raw and intimate, but most importantly it is creative and original. We all know that Matt is talented, and Mistaken for Strangers gave us an insight into what it is like to be a successful rockstar, but more importantly it is a film about a downtrodden person struggling for personal and career success. Fret not, The National junkies, you will still get your fill of intimate interviews, rare concert footage and cool band anecdotes. This film is a definite must see, so go now!!

LIVE REVIEW: Jenny Lewis @ The Roxy

Much anticipation led up to Jenny Lewis’ May 6th stop at The Roxy. After touring with The Postal Service for most of 2013, Lewis has only granted her fans five solo shows, and Tuesday would mark her first appearance at The Roxy in 2014. Long awaited, and much overdo, she returned with new material to make audiences squeal.

Having fallen hard for Jenny Lewis in my late teens, my first time at The Roxy (or in West Hollywood for that matter) couldn’t have been more filled with excitement, as my adolescent dreams would coming to fruition in an instant. After perusing her setlists from the Bridge School Benefit and much earlier shows, there really was no predicting what Jenny was going to pull out of her hat. All anyone really knew was that she was on at 9:30, and her opener, described as magical, was on at 9:23.

And magical he was! The rather cheeky magician performed a shrinking card act, a self-mending string trick, and ended with a cutout paper snowflake that eventually read The Voyager, the title of Jenny Lewis’ upcoming album. When the magic act ended, the curtain dropped suddenly and the real anxiety began.

If there is anything that is certain about Jenny Lewis fans, it is that their love for her does not stray from the extreme. I found myself gushing with fellow fans moments before the curtain rose, the type of gushing where you are unknowingly blushing and clutching your heart in swoon. When the curtain rose, the crowd erupted and Jenny sat down at the keyboard for the first song. I couldn’t help but notice that the performer had barely aged in the last ten years and is as energetic and on point than ever.

She opened with “Head Under Water,” a solid choice considering that the wonderfully upbeat piano ballad with a kick-drum rhythm got the crowd moving. After her first song she couldn’t help but crack an infectious smile; the crowd went nuts. She remarked how long it had been and then busted out a Rilo Kiley classic, “Silver Lining.” Now, for me, the Rilo Kiley songs hit me hard, and by the gasp of the crowd, I could tell I was not alone. These were the most poignant moments of the night, and they warranted the best sing-alongs.

Lewis’ performance is magnetic; when she stands at the mic with her guitar, her eyes move from person to person, making intimate eye contact with every single fan, even if just for a split second. It is evident that this woman has spent most of her life in the spotlight because she certainly knows how to command the attention.

She prefaced every new song with hints about their themes, at one point divulging that Megadeth frontman, Dave Mustaine, is her spirit animal, confessing that, after all, she and Mustaine have the same hairstyle. Her anecdotes made the new material all the more enjoyable, which could have been difficult for a less gracious artists with such a beloved back catalogue. I’ve been to shows before where the artist plays new material, perhaps too heavy-handedly. There’s a fine line between giving the fans some new material to get excited about and inundating them with material that they’re not yet familiar with. Lewis did a superb job of mixing up her setlist with her classics, from Rilo Kiley and her own solo repertoire, and the new stuff.

To her credit, the highlights of the show were clearly the new material, which is so fresh and reinvigorating that you can almost (almost) forgive Jenny for taking so long to release a new album. As she hasn’t actually set a released a date for The Voyager, fans will have to continue to be patient. Also, she pulled out a very special Rilo Kiley treat when she played “A Man/ Me/ Then Jim.” Her encore was enchanting, as her new band stepped out from behind their instruments to sing backup vocals on “Acid Tongue.” She closed out the show with a new song, which I felt was a very risky move. But, as expected, she nailed it, because “She’s Not Me” is such a rockin’ jam.

From what I can gather about The Voyager, it is going to arguably be her strongest album to date. Acid Tongue saw Jenny Lewis honing in on her sound, and this new material sounds as if Jenny will be reinventing that sound in a very retrospective sort of way. Whatever it ends up being, I’m more than glad that she’s back and will be on the look out for more post-album release tour dates; I will certainly be seeing her again.[/fusion_builder_column][/fusion_builder_row][/fusion_builder_container]

TRACK REVIEW: Julia Holter Remixes Boardwalk

Experimental indie/electronic artist Julia Holter stripped down Boardwalk’s “I’m To Blame” (from the band’s self-titled 2013 LP) and made an unsettling and totally possessing remix. Boardwalk (Mike Edge and Amber Quintero) liked it so much that they decided to make the stems for the track avalaible to the public, encouraging people to remix the song, and even provided a soundcloud group for artists to post their remixes.

