SHOW REVIEW: Unsound Fest w/ LXMP, Peaking Lights, Maria Minerva

In every high school there’s that one weird kid, usually super smart, creative, or both, that no one can seem to make any sense of. They have bizarre tastes and even more bizarre habits, and you’re so fascinated by these that no one really wants to stop this kid from, say, building a real live flea circus in the cafeteria. Then you find out the kid is from some Eastern European country, and though nothing could ever explain that kid’s behaviors, suddenly they make more sense.

Poland’s Unsound Festival is the collection of events most analogous to that kid. Seeking to showcase avant-garde, experimental, underground electronic acts from all over the world, in May they unleashed a bevvy of eclectic performers on the city in as many as twenty events and panel discussions over the course of five days. The greatest thing about Unsound is the way it appropriates government funding (Polish government funding, that is) to introduce Central and Eastern European acts to the US that otherwise could never visit or tour here. They take that ethos one step further and present them in expertly curated collaborations with US artists of similar ilk. This is the third year that Unsound has brought its extraordinary program from Minsk to NYC, and this year’s acts remained challenging if still rooted in the melodic and danceable aspects of electronic experimentation.

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Peaking Lights at Lincoln Center

I was only able to see two performances, but they were both noteworthy. On Thursday, Lincoln Center’s David Rubenstien Atrium hosted a free Peaking Lights show with openers LXMP. LXMP are two guys from Warsaw whose love of synths and robotic vocals seemingly informs everything they do; for the showcase they covered Herbie Hancock’s Future Shock with bits of evocative improvisation. I’ve had a bit of trouble listening to the band’s original material; the music on their myspace (which still exists!) and a video posted to Unsound’s facebook makes them seem like a hardcore electronic noise band much more abrasive than the band I saw. On the one hand, the freeform electro-funk of Hancock’s breakthrough ’83 album seems like a good fit for a band like LXMP, who also eschew more straightforward composition. On the other hand, their interpretations bordered a level of cheesiness possibly stemming from the fact that Future Shock, while a landmark in the melding of electronic elements with jazz sensibility, is now thirty years old and thus a bit dated. If nothing else, though, seeing this band pay homage to a record that influenced them and likely hundreds of acts within the genre offered a sense of perspective, and it was entertaining to see LXMP’s enthusiasm, whether it was due to a love of Hancock or giddiness at playing a show in the US.

Peaking Lights was a definite change of pace, the only real similarity being a fetishistic adoration for vintage synths. I’d seen them play a great set at SXSW that was unfortunately neutered by time constraints, so I was hoping for a more extended set list that – fingers crossed – included expansive love anthem “Amazing & Wonderful”. Again, I was denied, but can forgive the band that fact since their focus is clearly shifting to the upcoming release of their latest album Lucifer, which will likely explore the utmost depths of bleary, slowed disco beats. Rainbow-toned lights arced behind Indra Dunis and Aaron Coyes while their beats bounced from polished surfaces. The narrow, high-ceilinged space was filled to its capacity but much of the audience was seated in roped-off sections which made the whole thing seem a little more orchestrated than the nonchalant approach Peaking Lights takes to making sounds. But in its own way, the Rubenstien Atrium provided an interesting context to that music, making a museum exhibit of the unorthodox, analogue practices of the artists. I even spotted Coyes Instagramming a snapshot of the space before the show. The more I see this band, the more in love with them I fall; there are very few acts making music this intoxicating. Watching Dunis lope around the stage, sometimes with percussive instruments, at other times making loops with a tiny keyboard, while Coyes hunches over synths and oscillators and cassette decks feels like a glimpse into their creative lifestyle – you get the sense that this is just what they do on weekday nights around the house as a married couple. Even if I never see “Amazing & Wonderful” live I’ll attend their shows whenever I have the chance.

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The next time I ventured out for an Unsound event was the following Sunday, which arrived after an exhausting weekend of working (and who knows what else), wrapped in a torrential downpour that almost cause me to skip the event altogether. The reason I didn’t was simple: Maria Minerva was playing the “closing party” for Unsound at Glasslands. I had a feeling that opportunities to see the Estonian hypnagogic pop chanteuse would be few and far between, and I have been moderately obsessed with her swoony, mysterious little forays into feminism, philosophy, and rough sex since Not Not Fun put out Cabaret Cixous last year. The label (and its offshoot, 100% Silk, which released a more recent EP entitled Sacred & Profane) are a great fit for Minerva’s music, which sounds like it’s swirling out from the bottom of a deep, dark well and then being transmitted into space. Her echoing vocals and relatively lo-fi set-up is part of that carefully constructed deconstruction, and her lyrics at once high-minded and rooted in mirroring the vapid pop lyrics of contemporary female icons like Britney Spears and Katy Perry.

Maria Minerva at Glasslands

On stage, it helps to keep this in mind, because if you didn’t know how highly educated she actually is, you’d think she learned English by listening to the same five pop songs. The lyrics are redundant, fixated pointedly on a singular subject or phrase and sung like mantras. She even borrows lyrics from aforementioned pop chanteuse Spears, expanding her lovesick repertoire to The Kinks’ “You Got Me” (or possibly referencing Salt-n-Pepa’s “Push It”), her voice despondent over orgasmic samples.

Like many electronic musicians who have not fully imagined a live performance before playing out, she stood awkwardly behind a table of electronics while a projector either illuminated or obscured her pretty, elfin features and bony frame. When she emerged from behind her equipment, it was to perch provocatively on a chair to stage right, or sometimes flail her svelte limbs. She seemed a bit nervous or uncomfortable with the material and the effects which make her voice so ghostly and layered when recorded didn’t translate as well in a live setting.

That being said, there’s still something fascinating about seeing her vulnerability on stage; I’m not entirely convinced that these supposed detractors weren’t a rehearsed part of the performance. So much of her music is about exploring a wilting image of helpless femininity, power stripped by emotion or desire. Minerva is exploring women’s supposed inability to think deeply when overtaken by repetitive thoughts regarding the external world and those who affect us emotionally or sexually, her music most concerned with the moment where our creative explorations become blocked by the expectations of others. Helene Cixous, the French philosopher, poet, and playwright for which Minerva’s album is named, explored the idea of emancipating women from male-centric language in her influential piece The Laughing Medusa, encouraging women instead to use their bodies as a new way of communicating. Punctuating Minerva’s reluctant postures were bursts of defiant confidence, though in the next moment she’d shy away from the crowd, shaking her head back and forth as if being reprimanded or secretly admonishing herself. Perhaps, if this struggle was not solely performative, those in the audience were witness to her public catharsis, a possibility that is certainly compelling. Minerva is a protege of Amanda Brown’s and it was difficult not to think of an LA Vampires performance I saw last November at Shea Stadium, where Brown shimmied unabashedly like a woman possessed, not just through her own set but through her 100% Silk’s labelmates’ sets as well. Perhaps with Brown as an ally Minerva can find a mode of expression as boisterous and provacative. It is certain that when she does, promoters such as those behind Unsound Festival will be there to embrace and nurture it, not stifle or block it.

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MOVIE REVIEW: Hit So Hard (The Life and Near-Death Story of Patty Schemel)

I’ve been on a bit of a grunge binge lately. It could be that the onset of certain anniversaries, observed by nearly everyone who cared about music in the mid-nineties, turns collective thought to the anti-heroes of the genre who destroyed themselves in the process of creating it. But for all the stars that burn out, there are some who reticently fade away – at least, until now. One of those stars is Patty Schemel, drummer of Hole. I was lucky enough to meet Patty (along with bassist Melissa Auf der Mar and guitarist Eric Erlandson) at a book signing just a few weeks ago, and it was there I became aware of another Hole-related project – a documentary entitled Hit So Hard: The Life and Near Death Story of Patty Schemel.

Hit So Hard is certainly unique in its focus. Though a drummer’s playing is the heartbeat that propels any song, drummers are so often pushed to the back of the stage, hidden behind a shiny kit, while more prominent players soak up the spotlight. Renowned in Seattle circles for her powerful drumming long before becoming a part of Hole, Patty Schemel struggled with alcohol abuse while exploring her sexual identity, and with that came a deep pain that made her work as a musician that much more honest and immediate. With very few female role models in her situation (the handful of them, including Alice de Buhl of Fanny, Debbie Peterson of the Bangles, Gina Schock of the Go-Go’s, and Kate Schellenbach of Lucious Jackson, are interviewed in the film), Patty fearlessly blazed new trails with each twirl and flourish of the sticks. But as Hole began their meteoric rise to rock stardom, that very trail became a treacherous one, filled with tragic death and out-of-control addictions.

Schemel’s story packs a huge punch, but filmmakers David Ebersole and Todd Hughes don’t present it with a flow that’s concise enough, fidgeting around from subject to subject with jolting affect. Schemel’s extraordinary life is offered in dissected segments which fail to render her life cohesively. The sophomoric use of hot-pink title cards in punk-rock fonts are intensely grating and make the whole film feel like a series of movie trailers for a documentary that never happens.

That being said, the doc has two things going for it. First, the breadth of interviews with those who were closest to Schemel is commendable, including her bandmates from Hole (even Courtney Love appears in all her plasticized “glory”), friends from the Seattle music scene, and some very candid commentary from her family members. Secondly, parts of the documentary focused on the most nostalgic era of grunge are culled from personal footage that Schemel captured with a camcorder she was given while on tour. But the footage she captured is not just tour footage – there are hours of heart-rending home videos of Kurt and Courtney just after the birth of their daughter, Frances Bean, filmed when Patty lived with them in Seattle. We see the fragility of this family unit, knowing the future in a way the subjects could not when the footage was shot. It is equal parts beautiful and tragic, and serves as a reminder of how integral Schemel was to the drama that would later play out.

And while most can give at least a brief summary of the somber fate of Kurt Cobain, original Hole bassist Kristen Pfaff, or many of the other heroin casualties of that era, Schemel’s story has been obscured for years. Hole’s popularity went through a resurgence after the release of 1998’s Celebrity Skin, and while Schemel was featured in promotional photos from the era, punishing producer Michael Beinhorn took the drum parts she had written and replaced her recordings with those of session drummer Deen Castronovo.  Understandably, this sent Schemel into a spiral of self-doubt resulting in her departure from the band, followed tragically by relapse, homelessness and prostitution. As someone who idolized this band, listened to that album on repeat, and never knew that Schemel had been replaced by a hired gun, this was the one thing that was extremely shocking to me – I’d always thought I was listening to Schemel on the record, not some beefed-up jock completely unconnected to the compositions or the group dynamic. I felt almost ashamed that I hadn’t even noticed the awkward doppelgangers standing in for Schemel in music videos, and was appalled that none  of her bandmates stepped into help her while she was living on the streets and Hole was living it up.

But Schemel’s story ends on a happier note; these days she passes on her drumming skills as a music teacher (several of her students are interviewed, which is kind of mind-blowing) and rehabilitating stray dogs. She’s survived the storm of making it big in a heroin-addled rock band and lived to tell the tale. Even if her story is presented in a somewhat sloppily cobbled package courtesy of the filmmakers, it is still a compelling piece of rock-n-roll history well worth telling.

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SXSW: In Annie’s opinion…

Some things change, and some things stay the same:

One remarkable aspect of SXSW is, of course, the unbridled havoc it wreaks on any sense of equilibrium with which you may have arrived in Austin. As much as you feel compelled to do so, trying to plan any sort of agenda in advance feels intractably challenging. Somehow though, when you’re finally in it, you manage to create discreet experiences in the throes of what often feels like a timeless, endless loop of days and nights, stages and voices and bright flashing lights. Unsurprisingly, it’s the point at which you acquiesce to the cacophony of it all that things begin to come together. Trends become noticeable, for example.
One of those trends that I ran into repeatedly, and one I’ve been trying desperately to wrap my brain around and come up with something cohesive to say about, is the mindful, willful integration of electronic music that, for instance, comes out of some form of a computer, with live music that comes out of instruments that have existed for centuries. Most of the more notable contemporary artists whom I watched play at SXSW use this kind of prepared music (beats, samples, their own previously recorded voices) as an instrument onto itself, whether they are composing it all on stage and looping it over live music, or playing along concurrently with electronic music they’ve already created, or creating more improvised moments by extemporaneously feeding the sounds their instruments make through any handful of new and crazy effects.

 To put it more simply: it seems that the line between let’s say, indie rock and experimental electronic music is becoming increasingly more obfuscated by things like rapidly-evolving new technology. However, there’s something else to it; When I watched folks like Washed Out perform–while yes, they utilize cutting edge music recording technology on stage as as a band member in and of itself (like when Ernest Greene stepped up to start singing, he waved his Ipad at the audience in silent acknowledgement of that of which I speak),  I also sensed an abiding evocation of decades-old ideas (heralded by the likes of Roxy Music and the Talking Heads, to name just a few) about the boundaries live music can test and trample altogether.

 Washed Out perform “New Theory”
Attending live music used to mean going to see a group of people (usually men)  showcase their technical proficiency, if not virtuosity, and play for you the songs you love listening to on albums at home (hopefully, if the band is at all decent). These days, you can find many of those people behind the counter at Guitar Center ready to talk your ear off about their favorite Jimmy Page riff.
But things are changing dramatically. And what it all seems to indicate, if not reveal, is that live music has taken an almost defiant step away from what it has formerly endeavored to achieve–namely the presentation of specific musical talents –and toward something entirely new, possessed of a markedly different morphology that usually includes a glowing Apple logo. I haven’t quite been able to put my finger on the pulse of this transformation, but I know that it’s due to the convergence of the following: The rise of Apple and thus the proliferation of increasingly advanced music editing software, the disintegration of the record industry, and a shift in musical zeitgeist toward a movement that has been put on hold since the late 70’s and 80’s.
I’m not saying it isn’t exciting to watch musical virtuosity on display. Now though, watching live music–at least in this new iteration I’m describing (one that seems to be pervading so many different genres, rather than continuously spawning new subcategories of electronica as it did in the past) –is compelling due to a myriad of other performative aspects besides the technical expertise of whoever is playing.
Someone like Shigeto is a perfect example of this. While he’s a great drummer in his own right, it’s not his musicality that exhilarates those who watch him, nor is it necessarily the electronic components of his sets, which are also quite good. What’s amazing about him, is the way in which he jumps back and forth between the electronic and live aspects of his work, juxtaposing these two different (potentially opposing) styles of music. And he toys with the opposition with brilliant fluidity, at times underscoring tensions between the two and at other times resolving it or showing how each can coexist with the other, all the while exhibiting to the audience the process he uses to compose his music. It’s almost like watching a chef prepare a meal on cooking show.
 
Shigeto, live on Drums and Turntables, SXSW 2012
Lindsey has a great video of this performance, methinks.
So much more can be said, but for the sake of brevity I’ll leave you, for now (over the next few days I’ll be posting on my top ten shows from SXSW, the content of which will extrapolate further on all of this), with a video of Matthew Dear performing “Headcage”, which I think encapsulates perfectly the ideas I’m attempting (and perhaps failing) to formulate. This is a band whose sound hinges on the use of new recording and editing technology. However, there is no absence of talented musicians on stage here. This stuff is technically considered electronic music, but I think that kind of categorical imperative truly sells it short. Enjoy please!

Taking a Look at Jesse Frohman’s Photos of Kurt Cobain

Because he was a photographer and not a psychic, Jesse Frohman had no way of knowing that his now-iconic pictures of grunge idol Kurt Cobain would be some of the last ever shot. But judging by the Nirvana frontman’s erratic behavior both leading up to and during the session, originally commissioned as a feature for the Sunday Observer, it wasn’t hard to see Cobain’s demise on the horizon. By the time Frohman met Cobain in November 1993, he’d overdosed once and been through several stints in rehab. He famously appeared for the shoot three hours late, strung out, and introduced himself to the photographer by asking for a bucket he could puke in.
The Morrison Hotel Gallery in Soho is showing the series of photographs for the first time as a collection. They were shot over the course of just that one meeting, in the New York City hotel where Nirvana was staying when they played a show at Roseland Ballroom. There are some live shots from the show that night and a few taken with Krist Novaselic and Dave Grohl as well. Most of what is on display at the Morrison are straightforward portraits of Cobain against a neutral background. He is dressed eccentrically in a tattered leopard print coat, Jackie-O style bug-eyed sunglasses, and an aviator cap, with a shabby tee and jeans underneath. Chipping red nailpolish adorns his fingertips; in some pictures he is seen with a cigarette, smoke trickling from his mouth, in others he swigs a bottle of Evian as though it were Jack Daniels. The images are nothing if not captivating, in spite of (and perhaps moreso?) their repetitive quality when presented side-by-side, on a scale literally larger-than-life.
© Jesse Frohman/courtesy of Morrison Hotel Gallery
© Jesse Frohman/
courtesy of Morrison Hotel Gallery
As a whole, it’s hard to tell how much of these photos represent a Kurt that is real but coming unhinged, and how much is Cobain simply playing the part of “rock star” – an image that he felt was forced upon him in the wake of Nirvana’s insane successes. By the time these photos were taken, Kurt had publicly expressed his disdain for the media, and in many ways, his flagrant disregard for Frohman’s schedule, paired with his apathetic demeanor appearing in one shot to the next, is indicative of that. While Frohman has said that during the shoot Cobain was easily molded into poses and could be very dramatic in his gestures, he refused to remove the trademark white-framed sunglasses, adding another layer of mystery and alienation from the viewer. Interestingly enough, they do provide the viewer with a unique insight into the artifice of the image – you can see lighting set-ups and even the photographer himself reflected in Kurt’s lenses – and while I’m sure that was not a meditated action taken by the subject, the fact remains that what we are seeing are not candid shots. They are in some regard meticulous, despite Kurt’s attempt to sabotage the shoot as Frohman planned it. Very few people really knew Kurt Cobain without the media filter either building him into a God or shaking their worried heads at his drug-addled antics, and as such, these images are part of that machine. Without expressly turning his middle finger skyward for the camera, Cobain seems flippant, defiant, aware of the fact that everyone is watching.
On the other hand, if Kurt was as strung out as all accounts (including Frohman himself) claim, and taken in context with what would transpire mere months later, it is possible that these really are images of a man with his guard down and his back against the wall. As with any life ended in suicide, it’s natural to look back to that person’s actions leading up to their demise and pick each moment apart to try to discern just what went wrong. Kurt Cobain had everything, and the eyes of the world were upon him. While that pressure has been cited as a key factor in his coming unhinged, there’s really no way to know why someone so talented and vital – or why anyone, really – would put a shotgun in his mouth and pull the trigger as if that wouldn’t have an impact on his legacy or the world at large. It’s possible that suicide was the furthest thing from his mind in November when Frohman and Cobain crossed paths, a camera between them. But it doesn’t really matter; at that point, Kurt Cobain’s fate as one of the most iconic musicians in rock-n-roll history was already cemented, with or without his indelible image burned into silver emulsion.
Kurt Cobain: Photographs by Jesse Frohman is on exhibit at The Morrison Hotel Gallery, 124 Prince Street, NYC through April 23rd.