Holter’s remix of “I’m To Blame” begins with what sounds like the scraping and rattling of metal objects in apparently no particular pattern or rhythm. Taking the sinister vibes even further, Holter layers the metallic racket with a chilling humming, the kind of humming that you would hear from a demon child in a horror movie right before it kills its next victim. The creepy humming is eventually replaced by ethereal singing that elevates and withers away sporadically as new vocal elements are subtly introduced. Next comes a chordant piano and subsequent meandering bass section, making the track (only slightly) more melodic. These parts dissipate while the scraping and rattling persist. Finally the vocals enter. Doesn’t matter how we’re trying, we can’t get it right. You and I are not the same and I think I’m to blame. I think I’m to blame. This sets up the organ section to coax out a melody that is finally comparable to that of the original for the musical climax of the song we’ve been waiting for. But it’s taken away just as quickly, the track pulling back and slowly fading away into silence.

Offbeat percussion and dissonant, non-musical sounds have a way of instilling unease, but somehow the anxiety inherent in Holter’s mix of “I’m To Blame” is what keeps the listener alert rather than passive, making the occasional melodic moments more satisfying and the song more interesting throughout. While the original is more melodic and thus easier to listen to, Holter’s version is actually more captivating, maybe even moreso for ignoring most aesthetic characteristics of Western composition. It’s a perfect example of how technology opens up possibilities for collaboration, a sentiment reiterated by the band’s invitation for more remixes.

Listen to original side-by-side with Julia Holter’s remix below; maybe it will inspire you to make your own.

TRACK REVIEW: Julianna Barwick “Meet You At Midnight”

Julianna Barwick, avant-garde looping genius, loves to perform at unique venues like churches and museums. Recently, she brought her celestial vocals to Dogfish Head Craft Brewery and left such an impression that they have collaborated on a project together. Dogfish Head is releasing a special brew IPA (with a touch of red rice and wasabi) titled Rosabi, after her new album. The sounds of the brewing process were recorded and sampled on some of the tracks on this EP. Dead Oceans will release Rosabi in a limited edition of 1,000, and the records will only be sold in cases of Barwick’s signature beer. But you can hear the first track, “Meet You At Midnight,” right now to get a taste of the album.

“Meet You At Midnight” is a wonder of a ambient track. It’s fragile and gospel-like, the way one might assume, but its setting remains transient, beyond physical, visual, or auditory. Barwick reaches toward something sensational with this track, evoking a kind of pure, unfiltered feeling. The swirling atmospherics are probably not unlike the feeling you’d get from drinking a case of IPA with 8% ABV, but whether or not you’re under the influence, this is the right kind of music to listen to in your bedroom with the lights out and candles flickering. It’s an exciting opportunity that Dogfish and like-minded craft breweries will hopefully extend to other artists. There’s not enough mixed media involving the culinary arts, especially in the music world, and crafting a brew isn’t so unlike crafting a composition after all.

Barwick’s new album/beer combo won’t be available until June 3rd, but you can listen to “Meet You at Midnight” right now with a cold one in hand:

BAND OF THE MONTH: Sylvan Esso

Sylvan Esso’s self-titled debut is a beautiful study in synergy. Combining the timeless, self-possessed sound of Amelia Meath’s velveteen vocals with cleverly nuanced, exultant electronic production from Nick Sanborn, the project has captivated an ever-growing fan base that includes the industry’s heaviest hitters (they’ve supported the likes of Justin Vernon and Merrill Garbus on national tours) all on the strength of just three Soundcloud offerings. The tracks on Sylvan Esso (streaming now on NPR) are as deceptively simple as those that precede its May 13th release on Partisan Records; all that’s at work here are Sanborn’s synths and beats and Meath’s melodic acrobatics, but the dynamics between these two elements elevate the abilities of the other at every turn.

If the formula seems done to death, it must be said that these two work so exquisitely together it feels entirely fresh. They both come from folksier backgrounds; Sanborn played with Megafaun while Meath was a founding member of Mountain Man. Much as she did during her time with that band, Meath elevates everyday experiences, thus revealing the poignance that can exist within the mundane. The narrative in “Uncatena,” for instance, centers on washing dishes and writing letters. Sanborn’s handling of Meath’s swooning, antiqued melodies comes off as preternatural; whether he lets them rest unadorned over subtle textures or manipulates her lines entirely to serve as a beat or movement in and of itself, it’s always expertly executed, respectful, and perfectly at home in its broader context.