Hole’s Eric Erlandson Talks “Letters To Kurt”

There is one question that every music connoisseur dreads, and though it is often innocently asked, can be astoundingly difficult to answer. It might happen at a party or an intimate dinner gathering, on a first date, or on the fiftieth. But inevitably, as a means of qualifying your musical tastes, future, past, or present, it’s perfectly natural for a friend or acquaintance or romantic interest to casually wonder “What’s your favorite band?”

 For some, the question doesn’t invoke a desperate clamor or sheepish backstory; the answer is permanent and enduring and needs no defense whatsoever. For others, such as myself, it can be a bit more tricky. It’s not that I’d deny my sonic proclivities, but my musical obsessions have been known to shift from one moment to the next. That doesn’t necessarily make my love for any of these acts less deep, but I do end up with a quite a long list of sometimes obscure material that sort of leaves the original query unanswered.
Throughout most of my life, I’ve sort of maintained a Top Three essential acts that I feel provide a definite framework from which most of my musical interests can be gleaned; with these, I try not to mention anything too obscure or recent so as not to alienate anyone or pigeonhole myself. Typically, one or two of these might rotate, but for the last several years my go-tos have included Caribou and Animal Collective, which I don’t think are really much of a stretch in terms of their similarities to one another, and pretty representative of the sort of genres I tend to explore nowadays.
And then there’s my longtime, all time, most favorite band ever, which isn’t like either of the others. As my interests in music have evolved, there’s one constant which so completely informs so many aspects of my personality and my past that it will never be ousted by any other act, no matter how experimental, challenging, or prolific they seem at the time. That band is Hole.
Now, I am fully aware that Hole’s early and mid-nineties contemporaries offered far more in terms of innovation and contribution to the history of what was to become alternative rock, a genre that I hold responsible for my eventual introduction into independent music. But I look to their presence in that movement as a whole to act as a sort of stand-in for so much of what was important to me at that time. They existed at the confluence of grunge and riotgrrl, two forces that offered me a precise blueprint for the way I would form my opinions, express my emotions, and live my life from that time forward; the center of the wheel from which all spokes of my being would radiate. If you think I’m exaggerating, I assure you, I am not. Even my aesthetics as a young artistic hopeful were indelibly shaped by what these bands, and Hole in particular, offered to the world at large.
She warned me it would be this way; I remember the specific moment I heard Courtney’s gravelly premonition: “Someday you will ache like I ache.” I saw her black-and-white heartbreak over the loss of husband and rock idol Kurt Cobain, writhing in crumpled bedsheets each time MTV aired the video that accompanied “Dollparts”. My bad skin thankfully wouldn’t last for the rest of my life, but it ensured I’d never be the prom queen on the cover of Live Through This, an album so blistering and beautiful it felt like the truest thing in my life.
I felt a kinship to Courtney Love, an ugly-ish girl obsessed with vanity and needing to be heard, to be appreciated, to be loved, and able to see the loveliness lurking in hidden, sometimes unattractive places. I watched her trashy glamour transform into Celebrity Skin, a glittering piece of pop-rock perfection with just a bit of a bitter underside. It arrived in an era where girls my age were pimped for Total Request Live, their bare bellies and pouty lips so far from anything I was interested in being or seeing, their horrible songs the last thing I wanted to hear. Instead I pumped “Awful” with a knowing smirk, in on the joke even if no one else laughed with me. Courtney’s impeccable aestheticism in film, music, literature and fashion felt specifically curated for me alone, and it was with her recommendations that I explored cultural boundaries not typically tested by other girls my age.
But I don’t often go into these lurid details when someone asks about my favorite band, for it seems too detailed an explanation. If I align myself with what Courtney once was, I feel I have to amend it these days; she’s become a sad, drug-addled train wreck incapable of her former brilliance as a lyricist, performer, or songwriter, her tastes questionable though at one time I saw her stamp of approval as essential. And I’ve grown out of the need for an idol, especially when that idol has grown into a joke.
One of my biggest regrets is never getting to see the band perform live, never standing before Courtney with her leg propped on the monitors, her skirt hiked up and her guitar swinging brazenly. Her solo releases were kind of pathetic, and last year when she revived the Hole moniker as a desperate means of selling records and concert tickets I only briefly contemplated buying in. It would simply not be the same without Eric Erlandson’s prolific guitar or Patty Schemel’s thunderous drumming, and though she wasn’t an original member, Melissa Auf der Maur’s angelic backup a deft bass seemed essential to the equation as well.
On the eighteenth anniversary of Kurt Cobain’s death, I realized how truly essential these people were. Though I’ve made a pact with myself never to patronize evil bookselling empire Barnes & Noble, I had to make an exception that evening – Eric Erlandson was releasing his book of prose poems, Letters To Kurt, and would be joined in conversation with Melissa Auf der Mar. The discussion was warmly and expertly led by journalist Katherine Lanpher, and I was pleased as punch that Patty Schemel was also in attendance. Through the course of the evening, Erlandson fielded questions pertaining to his writing methods, the hardships he had been through both during his time in Hole and the period after they’d disbanded, and even touched on the state of American economics, politics, and music. The conversation was punctuated by both musical performances from Melissa and Eric as a duet, and readings from Letters to Kurt.
Eric opened with a shimmering banjo solo, joking that Hole had been known for their use of “traditional” instruments; his picking became more urgent and darkly tinged as Melissa introduced and began singing “My Foggy Notion”, a track from her first solo album, Auf der Mar. For later numbers, they would cover Jacques Brel’s “Le Moribund” (better known as “Seasons In The Sun”) and close with The Smiths’ “Paint A Vulgar Picture”, songs chosen for references that had been casually inserted into Eric’s writing but also for the relevancy to the somber anniversary at hand. When Patty Schemel joined the group on stage, the three of them shared memories of the impact of Kurt’s death, and Patty related a beautiful story about the first anniversary of his passing, in which Hole was on tour in Europe. A Parisian youth was waving a fanzine around desperately trying to get the band to read Kurt’s interview within, and Melissa had to translate it from French. It turned out to be a blurb about how much Kurt had loved Hole, foundLive Through This to be a brilliant record, and thought Patty to be an exceptional drummer.
That’s the thing that made the evening (and the work presented) less salacious and more authentic than one might expect – it seems impossible, almost unreal, but these people were there, as an integral part, of music history in its making. They had a hand in writing some of the most dramatic, chaotic and prolific chapters in the story of rock music. But until now, their voices had been drowned out by the loudest, proudest widow of the bunch, who wore her pain on the sleeves of her babydoll dress. Almost two decades later, Erlandson has presented a body of prose work that attempts to approach and possibly relieve the pain that surrounded him and his band, and reproach the mistakes made not only by his muse, but those made by himself as well.
Which brings us to the “letters” contained in Erlandson’s book. They are seething & surreal, hallucinatory free-associations densely packed with metaphor and memory, lifting references from pop culture and self-help manifestos, as incantatory as spells that threaten to rouse old ghosts. He delivered these pieces with a sarcastic snarl, but in reading each short chapter it’s apparent that anger is not the only emotion he is attempting to excise and examine – there is suffering, empathy, sadness, love, wonder, admiration, envy, bitterness – each present in varying hues to different degrees. They feel like relics from another era, and it’s true that not everyone will grasp each inside joke or obscure reference, but that is hardly the point.
Erlandson was handed, by his own admission, two things by Courtney – one that would kill him and one that would save him. The latter refers to his own dark experimentations with drugs, and the former to the Buddhist path he has followed since becoming clean and staying sober. More than anything, Letters To Kurtpresents us with a portrait not of the titular muse but of Erlandson himself and the journey he has been on in the aftermath of rock stardom. The book is evidence of whatever peace he has reluctantly reached, snapshots taken from the path he is still on as a means of coming to terms with the past and meeting the future head-on. He’s finally stepped into the spotlight, however reluctantly, and raised his voice, and the results are captivating.
Like Erlandson, Auf der Mar and Schemel have moved on from Hole but have respects to pay to this period of their lives; Schemel documentary Hit So Hardopens in New York on April 13th, comprised mostly of material shot while touring in the mid-late nineties, and Auf der Mar has recorded a new solo record and is heavily involved in the renovation and reopening of arts and performance space Basilica Hudson in Hudson, NY.
For all the time I spent idolizing Courtney Love, attempting to justify her antics to her detractors and to myself, emulating her bravado and feeling her pain as though it were my own, I realized on this night that so much of what really and truly resonated with me was not her histrionics, but the music itself. That truth had been obscured by her blazing star, and only now, long after that comet trail has faded into oblivion, I was able to see the earnest and authentic people responsible for the true magic which still captivates me to this day. While the front-woman who led them to fame and ultimately destroyed the band was trying to be larger than life, there were always three other band members with their feet on the ground, diligently playing with skill and grace, waiting for a time when their own brilliance would become apparent. I can no longer deny their place in my own journey, but I can thank them for shaping me, and I can share in the pride of their survivals and successes.
You can download my full recording of the conversation HERE.

SHOW REVIEW: Keep Shelly In Athens w/ Jonquil

Keep Shelly In Athens is the awkward appellation of a Grecian duo who value an air of mystery. Named for the neighborhood in Athens in which they live – not a captive friend or lover – vocalist Sarah P and producer RΠЯ have only released a few atmospheric, Balaeric-tinged EPs and handful of remixes made available on soundcloud, but they’ve garnered a huge amount of interest and buzz on the internet and beyond. Their clever production incorporates occasionally hectic, glitchy breaks into otherwise smooth, surreal grooves with dark undertones. Breathy feminine vocals double back over intricate synths and chopped guitar riffs to create haunting textures, and the mesh of styles and tempos comfortably keeps the band from falling too squarely into any category. Keep Shelly has big plans to release a full length sometime this year, and with all the intrigue they’ve generated abroad are striking out on one of their first US tours, which opened Monday night at Glasslands.

I arrived at the venue a few songs into opening act Jonquil’s set and was surprised to see Hugo Manuel at the helm, backed by a full band. If last summer proved anything it’s that I’m a huge fan of Manuel’s solo project, Chad Valley. Under that moniker, he’s released two solid EPs chock full of beachy beats as well as a handful of remixes that in many cases improve the original track by leaps and bounds, all of it in heavy rotation in my iTunes for months and months out of last year. So I’m not quite sure how I missed the fact that he was also the lead singer in a full band. And a good one at that – Jonquil plays an immediate, earnest brand of indie pop tinged with the same tropical elements that make Chad Valley’s production so infectious. In Manuel’s solo work, he uses his voice more as an overarching melodic element, submerging it under echoic or fuzzy effects, dropping it deep into his rhythmic fray. In Jonquil, he lets it soar to its fullest expressive potential, sliding effortlessly into falsetto and back again into its urgent depths, brilliantly complemented by exuberant brass notes from dual trumpets. My parents watch pretty much every vocal competition show on television (though personally I think someone should combine all of these into one show, creatively titled So You Think America Has a Talented Idol Voice With The Stars?) and having seen a few of these by osmosis while visiting I found myself thinking Manuel would totally own any of the contestants that usually get picked for such drivel. Luckily, he’s far more focused on his own creative output. Also, he’s British, so he might be disqualified off the bat.
Keep Shelly In Athens began their set with guitarist Stefano, drummer Angelo, and hooded beatsmith RΠЯ alone on stage. Soft projections behind the band featured what looked like falling leaves, or something caught in a drift – appropriate, given the mood set by their shoegazey instrumental take on some of their remix material. Before long, they were joined on stage by tiny, spritely
vocalist Sarah P, whose hair fell in soft waves over her face. Considering the subtle ebbs and flows of their dreamy releases, their live sound was much more plugged in than I’d expected it to be, creating a moodier atmosphere than is present in their recorded material. It was like being sucked into a whirlpool in all the best ways. And at the bottom of this whirlpool, a glassy-eyed mermaid awaited, cooing and sucking me deeper into the abyss. In this hallucinatory equation, that mermaid was Sarah P, whose voice sparked and burned with with swirling sensuality, while Angelo’s deft drumming and Stefano’s hazy guitar work took turns in the spotlight. Through it all, the mysterious man known as RΠЯ acted as maestro, confidently holding it together with connecting loops, samples, and synths.
For a band who has rarely toured the US and yet garnered so much buzz, one would think a show in Brooklyn at an impeccable venue would have been packed to the rafters (or, in the case of Glasslands, to the tissue paper clouds). The fact that they played on a Monday might be partially to blame for the surprisingly sub-par attendance, not to mention there were a handful of competing acts booked the same evening (SBTRKT, for instance, played just around the corner at Music Hall of Williamsburg). Still, Keep Shelly’s live shows are a great way for such a new band to experiment sonically and cut their teeth on instrumental techniques. It’s exciting to see those wheels turning and to imagine how they’ll incorporate what works into their debut release. Even with the current level of talent and innovation that this band presents, it’s hard to imagine their shows being ignored for very long.
My only caveat with the performance was the closing number, a cover of The Jesus & Mary Chain’s seminal tune “Just Like Honey”. They’d posted their rendition on soundcloud not too long ago, so it wasn’t any surprise that it made the setlist, though I found it a rather disappointing addition. This song is well beloved by pretty much anyone and everyone you know that gives any kind of shit about music, making it kind of obvious in terms of choice for cover. It’s also been given a splendid re-work by Alela Diane side-project Headless Heroes. But KSIA don’t change it up enough to make it interesting, and Sarah’s wilting vocal delivery doesn’t demand any extra attention. After performing such a strong set of original material, no one was about to get even remotely excited for such glaring retread; in fact, because they played the opening verses rather quietly, you could hear the audience talking amongst themselves as if the band had already finished playing. If I could make a career of it, I would do nothing but advise indie bands on which songs they should cover. Even if this job paid but a paltry sum, it would be well worth it in terms of bestowing the world (and myself) with rad remakes of awesome songs. Since the best I can do in the meantime is write show reviews on this blog, I’ve here compiled a short list of songs that Keep Shelly In Athens should consider as replacement for “Just Like Honey”, should any of the band’s members stumble across it.
  1. “Passenger” – The Deftones: This might seem off-the-wall and distastefully nu-metal. But in the wash of horrible rap-metal bands to emerge from the mid-nineties, I will stand by both Around The Fur and White Pony as bastions of technical wizardry, killer vocal work, conceptual originality and oddball sexiness. And you know what? These tracks actually stand the test of time, particularly this gender-bending, possibly bi-curious duet between Chino Moreno and Tool’s Maynard Keenan, a tribute to unmentionable vehicular acts. Keep Shelly In Athens’ touring drummer, Angelo, would have a heyday with this one; his rapid-fire staccato made me look over to the friend whom I attended the show with and say “Shut up and drive.”
  2. “Glory Box” – Portishead: This is probably the obvious Portishead jam to cover. But no one ever covers Portishead, though I can see why. Beth Gibbon’s voice is kind of untouchable. However, Sarah P’s often wry vocal delivery is a good match for pretty much any track in Portishead’s oeuvre, and it’s no challenge to draw parallels between the two acts. They could punch up the production to give the track an original twist and better suit their own style.
  3. “#1 Crush” – Garbage: I have this fantasy that one day a bunch of chillwave bands will re-work the soundtrack to Baz Luhrman’s Romeo + Juliet song for song. Even that lame Everclear song.
  4. “You Oughta Know” – Alanis Morissette: In a rare moment, I was listening to the actual radio while actually driving an actual car, and this song came on. While I had memorized all the words to it long, long ago, that was at a point in my young life where I really had no concept of how embarrassingly vehement the lyrical content of this song truly is. I had not had any lovers at that point in my life and had therefore not been scorned by any lovers, so while I played my Alanis cassette pretty damn often, I really had no way of knowing what she was getting at, even if I wasn’t quite so naïve as to not be aware of what going down on someone in a theater entailed. Now I can say I’ve experienced my fair share of relationships, but none that have ended so badly as the one that prompted Ms. Morissette to air Dave Coulier’s dirty laundry at the top of the pops. Anyway, since hearing this song again, still alive and well on whatever fm frequency I was tuned into that random day, I’ve been obsessed with the idea of hearing some heartbroken version to replace the irate one we’re all so familiar with. Sarah P. could easily deliver a rendition with equal parts snarl and sadness that would have blown the socks off anyone listening.
  5. any other Jesus & Mary Chain song not prominently featured in a Sofia Coppola movie

Baby’s First SXSW: Saturday

Holing up in a bungalow down the street from a yuppie mall had its decided advantages. There was a pool (though it was a bit chilly for swiming, we stuck our sore, swollen feet in more than a few evenings) a decent amount of peace & quiet, a sleepy looking orange cat who was feral but friendly enough to come say hello in the mornings, and proximity to Waterloo Records, where Boise dream pop darlings Youth Lagoon played to packed parking lot. The ephemeral tracks on debut album Year of Hibernation were recorded by 22-year-old Trevor Powers, who on stage hunches over a keyboard and wails earnestly into a microphone, while friends from the bands he’s played in his whole life back him up. Youth Lagoon have played a few NYC shows to much acclaim but I’d been hesitant to check them out, worried that all the bleary wonder of Hibernation would would dissipate, eroded by the boys’ precociousness, but I’m happy to say that it was in no way a detriment. While Hibernation is imbued with a huge but lonely sound, it doesn’t suffer at all in a live setting as I had feared it would. In fact, their faithful renditions and impassioned delivery were a great reminder of what makes Youth Lagoon’s slow-building, languid anthems so fresh and immediate. Maybe all my misgivings were indicative of my disdain for growing older (or feeling older, really), and let’s be real – in New York, I’d probably be surrounded by college undergrads still suffering from acne. Instead, I had the unusual pleasure of being encircled by a diverse audience that even included families with children, illustrating Youth Lagoon’s wide appeal and accessibility. It was a lovely afternoon treat, to be sure.

I headed downtown for the Village Voice showcase at Red Eyed Fly, a bar setup I was now becoming familiar with for its typical Austinness – divey hunting-lodge interior, dusty patio with scraggly trees, cheap Lone Star tallboys. Outside, L.A.-based babes Bleached were setting up. Last October they’d taken CMJ by storm but I hadn’t yet had the pleasure of taking in their fiery, in-your-face garage rock. They blazed through a rollicking set, slaying hearts and eardrums. Fronted by sisters Jessica and Jenn Calvin, Bleached fully satisfies all my riot grrl leanings of years past – they play fun, fast, and loose, in a nonchalantly sexy kind of way, snaring you with their trashed-up brand of eye candy but then proceeding to melt faces.
After a few songs I moseyed inside to see Pyschic Ills. The band’s 2011 release on Sacred Bones, Hazed Dream, sees the band’s culmination as blues-infused stoned-out psych droners. Before a backdrop of thick, raggedy velvet curtains, Brandon Davis’ sprawling keys, and the thudding bass of gothy-romantic Elizabeth Hart, backed the heavily glazed drawl and meandering guitarwork of Tres Warren, clad in grungy denim. By now I was convinced that everything is just louder in Texas. Psychic Ills’ normally mellow vibe was here amped up high enough to blast through concrete, though that wasn’t a huge loss. The highlight for me was sexy slow-burner “I’ll Follow You Through The Floor”, which got treated with a little extra jamming out. Between Bleached and Psychic Ills it was great to get a healthy dose of rock-n-roll from some bands with a more traditional set-up, since it seemed that this year’s acts were largely favoring tables of electronics to actual instruments.
Class Actress also played the showcase, and falls squarely into the former category. While they did have a drummer instead of a machine that played drum sounds, the line-up still hinges on the guy-with-gadgets/charismatic-girl-with-mic dynamic. When I’d first seen them it was just after their inception, opening for Yeasayer. In that time I would say that though their sound has not diverged much from their initial vision they’ve certainly come into their own. Elizabeth Harper’s carefully honed stage persona is nothing short of rock star – she wore mirrored shades the whole time, flitting across the stage, shimmying before the swooning audience as if it were one of her first SXSW performances rather than, by her count, the ninth in five days. She performs as if born to do so; in watching Harper’s flirtatious stage moves you could just as well be watching her do a photo shoot in a fashion magazine. This is a quality she’s always possessed, but she’s grown even more bold in her role not just as singer but as entertainer, never content to be relegated to a position behind the keyboard she mostly ignored throughout the set. The glamour-infused party jams from 2011’s Rapprocher were incredibly well-received by the crowd; it was hard to tell if these folks had just happened onto the scene and become instant converts or if they were long-term fans seeking out the chance to dance along with their idols.
Because Saturday was not just the final day of SXSW but also St. Patrick’s Day, the streets were flooded with a hoard of idiots dressed in green clothing, so I’d had enough of that scene for a while. Besides, Sun Araw and Cloudland Canyon were playing a so-unofficial-it’s-practically-secret gig with some electronic drone and psych bands at the Monofonus Press compound, a crust-punk utopia four miles outside the downtown area in a remote sector of far East Austin. In a maze of salvaged vintage trailers and corrugated tin sculpture was situated a grassy stage. The trees were decorated with blown glass ornaments and rusting basketball hoops. There was an inexplicable pit of abandoned bowling balls, next to which some middle-aged hippies had spread a comfy patchwork blanket on which to mind their unwashed children. Colorful DIY merch was spread on those over-sized spools, as were a pile of free zines, one of which was entitled Cool Magic Tricks for Teens (I snapped that one up immediately). Say what you will about a scene such as this, but after unwittingly absorbing the barrage of marketing campaigns being hurled at me by every corporation with a stake in SXSW, it was nice to be in a space free of advertisements. Not to mention, I got to enjoy the sedated set offered by Cloudland Canyon, whose droning, drowned psych rock I’ve loved since the release of their stunning Requiems Der Natur, a compilation of the Krautrock-influenced vibes they’d explored in the early part of the decade. It had been my plan to arrive in time to catch Sun Araw’s set, but I’d somehow confused the set-times and so only caught the last brilliant moments of a few of their submerged, tropicalia-laced jams.
Cloudland Canyon’s furious knob-twisting resulted in a woozy wave of noise most informed by the sounds on their 2010 release Fin Eaves. The crunchy, skittering synth effects and dense, distorted guitar melodies melded thickly in the balmy air, cascading through the leafy heights of attendant elms. Up in the farthest reaches, Kip Uhlhorn’s insistent moan arced through these saturated compositions, acting more as instrumental component than sonic focus. Uhlhorn’s wife, Kelly, was welcome addition to the band after the departure of longtime collaborator Simon Wojan, her stoic electronic manipulations melding everything together in a terrific wave of lush squall. I was so blissed on their performance I didn’t even whip out my iPhone to snap pics or capture video, as I am often wont to do; the kaleidoscopic magic of the Monofonus compound, bathed in the bubbling, staticky lull provided by Cloudland Canyon, hardly seemed the place for such obtrusive, new-fangled machinations.
A friend of mine I’d not seen in ages suggested we meet at House of Commons, a DIY showspace in a huge house on the University of Texas campus, so I eventually peeled myself from my grassy slumber and headed Northwest. The campus area is pretty revolting even with all the pledges out of town for Spring Break, although not unlike my own experience of the sprawling OSU campus in Columbus. Added to my deja vu and general disgust, the fact that this friend of mine was a no show made me want to get the hell out of there, but I figured I might as well grab some food that wasn’t made in a truck (also a big mistake; I had the most desultory bahn mi I’ve ever eaten)so I started wandering around. I was hearing music coming from somewhere, and it didn’t take so long to figure out it was coming from the back of an Urban Outfitters and the performer was none other my girl Grimes. It was obviously packed to capacity so I grabbed a chair from a nearby patio and craned my neck over the fence with a few others who had been denied at the door. She seemed to have slept in the clothes I’d seen her in last night and was still suffering from vocal strain but as I now KNOW I’ve mentioned before I’m in love with Claire Boucher, so it didn’t matter.
Afterwards, I did poke around HoC a bit, as Cleveland’s HotChaCha was playing. This is a band I’ve already seen far more times necessary, due to the fact that they’re from Ohio and we have some mutual friends. By the time and Jovanna Batkovic and Co. had started bringing their YeahYeahYeahs-esque brand of dance punk around Columbus I was kind of over that scene, but had still admired the talented all-girl line-up for their bravado as well as their skilled playing. Unfortunately, like most things coming out of Cleveland, HotChaCha has deteriorated from their former gloried state as I remember it from my youth. In this somewhat pitiful and desperate incarnation of the band, Jovanna dramatically burned herself with cigarettes and her friend took over the mic at one point to perform an impromptu rap about hipsters. Weird times are still good times, but I’d had enough of both, so it was back to civilization for me.

I decided to do a second round Cheer Up Charlie’s, where Javelin and Teengirl Fantasy were on the bill. To start, I’m not sure what Javelin were doing at SXSW this year; the showcase they’d played two years ago to the day in the exact same location made a lot more sense as that’s when Javelin was really on the rise, making a name for themselves as partytime sound collagists who blend every style from disco to R&B to funk to pop. But they’ve since established quite a reputation for themselves and as far as I know don’t have a new release coming out anytime soon. That’s not to say their presence wasn’t much enjoyed; their live shows are infused with the kind of energy usually seen in daycares where the charges are provided with espresso shots. Cousins George Langford and Tom van Buskirk know how to throw a party, and it’s nice to see them branching out and expanding their talents as musicians (Tom had a guitar on stage, which he told the crowd he was learning to play) while staying true to their DIY junk-shop pop ethos. Shortly into the set, one of the speakers blew, but a quick change-up gave the dudes new life and new excuses to bring the noise. All the improvisational elements of Javelin’s live shows were here as well, from made-up-on-spot verses to a cover of “Sabotage” that Nite Jewel tweeted was the “whitest” thing she’s ever heard, possibly because she forgot that the Beastie Boys, too, are white.

Following up such an animated performance with the same gusto was no small challenge. Oberlin grads Logan Takahashi and Nick Weiss are beatsmiths of the finest order, and though their delivery of tracks from 2010’s 7am was a bit more scaled back it still had the crowd dancing. Like a bottle of cheapish champagne chilled to just the right temperature, TGF popped off tracks like “Cheaters” and “Portofino” with at synths and samples at once glistening and fuzzy. The highlight of the set featured an appearance from vocalist Kilela Mizankristos who brought some serious soul to TGF’s disco pop flourishes.

After the set, I headed to Longbranch Inn to check out Impose Magazine’s final showcase. The venue was running behind schedule, so I walked in on the last of Xander Harris’s droney electronic set. He was followed by Sapphire Slows, a Tokyo-based electronic composer who effectively hides behind a tiny set-up of gadgets and keyboards and shifts around listlessly while reproducing her submerged but polished beats by pushing a bevy of buttons. Layering laconic vocals over her sultry compositions proved an effective means of winning over the audience; I heard one guy repeatedly gushing over how stoked he was to see a female truly deliver on an electronic performance (apparently he didn’t get a chance to see Grimes?). While Sapphire Slows’ rhythms are moody and honed to perfection, there wasn’t much to see in terms of her delivery. She remained pretty stiff, her stare a bit blank, as if trying to remember which knob to twist. It didn’t help that I was surrounded by the tallest audience ever, including a dude well over 6’5” in a Kevin-Arnold style Jets jacket that Paul and Winnie could have also climbed into to camp out in. Every time I thought I’d secured a spot with some decent visibility, some overgrown Austinite would lurch in front of me. I was finally jostled into a corner between a jukebox and the edge of the stage where I could perch while Tearist delivered the most mind-blowing performance I saw all week.

Not knowing much about L.A. band Tearist prior to SXSW, my only expectations were based on a glowing review of a set a friend had caught earlier in the week. Vocalist/feral child Yasmine Kittles stood on stage, tiny in an oversized camouflaged hunting parka with her brown tresses done up in a huge top knot. She carried a large, rusting table fan onto the stage and set it to blowing, tugging her hair down around her face and removing the jacket to reveal a tiny frame clad in black lacy top, leather shorts, and ripped tights. The fan whipped her wildly around wide black eyes lined with black mascara. She howled over a sludgy backdrop of insistent beats and grinding synths produced by her cohort, William Strangeland-Menchaca, her voice deep and resonant. She writhed across the stage as if performing some ritual, lifting her arms up and sweeping them to the floor in one gracious motion. At one moment she was kneeling, at another attempting to climb the Impose-bannered curtains. Throughout the set, Kittles maintained an intensity in her faraway gaze as if the seething masses worshipping her at the foot of the stage were no present, but was also acutely aware of her surroundings, like a caged animal searching for an escape route. The visceral, almost autistic urgency in Kittles’ performance is consistently anchored by the stoic presence of Strangeland-Menchaca, whose rhythms sizzle and pop. They are punctuated by Kittles’ occasional swings at hammered metal box she holds in one hand and attacks with a metallic receiver she holds in the other, the sound coming out somewhere between a clashing clap and electronic thunderbolt. I obviously see a lot of live music, and I’ve seen performances of this nature more than a few times, but there’s simply something about Tearist that is specifically mesmerizing, exciting, and electrifying. With Kittles’ unabashed lack of self control, you’re left to wonder what she’ll do next; its as though she’s suffering some intense rite of passage and every shred of intensity is both turned inward and focused on deliverance outward, like lava flowing from an erupting volcano.

Peaking Lights offered a mellowed change of pace, providing the perfect comedown. While 2009’s Imaginary Falcons was a sublime piece of psych drone, it was last year’s widely acclaimed 936 that broke the band to larger audiences. Hailing from Wisconsin, married couple Indra Dunis and Aaron Coyes meld together swirling, heady notes with dubby 8-tracked beats, forming a narcotic poetry. Looking ever part the opium-den goddess, Indra swayed back and forth, alternately shaking maracas, tickling the keys of a tiny vintage piano, and crooning into her mic, clothed in yellow silks depicting peacocks. Coyes was a more unassuming entity in his jean jacket, manning drum machines and samples with an occasional shake or nod of his head. The set was shortened by the closing of the bar, the show having run way past its 2am end time. While doped-up devotional “Amazing and Wonderful” was sadly missing, the set was an interesting look into what we can expect from upcoming release “Lucifer”, likely to be a bit more playful and perhaps even disco inspired, as their most recent mixtape indicates.
Though Longbranch had let the band keep playing beyond last call, once the last beats faded the lights came up and the bartender shouted, “That’s it, folks… South by Southwest is over, thank fucking God!” I’m guessing it gets pretty grating on locals to have thousands of hard-drinking, heavy-partying music fans descend on your otherwise quiet, quirky little patch of dirt, even if they are stimulating your local economy and putting you on the map in the most innovative tech, music and film circles.

I had to go meet up with my posse, who were at that time witnessing the now infamous Vice party in which Trash Talk prepped their wily fans to turn A$AP Rocky’s set into an all-out brawl. I waited patiently while a throng of disbelieving revelers trudged out of the venue and into the dust, likely as exhausted from all the insanity as I was. Nothing lasts forever, as they say, and though I’d missed my opportunity to see more than a handful of acts I’d really been looking forward to catching, I was walking away having seen over thirty bands in the space of four days. My phone had no remaining memory for photos or videos. I’d earned eight badges in fourSquare. Including transportation and lodging, I’d spent less that $400 bucks. And I’d be back to do it all again next year, no doubt.

Baby’s First SXSW: Friday

Friday dawned with a frenetic anxiety brought on by the odd sensation that all of the fun I was having was coming to an end. From a pessimistic point of view, my time in Austin was half over. Though I’d not totally squandered the preceding days the list of bands I wanted to see still seemed a mile long. I tried to be positive, reminding myself of the two golden days that remained, and with serious fervor began to check those bands off the list.