Last January, we caught up with the pair as they kicked off a headlining tour at Baby’s All Right. Their easy give-and-take was apparent even in the way they riffed effortlessly on Star Trek, the inherent un-sexiness of playing baritone sax, or an upcoming tour stop in California in which each admitted they were looking forward to being served “overpriced juice” from a “surfer dude-babe” (Meath) or “vegan girl with an undercut” (Sanborn). “We can’t describe how grateful we feel to be headlining shows at all at this point. I mean we have like three songs on the internet. We’re just so grateful to people for being attentive,” gushes Sanborn.

There was plenty reason to take note of the band’s early online presence. “Hey Mami” introduced the group with a forward-thinking look at the realities of street harassment, though couched as it was in cheery playground handclaps it was just as easy to dance to as it was to provoke conversation about the dually damaging and uplifting nature of unwarranted comments from bystanders. “Cat-calling… happens, and it upsets me. You don’t know what to do,” Meath admits. “Sometimes, it happens and you’re like, ‘Fuck you, I feel really threatened and unsafe,’ and then someone will do it and you’re like, ‘Awww yeah! I’m gonna go home and think about you later.’ Or it’s an old guy who’s like ‘Bless you,’ and you’re like ‘YES!’”

The song was released on 12” as a means of placing the band’s music in a specific frame of reference from the get-go. Sanborn says, “We really wanted to contextualize it right away. We had this idea to do just an old school format – a 45RPM single with the full acapella instrumental. I’m a DJ, and all the old 12 inches I would buy [fusion_builder_container hundred_percent=”yes” overflow=”visible”][fusion_builder_row][fusion_builder_column type=”1_1″ background_position=”left top” background_color=”” border_size=”” border_color=”” border_style=”solid” spacing=”yes” background_image=”” background_repeat=”no-repeat” padding=”” margin_top=”0px” margin_bottom=”0px” class=”” id=”” animation_type=”” animation_speed=”0.3″ animation_direction=”left” hide_on_mobile=”no” center_content=”no” min_height=”none”][were like that]. It invites remixes, it puts it in a context that we always wanted it to be in since we started working together.” Though it appeared as a b-side to “Hey Mami,” “Play It Right” was actually their first collaboration. “I did a remix for a song she wrote for Mountain Man and that became ‘Play It Right’ and we just kept sending each other stuff that we thought the other one would be into,” Sanborn explains. Meath adds, “We both have very, very distinct sounds which are actually kind of disparate. People keep calling us fucking ‘electro-folk.’”

Call it whatever you want, but it works so well it’s hard to imagine either of them involved in projects more well-suited to their strengths (not to mention playing up each other’s). “Each of us tends to have instincts to do what we’re gonna do, which is why we have individual voices. But we try to serve the song first,” says Sanborn. His DJ intuition serves Sylvan Esso especially well on pumping club anthem “H.S.T.K.” Meath’s vocals are spry and jazzy at the song’s outset, bouncing over springy beats before growing sultry and daring on the line Don’t you wanna get some? Sanborn loops that line and builds the mood into a frenzy in which tiny, thoughtful flourishes pop like flashbulbs. Tracks like this are especially vibrant when performed live, perfectly suited for the sensual, hip-hop inspired gyrations Meath executes with a dancer’s grace.

Sylvan Esso have kept up a pace that could be hard for other bands to maintain. “It’s just two of us. It’s not like we have some machine that’s just gonna keep going for us,” Sanborn says. “We can predict what will be fun for us and what will be not fun for us. Already we’ve said no to things that we thought were a bad idea.” Meath cites the importance of naps, perspective and nutrition when it comes to stamina and maintaining a good attitude, stating, “The minute I start getting to be a Grumpus Maximus, [I know] something’s going on. What’s going on? Maybe you just need to eat a bagel.” “Could I Be,” a standout track on the LP, perfectly elucidates the exhilaration and exhaustion of that hustle. And it’s incredibly effective as a motivational tool; the chugging synths and persistent beats mirror the locomotion of the “train” that Meath refers to even as Sanborn distorts her voice into a mechanical whistle. Like “The Little Engine That Could” the moral of the story is that any goal is well within reach given solid hard work.

But it’s a respect for what the other brings to the table that makes this collaboration a resounding success. “We’re a partnership, just a man and a woman in a band on completely even footing, and that’s how we treat everything,” Sanborn says. “Really early on we established this relationship of being hyper honest when we didn’t like something. One of the best aspects of this band has been being able to argue pretty vehemently and not have emotions be involved.” Meath adds, “I’ll have this hook, I’ll sing it to him, and he’ll be like ‘Okay, cool. I have this beat.'” Then, Sanborn continues, “We just keep working on it til it’s something that we both like.”