First, the RhapsodyRocks party at Club DeVille. The line-up was great, but comprised mostly of bands I’d seen once or twice. However, the internet radio-sponsored showcase was also throwing around free beer, beer coozies, sunglasses, and cowbells, so that increased my desire to stick around.
I’d caught Tanlines most recently at last October’s CMJ, where they’d debuted a lot of new material. Again, most of the set list was comprised of songs from the Brooklyn duo’s recently released album Mixed Emotions, and not only are Eric Emm and Jesse Cohen growing more comfortable with these tracks, their pride in this latest work is readily apparent.
I hadn’t seen Washed Out since the previous summer and, much like Tanlines, know Ernest Greene to reliably deliver a great show. It had been almost two years since I’d seen Zola Jesus, during which time she’d released her most outstanding material, so I was psyched for her contribution to the showcase. BUT I also knew that over at the Mess With Texas warehouse, Purity Ring would be gearing up for a set I couldn’t miss. I’d been dying to see them since their release of two amazing singles “Ungirthed” (w/ b-side “Lofticries”) and “Belispeak” but I hadn’t been able to to make it to their last NYC performances. I couldn’t resist; all I could do was hope that I’d make it back in time for Zola.
Purity Ring’s lyrically morbid but insanely catchy pop songs are constructed with two basic building blocks: Megan James’ lilting, slightly coquetteish vocals, and the production of Corrin Roddick, who in a live setting mans a table of percussive lights and electronic devices. While I was definitely starting to see this delegation of music making responsibility repeated in band after band, Purity Ring went a few steps further with the addition of a captivating light show that took place before brightly-hued red, orange and teal curtains. The backdrops are illuminated by spotlights, turning James and Roddick into ghostly silhouettes. James is in charge of pounding an elevated bass drum at dramatic intervals, and as she does so, it lights up like a full moon. She also swings a mechanic’s utility light around her head, though in a controlled rather than erratic fashion. But most impressive are the tiered lights which respond to taps and tones within the songs, framing Roddick’s mixing table. They shift from red to purple to blue to yellow to orange, glowing through the crowd like psychedelic fireflies attempting to attract the trippiest mate.
While all of this was exciting to watch, the songs were the real draw. Purity Ring has kept their material close to the chest, selectively releasing only three songs thus far and not a note more. I had to know if they could keep up the seething momentum those infectious pop gems had created long enough to release an album that wasn’t just filler, and I have to say that I was not disappointed. Each offering was carefully constructed, mysterious yet up-tempo enough to dance to, and not just an extension of the sound they’d already built such buzz on, but a perfect showcase for their strongest assets. There’s no release date set for the Canadian duo’s full-length LP, but if the SXSW performances are any indication we can expect more enigmatic lyrics layered with deceptively joyous melodies and a healthy dose of R&B-influenced bounce.
At this point, Zola Jesus was just beginning her set back at Club DeVille, but again I was faced with a dilemma. Over at the Hotel Vegas compound, BrooklynVegan was hosting a noteworthy showcase of their own, and two bands I had yet to see were slated for the afternoon – Craft Spells and Tennis.
Hotel Vegas is comprised of two small conjoined lounges, one of which is named Cafe Volstead and has some really swanky taxidermy mounted on equally swanky wallpaper. As part of the takeover, BrooklynVegan had also erected an outdoor stage, upon which snappy London-based foursome Django Django were banging out an energetic, joyful set, wearing eccentrically patterned shirts reflective of their generally quirky pop. It might have been the mixing but the live set seemed to be lacking some of the more creative percussion and synth techniques present in the band’s popular singles “Waveform” and “Default”.  The songs came across as pretty nonchalant, summery pop a la The Beach Boys, whom the band has often drawn comparisons to.
Meanwhile, Inside Hotel Vegas, the dark and pounding rhythms of Trust were a stark contrast to the daylight scorching the earth outside. I’d seen Robert Alfons perform solo under his Trust moniker as opening act for Balam Acab last November, and the set was pretty similar despite having some additional band members this time around. Alfons grips the mic and leans toward the audience as though he is begging an executioner for his life. His vocals sound like they’re dripping down the back of his throat, which I mean in a good way; in a higher register that same voice can sound nasal, though even then it’s often tempered by the pummeling beats that typify Trust’s music. What I find really fascinating about Trust is that while these jams have all the glitz and grunge of 90’s club scorchers, Alfons consistently looks as if he’s just rolled out of bed without bothering to comb his hair or change his sweatpants. Circa 1995, if you heard these songs on the radio you could pretty much assume they were made by muscular men in tight, shiny clothing and leather, or at least some guy wearing eyeliner. It’s not necessarily true that a vocalists’ style has any import on the music itself, and let’s face it, not everyone can be the dude from Diamond Rings. But I find myself a little worried about Alfons; he looks like he’s going to slit his wrists in a bathtub the second he walks off stage, and given the caliber of the songs on debut LP TRST, that would really suck.
Trust’s set was dank and sludgy in all the right ways, so I almost forgot it was mid-afternoon; I emerged from the dark revery to see Denver-based husband-and-wife duo Tennis setting up. Joined by two additional musicians on drums and synths, Alaina Moore and Patrick Riley were picture-perfect; Alaina’s tiny frame exploded in a poof of feathery hair and her tall, hunky husband looked like he would put down his guitar any second and hoist her in his beefy arms. It’s not hard to imagine these two as Prom King & Queen. Their sophomore albumYoung and Old, out now on Fat Possum Records, shows quite a growth spurt from 2011’s Cape Dory, an album mainly concerned with breezy, beachy anthems (it was inspired by a sailing trip the couple took). Both thematically and lyrically, Tennis have shored things up without losing their pop sensibilities. Their set was shortened by a late set-up but toothache sweet, mostly drawing on songs from the new record and closing with a lively rendition of lead single “Origins”.
Craft Spells played amidst the glassy-eyed mounted animals of Cafe Volstead, and I was beyond excited to see them play. I’ve followed the band since they began releasing singles in 2009 and was thoroughly pleased with last year’s Idle Labor, which included updates of those early demos and drew upon them to create a cohesive 80’s-inspired synth-pop gem. Craft Spells nimbly translated the buoyant feel of favorites like “You Should Close The Door” and “Party Talk”; heavy-lidded crooner Justin Vallesteros seemed less the sensitive, socially awkward recluse implied by some of his more heartsick lyrics, fearlessly surveying the crowd and blissfully bopping to his own hooky melodies. The boyish good looks of all four bandmates had at least one lady (me) swooning in the audience, wanting to somehow smuggle them out of the venue in my pockets.
I was right down the street from Cheer Up Charlie’s, a brightly painted heap of cinder blocks hunched in a dusty lot on E 6th where electronic mastermind Dan Deacon would soon be unpacking his gadgetry. First, I stopped at an adjacent food truck trailer park and ate what I deemed “Best SXSW Sandwich” – The Gonzo Juice truck’s pulled pork roast with carrot slaw, gobs of schiracha cream sauce, and spicy mustard piled on (what else?) Texas Toast. This obviously isn’t a food blog, but as I sat at the crowded picnic table I had a definite SXSW moment; across from me some guys were talking about shows they’d played earlier and shows they were playing later in the week. I sat there reveling in deliciousness and simultaneously trying to figure out what band they were in based on venues and time slots. While for most part everyone SXSW is in nonstop party mode, many of the musicians play two and sometimes three sets a day, and then find time to go to their friends’ shows. And despite all of the gear they have to haul and strained vocal chords and hangover headaches, these guys talked excitedly about contributing to that experience. Not that I didn’t before, but I really found myself appreciating that energy and enthusiasm; the passion and drive of the musicians who come to Austin this particular week in March is the biggest factor as to why SXSW is so exhilarating.

Speaking of enthusiasm, if you’ve ever seen Dan Deacon live then you’re well aware of the level of energy necessary to survive one of his sets (and if you haven’t, seriously, what are you waiting for?). Deacon’s densely layered electronic arrangements provide a backdrop for the zany activities that he introduces between the songs. His instructions can include interpretive dance contests, high fives, mimicry, and sometimes chanting. He’ll either divide the audience into specific sections or ask the audience to make a circle, introduces a concept, and then pretty much everyone joins in the fun, because the main draw of a Dan Deacon show is the wacky outcome of hipster pretentiousness falling away. Deacon does this at every show, making the antics typical by now, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t fun, because in all of us there is this hyperactive five-year-old who just wants to eat a bunch of candy and jump around forever and ever, and these shows cater to that exuberant inner child. He has a knack for turning an audience from spectators into participants, and with the shift from the traditional singer-guitar-drummer-bassist band model into a more experimental, electronic-driven realm, where it’s sometimes just one guy on stage with a computer, being able to do that is paramount. Though Deacon is normally backed by multiple drummers and a bevy of live musicians, one unique aspect of this particular performance was that Deacon was flying solo, so it’s a good thing he’s been honing his audience involvement skills for a long time. He didn’t even perform on the stage provided, but in the pit of dust with everyone crowding around him – the bizarro ringleader of an impromptu circus. While Deacon claimed to hate playing SXSW, no one saw true evidence of such – he seemed rather like he was enjoying himself. He introduced some new material, which was promising considering the fact that his last release, Bromst, is by now three years old. His next release, a first on new label Domino, is slated to drop sometime this year.

I was pretty excited about the awesome acts lined up for The Hype Machine’s crazy “Hype Hotel” endeavor. I’m not sure what the space is normally used for, but they seemed to have a good thing going in the mid-sized building; there was often a line to get inside that stretched around the block. I’d RSVP’d and was particularly excited for that evening’s show – Neon Indian opening for Star Slinger, guaranteed to result in an insane dance party. Unfortunately, RSVPing didn’t matter since by the time I went to pick up my gimmicky little “key card” and wristband, they’d run out, and I was therefore shit out of luck. Since trying and failing to get into the Jesus & Mary Chain show the night before had taught me a valuable lesson about not wasting time at SXSW, I shrugged my shoulders about it (it helped that I’d already seen both acts prior to SXSW) and decided to choose from one of the 2,015,945,864,738 other bands playing.

One of those bands was Nite Jewel, Mona Gonzalez’s solo project fleshed out by a couple of guys and a badass lady drummer. I’ve remained sort of undecided about whether I really like Nite Jewel’s music; though the dreamy pop songs are not in and of themselves particularly divisive, the music sometimes falls flat for me. I’ll listen for a minute, ask myself if I really like it, think that I do, decide that I don’t, turn it off, then inevitably revisit it. But there are two reasons I’m siding in favor of Nite Jewel once and for all. For one thing, her newest record One Second Of Love is brimming with sublime pop nuggets that amplify all the best aspects of Mona’s tunes. There’s still a dreamy minimalist quality, but the songs are less lo-fi and more straightforward, more accessible. The second reason I’m now an official Nite Jewel fan is that her show was fantastic. Part of the eclecticWax Poetics bill, Mona rocked the line-up with cutesy energy and just the right amount of kitsch. She danced around next to her keyboards like the heroine of an eighties movie might dance alone in her bedroom, and that’s really the quality that imbues all the tracks on her latest offering, and the biggest draw in listening to them. Since the equipment set up had taken a little longer than expected, her set was short, though to her credit Mona begged the sound tech to let her keep going, reminding him that “They’re pop songs they’re short”. While it’s true that these inspired bursts of affection issue forth in a gauzy blur, they are far from simple pop songs, driven by her distinct personality and sound.

On my way to meet up with Annie at the S.O. Terik showcase in the the neighborhood, I had to stop by Status Clothing, a 6th Street storefront where 9-year old phenom DJ BabyChino was on the turntables. Billed as the World’s Youngest DJ, BabyChino is nothing if not adorable, dressed like many of his forebears in the requisite urban garb but in much, much smaller sizes, and sporting large, plastic-rimmed glasses on his shaved head. He’s Vegas-based but has toured the world, though he had to stand on a raised platform just to reach his turntables and laptop. Every once in a while, he’d mouth the words to the old school hip-hop he was spinning, elevating his badass status but still made me want to say “awww”, which is something I’ve not said of any other DJ, performer, or producer, ever. He drew quite a crowd of gawkers, and because most of them were watching from outside the glass windows of the storefront I started wondering if this little guy felt less like a DJ and more like a taxidermied antelope at the Museum of Natural History. I also wondered at what age BabyChino will want to drop the “baby” from his name, and will make his mom stop leaving notes in his lunchbox.

I wandered far down Red River into the woodsy area between downtown proper and the river, filled with leafy, down-home bars. As I meandered about, looking for some friends I was meeting up with, I heard Gardens & Villa performing “Orange Blossom” at one of the bars. This song gives me shivers of springtime joy; Gardens & Villa is one of those bands I kind of ignored for a while, not for any reason other than I simply can’t hear everything, but at this point I’m super excited for their debut record to drop and was really hoping to catch one of their sets while in Austin. My timing was perfect in that regard but I honestly couldn’t figure out which bar they were playing or how to get in to see them. I had a decent-ish view from the street, even if my short stature made seeing over the fence difficult. I could hear the band just fine and their sound was spot on. However, since this set up made me feel like a weirdo stalker and I had promised to meet up with my posse, I moved on.
Clive Bar had a sprawling multilevel patio that is probably very nice when there aren’t bands squished awkwardly into a tiny area making it impossible to view the stage and impossible to move through the cramped crowd. Because Annie is the shit and had a raw hookup we hung out in this “Green Room” area that was really more of a log cabin bungalow to the side of the stage. A really gnarly painting of a nude lady with a rabbit’s head was mounted on the ceiling; all around her were bunnies in various stages of Boschian copulations but rendered in a comic-book style. We slugged beers in this secret, magical little den while New Build played their poppy indie jams. Everything New Build does sounds like it could be soundtracking some cheesy movie – whether it’s funky 70’s espionage flicks or 80’s roadtrip rom coms. I don’t know if that’s really a bad thing, especially since they tackle that task with flair and aplomb. But I also have to admit that I wasn’t paying a lot of attention, mesmerized as I was by all the bunny sex going on in the painting above my head, and the two semi-obnoxious girls arm-wrestling because (I guess) they thought it would impress whatever dudes were around. Plus, New Build are some pretty unassuming dudes; they all wore nondescript tees in neutral colors, sported prerequisite beards (not that you’ll ever hear me complain about a beard), and gave the impression that they were there solely to play some songs in as understated a fashion as possible. Which they did.

When Grimes took the stage we were able to stand in the photo bay, giving us a great view of the bizarro-pop goddess. Maybe I should mention that I have a total girlcrush on Claire Boucher (if I haven’t already elsewhere on this blog), a crush which (dark)bloomed last summer when I saw her open for Washed Out. Unfortunately Boucher was not having a good night – the equipment at the venue was half-busted, and her voice was fast disappearing with the strain of singing in showcase after showcase, making it difficult for her to hit the falsettos omnipresent in her tunes. She swore a lot, but she was the only one who truly seemed to mind all the technical difficulties – everyone else was enthralled by her, dance-marching in her futuristic get-up, tucking her mic between her shoulder and her cheek while twisting knobs or plinking keyboard notes. While I want to keep Grimes and her quirky woodland-sprite magic all to myself, I’m glad everyone is as head over heels for her as I am, because she is a true artist. The second you write her off as some half-baked weirdo, she throws out some deep metaphysical theme, or else she’s chronicling her difficulties with intimacy in a way that’s every bit as real and accessible as someone who’s half as cool. I could go on, but I’m already embarrassing myself.

 

 

 

Since I was working on my own death cough it was time to call it a night. My final day in Austin was upon me, and I’d finally redeemed myself, in the nick of time.

Baby’s First SXSW: Thursday

Tucked between the bustle of E 6th and some seemingly deserted train tracks was the South by Southwest nexus of Fader Fort and a converted warehouse identified only by its address at 1100 E. 5th, which would host an array of bands under the daring header “Mess With Texas”.  I was especially grateful for the stellar lineup sponsored by a slew of vendors, since I’d somehow tragically forgotten to RSVP for Fader Fort.  The Mess With Texas showcases were set to span three days and featured impressive rosters in both their day parties and their nighttime extravaganzas, with the venue shutting down midday.  There was an outdoor space buffeting the huge warehouse floor which was equipped with massive, pounding amps.  I don’t know if it’s just the necessity of drowning out all the bands other than the one you’re actually seeing, but I want to take a moment to note how extremely loud every single showcase I saw was.  I mean, I could feel my hair follicles vibrating at some of these shows.

I felt guilty for missing Tycho’s set the night before so I planted myself beneath the awning of the outdoor stage, determined not to miss these boys this time.  I was slightly disappointed, however, that due to the stage configuration the songs would not be accompanied by Scott Hansen’s gorgeous projections, which I’d been looking forward to seeing firsthand.  Even without the visuals, Tycho bathed the crowd in a lush soundscape.  Just as we settled into the dense, intoxicating layers, the speakers blew and silence fell.  Apparently this had  happened to Tycho earlier in the week, which only proves my assertion that no eardrum in Austin was safe from the incredible volume SXSW venues unleashed.  It didn’t take long for the band to get it together and the encouraging crowd didn’t seem to mind the temporary snafu, falling right back into the sway.  Despite the blazing sun beating on our shoulders, watching Tycho felt like being cleansed.  Atmospheric, breezy guitar tones moved across my skin, anchored in Zac Brown’s elastic bass chords and the sensual beats provided by drummer Rory O’Connor.  I let my vision blur out of focus, tilted my head back to the sky, and let the serene sounds saturate my senses.
Once Tycho’s set ended, I moved inside to escape the sun and (more importantly) to catch a few songs from indie darlings Girls.  The incredible stage set-up included four band members as well as a coterie of boisterous back-up singers who did double-duty hyping up the audience.  Flowers adorned the mic stands, reminiscent of so many altars and therefore drawing parallels between the players on stage and religious deities.  I’d never seen Girls play live, and quite honestly never understood all the hype behind what I considered to be pretty run-of-the-mill garage rock.  I know everyone is constantly losing their shit over the latest Girls releases, but for some reason none of the material ever really resonated with me.  I can’t say that a venue this cavernous and filled with questionably shirtless bros was the ideal introduction, but in terms of their playing I can at least begin to see what all the fuss is about.  There’s a compelling, vulnerable nature to the way Christopher Owens sings; this is true even at moments where the guitars burst explosively and the theatrics reach their greatest heights.  “Vomit”, the band’s signature single, was a perfect example of this phenomenon, as it erupted with particular ferocity and brought the adoring crowd to its knees.
At some point (the point at which I tried to buy an overpriced Heinekin) I realized I’d left my ID in the pocket of last night’s outfit.  Worried I would be denied entrance to any other showcases I tried to attend, I actually braved the crazy traffic to drive across town and retrieve it, hoping I’d make it back to the warehouse in time to see Cults.  I arrived about halfway through their set but was absolutely tickled with what I saw.  I’ve followed Cults since they began anonymously posting demos on bandcamp in the spring of 2010, but had somehow missed every single performance the Brooklyn-based band had played.  The set lived up to all my expectations.  It was sweltering inside the warehouse, the midday heat having turned it into an oven.  So it was hard to imagine how Brian Oblivion and Madeline Follin, both sporting hairdos that would made Cousin It look positively bald, held up under such intense temperatures.  But they seemed unfazed, running through favorites such as “Oh My God” “You Know What I Mean” and “Go Outside” with smiling faces and cutesy bopping.  Madeline’s vocals sounded sublime and the band perfectly replicated the 60’s girl group vibe that made their 2011 self-titled debut such a standout.
There was plenty on the menu in terms of shows that evening; Of Montreal and Deerhoof made one of a handful of what were probably noteworthy and fun appearances.  I would have loved to see Das Racist, Dirty Beaches, or Zola Jesus, for a second (or third) time, and I was dying to catch Cleveland noise pop outfit Cloud Nothings.  While all provided great options for ways to spend my second night in Austin, I could think of nothing but this: at the Belmont that evening, Jesus and Mary Chain were slated to perform around midnight.  In my obsession with getting into this packed, badge/wristband/ticket only show, I committed one of the cardinal sins of SXSW.  No band, no matter how rare or epic the appearance, no matter how important to you in terms of influence or admiration, should cause you to wait around in a huge line with no hope of entry into the venue, thus forgoing the chance to see any one of a number of other of bands; even if your secondary choices don’t compare to the actual experience of seeing the prolific band in question, almost anything is better than standing around waiting for nothing to happen and missing out on a host of other opportunities.  I did put in a brief appearance at 512 for Young Magic’s rooftop set, which was thrillingly luxurious.  A sumptuous rendition of “Night In The Ocean” featured reverb drenched male and female vocals twining around its incantatory chorus.  But I couldn’t get my mind off the possibility of seeing Jesus & Mary Chain.

After a few frantic texts, the idea of watching the show from the parking garage across the street was bandied about and that’s eventually where we found ourselves.  In all honesty, I was content with the set-up, as we had a perfect view of the stage and again, thanks to the punishing volume at which all venues set their amps, could hear Titus Andronicus’s set perfectly.  If I didn’t hold that band in such disdain I would have been nearly ecstatic, but I do totally think they’re overblown and pretentious and I was tired and still a little bummed, knowing that this was all a fool’s paradise.

Jesus & Mary Chain ripped through their first few numbers in a sonic blast that would have reached us even if our little perch had been blocks away rather than across the street.  Unfortunately, we saw all of about three songs before a group of crusty idiots totally blew our cover and got us promptly kicked out by a surly security guard.

Defeated and dejected, we trudged back to the Mess With Texas warehouse, where turntable.fm was hosting a slew of DJs in an elaborate promotion for the site, which allows users to DJ for their friends and random strangers alike in private chatrooms loosely based around a genre or theme.  When turntable.fm first launched I spent an amusing evening in one of these chat rooms with my roommates and some of their coworkers, as well as some friends of ours back in Ohio.  It seemed a novel way to share new tunes with old buddies, though my interest in doing so had since tapered off.  I wasn’t a high school sophomore anymore, you know?  I spend enough time in front of a computer as it is without haunting chat rooms, waiting for my chance to blow minds with some new Clams Casino track.  I decided to start a blog instead.
I’m not sure if many of the other attendees had had similar experiences with turntable.fm but if they had not, they were certainly introduced to its interface that evening.  Diplo stood center stage but was flanked by dancers shuffling around in over-sized Japanime-style animal heads meant to mimic the avatars available to users on turntable.fm.  There was also a table full of paper avatar masks right at the door, presumably for guests to wear as a means of creeping each other the fuck out.  Huge screens showed a cute little animated version of Diplo spinning.  It was kitschy and sort of fun, but also kind of over-the-top.  At SXSW you’re constantly being marketed to, and sometimes its nice to have things like the music to focus on to forget that.  Turntable.fm was not going to let you be distracted by a silly-old real-life DJ like Diplo.  Actually, I’m pretty sure the man has some kind of investment in the whole project, but still.
Diplo spun classics like MIA and Ginuwine and spent a lot of time getting an already rowdy crowd pumped up into a delirious craze.  I saw some truly raunchy dance moves and if I’d been a little drunker probably would have joined in, but I was still feeling like an idiot over the whole Jesus & Mary Chain debacle.  I vowed that Friday would be a day of redemption; I’d see so many bands my eyeballs would fall out of my skull.  I’d shake my tail feather furiously to Star Slinger and Neon Indian’s Hype Hotel DJ sets.  I’d reserve my energy tonight and tomorrow collapse from exhaustion if that was what it came down to.  Who was I kidding?  I’m getting older and was already a bit exhausted; I could feel a sore throat coming on.  No matter! I shouted bravely to myself.  These shows will go on, and I’m gonna try to see damn near all of them.
 

Baby’s First SXSW: Wednesday

From the onset of my journey to Austin, my head had been swimming with all the possibilities – bands to see, things to do, drinks to drink. I arrived Tuesday night but didn’t venture downtown into all the action until Wednesday. There was an array of great bands playing a day party at Red 7 but since they didn’t have free beer we only stuck around for a few of La Sera’s songs. Katy Goodman, formerly of Vivian Girls, is as adorable as you’d expect, with her sweet voice and long red tresses. She brings assured pop sensibility to any stage, and the hooks kept coming. But hunger and alcoholism won out and we haunted Jackalope’s for the next hour, guzzling free Coors and eating veggie burgers topped with non-veggie bacon. There were bands playing inside but they were not of the sort that was more interesting that sitting in the sun on the patio.

 A friend of mine really wanted to see Lee Fields & the Expressions, and though I’d admittedly never heard of the group, was happy to tag along. We crossed I-35, stepping into a a completely different world from the chaos of downtown. The East Side of Austin is full of quirky dives and smartly dressed youths. Before heading over to Shangri-La’s, we stopped at a little booth just under the highway to try our hands at a little knife throwing. This booth also enthusiastically sold shots of whatever liquor you preferred, and only shots. Throwing knives are not as sharp as you think they’re going to be, and it’s surprisingly easy to get the hang of once you get your mind off the fact that you are throwing a knife and just let it fly (the shots really help with that). After a few tries I actually sunk one, and found myself wondering if, upon my return to Brooklyn, I could swing a set-up in the tiny cement patch I like to call a backyard. Then maybe the awful neighbors in the building next to mine would grow to fear me, and actually shut up when politely yelled at or stop tossing their trash and human waste into my air shaft.
By the time we entered the dimly lit dive of Shangri-La’s most of my ass-kicking warrior visions had subsided. Los Angeles band White Arrows were playing beneath green fluorescent lights, their psych-tinged pop rippling through the tiny space. Their new material seems to take a cue from calypso and Afro-pop fusion acts a la Vampire Weekend, abandoning the overwrought vocal-heavy dance funk that typified their self-titled 2010 EP. It will be exciting to hear their full-length follow-up to the “Get Gone” single, slated for release sometime this year.
Outside, The Expressions had already begun to warm up with a few songs sans vocalist Lee Fields. After a glowing introduction, he unassumingly walked on stage in baggy jeans and a simple t-shirt, but the voice that issued from this man belonged in the sequined jumpsuits of James Brown. He may not have been one of the buzz acts of SXSW 2012, but Fields has been singing since the 70’s, having cut a few singles in that decade but never releasing a full album until the late 90’s when he hooked up with Leon & Jeff of the Expressions. The recent interest in soul and funk revival acts like Sharon Jones & The Dap-Kings led to the recording and release of 2009’s My World and his newest, Faithful Man, out on Truth & Soul Records. Fields is a versatile recording artist, swinging effortlessly between soul, blues, and funk; his voice is timeless, powerful, and emotive. A consummate performer, he had the audience dancing, chanting, and clapping, but did so effortlessly, making it look easy as only a veteran performer can do. Standout tracks included classics “Ladies” and “Honey Dove” and the appropriately titled “I Still Got It”. Yes you do, Lee, yes you do.
After the enlightening set it was time to hunt down my fellow AudioFemme, who I spotted sitting on a grassy knoll at 5th & Neches. We headed down to Club DeVille for the Ghostly International showcase, catching the end of Chrome Sparks’ set. Chrome Sparks is the pseudonym of Jeremy Malvin, a Philadelphia native studying percussion in Ann Arbor, where his path crossed with Ghostly label founders. He looked every bit the college boy, with his hair close-cropped and his snugly-fitted polo, sheepishly blending vocal snippets and orchestral loops over gleaming synths and quirky beats. By the time he closed with heater “Soul & <3” from his self-produced debut My <3 (available on Bandcamp) he had fully won over the audience.
Mux Mool (aka producer and DJ Brian Lindgren) followed, exuding laid-back cool, confidently bobbing his head to beats he knew would get the audience moving. The crowd obliged with rapt attention to his technical mastery; with each twist of the dials on the equipment before him it was as though he was winding up the audience. Eschewing the glitchy effects of his older material for the more expansive vibe present on recently released Planet High Schoolwas a smooth move indeed, and well received. “Mux” is a shortened form of the term multiplexing, which describes the ability to filter multiple streams of information through one channel, and that term perfectly captures the strengths of Lindgren’s compositions and their translation to a live stage – he takes turns showcasing each element of a track, highlighting chunky beats at once and then turning up synths, uninterested in the dull habits of other beat-makers who simply allow the same loops to build to frenzy and expect reaction based solely on the anticipation of a drop you knew was coming from a mile away. It’s the difference between telling and showing – Mux Mool goes beyond narrator into the realm of true storytelling, where the songs act as paragraphs written in his own pulsating language.
After so much electronic stimulation, it was time for a bit of a change. Choir of Young Believers provided such, the group seven members large including a lovely red-headed cellist. Their brand of moody, swirling dream pop was only slightly cheered up for the showcase, hinting at a bit of folkiness but drawing on the orchestral drama that gives their newest album, Rhine Gold,its unique quality. Tied together by lead singer and group founder Jannis Noya Makrigiannis’s arcing, soulful vocals were elements of big-band brass, soaring strings, mournful saxophones, and glistening keys, each lending opulent vibes to the band’s set.
Shigeto was up next. The stage full of musicians was replaced by Zac Sagninaw, whose moniker comes from his middle name and his rich Japanese heritage. While his recorded material is delicate and introspective, his live shows are kinetic. Not content with the removed rhythms of a drum machine, Shigeto climbs behind an actual drum set and goes wild. It’s hard to give drummers their due; though they’re largely responsible for the listener’s most visceral connection to a song they’re tucked away behind the rest of the band. Shigeto has found a way to remind us of the importance of a thumping drum solo, and his skill with a kit is mind-blowing. People around me were gasping as we watched his sticks fly. I felt as though I was watching a hummingbird, trying to freeze-frame wings that move so fast they blur and become invisible.
It was around this time that I received a text from a friend notifying me that A$AP Rocky was playing at Annex and despite highly anticipated sets from Tycho and Com Truise, I knew I had to see the Mob’s set. The line was surprisingly short but inside it was packed with a pretty eclectic audience. There were a dozen or so people on stage, most of them shirtless but for heavy gold chains. A$AP made his influences clear, sampling The Diplomats and Wu-Tang, and delivered his characteristically woozy verses with youthful energy. His swag was in full effect as he flashed his blinding grill and looked as if he was truly having a blast. The audience was right there with him, raising hands and waving arms, carrying performers as they dove from the stage and into the crowd. It was an amazing end to my first night at SXSW; I emerged from the masses covered in other people’s sweat, helped myself to a late-night cheesesteak from a food cart, and mentally prepared myself to do it all again the next day.

Baby’s First South by Southwest: An Introduction

I’m staring at a computer screen, my eyes bleary, my bones aching. We’ve stopped in a hotel in someplace called Arkadelphia at 3AM to get a few hours rest before continuing our drive. It’s Sunday, and South by Southwest has just ended, queuing our departure from Austin, Texas. Tomorrow we’ll continue the journey to Ohio, where I’ll spend a few days doing absolutely nothing with my parents, and it will feel great after the glut of free shows, free beer, free food, and general debauchery that made up my first year at SXSW.

For now, I’m just trying to wrap my head around the whole of it. After having decided I would have to miss it again this year, things kept falling into place and suddenly there I was, standing on Texas soil, a balmy breeze ruffling my hair, wild with curls in the humidity. The week flew by in a blur and now all that remains is a sore throat and indelible tinnitus, a few LPS and some free beer cozies.
I can’t say that I didn’t have expectations for the week. Some of them held up and some of them didn’t. I knew I wouldn’t get to see all of the showcases I had initially planned to attend, though all told I probably wound up missing only a few acts I really would have loved to see. I found myself constantly having to choose – do I go to Club DeVille for Pictureplane or Flamingo Cantina for Tennis? – and making decisions based on whether I’d already seen the bands in NYC, how epic I thought the performances would be, if the RSVP policy would be lax enough to sneak past the gate, whether I’d have to brave the morass of 6th Ave, and how many points I’d get on FourSquare for checking into a new venue. Oh, and whether or not I could drink for free once I got there.
I didn’t really get the hang of it until midweek, by which time I was cramming in at least seven performances a day, catching free Chevys and dodging pedicab drivers like I was born to do it. But some of the best moments came early in the week, when my lack of SXSW know-how introduced me to the whole shebang in a more relaxed manner and I let everything come to me instead of breaking my neck to take in all I could. Those moments included a jamboree with some neighbors who sang Buddy Holly’s “Everyday” by my request, a family BBQ way East of the action (I had to ride in the back of a pickup truck full of gear to get downtown afterward), learning to throw knives, peacock spotting, and three very random conversations I had as I juiced my phone at the Whole Foods solar charging station.
meeting the locals
During one of those conversations, I pondered with a fellow blogger as to whether SXSW could really happen in any other city. The answer we came up with was an unequivocal NO. It’s not a big town, but its size is to its advantage; it makes it walkable, bikeable, accessible. The weather is gorgeous (or at least was the week I was in town) and its residents incredibly accommodating and personable. But the feature of Austin that really makes it uniquely suited to a festival like SXSW is that it pulses – practically every bar has a patio, which means practically every bar has the potential to host two and sometimes three bands at once. You can walk through almost any part of town and hear music happening all around you, coming from every direction. As you walk down the street, there are buskers, puppeteers, old men with fiddles and accordions and bongos performing in the middle of the street, school buses converted into mobile venues, storefronts housing DJs, and on and on and on. Literally everywhere you look, someone is vying for the chance to entertain you. While it seems like this would be overwhelming, the energy is intoxicating. It carries you as if caught in a current, and it’s difficult not to be swept away.
In between the bands I made a point to see and the bands I knew I was doomed to miss, there were a handful of bands I saw inadvertently, many of which blew me away. Some of these performances were among my favorite. Therein lies the beauty of a thing like SXSW – it’s easy to make a mile-long list of bands that are familiar but hard to see everyone on it, and while scurrying from one end of town to the next or waiting in line for admittance into a venue that’s already at capacity it’s easy to forget that the opportunity is there to be introduced to completely new acts. But that potential for discovery is what SXSW is all about, is why this festival draws acts from all over the globe and thousands upon thousands of fans.
warriors beneath dusky skies
So what follows, dear readers, is my SXSW diary, a chronological account of everything that made the week so memorable. I think if there’s anything this blog truly showcases, it’s a passion for existing in the thick of musical experience. For the fuzzy areas of my memory, there are videos and pictures to fill in the gaps, and my hope is that the amalgamation of the three will somehow communicate every thrill, every joy, every moment that made the week worth documenting.

AF MIXTAPE: Farewell to Winter

This mix represents some of the best moments of February in terms of new releases and live shows we attended but keeps an eye on the springtime that’s just ahead of us.  You won’t find many bombastic summer jams, but hopefully that delicious first blush of warmer weather permeates these tracks.  Enjoy!

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Mi & L’au – Limouzine: I once sawthis band play in a treehouse. Technically I guess it was a roomsituated around a huge tree, with a bar situated around that. Still,there was a tree! And their songs sounded like the kind of music youmight hear in a treehouse (treehousewave?). If Beauty Is A Crimeis the first new album they’ve put out in a while and at moments itretains an isolated-in-the-woods vibe, here Mi & L’au arebranching out into lots of new territories. This track, with itspulsing, sparkling synths is a great example of those explorations.

Chairlift – I Belong In Your Arms:Caroline Polachek must be taking cues from those she’s collaboratedwith (Washed Out, Guards) in the interim between releasing Somethingand 2008’s Does You Inspire You? Or perhaps it’s just thedifference between putting some thought into making a record insteadof slapping one together because one of your tracks has been featuredin an iPod commercial and you need to capitalize on it instantly. Either way, Chairlift’s new record is a gem filled with soaring newwave declarations, but far less naïve and hokey than its predecessor.

Lapalux – Moments: On this cracklingbeat collage, female vocals (provided by Py) coo “I keep thinkingof you”; likewise, this track is just the kind of earworm thatsticks with you all day. Cascading drum machines, dissonant bells,spacey synths, and tweaked, slowed effects blend seamlessly. Itmight not get a party going, but acts as a perfect anthem for thosestill coming down after the majority of the crowd has shuffled off.

James Blake – The Wilhelm Scream:After seeing a live rendition of this at Carnegie Hall last month,I’ve been listening to this track incessantly. Its slow gorgeousbuild behind Blake’s velvety crooning is almost too much to handle. It seems so sparse on first listen, but every time it slips into therotation, I hear something new come out of it, proving its densityand depth.

School of Seven Bells – Scavenger:We’ll always wonder if this scathing track is about the departure ofhalf of SVIIB’s singing twin duo, but it could just as easily beabout an ex-lover, or an animal that feeds on carrion, I guess. They’re doing just fine without any or all of the above, as new album Ghostory and the live shows they’ve played to promote itprove.

Xiu Xiu – Smear The Queen: I amecstatic that this band is still putting out amazing albums aftertwelve years of making records. The first single from Always,entitled “Hi” is as bold a flirting anthem as they come, andalmost made it onto this mix – until I heard “Smear The Queen”and was blown away by the dual vocals, haywire beats

Hanne Hukkelberg – My Devils: Ifyou’re still confusing Hanne with her Scandinavian counterpart LykkeLi based on the extraordinary prevalence of the letter K in theirnames, please take a moment to realize that this is where thecomparison ends. Featherbrain is far more experimental, representingHukkelberg more as an artist than provocateur. Listening to thistrack is like opening a creepy haunted music-box, her vocals ayearning Pandora struggling to be free of her demons.

Frankie Rose – The Fall: I seriouslycan’t stop listening to or talking about this song. The other day Iwas walking through the park at dusk with this on my headphones,trying to decipher the ethereal layers of lyrics. Every time Ipinned down a line, the next popped up in its place, a mirageshimmering on the aural horizon, superimposed by the nexthallucination.

Grimes – Vowels = space and time:Visions is an amalgamation of everything that is awesome aboutClaire Boucher – bizzaro bedroom pop with Chippettes-esque vocals,long-lost Goth Olsen twin look, deep philosophical musings disguisedby a half-baked twitter feed, a not-so-secret obsession with divas ofthe early 90’s R&B scene. Check out my video below of Grimesperforming “Genesis” last July in an opening set for Washed Out.