It’s an exchange best illustrated by the metaphors within “Coffee,” a breakout track for the band that, at its most simple, is about dancing with a partner. Though it had been released only days prior, the audience at the Baby’s show knew every single word from opening lines True, it’s a dance, we know the moves / The bow, the dip, the woo, to the infectious Get up / Get down of the chorus, and Meath’s imploring Do you love me? sung so confidently you get the sense she knows the answer is always going to be ‘yes.’ She wrote a treatment for the joyous video that would accompany the track. “I sat down and studied music videos for like a week,” she says, detailing a syllabus that included TLC’s “No Scrubs,” Jon Hopkins’ “Open Eye Signal,” and Sean Paul’s “Get Busy.” It splices slow-mo scenes from various dance parties – subuirban gymnasium hoe-downs, 50’s sock-hops, jaded hipster house parties, and finally, a futuristic flash mob styled by Sylvan Esso’s friends at Dear Hearts, a boutique in their hometown of Durham, North Carolina. Sanborn says the video reflects “our whole aesthetic, referencing pop but pulling the things out of it that we love.”

Pop sensibility drives every track on the record. It comes from the rustic traditions that inform Meath’s style of singing as much as how her vocal gets filtered through Sanborn’s modern approach. “With electronic music you kind of have to reinvent the wheel a little bit,” he says. “Every facet of it: hardware, software… every part of musicianship and instrumentation is changing constantly. It’s really immediate and not entirely predictable. Electronic music is moving out of rigidity.” Whether highlighting the sinister courtship rituals of the modern male on “Wolf” or listless teenage shenanigans on “Dreamy Bruises,” Meath’s imaginative lyrics and their easygoing delivery haunt those purlieus with a finesse and elegance that magnifies the contributions of both performers. “It’s mostly just being really good partners in crime,” Meath says. They’re hardly committing felonies, though; as a record, Sylvan Esso feels more like a gift.

Sylvan Esso play NYC in May 8th at The Westway, and as supporting act for tUnE-yArDs at Webster Hall June 22nd and 23rd.[/fusion_builder_column][/fusion_builder_row][/fusion_builder_container]

LIVE REVIEW: Connan Mockasin @ Bowery Ballroom

Never bring a boy from Texas to a Psychedelic show. This is one of the many lessons I learned while watching Connan Mockasin perform with his band of merry pranksters last week. The white-haired man from New Zealand headlined the Bowery Ballroom Thursday night on an early leg of his North American tour.

I arrived with the Texan quite some time before Mockasin went on, and naturally we saddled up to the bar to lubricate our wait-time. I’m not sure what my thought process was before I showed up to the Bowery, but somehow I found myself sitting with a thimble-sized gin and tonic, a bit taken aback by the throng of people clotting the perimeter of the horseshoe-shaped bar: they were a bunch of weird lookin’ kids.

Rarely am I surprised by details such as this. I tend to anticipate most crowds to a tee; I assumed a number of people at King Khan and the Shrines would be in costume, I expected that the Nathaniel Rateliff lot would be low-key. It’s not fucking ESP, but these things are consistently predictable. So maybe I hadn’t taken the time to think about what kind of birds would flock to this show, but their feathers amused me nonetheless.

Now on display: Man-in-Fez-and-Sunglasses, Girl-in-Windowpane-Plaid-Skirt-Suit, The-French-Beige-Trench-Twins, Man-in-Windowpane-Plaid-Skirt-Suit, and Boy-with-the-Blue-Rinse-Hair. Of course a dude in a dress is not a signifier for evangelical weirdness-this is New York after all, and cross-dressing turned vanilla-white-bread before the damn moon landing. That being said, there was an airborne sense of fun as well as a cultish enjoyment in everyone’s eyes, and this filled me with more eagerness for the show I was about to see.

The weirdness did not stop at the crowd’s wardrobe choices. Connan Mockasin took to the stage with a touch of messianic flair. At first there was just his band, a motley crew of strange-os with the outfits to match: the rhythm guitarist in red velveteen topped with a beret, a keyboard queen lengthened by a Morticia Adams gown and a fur cap that seemed to have a pig’s tail sprouting from its summit. It was already a visual banquet. I searched the stage for Mockasin, wondering if maybe he’d changed his hair, since I saw no evidence of his white-hot crop anywhere. Then suddenly, as if springing from a subterranean trap door, he appeared on stage. Maybe he’d been slithering through the crowd and I hadn’t noticed, but I batted a lash and he was there, a radiant alien amidst his cult of Earthly disciples.