Shlohmo – wen uuu: With last year’sBad Vibes, L.A. Producer Henry Laufer strayed from the staidhip-hop beats of his earlier work and live shows and began exploringmore atmospheric sounds and experimental textures. On his threetrack EP Vacation, we can hear him coming through static andinto his own with undeniable success.
Still Corners – Don’t Fall In Love:Tessa Murray has a voice like honey, making her forlorn love songs(or anti-love songs?) that much more heart-rending. This noise popslow-burner isn’t going to do much to warn me away from falling inlove with this band, no matter what the lyrics recommend.
Phèdre – In Decay: This whole albumis brilliant. You know that sexy orgy party that Tom Cruise andNicole Kidman attend in Eyes Wide Shut? Parties similar tothose actually exist, except everyone is as creepy and lonely asyou’d expect, and therefore it isn’t at all sexy. If those partieswere that sexy, but also more hip, this album would be thesoundtrack.
Tennis – My Better Self: Much likeChairlift, husband-and-wife duo Tennis have truly matured with therelease of their second album. Last year’s Cape Dory was fun,but with Young & Old, Tennis have gotten moreintrospective while retaining that carefree pop sound.
Sharon Van Etten – Magic Chords: WhenBecause I Was In Love was released in 2009, almost no one knewwho Sharon Van Etten was. Two albums later, all that has changed. It makes sense, considering that Sharon has one of the most gorgeousvoices I’ve heard in quite a while. Her songwriting skills continueto improve with each effort, though the heavier production on 2010’sEpic and her newest, Tramp,is a bit of a detriment to some of the intimacy and grittinessfrom her first record.
Tropics – Sleepless: Tropics is theproject of Chris Ward, who at 22 has been steadily self-releasing an onslaught of party-ready jams and remixes. This track is a bit moremellow than most of his offerings but it the signature lushness ofWard’s beats are still present. If most of his tunes signify summer,Sleepless unfurls just the way spring does – suddenly you look up,and there are buds in all the trees and birds are chirping.
Cate Le Bon – Put to Work: Le Bon’simpeccable new album Cyrk is exemplified by lead single “PutTo Work”; it’s lilting guitars and insistent drums perfectly anchorthe commanding mystic quality of Le Bon’s vocals. The lyrics fithandily into Le Bon’s work as well – the idea that while one can’thelp but crave human intimacy, love is a total drag that turns usinto awful drones. But the beauty of this sentiment is that she’sresigned to this fact, never chiding or bitter, and the song rolls onwith a fluid, perfect grace.
Yann Tiersen – I’m Gonna Live Anyhow:Perhaps best known for his original soundtracks to films like Amelieand Good Bye Lenin!, last year’s Skyline saw Tiersenreinventing himself once more. Ever the pioneer, these tracksfeature quirky electronic moments and unique vocal rhythmsreminiscent at times of acts like Animal Collective.
Songs of Green Pheasant – Teen Wolf:I’ve long been a fan of Songs of Green Pheasant. The somber brass inthis track really puts it over the edge for me, though I don’t knowwhat it has to do with teens, wolves, or teen wolves.
Sleigh Bells – End of the Line: WithTreats, Sleigh Bells were poised to take over the world (andpretty much did so) and on Reign of Terror, the only thing theyreally have to contend with is the curse of the sophomore slump. With their trademark fearlessness, Alexa Krauss and Derek Miller havedone something completely unexpected – they’ve scaled back thein-your-face guitar blitz and badder-than-though posturing andcrafted something that still manages to pack quite the punch. Thistrack is the perfect example of that new vision, wherein Krausss isno longer striving to remain cool or detached but is actuallyreaching out to the listener, or at least the person to whom the songis addressed, in an engaging way. Reign of Terror is studded withsimilar moments of realness, and it’s the most brave, refreshing movethey could have made.
Shhhh – Bonus TrackThis is what sheheard in the bathtub. RIP.

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AF Month-in Review: FEBRUARY

At Audiofemme, we don’t exactly try to break music news; we’re more about pontificating on the news after it has broken.  In honor of that, here’s our first monthly recap! It’s true that we’re a week into March, but this is a look back at some things that happened in February – and without mincing words, exactly what we think about it all.  This installment features MIA, Whitney Houston, why the Grammys are irrelevant, and the best show we’ll (possibly) ever see.
 
AF: Afterflipping the bird during a Superbowl halftime show performance, thename Maya Arulpragasam was on everyone’s lips once again (or anyway,her initial-based moniker, MIA was). But MIA didn’t need to extendher middle finger to get our attention, since she already had it withthe video for “Bad Girls” released just a few days prior. Thesong is from the Vicki Leekx mixtape, self-released at thebeginning of 2011. Not only is the single far better than prettymuch anything from 2010’s mostly excruciating /\/\/\Y/\, butthe video adds a new level of intensity to an already fierce jam.
MIAreunited with director Romain Garvas, who also had a hand thecontroversial video/short film for “Born Free”. Looking back on“Born Free” it’s hard to say if our distaste stemmed from lukewarmfeelings for the track, or if we just thought the video was dumb. AudioFemme has always appreciated the political content in MIA’s work. Itnever feels like a gimmick, mostly because it extends throughevery expression of her being, from her music to her fashion sense toher live shows and album artwork, not to mention her background andthe causes she supports. “Born Free” was sort of an exception tothat. While we suppose that someone should call attention to thehorrors of genocide, must it be done by depicting a bunch of gingerrefugees shuttled to their torture on a crowded deathbus? Are whitekids really so blissfully unaware of racial and cultural profilingthat they need MIA to clobber them over the head with gory imagery offreckled, pale bodies exploding over land mines? Sadly, the answeris yes, but it felt a bit heavy-handed and obvious.
Thevideo for “Bad Girls” is essentially doing the same thing but ina much more successful manner. It takes a very real topic –oppression of women in the Middle East – and turns their liberationinto a orgiastic free-for-all. While it was filmed in Morocco, thedesert scenes and clay buildings remain just ambiguous enough toencompass areas of the world where MIA would have been arrested forsuch openness. Musically speaking, “Born Free” had a much moreaggressive sound than “Bad Girls” and in turn, the video was hardto watch. “Bad Girls” delivers its heat as a club-readyscorcher, and so there is a party-at-the-end-of-the-world sort oflanguage to the video. At first glance the future appears strangelydystopian, aimless. Then those first beats drop, MIA gyrates ontothe scene wearing iridescent lame, and snarls “Live fast/Dieyoung/Bad girls do it well” and the realization hits: we areactually seeing a utopia where Middle Eastern women are allowed todrive stunt cars, dance provocatively and wear whatever the fuckcrazy clothes they feel like wearing.
Allaspects of MIA’s signature in-your-face attitude are in full effecthere – her pouty expressions, provocative gestures, and creativewardrobe. Her bravado is most apparent when she nonchalantly filesher nails atop a stunt car driving on two wheels, but every second isinfused with the palpable excitement of the most explosive actionsequence in any summer blockbuster. At the exact moment MIA asks“Who’s gonna stop me if I’m coming through?” she’s backed bymotorcade of glow-in-the-dark cars and a horde of flamboyantlyshrouded back-up dancers on the march, a procession placing her inthe position of liberator and leader.
Inno time, the video had amassed 25,000 comments so MIA proceeded torespond to those comments in a follow-up video. Unfortunately, thequestions were no more insightful than YouTube comments ever seem tobe. We learned that see-through cars are expensive to ship, thathopefully MIA’s new album will see release during a season wherepeople will be wearing fewer clothes, and MIA promised to go out fordrinks with some lucky Brooklynite next time she’s in New York. Dudebetter watch out, I heard that babe likes truffle fries.
Lindsey: Speakingof living fast and dying (relatively) young, the world lost one ofits most beloved and talented performers on the 11th with the passing of Whitney Houston.

Iwas at work when news of Whitney’s death was tweeted to my roommate,who was at the time sitting at a corner booth enjoying our deliciouspork tostadas and coconut margaritas, and I’ll probably alwaysremember that setting. Just like I’ll always remember being on theJFK AirTrain when some dude with phone in hand announced to theentire car “HEY EVERYBODY, MICHAEL JACKSON JUST DIED!


A strangething happens when incredibly well-known pop singers die. On the onehand, there’s an element of shock, and then there’s the mentalpreparation one must begin in anticipation of hearing that artist’ssongs in every public place for the next three months, the fanscoming out of the woodwork to testify their love and heartbreak, thetackiness of televised funerals. But in those initial moments, myfirst thought was to tune Spotify to “I Wanna Dance With Somebody(Who Loves Me)” and pump up the volume, which is just what I did. In the next few hours we played most of Whitney’s back-catalogue,wondering how such a talented, wholesome lady could be so completelyderailed by a total asshole and his suitcase full of blow.

Aftersuch a time, I began to tire of the schmaltzy sentiment runningthrough most of Whitney’s oeuvre, but I did tear up to “I WillAlways Love You.” My parents listened exclusively to country musicwhile I was growing up, and when The Bodyguard came out I wasin fourth grade and already well familiar with Dolly Parton’soriginal recording. I remember being furious that Whitney had takenall the credit for it – I even had unschooled friends who insistedit was Whitney-penned material. I might have won the bet, but Istill looked like a bumpkin.

Onthe night of her death I found myself at a dance party and when theDJ played “I Wanna Dance” everyone lost their shit. It was acheap move (albeit one I’d pulled just hours earlier) but that’s thecharm of Whitney – even when you know the purpose of the music is to appeal to yoursappy, overemotional core, it still gets to you, and for that reasonalone the imprint she’s left on American culture will endure.
 
Lindsey: Following news of Whitney’s death, the 54thGrammy Awards aired on CBS. Admittedly, the Grammys do not interest me in the least, for all the reasons you’ve probably heard before…that they represent the lowest common denominator of fandom… thatthey celebrate mediocrity in pop music while ignoring more innovativeworks easily found just beyond the mainstream… that they haplesslycompare apples to oranges in categories that barely apply to theartists nominated… that they are incredibly boring. What I usuallysay instead of all that is “It’s just not my thing” and it isn’t –which doesn’t make me better or worse than anyone else, even if thosepreceding sentences make me sound like an incorrigible snob.
Infact, the Grammys often serve to shame me for just how littleattention I pay to Top Forty recordings. Someone I was talking to ina bar that Sunday made mention of Kanye West’s “All The Lights”and I had to admit I’d never heard it, not even once. Part of it ismy general annoyance with Kanye West’s personality and poorlyric-writing, though I think he’s a stellar producer, but I wasstill a tad embarrassed.
Sowith my tail between my legs, I watched maybe two minutes of NickiMinaj’s “Roman Holiday” performance, but all I could say was“UGH, why is everyone obsessed with this trainwreck? I feel likeI’m having a nightmare except I’m awake. I’m going to go read in myroom.”
Andmy takeaway was this: at least now the Grammys are recognizingelectronic forms of music, even if it is shitty dubstep. And givingawards to chubby girls based on actual talent rather than looks. Andgiving Dave Grohl a platform to become an internet meme, just likehe’s always wanted. And finally, we’ve all been introduced to thegenius of Justin Vernon, whom the Grammys discovered.


 

AF: On the 13th Tibet House hosted its annual benefit concert at Carnegie Hall, curated by Philip Glass.  By far, this concert was the best thing we’ve attended all month, and (given the majority of shows we catch that take place in venues that frequently smell of vomit) probably the most highbrow outing we’ll go on for a long, long time.  The original bill listed Glass, video artist and digital pioneer Laurie Anderson, and minimalist prodigy James Blake, with other performers to be announced. In the following days, Lou Reed was added to the bill. Even then, we knew we were in for a once-in-a-lifetime live music experience.To get a sense of how UN-willing we were to miss it, picture this: Annie hobbling around with a freshly broken toe (her big toe, no less) having not slept in over 24 hours (and yes, the two are interrelated), completely wacked out on painkillers. Plus, our seats were located in the second balcony. Still, hell would have indeed had to have been frozen over for us not to attend this spectacle.

We made our way to the mezzanine and settled into our fancy velvet theater chairs just as the lights dimmed.  We began to flip through the program wide-eyed with our hearts racing. Page after page of revealed some of our favorite musicians to be unexpected additions to the benefit, including Antony (sans Johnsons), Stephin Merritt, Das Racist, Rahzel, and Patti Smith’s Band.

While such an talented line-up might sound intimidating or pretentious, the evening was anything but, its short sets peppered with a lively sense of humor.  While there were a few contemplative moments – the evening began with throat-singing Tibetan monks in radiant yellow robes, and about halfway through the set Tibetan singer Dechen Shak-Dagsay asked the audience to meditate on freedom for Tibet – by and large the night felt like a celebration, and it was never a somber one.

Laurie Anderson set the mood for the evening, performing right after the monks. Over ethereal synths, she recounted a story about a two-week “silent” canoe trip she took down a tributary of the Colorado River, during which she quickly discovered it was not the “meditation retreat” she had signed up for, but rather an opportunity for narcissists to gather and validate one another’s “life stories”.  She garnered more than a few laughs over tales of running into a group for incest survivors who turned the now collective campfire into a platform for oversharing, passing a wooden spoon to take turns speaking into “as if it were a microphone”.

She picked up a violin and was joined on stage by Antony, wearing what can best be described as a muumuu.  His otherworldly voice echoed against the ornate vaulted ceilings. The amazing acoustics of Carnegie made this feel both intimate and immense at the same time.  While the songs had us in tears by the end, shocked that something so beautiful could come out of the mouth of a human, the droll lyrics of Anderson’s “The Dream Before” were delivered with Antony’s trademark whimsy and sass.

Stephin Merritt longed to have an orchestra behind him while singing “This Little Ukelele” and pretended to be surprised by the string quartet that actually occupied that space.  They joined him in a soaring rendition of “The Book of Love”. But the most uproarious portion of the evening were Das Racist’s dual appearances. Heems and Kool A.D. had all the earmarks of dressing it up for Carnegie Hall in their dashing suits, but their lively performance of “Michael Jackson” saw them flirting with the aforementioned string quartet, somersaulting at the stage’s edge, and parading around with the American flag that had been innocently fluttering to stage left. Dap wore a traditional Indian dress that somehow made his pelvic thrusting more pronounced and therefore more comical. While the audience was actually comprised of many young folks who likely knew what to expect from the tongue-in-cheek rappers, one has to wonder what older fans of Glass’s minimal works had to say about their outrageous contribution to the evening.

All of the hilarity was anchored by stellar performances from stalwart musicians. Lenny Kaye lead Patti Smith’s band in a tribute to seminal garage rock comp Nuggets. Rahzel, formerly of The Roots, incorporated robotic dancing and beat-boxing skills into his memorable offering. And Glass’s own arrangement of “Pendulum for Violin & Piano” with violin virtuoso Tim Fain was astounding. Even from from the distant balcony in which we sat, you could see his fingers flying, leaving the audience stunned by his show or skill.

Lou Reed finished out the night (we imagine he probably demanded that he get to go last) seeming beleaguered (as always) and taking himself way too seriously (as always), performing a song bemoaning the fact that he’s exceptionally old and looks like it.  It wasn’t all that funny.   But despite the few awkward moments it was difficult not to feel as though we were truly seeing something special when he was joined onstage by the other performers for closing number “I’m Beginning to See the Light”. Philip Glass had turned 75 a few weeks prior, so the house was invited to sing “Happy Birthday” to the genius who had put it all together, a small token of appreciation for all the beauty and delight we’d just witnessed.

Even with all the tremendous talent present that night, it was James Blake that had us swooning, holding a collective breath for fear that if our muscles so much as twitched the whole thing might possibly vanish into thin air like a mirage.  A drummer and guitarist provided sparse backup while the gangly Blake crammed himself behind a keyboard tiny by comparison to his long frame. He played both parts of “Lidnesfarne” before moving into “The Wilhelm Scream” which built to a gorgeous wave of heartbreaking distortion that all but blotted out James’s wistful moaning of the lines “I don’t know about my dreams / I don’t know about my dreaming anymore / All I know is that I’m falling, falling, falling…”  In trying to explain his allure we had to settle on his unfathomable level of maturity for such a young musician as well as his outright innovation; almost no one is doing or can do what it is he does, and the sentiment behind it resonates deeply, on an almost subconscious level. To hear him live was absolutely mesmerizing; his playing electrified the space between himself and the audience. He bashfully offers his being and invites the listener to merge with it, and in so doing we were transformed, our hearts heavier but our heads lighter.  You can check out a clip Annie recorded below; we apologize for its brevity, but the Tibet House Benefit was simply too amazing to experience on a viewfinder.  It was practically too big to wrap our minds around the fact that we were even present for such a wondrous event, laughing one second and crying the next.  Here’s to many more years of Philip Glass curating delightful showcases like this one.

 
Looking forward to March, AudioFemmewill be at SXSW! It’s Annie’s second year in attendance andLindsey’s first, so we like to argue about who is more excited. The next few weeks are going to be a flurry ofRSVPing and making long itinerariesthat we probably won’t stick to. Check our Twitter feed or like us on Facebook as we’ll be updating there when we’re particularlyexcited about some showcase or other.  And if you’ll be in Austin, feel free to track us down and say hello!
 

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SHOW REVIEW: School of Seven Bells

Tuesday night School of Seven Bells played the first of two sold-out shows at the Mercury Lounge, and thanks to the miracle of Craigslist, the AudioFemme editors were in attendance. The date was of particular significance to the band, as it coincided with the release of their phenomenal third album, Ghostory.  

The year between Ghostory’s release and that of 2010’s Disconnect From Desire was fraught with change for SVIIB, seeing the somewhat mysterious departure of Claudia Deheza.  For a band whose sound and image hinged on the dual vocals and dramatic image of twins Alejandra and Claudia, the parting of ways carried with it many unanswered questions, and is still a sensitive topic that the band does not like to broach.  As longtime fans of SVIIB, we at AudioFemme were interested to see how the band would evolve and adapt. With little idea what to expect from the new album or subsequent live performances in support of it, we’re happy to report that on both fronts, all is well.

L: It had been a while since I’d seen SVIIB, the last time being at a CMJ showcase in 2008 at Le Poisson Rouge.  At that time, Alpinisms was coming out or had just been released and I was obsessed with it.  I begged my way into the showcase for discounted admission and was treated to one of the loudest, most psychedelic live experiences I’d had to that point.  It was my first CMJ and I remember feeling so alive and thankful to be in NYC, and nothing embodied that feeling more than SVIIB’s intoxicating set.  It is crazy to think of how many years have passed since then, and even more baffling that I’ve somehow missed every other date they’ve played in the city.

Seeing them at Mercury Lounge was a real reminder of what I’d been missing.  They’re such a solid live band.  It was about halfway through the set, after a particularly rousing tune from the new album, that Ben said “Let’s get this party started” and even though the audience was a bit reluctant to do so (it was an early show, after all) all of the set list was dance-worthy.  Their performances are imbued with this sort of mystical element.  Alley has this shamanistic sort of presence, which her style definitely lends itself to – for last night’s show she was decked in silver chains and shimmery white eye-makeup.  But it’s not just a costume. Her face and voice are so expressive, pleading, and powerful.  The songs become incantations, invitations to let everything go.  They played a nice mix of old and new jams, but it all blended together seamlessly, which speaks volumes not just about strength of the music but also the ability of the band to grow and change and transcend any challenges or hardships or confusion that may have occurred in dealing with Claudia’s absence.  Adeptly filling her shoes was keyboardist Allie Alvarado, a D.C. – based performer who has released solo material under the moniker Painted Face and has played guitar with Brooklyn-based electronica outfit Telepathe. Even on their iconic dual-vocaled hit, “Half Asleep” she stepped up to the challenge beautifully and enthusiastically. Video for the track is below, followed by Annie’s ruminations on the set.

A:Holy shit. I was truly floored by this performance. I don’t know exactly what’s changed so significantly about them in the interim months since last I saw them live (I’ve probably been to the bulk of their New York shows since Disconnect came out two years ago), but I have my suspicions. And though I’ve always loved going to see them play, there was something particularly arresting about the way they sounded last night. Perhaps it was their post album-release ebullience–especially considering Ghostory’s ubiquitously positive (fanatically positive, even?) reception in the blogosphere and beyond; perhaps it was the terrific sound mix at what is an otherwise hit-or-miss venue. Perhaps it was the addition of a keyboardist/co-vocalist, or the amazing drummer who played along like a human metronome to such rhythmically complex tunes. Perhaps performing new songs invariably re-energizes any group dynamic. I imagine it’s an amalgam of all those things.

But there was something else too. Something more difficult to pin down; but something also more indelible. What immediately comes to mind is Beethoven’s Eroica – his momentous 3rd Symphony -the two opening chords of which signify, to many, the end of the Classical era in music. You’re probably so damn confused right now, thinking “What the hell is this woman talking about? Why must she bring Beethoven into this? Why???”

Let me explain: The Eroica symphony is one of revolt and upheaval, evident in the first ten seconds of score. Beethoven defies, even flouts symphonic convention by refusing to offer up any thematic indicators in that famous first phrase, and instead opts for two sharp, abrasive, a-tonal chords in an E-flat major that hits you over the head. They sound like someone wiping their hands clean (of the Classical era?), and I imagine these few measures had the very first audience members as equally confused as they were captivated. Anyway, a ton could be said about the historical context for this gambit (Ludwig was rumored to be a big fan of Napoleon), but in terms of its musical significance, I feel it was more of a move on Beethoven’s part to begin paving his own way in the larger scheme of his creative life, not to mention the musical zeitgeist in which he lived; it seems he wished to leave the past in its proverbial dustbin, and instead look onto the unfathomable horizons that lay outstretched before him. Indeed, he dove in, and subsequently shaped for the world a whole new era that would turn out to be (in my own opinion) the antecedent to nearly every genre that you love, that you can name. Classical gave way to Romantic, which gave way to everything.

So anyway, back to SVIIB and how my Beethoven tangent is in any way relevant to this show: The opening interlude to their set was so different from what one might normally hear from them. It lasted about 30 seconds. It was loud and cohesive and joyous, rather than dreamy and introverted and (intentionally) disjointed sounding in that shoegaze-ish kind of way. And everything that followed, followed suit. It almost seemed like they were trying to send us the message that we should just put to rest our expectations and conceits about who they are and what they mean as a group. And it seemed they wanted to surprise us, too. To frame it in terms of a shameless cliche, they actually seemed, right in that moment, to have ‘arrived’, in a way.  

In any case, they played plenty of old songs, but they were all infused with a totally different kind of energy and a noticeable lack of self-consciousness. Their new songs were wonderful and made me look forward to listening more closely to Ghostory. This is a band whose longevity in this industry (whatever the “industry” really is, at this point–beats me) is as assured as their talent is obvious. But they are trailblazing as well. Toward what? I don’t know. But I can’t wait to find out.


SVIIB play their second show tonight at Mercury Lounge, followed by a brief stint in Europe and tour throughout the US in April and May.  Ghostory is available now via Vagrant Records/Ghostly International.


SHOW REVIEW: Frankie Rose w/ Dive and Night Manager

There’s a certain art to being cool. It requires equal parts detachment, judgement, untouchability, andflippancy. Being cool might make you the envy of your less-than-coolcounterparts, but it’s ultimately an empty, lonely act. Because being vulnerable isn’t cool, being cool entailskeeping others at bay, elevating yourself to a level above theuncool, refusing to let anyone in, and never showing emotion orexcitement because it is somehow unbecoming. It’s a problem that isunique to my generation; though real “cool” barely exists anymoreexcept as a marketing concept many of us have been posturing eversince, fearful of ever revealing the uncool sides of ourselves,deprived of true connection in order to maintain the illusion ofcoolness, feeling pain only when the facade fails us. In the realworld, this looks like a dimly lit bar in which everyone nurses PBRfrom a can and no one talks to anyone. And in that bar, Frankie Rosefills the jukebox.

As a drummer for Vivian Girls, Dum DumGirls, and Crystal Stilts, Frankie Rose was at the forefront of theresurgence of a noise pop movement that took its cues from theintertwining jangle and grit of sixties garage rock and girl groups. In recording her first album as Frankie Rose and the Outs, she neverstrayed far from this sound. Her vocals had begun to take on adreamy sort of submerged quality with her first solo album, recorded under the moniker Frankie Rose and the Outs. But by and large the album, whileexpertly crafted, was nothing new. It was perfect in terms ofcontinuing the sound and vibe that made Frankie something of ahousehold name in indie rock circles. To some, the resume she’dbuilt was not only impressive but impenetrable, unapproachable. Butto be honest, it felt cold and rehearsed and well-worn to me, not arecord I could get behind on an emotional level. It wasn’t bad, butit it wasn’t life-altering and ultimately I lost interest. To jointhe Frankie cult I would have had to buy dark sunglasses and aleather jacket and thrown away all my clothing that wasn’t black, andI probably would have had to spit on anyone who talked about how intoAdele they were. But what I really wanted was license to feel andshare freely with my peers, not judge them or their tastes, not actlike mine are better than anyone else’s.

Here is what I like to imagine happenednext. Frankie was walking through the graffiti-scrawled streets ofWilliamsburg when a white light enveloped her and suddenly, the Earthwas no more than a blue speck far below. Her abductors, benevolentalien beings with glowing solar plexuses, took her on an epicinterplanetary voyage in which she witnessed incomprehensible formsof life and their bizarre customs, each of which held more meaningand beauty than her indie-rock royalty act. She was shown the errorof her ways and told to go forth to the earthly masses and write analbum with some heart, lest she be re-abducted and dissected. No longer obsessed with being cool and furthering her own reputationas purveyor of such, Frankie Rose came back to Brooklyn and wrote hergorgeous sophomore album, Interstellar.
While this may be a fanciful version of the truth, the end result is the same.  Interstellar, out now on Slumberland Records, gives having your head in the clouds a whole new meaning.  Frankie’s vocals sparkle and swirl like gauzy nebula gasses, the stuff of galaxies being born. The gritty guitars have been replacedby poppy riffs and spacious synths that reveal yearning and hope anda red-hot emotional core. Every second feels expansive, reminding usthat the big bang is still happening and that even as we rotate onthis rock we are hurtling through space. The lyrical content isn’tparticularly heavy and remainsrelatively carefree, but that’s not to say it suffers from any of that.  Rather, it feels much more relatable thananything she’s written to date. There areinstances (particularly “Know Me” “Daylight” and “NightSwim”) that recall the most impassioned moments of new wave, thoughthat heartfelt artfulness permeates each new song. Tracks like“Gospel/Grace” are still informed by the jangle pop of Frankie’sformer work but here she has made everything bigger, warmer, moreurgent and airy. Closing track “The Fall” is like listening to adream – the kind you go back to sleep for so you can keep dreamingit. Its hushed vocals unspool over a simplistic but indelible guitarline, diffused synths and a droning cello reminiscent of Arther Russell’s “This Is How We Walk On The Moon”. Listening toInterstellar basically made me reevaluate every snap judgement I’dever made about Frankie or her tunes. There’s a line in title trackand album opener that sums up the whole endeavor perfectly -“weightless, free from predictable ways”. Amen, sister, amen.

I got tickets to attend the releaseparty for Interstellar at Knitting Factory, expecting somegrand announcement, an ushering in to a new age of Frankie Rose. She’s one of the most influential musicians in the Brooklyn indiescene, so perhaps we’d all be given a crystal and told to let ourhearts breathe, to embrace each other and stop worrying about ourhaircuts. Night Manager opened with an enthusiastic batch of precocious noise pop anthems.  Somebands get on stage and act like it’s the most boring thing in theworld to be on stage, which is always annoying becauseeveryone at one point or another wants to be a rockstar. Night Manager can’t have had long to fantasize about such things –I’d say the average age of the five band members couldn’t have beenmuch over twenty – and that youthful exuberance was their strongestpoint. Their lead singer’s vibe was somewhere between Bethany Cosentino and Anne Margaret but I probably only make that connectionbecause I’ve been watching the third season of Mad Men while battlinga head cold.

I had high hopes for Dive, a(nother)Beach Fossils side project whose reverb-drenched singles are catchyand evocative of epiphanies had while staring at clouds. From thelooks of it, these guys really struggle to get dressed (evidenced by the rubber bands utilized to hold the guitarist’s pants in place) and speakingof haircuts – yikes. While their shoegazey tracks have a just-woke-up sort of haze, Dive’s performance was so boisterous it could have been a commercial for 5-hour energy shooters. The kineticset was incredibly fun to watch and included an unrecognizable take on a Nirvana song and a pornographic tee-shirt.  Dive’s debut EP is scheduledfor release next month on Captured Tracks, and seeing them play the material in such a spirited manner has me psyched for it.

Frankie Rose took the stage just after11PM with four band members, opening with the title track from the newrecord. The stage was bathed in starry projections, but there wereno house lights at all on Frankie or the majority of the band, whichreduced everyone but the drummer to indistinct silhouettes. Thatmight have been cool for a song or two, but they played the entireset that way, and it was slightly off-putting. Much like when youspend a hot day at the zoo and all the animals are sleeping insidefake caves, the lack of anything to rest eyes on was disappointingand disconnecting. Perhaps the lighting guy was in the bathroom,thinking he’d have plenty of time to light the stage once the bandreally got going. But he never had a chance – the show was overpractically before it began. The crowd, myself included, was justsettling in to Frankie’s performance, and then it abruptly endedafter they’d played for just under half an hour.
I’ve seen some short sets, but this oneleft me stunned in terms of its brevity. You’d think that with twoalbums of material she could have fleshed it out for another fifteenminutes, even with stage banter or something. I didn’t evenrecognize the new songs; I assumed she’d not played many of them butwas later informed she’d played seven of the ten new tracks fromInterstellar. The thing is, they were interpreted for the stage insuch a way that they might have belonged on older albums, in the workshe’d done with bands prior to striking out solo, in the detached,too-cool-for-school manner of everything that had come before. Therewas no trouble taken to document the evolution and preserve theopenness that makes Interstellar such a great album; instead Iwas reminded of all the reasons I’d felt put off by Frankie in thepast. She returned to the stage apologetically to play one moretrack (video of the encore is below) and finally asked for the house lights to beturned up a bit, though it was done begrudgingly by the house.
My overall impression was that Frankieis somehow afraid to bring her newfound sincerity into the spotlight bothliterally and figuratively. She was hiding the entire time –playing in the dark, rushing through the set as if nervous orembarrassed, and masking the intimate vibe of the new record behindthe practiced ways of her rock-n-roll persona. Perhaps this was aneffort to make the material more stage-ready but for me it had a numbing effect. I can only hope that in time she’ll figure out howto parlay the stirring ardency that makes Interstellar so salient, will becomecomfortable with letting any pretense fall away and be truly presentin the new material. I can imagine that day – Frankie stands onstage in a halo of white, assuredly plucking each note from herguitar strings, backed only by atmospheric keys and somber drums,letting Interstellar truly explode – vulnerable, earnest and farbeyond the trappings of coolness.

SHOW REVIEW: Cate le Bon w/ Pigeons

There is something irresistibly intriguing about Cate le Bon.

Cate le Bon
Though released in 2009, I came across her debut album Me Oh My just last year and immediately became obsessed with it.  Truthfully, I wasn’t really listeningto anything else like it at the time. Her unique brand ofpsych-tinged folk pop seemed out of place in my last.fm queue, butnevertheless it made me reminiscent of the time I went to France andin the course of exploring Brittany spent an afternoon traipsingthrough the labyrinthian grounds of a sprawling Chateau where footpaths overgrown with roses overlooked a lush river valley and springtime seemed eternal.
Cate’s newest offering, Cyrk, delves even further into thepsychedelic wanderings on Me Oh My; none of the songs would have beenout of place on my Electric Lemonade Acid Test comps, or in a circussideshow where both audience and performers are on hallucinogens. Cate’s vocals are theatrical and haunting without being over-the-top. She seems at once mournful, chiding, dreamy, furious, and yearning. And again I am transported, wishing I could time warp to the streetsof 1960’s London, where I’d run around in a brightly colored velvetfrock, platform boots, and a floppy hat. This is a desire that Iprobably haven’t had since I watched Velvet Goldmine for the firsttime at the tender age of sixteen.
When I heard the Welsh singer would bemaking her way to Mercury Lounge to kick off her stateside tourin support of the album, I was filled with an overwhelming sense thatif I went to the show, these flights of fancy would somehow be laidbare, that I could better understand their point of origin and in sodoing clear my head of such visions. The voice would spring from between my ears to stage and become reality instead of myth. Either that, orrainbows would spring from Cate’s fingertips and she’d give birth toa full-grown unicorn before our eyes.
Pigeons

The show began insanely early. Iarrived not long after seven and had already missed half of the setfrom openers Pigeons. Pigeons are another band that is difficultto… well, pigeon-hole. The first recordings I’d heard of the bandfeatured songs sung in French, but apparently they hail from theBronx. Lead singer Wednesday Knudsen (which sounds like a name onlyJonathan Lethem would think up) is extremely tall and too skinny even to be a model, and her shoulders curl slightly over her guitar likea Madonna over Baby Jesus in a Mannerist painting. I caught Pigeonsas a two piece at a CMJ showcase last October, but here the bandplayed with their full live lineup. For fans of psych folk, I woulddefinitely recommend catching one of their laid-back but beautifulsets. I would also recommend doing some kind of drugs beforehand.

Cate took the stage just before eighto’clock, shrouded in a floral smock, her perfect auburn bobsilhouetted by blue lights, bangs bluntly cut just above her smokey eyes. Herclarion voice was in top form as she tore through the set, and I wasextremely impressed by the way she handled her guitar, at turnsculling somber tones from the instrument and then wailing high notesat the next. She belted out the lyrics in measured breaths, swayingwith each beat but focused intensely on playing rather thanposturing. She implored the audience to come to the show in Hobokenthe following night – with emphasis on the second syllable ofHoboken rather than the first, yet was gently teasing in explaininghow to properly pronounce the title of the record – SURK, not KIRK. Her backing band was as instrumentally versatile as she, rotatingkeys and guitars comfortably through renditions of “Put To Work”,“Falcon Eyes”, “Me Oh My”, “Julia”, “Cyrk”, “FoldThe Cloth” and others. Cate and Co. closed the set with both partsof “Ploughing Out” before she dramatically smashed her guitarinto her bassist’s, snarling the strings and leading astonished fansto believe there would be no encore, though it was not yet nine o’clock. However, after a brief absence, Catereturned for one more tune, this time at the keyboard. A video ofthe encore can be seen below.

SHOW REVIEW: Veronica Falls w/ Brilliant Colors

Maybe it was jet lag that led Cate le Bon and her band to end Thursday’s show at Mercury Lounge at fifteen til nine, or maybe it was simply an oddity of the venue’s booking.  But when I’d ventured out to that show it was with reluctance that I would miss Veronica Falls with Brilliant Colors and Grooms,  also playing that night across the East River at Music Hall of Williamsburg.
Brilliant Colors

Ever one to take advantage of a good opportunity, I walked a quick fourteenblocks to hop on the L train at First Avenue, and arrived just asBrilliant Colors began to play.  I remember looking up at the stageand thinking that the lead singer was weirdly effeminate for a man,but after a while (and certainly once this person began to sing) I realizedthat it was actually an androgynous woman with an oddly British haircut.  Brilliant Colors had some technicaldifficulties in starting, claiming their instruments were frozen. I suppose this might have been the case, as it was prettycold that evening and the band is used to the more mild climes of SanFrancisco. Their sunshine-infused garage jams warmed things up abit, but in all honesty I had a difficult time discerning one songfrom the next, so much so that I began listening for even subtledifferences but still couldn’t manage find any. There’s certainly something to besaid for consistency, and fans of jangly surf pop might find specialcomfort in Brilliant Colors’ repertoire though I was certainly readyfor some variety.

Roxanne, Patrick & James

 

silhouetted Marion
Veronica Falls are cut from the same cloth as Brilliant Colors in that they also play fuzzed-out indie pop, but their music is far more catchy and varied. Their full length self-titled LP was released in September on Slumberland, but I knew very little about the band beyond the few seven-inches and some demos they’d released. I liked their cheeky lyrics and sunny sound and had assumed that they hailed from somewhere on the West Coast, but as it turns out, the four members of Veronica Falls are English. Roxanne Clifford’s vocals harken back to obscure girl groups of the 50’s and 60’s, but she is backed by vocals from drummer Patrick Doyle and guitarist James Hoare instead of beehived jivers in sequined dresses. Marion Herbain on bass rounded out the group’s energetic dynamic, though MHoW seemed less appropriate a venue for the band than a smaller, rougher space like Glasslands or even Shea Stadium or Death By Audio. Veronica Falls is the kind of band whose sound is simply better suited for the raw DIY spaces that abound in Brooklyn, which is not to say that their somewhat cutesy image is at all indicative of their sound. Elements of twee and shoegaze are certainly present, but the band is anything but shy. Their confidence pounds through every fierce beat, making them a fun band to watch on any stage.
Veronica Falls played somenew jams as well as favorites “Beachy Head”, “Found Love In AGraveyard” and “Wedding Day” and closed with an excellentrendition of “Come On Over” before encoring with a cover of RokyErikson’s “Starry Eyes”. Video below.