Mockasin delivered every syrupy guitar lick that had enticed me in the first place, and with more style than I could have hoped for. He just sort of undulated all over, crooning in his freakish falsetto that sounds like the acid-bathed lovechild of Barry Gibb and Kate Bush. At one point he took a hearty swig from a wine bottle, and proceeded to use it as a slide on his fret board. It sounds showy, yet Connan possesses such an understated amount of charisma and humility that his performance was natural at best, slick at worst.

The presence of his band seemed less convincing in the sincerity department-they almost seemed gimmicky and ironic, the sort of people who long to be bizarre, whereas Mockasin has no choice: the man belongs in a curio cabinet. The stage became flooded with a cast of extras, many of the people I’d seen in the crowd earlier that evening: Fez-Man, Skirt-Suit-Guy, among others. Whether they are in the band, are friends, groupies, or just random people I’ll never know, but their presence added a surreal seasoning to the night, lending Connan a Manson or Kesey-esque quality as the leader of some jam-band ensemble of Renaissance Fair enthusiasts and identity politicians. They flailed around the stage shaking eggs, tambourines, and themselves.

It was quite a sight, but the Texan wasn’t buying it. If he could have maintained a constant state of eye-roll he would have, though I couldn’t blame him for this reaction entirely. Right against our backs was a gaggle of plausible Burners hopping around like coked-up jesters and attempting to replicate Native American ceremonial singing. It was distracting, obnoxious, and a little too much for my Lone-Star companion to handle. He left ten minutes before Connan performed his final two songs, and five minutes before the highlight of the evening. As my friend Maria and I waited together for the encore, the gaggle of shitheads were gyrating right behind us, encroaching on our space and placing the last straw on our backs. Maria, a woman who possesses as much luck as she does sass, turned around, tipped her gin and tonic ever so slightly, and poured just the right amount on the main offender’s crotch.

Somehow we got away unscathed, though I’ll never understand how. I can’t say the same regarding the dignity of the man who looked like he peed himself.

Lesson number two for the evening: make sure your feistiest friend is twice as charming as she is mean.

Thank you Connan. It’s been weird. But good.

LIVE REVIEW: Sabina @ Highline Ballroom

Much like butter, David Byrne makes everything better.

I was reluctant to go to the Sabina show the other week. This wasn’t for lack of enthusiasm, just an abundance of banal exhaustion. Having travelled from Bed-Stuy, to the garment district, to Far Rockaway, and then back to Bed-Stuy between the hours of 8 and 8, the prospect of catching an 8:21 train into Chelsea was not an alluring one. But, I was aware of my responsibility, as well as the knowledge that anticipation is always worse than outcome. I knew that once I was at the Highline Ballroom, actually experiencing the show, I would be grateful. It’s kind of like going to the gym. I hear.

So I raced home and peeled off my work clothes, ripped and latex-larded from making enormous bowling pin costumes all day. Stuffing my mouth with the sad food that inhabits my fridge, I hopped around trying to simultaneously eat and switch shoes. I was out the door still chewing, a task as efficient as it is visually unsettling.

Walking from the C train to the show, a man with close-cropped, white hair whizzed past me on a bicycle. I froze, nearly getting grazed by an oncoming van. I stood in the middle of the street, watching him dismount and go into the venue. With a safe amount of delay, I crossed the street and followed him into the venue. “That’s fucking David Byrne,” I thought.

After checking in at the ticket counter I roamed the dance floor, jerking my head like a rooster every which way to spot that little tuft of silver. He’d vanished, probably to some VIP alcove imperceptible to the plebian eye.

As minutes passed I began to question myself. Maybe it wasn’t David Byrne. No one in the crowd seemed to be in a frenzy like I was, and surely if it were him a hoard of people would be searching with me. But, maybe it was…

I eventually snapped back to the reason I was there in the first place: Sabina. She started her set on the assigned hour, which is practically a lost art among musicians. She crept on stage in the garb of a modern-day Veruschka: heeled, fringe-cuffed boots, navy silk jumpsuit, and a fur cap of Davey Crockett proportion. I haven’t seen this much charisma onstage since I saw Tony Bennett in Seattle two years ago. Sabina’s backing band is comprised of suave gentlemen, all savants with their respective instruments. They opened with “Toujours,” the title track and first single off of Sabina’s latest album.

One of the record’s more contemporary sounding tracks, “Toujours” has a choppy, frenetic quality to it, made all the more frantic by a B-3 keyboard pulse throughout. Sabina’s energy radiated from the stage. How someone can play with such enthusiasm, and in heels no less, is a complete mystery to me. She flitted around, playfully dancing with her band mates and hopping like a baby chick. By song three she’d already spit out four different languages in her low, Neko-esque voice. She chats frequently with the crowd, asking them questions, encouraging their participation, and shouting out to friends. This woman is a true performer.

Still, as captivated as a I am by Sabina, my mind won’t stop screaming “Show me the David Byrne. SHOWWWW ME the David Byrne!” As if he heard, a little, silver head of hair appeared in the caged area by stage left. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. Is he going to come on stage? Or is he just going backstage? He started to creep behind the sound guy, into a curtained area. With humble steps he made his way on stage, and for the first time the crowd realized what was happening.

“Who is that?” a woman in front of me asked her boyfriend. “ It’s David Byrne!” I had wedged myself between them and interjected with the subtlety of Rain Man. “David Byrne, definitely David Byrne, definitely.”

So my wish came true. David and Sabina sang together for one beautifully somber song. The music fell back, bringing their vocals to the forefront. All I could do was shake. These are the moments you think: “say what you will, New York aint all that bad.”

David left the stage with as much caution as he mounted it, and remained in the crowd the rest of the show. Not in a fancy booth with bottle service, just in the crowd, bobbing his head and smiling, and chatting amicably with anyone who approached him. I was too shy to say anything, but I was dancing about three feet away from him, so as far as I’m concerned, I danced with David Byrne. Definitely.

The rest of Sabina’s set was entertaining, humorous, and full of enthusiasm. At one point, during a performance of a song I’ve yet to identify, two groups of gentlemen held up finger-painted signs depicting flaming feces, each reading “Hot Poo.” I searched the Google high and low for a song with such a title, but was left none the wiser to this inside joke. Please enlighten me if it didn’t elude you.

Between a pop-up appearance by David Byrne, pyro-poop jokes, and one of the strangest crowds I’ve ever encountered, the night was far from a disappointment. I’m just glad I was able to drag my ass to the Highline Ballroom afterall.

TRACK REVIEW: Todd Terje and Bryan Ferry “Johnny and Mary”

DJ and songwriter Todd Terje is a huge figure in the Norwegian dance scene. He’s messed around with classic disco, collaborated with the likes Franz Ferdinand, and created a great deal of upbeat originals. “Johnny and Mary”, a cover of Robert Palmer’s 1980 hit, is a feature from his upcoming album. Bryan Ferry, of Roxy Music, joins him for a second time in this collaboration. Together they’ve made a lasting recreation.

The downtempo complements Bryan Ferry’s hoarse narration of a couple falling apart. There’s a strong sense of atmosphere with a kind of constant fluttering that makes the story play out with a dreamy distance. The beat, the bass is mild, in no way overwhelming the way it can be in so many dance song. It’s refreshing. Somehow it seems that this classic melody should be heard through synth and electro mist.

Ferry’s voice sounds a bit strained, doesn’t have the punch of a Roxy Music song, but works really well for this song, especially considering the subject matter. He’s the channel between the audience and the distant melancholy created by the synth waves. When he repeats “Running around” the strain sounds right. This is an emotional song, but mostly in a tired, apathetic way. That Johnny and Mary are close to giving up is evident in Ferry’s tone. It’s pretty incredible.

Check out Todd Terje and Bryan Ferry’s cover of “Johnny and Mary” below:

LIVE REVIEW: Margot And The Nuclear So and So’s @ The Bowery Ballroom

After living in New York for a while it’s easy to get wrapped up in the inevitable cynicism that encapsulates the city, which is usually charming but at times can be exhausting. This is most likely why I was initially welcoming of the undeniable midwestern charm of Indianapolis/Chicago-based Margot And The Nuclear So And So’s. With romantic, bordering on gushing lyrics (When you’re gone, I drink and wait and listen, till you get home. It’s fine, I smoke in the house // But I love you so who cares if you’re lazy), sweet acoustic melodies and sincere two-part harmonies, Margot And The Nuclear So And So’s knows exactly how to pull at your heartstrings.

Hailing from Indianapolis, Indiana, Margot and the Nuclear So and So’s is loosely made up of Richard Edwards (vocals, guitar), Tyler Watkins (bass, vocals), Heidi Gluck (vocals, keys, bass), Kenny Childers (guitar, vocals), Chris Fry (drums), Ronnie Kwasman (guitar). While their music is as versatile as it is romantic, their more recent albums indicate a shift towards alt folk/Americana.

The band has had an incredibly prolific career considering that they have only been active since 2004. Their first album, The Dust Of Retreat was released in 2005 and introduced the world to their earlier full, orchestral sounds. In 2008 Margot And The Nuclear So And So’s released two full lengths, Not Animal and Animal! While there are a number of overlapping songs on both albums, their simultaneously release stemmed from a disagreement with Epic Records over which songs should be selected to complete the album. So in the true spirit of compromise, two albums were released. Animal! is the selection of songs that Margot And The Nuclear So And So’s curated, and Not Animal is Epic’s choice. Their following albums Buzzard (2010), and Rot Gut, Domestic (2012) marked a shift away from the orchestral sounds of their earlier music and towards a more folk/alternative sound. Margot And The Nuclear So And So’s most recent album, Slingshot To Heaven (2014), is their most sentimental and stripped down work to date. With more acoustic songs than electric, guitar centered melodies, and crooning vocals, it indicates a move towards an even folkier Americana sound.

On May 3, Margot And The Nuclear So And So’s played a sold out show at The Bowery Ballroom, supported by Empires and Kate Myers (who also performed with the band on the keyboard, vocals and melodica). The setlist contained mostly new music off of Slingshot (“Hello, San Francisco,” “When You’re Gone,” “Long Legged Blonde Memphis,” “Bleary-eye-d Blue,” “Lazy” and “Go To Sleep You Little Creep”), however they played a number of old songs (“Shannon,” “Fisher of Men” and “The Devil” off of Rot Gut, Domestic, “Birds” and “New York City Hotel Blues” off of Buzzard, “Broadripple is Burning” off of Not Animal, “Jen is Bringing the Drugs,” “On a Freezing Chicago Street” “Barfight Revolution, Power Violence” and “Skeleton Key” off of The Dust Of Retreat). The set rolled on more or less in chronological order from new to old all while vintage clips featuring UFOs played on a loop in the background.

The band was affable yet firm with the audience as frontman Richard Edwards informed the crowd, “If you keep requesting only the popular songs then we won’t play them!” It was all in good fun, however, as the audience continued to shout out requests which were honored by the band. Overall they did end up playing most of the popular songs while relishing in the fact that the vast majority of the crowd sang along enthusiastically. They were refreshingly down to earth and maintained a casual and interactive relationship with the audience, which made their performance all the more personal and emotive.

If you missed out on all the romance of Margot And The Nuclear So And So’s this time around, you can catch them in various other locations this spring/summer.

VIDEO OF THE WEEK: Boyfriend “Like My Hand Did”

This is the way you’d imagine Tina Belcher growing up: she’s an elementary school teacher by day and a raunchy internet rap sensation by night, her inventive rhymes equal parts lewd and literate. Except this isn’t the plot of a long-lost Bob’s Burgers episode – it’s the true story of New Orleans performer Boyfriend, minting a new kind of hip-hop couched in satire, cabaret, and sex-positivity.

Dubbed the “rap game Bette Midler,” Boyfriend takes as many cues from Vaudeville vets as she does from Ke$ha and Kitty Pryde. Clever turns of phrase are as central to her appeal as her painstakingly thrifted wardrobe and Sally Jesse-esque eyewear. The nerdy aesthetic makes her feel somehow more accessible than other artists of her ilk; she owns her quirks rather than trying to come off as something she isn’t. Pushing that honesty to its most candid point, Boyfriend knowingly tackles topics ranging from period sex to masturbation to how to be Swanky on a budget, her wry tone akin to any Broad City punchline.

Boyfriend is known for her outrageous and stylish YouTube clips, a tradition that began with visuals she self-produced to herald the release of her debut EP I’m Your Boyfriend almost two years ago. “Like My Hand Did” is Boyfriend’s latest offering and it stays true to form, giving us lots to look forward to when her full length finally drops later this year. It’s a blistering kiss-off to a partner who failed to please, self-pleasure being preferable to his paltry efforts. The retro clip-art graphics and darker lyrics give the track a creepier vibe than we’ve seen from Boyfriend thus far, hinting that there’s some snarl behind her Granny-panties gimmick.

TRACK OF THE WEEK: Beverly’s “You Can’t Get It Right”

Frankie Rose’s penchant for lo-fi garage pop is pretty obvious by now—not only did she play key roles, over the years, as a member of the Vivian Girls, Dum Dum Girls, and Crystal Stilts, but she also developed her own sound as a solo artist. Now she’s teamed up with Drew Citron (from her touring band) for a new project called Beverly, and it might just be her best effort yet. The duo’s second single, “You Can’t Get It Right,” is a sweet taste of their upcoming debut album, Careers, out July 1 via Kanine Records.

The song has a lo-fi aesthetic with catchy guitar hooks that sound warped and almost menacing as the girls sing “And maybe this time you’ll know to get in line with me.” They bare their teeth at the same time that they flash a sweet smile. The overall sound brings The Breeders/The Amps to mind, but this tune’s got a faster heartbeat and brighter tone that makes it perfect for summer.

“You Can’t Get It Right” follows the release of Beverly’s first single, “Honey Do,” which is an equally catchy and fuzzy track. Both are good indications that Careers will be one of this summer’s highlights. Check out this week’s track of the week below!

TRACK REVIEW: Sean Nicholas Savage “Empire”

Few people can boast the creation of 11 studio albums by the time they’re 28. Quebec’s own Sean Nicholas Savage, who will officially enter his late twenties at the end of the month (happy birthday Sean!), absolutely can. What’s even more impressive than the sheer volume of Savage’s output is that he’s only been recording since 2008. As a prolific staple in the Montreal indie scene, Savage has been represented by Arbutus Records (home to Grimes, Doldrums, and Blue Hawaii) for the last five years, and hasn’t wasted a moment since his initial signing with the label. Following 2013’s Other Life LP, Savage releases Bermuda Waterfall on May 13th, and I suspect he’s already churning out new ballads for the next record.

“Empire” is the vulnerable core of Bermuda Waterfall. A sorrowful track that bridges contemporary minimalism and eighties sentimentality, it is the kind of song that multiplies its infectiousness exponentially with each play. Commencing with the twinkling chirp of keys, a patient but weighty bass line, and an unobtrusive snare beat, Sean’s clean voice chimes in with the darkly romantic phrase “We held each other in the empire of hate” that quickly comes to characterize the narrative.

His vocal style is one that is so familiar it’s impossible to recognize where you’ve heard its doppelgangers. On the higher end of the audible spectrum, it glides between trembling, shrill, and soft with genuine ease. This is a sensitive singing niche-one that could be butchered with cheesiness were it attempted by another artist. That isn’t to say schmaltzy music hasn’t influenced the song; easy listening and corporate muzak rush to the mind’s forefront when hearing “Empire” for the first time. It certainly has its roots in mid-80’s sap rock, but it subdues those elements to the most tasteful degree as opposed to satirizing them. What could have been rendered ironic is instead painfully sincere, a quality that marks all of Savage’s music. He writes as if meekly exposing a raw wound to a wolf pack, wincing and hoping for the best.

Isolation is another recurring feature in the annals of the artist’s recording history, and there is no shortage of it on this track. It is just too perfect that as he sings the line “Kissing myself, holding myself / As if you were, somebody else” he’s harmonizing with himself. This kind of lyrical/formal continuity reflects the skill set of someone who’s been writing music as many years as Savage has been alive. Likewise the thematic desolation of his words compliments the sparseness of the song’s composition beautifully.

Savage is the kind of songwriter who has the ability to sate his listener while still inspiring a gluttonous hunger for more – kind of like watching butter settle into hot toast and spreading on three layers more, despite having plenty in the first place. Given the combination of his talent, youth, and compulsive need to create, I expect to be slathering on much more of Sean Nicholas Savage in the near future.

Check out “Empire” below:

VIDEO REVIEW: Sylvan Esso “Play It Right”

Sylvan Esso certainly isn’t the first act to pepper electronica with folk undertones but their combination is particularly intriguing to say the least. It is pure and honest while still managing to uplift listeners and make them wanna move. The North Carolina duo released “Play It Right” via soundcloud last year and built a ton of buzz around it, but the song never got a proper video – until now. Ahead of the May 13th release of their debut LP on Partisan Records, the video highlights the simplicity of the song’s elements by echoing the track’s minimalistic vibe. Splashes of light wash over vocalist Amelia Meath, synth wizard Nick Sanborn, and two dancers, illuminating just enough to pierce the darkness of the set. Meath’s exuberant dance moves look hip-hop inspired, yet remain polished and graceful, like that of a ballet dancer; selected scenes employ slow motion to highlight both her elegance and the drama of the song, heightened as the track progresses and the dancers submerge themselves in the music. The visuals are captivating without being over-stimulating, a definite rarity when it comes to music videos. With a track this good, elaborate sets and costumes aren’t needed – Sylvan Esso basking in their own spotlights are engaging enough to grab our attention and keep it there.

Month: May 2014