Six Songs for Your Sweetheart

Happy Valentine’s Day from AudioFemme!  Thus far we’ve gotten some excellent feedback and would LOVE some more if you’ve got a few seconds to email us and let us know what you think, what you’d like to see more of, and – oh, yes! – submit something.


If you need some inspiration, we’ve got our first submission RIGHT HERE!  It comes to you from Jessica Darakjian, a self-described 23-year-old grandma living and working in Brooklyn, NY.  Currently she is getting ready to move back to California where she will partake in her favorite pastimes – riding a bike, gardening, making pickles and pies, surfing, going to flea markets, and listening to country tapes with her grandpa.


Personally, we think she could do most of these things just fine and still stay in New York, but she will not be convinced.
Enjoy! – Eds.

Is it just me or does anyone else wish Ye Olde Valentine’s Day was celebrated a little different? How, you might ask, could I ever dislike chocolate boxes, cutesy cards, hearts and bows, fancy dinners, pretty dresses and shoes, lots of flowers, and maybe jewelry (if you’re uh, rich)?  Well I don’t. I’m not saying I would refuse any of those things if they were handed over to me. But, I am saying that most likely I would love you, dear, a bit longer and harder if you approached this holiday a little differently… Can’t a girl get a mix tape in this day and age?  It’s all I want. Honest. Just to hold the little shitty piece of plastic in my hand and know it took you 45 fucking minutes to get the cut right so the tape didn’t run out in the middle of our favorite song. Can’t I listen to it over and over, until I know exactly how many seconds are between the click of the needle setting down to the actual beginning of each song? Everyone remembers how fucking special this is, we all know how much heart goes into it. From a friend or lover, there is no doubt that mixtapes are just, ya know, absolutely honest. So Happy Merry New Kind of Valentine’s Day – here are some songs I’m playing for my sweetie pie.



(One of my favorite videos. I wish I could dance like her. But honestly, Catherine should have just chosen Heathcliff and then none of the crazyness would have been necessary, right?)



(Even though you and I both can’t stand to look at that fucking blue hat this weirdo is wearing, you cannot try to tell me this song didn’t melt your heart when you were/are in your rebel high school loser stage)




(Best scene from Rock ‘n’ Roll High School. Makes me all googley)


(off the most played record I own. “I need it everyday”)

(I can tell by the way you dress, that you’re real fine)

(awww, Miss Cora, you are a lucky lady)


Feel free to give Jessica some L O V E.

SHOW REVIEW: Tycho w/ Beacon, live at Music Hall Of Williamsburg

I was super excited to go see Beacon last Saturday night.My exposure to them thus far had been pretty limited to their brief stintat Cameo Gallery for the Brooklyn Electronic Music Fest, at which they onlyplayed a handful of songs. But they were shockingly good songs. Especially considering what one immediately notices about this duo. They look like a couple of sartorially unassuming white kids from your hometown somewhere in the Midwest. Until they start playing music that is. Then they’re magically transformed into bass-blasting R&B/electronic superstars. It was a bit surreal to hear such a cavernous, all consuming sound coming out of the two of them, actually, and it made my attitude toward them swing dramatically from skeptical to deferential in a matter of seconds.

So there I was, waiting outside Music Hall to meet the person from whom I was scalping a craigslist ticket to this sold out show (Tycho, the headliner, is pretty damn incredible as well, which I’ll get to). Suddenly the building started shaking a little bit, and my chest cavity began to vibrate oh so subtly. From a distance I heard opening chords of “See Through You”. And I knew immediately, that this band is as good as I remembered them to be that night three months ago.

I finally got into the show not shortly thereafter, and settled in toward the front to be enveloped by loud bass, hot beats spun by Jacob Gossett, and Tom Mullarney’s smooth reverbed-out voice singing the songs I’ve come to know pretty well at this point, from their EP No Body. After a few tracks, the crowd was glued. Whoever hadn’t heard of them before, or had any doubts about their talent, was elevated to instant fandom, I’m sure of it. And it was then, when these guys knew they had everyone wrapped around their little fingers, that they upped the ante and performed this Ginuwine cover.

And I thought that would be the pinnacle of my experience of this show… Alas, I had no idea what Tycho had in store for us.

Tycho’s set was amazing for three reasons.

First,and for those of you who aren’t familiar with Tycho, this is a band that putsmore effort into cultivating a spectacular audio-visual experience for theiraudience than anyone I’ve ever seen live. While the music itself is primarily ablend of ambient sounding electronic and live drum/bass/lead guitar, the videowork that Scott Hanson (Tycho’s founder) produces and curates to accompanythe  music is really quite thoughtful, and heightens every song’s sonicimpact with total deliberation; each clip of video is stunningly executed, andseems to be timed to accentuate certain beats, tones, and shifts in musicalphrase to an ideal degree.
Second,there isn’t so much going on, even despite the crazy visuals, that you can’tfocus on any one musician in particular and feel captivated by their technicalabilities. For Example, the bass player was so good, and stalwart (many ofthese tracks were over five minutes long), that it was easy to get lost in hisplaying and forget everything else that was happening. The band’s first encoreperformance had Scott playing solo, and apologizing to the audience for the noticeable  absence of bandmates, with the candid admittance that he “justneeded to give them a rest”.
Third,these songs are pretty mellow, generally, but they never ever bore. There was adude standing about six feet in front of me who was breakdance-fighting/shadowboxing/going into epileptic shock for the entire set. I swear to god, he neverstopped moving for the full hour and a half they played. There were also anynumber of fist-pumpers and of course the occasional girl who would burst intotears at the beginning of a certain song…
Anyway,please enjoy a video from the show, and hopefully get a sense for what I’mtalking about here. Do trust though, that this little clip in no way does Tycho justice.

SHOW REVIEW: Dum Dum Girls w/ Widowspeak

Last night, we AudioFemmes visited Music Hall of Williamsburg to see Dum Dum Girls perform a blistering set for a packed audience.  We missed openers Punks On Mars (not too intrigued by that band name, sorry) but caught most of Widowspeak’s set. Below, our innermost thoughts and feelings regarding the spectacle we witnessed. – Eds.

dressed all in white and practically glowing

L: Annie, what did you think of Widowspeak?

A: Well. Here’s the thing: I have a hard time getting on board with singers who sound painfully derivative of someone whom I happen to love, in this case, Mazzy Star. It doesn’t help that Hope Sandoval is still around and making music. In fact, I hear there’s a forthcoming album slated for release this summer. However, independent of the issue of Molly Hamilton’s striking similarities, both sonically and aesthetically, to Mazzy, I have to admit I’m a sucker for dreamy sounding girl-pop.

Widowspeak


L:  Oooh, I had no idea Mazzy Star was putting out new material.  Yet another reason to look forward to summer.  But I digress – we were talking about Widowspeak, and I agree, it is hard not to hear Hope Sandoval when Molly Hamilton opens her mouth.  I’d actually seen them before at Glasslands when they opened for Dirty Beaches roughly a year ago.  They covered Chris Isaak.  I bought the Harsh Realm 7” (white vinyl!  I’m such a sucker for that kind of thing) and I think by now I’ve worn the grooves out.  I mean I’ve had nights where I put on that title track and just pull the needle back over when it’s done playing, and then repeat that about eighty times.  There’s something about the lines “I thought about how it was / I thought about you because / I always think about you” that just gets to me.  It’s definitely the kind of obsessive-minded song that makes playing the shit out of it feel totally appropriate…

 

 

… Seeing that live and knowing to expect it was a highlight for me, but I think that’s where the band excels – in the quieter, more contemplative moments.  I could have sworn they had far fewer members the last time I saw them, and so it was a bit off-putting to have three guys backing her up.  But I understand the need to amp up the performance as they are going out on tour with Dum Dum Girls.Speaking of which…..


A: Yeah, real quick: I would definitely give them another chance, and I often feel differently about a band’s sound in general when I hear the studio recording. You can lend me the 7” next time I come over. Anyway, moving on to the Dum Dum girls.

For me, a band’s first impression often sets the tone of the show, so to speak. And when the Dum Dum girls descended the stairs onto the stage of Music Hall of Williamsburg, decked out in white Grecian drapery and a myriad of fishnet-patterned stockings, I knew immediately, that we were in for a good time. Not to mention we were standing a stone’s throw from the hot new bass player, whose name thus far is unknown to us.


L: This bass player. Woah.  One of the most gorgeous women I think I’ve ever seen.  I was kind of disappointed when I heard their former bass player had been replaced; I thought she was a good representation of someone who isn’t super skinny and is totally sexy and kick ass, and I think it’s nice to see that, especially for people with similar body types.  Not that the new bass player was a twig; she did have some booty.  Whatever girl crushes I might have had on the band before were cemented when they emerged from backstage – every single one of them looked amazing.  I want to go shopping for tights and vintage jewelry with them.  Even if they had sucked, I would have been nearly content to watch them bop around on stage for 45 minutes.  But then they proceeded to totally melt faces.

A: Before I go on about how hard they rocked out, I must say, there’s something novel, in a heavy kind of way, about seeing a band comprised exclusively of women, play so competently and so beautifully. So many bands out there have one or two female members, who are often just eye-candy more than anything else; Or there are female-led groups who have the requisite enigmatic male bass player, or crazy drummer, etc. It’s really rare to see an all chick band like that who fully embrace their femininity and are completely unapologetic for their girliness, and who write songs about falling in and out of love that aren’t sappy and quaint sounding.

L: I agree. I wish it wasn’t such a novelty, but I don’t know if I’ve seen an all female band own a stage like that since Sleater-Kinney.  Maybe Warpaint. Honestly though, with all the bands trying to make it big in Brooklyn you don’t often see anyone, male OR female, playing their instruments as well as the Dums did.  I’d heard their shows were remarkable but I was floored by how good they sounded, how energetic they were, and how cohesively they jammed as a whole.  And I was also in love with their superfans who mouthed along with every word, including a middle-aged dude who was holding a library book the entire time!  I want to know what he was reading.

A: Hmmm. I’m gonna guess some sort of self-help book. Maybe something like, “How to change your life in 5 simple steps”

L: Step One – See the Dum Dum Girls. Life-changing for sure.Step Two – Get an e-reader so you don’t have to carry around heavy volumes to rock concerts.It looked pretty thick, though… I bet it was Game of Thrones or something like that.  He was adorably geeky.

A: Yeah, you’re probably right. That shit is insanely popular right now. I also liked that guy who was scribbling things down on his teeny tiny notepad like his life depended on it.

L: Maybe he was taking notes for his cool blog.

A: Not as cool as our blog.

L: Never!  Although it would be cooler if we could stay on topic.

A: Yeah, we really need to get it together here.

L: Admittedly, I’ve never quite understood the hype surrounding Dum Dum Girls.  Their albums are entertaining for a listen or two, but not usually ones I play over and over again.  That changed for me with the release of the first few singles from Only In Dreams.  Only In Dreams is, in part, a raw chronicle of the emotions lead singer Dee Dee experienced after the passing of her mother.  While their previous material was carefree and and even a bit frivolous, Only In Dreams has fathoms more depth, and that thoughtfulness and truth put it over the edge for me in terms of my admiration for the band.  I even went back to some of their old material, discovering “Take Care of My Baby” from the “He Gets Me High” single and falling absolutely in love with it.

A: Yeah, I never really got heavily into them. Aside from hearing their songs on random playlists here and there I never listened to much. And although I always liked what I did hear, seeing them live really changed my perception of what they are and what they do. Before I feel like my impression was that they’re kind of like a more pop-y iteration of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. And while Dee Dee does sound an awful lot like Karen O. in many ways, the songs themselves are decidedly more straightforward–but in a refreshing way–especially to hear live.

L:  I don’t know if I hear the Karen O. thing. In terms of performance and in-your-faceness, I’d say they are certainly of the same ilk. But the confessional nature of Dum Dum’s newer tunes is not a place even Karen would dare go. The live rendition of “Hold Your Hand” was particularly moving.  Knowing where Dee Dee’s coming from when she sings the words “I wish it wasn’t true but there’s nothing I can do except hold your hand” makes them that much more powerful, but its a sentiment that hits deep with anyone who has lost someone close to them.  After playing those last chords Dee Dee kind of looked down at her guitar and swallowed hard and I remember being amazed that she had the courage to write the song in the first place, let alone play it before a huge crowd.  It was very poignant. 
A: I think I actually started crying a little bit during that song, because you could tell she was working so hard to keep it together. My heart really goes out to her, and I’m stunningly impressed with her fortitude and self-composure in the face of such recent adversity. Seeing her perform it was one of the many highlights. The most memorable highlight, however, for me, was the encore, for which they played “Coming Down”.  It’s a quieter song, and more sophisticated then some of the upbeat pop-rock stuff they do that seems to be their signature style. I guess I like to be surprised sometimes, even if it comes at the very end of a set. And the added effect of the disco ball lent it a dream-like ambiance that made the encore actually feel like a send-off–which is to me, what encores are all about. In any case, I would definitely go see them live again.

L: I loved “Coming Down” as well.  It was perfect as a set closer lyrically and melodically; like watching the last embers of a fire die before it goes out.  And I love me some disco ball – it burst to life at the perfect moment, just after the bridge when Dee Dee was really belting it out .  My only disappointment of the evening was the realization that I left the records I bought at the show in a booth at Lovin’ Cup, where we stopped to grab a bite afterward. I called the place today but some jerk must have snapped them up. Can’t say I blame him or her, I’d probably do the same thing.

Dum Dum Girls are touring the Northeast through most of February and then head to Europe in March.  These ladies are not to be missed. For additional proof of such, check out the video Annie shot of them performing “Rest of Our Lives” from their 2010 debut LP I Will Be.

EP REVIEW: Headcage by Matthew Dear (Ghostly)

I remember the first time I heard the Matt Dear track “Tide”. I was driving aroundDetroit with my sister. It was the dead heat of summer. We were trying to find the Masonic Temple to attendwhat was rumored to be an amazing dance party thrown by a little known recordlabel out of Ann Arbor that was, and still is, near and dear to us both.

As we circled ’round and ’round the Cass Corridortrying to find parking and hoping not to miss anyone’s set, she (this sister of whom I speak) put “Tide” on,and asked me if I had heard it yet. At the time, Matt Dear—one of said label’s co-creatorsand first signatories—was still just some enigmatic DJ who composed exclusivelytechno; so I was surprised to suddenly hear his deep, now distinctive singing voice emerge from the noise. Andalthough I didn’t think too much of it (the singing thing, that is) I secretly hoped it wasn’t some weirdgimmick, because I could imagine him parlaying this particular genre-hybrid he had created, into something quite extraordinary. It was 2004then. In 2011 Black City came out andblew everyone’s mind, and to me, was the culmination of something seminal aboutthat particular summer.
During the three or so times last year that I saw him and hisband (handsome and dramatically impeccablein their three piece suits) perform Black City—with trumpet player and all—I felt that same little kernel of anxiety that I rememberfrom the summer of 2004: that this amazing music might go away, like avanishing mythological creature. I felt like I shouldn’t get too attached, for fear that it may turn out to be just another fleeting iteration of one of his manyaliases.

**Listen to “Tide” Here, because apparently I’m not sophisticated enough to copy and paste code from Soundcloud.**

Anyway, you can imagine my sigh of relief upon learning that the band version of Matt Dear,Matthew Dear, would be putting out an EP in the New Year. And Headcage is pretty awesome indeed. In fourtracks it both assuages the fear I spoke of, that he’ll cease to make the songs that I love the most–those that simultaneously propel the listener into new frontiers of artsy electronic, and take him or her back to some unnameable era of dance music–and suggests to me what the next phase of his polymathic (no, I don’t really know if that’s a real adjective) career might entail .
The first track, “Headcage” is an immediate nod to the highlights of Black City (namely “Shortwave” and “You Put A Smell On Me”, I think). It combines entrancing beats and heavy, nostalgia-inspiring synthetic melodies with insightful lyrics that juxtapose Matt’s laconic persona. “Around The Fountain” and “Street Song”, are a bit slower and more psychedelic, but pack a punch for their marked lack of traditional “techno” indicators. For example, “Street Song”, is underpinned by what can best be described as a barely perceptible, irregular sounding heartbeat.

“In The Middle (I Met You There)”, is the wild card of this EP. It starts off sounding like a hip hop jam, with a line from the chorus looping over a funky beat. The melody slowly emerges from a distant synth without the listener even knowing it. Then, Johnny Pierce (from the Drums) starts to croon what has become an addictive opening verse, building up to the refrain, during which all the background music stops. Then the chorus hits, with Matt Dear’s baritone voice entering dramatically, singing along with Pierce, only an octave lower. It’s at this point we find out that “In The Middle” is actually a love song (“The waves will keep on crashing in/sometimes we lose sometimes we win/you saved me from myself again/baby I don’t know how this will end”). This lyric repeats for a minute or so before the whole thing descends into instrumental chaos. It’s both familiar and surprising, and it’s the moment of Headcage that hooks me, in typical Matt Dear fashion, leaving me yearning for more. Good thing the full length album will be out next year.

At a Matt Dear show, right before we lit a fire in a bad location

 

SHOW REVIEW: Blouse w/ Cosmetics & The New Lines

nice blouse, Charlie Hilton
Looking at the line-up for Tuesdaynight’s show at 285 Kent, I wasn’t sure if I was about to see ahandful of fashionable indie bands or if I was making a shopping listfor things I needed to pick up from Bloomingdales. Blouse, check. Cosmetics, check. The New Lines, check. (Original openers Beige andMosaics were replaced last minute by Beach Fossils side projectHeavenly Beat, but could have easily fit into a department storeotherwise).
Luckily for my bank account, it was theformer. I missed Heavenly Beat although heard from a photographer Istruck up a conversation with that his set was pretty befuddling. Actually, I think the term autistic might have been used, but I feelremiss to pass judgement on an act I didn’t actually catch. I mademy way toward the stage just as New Lines were setting up.
The three members of The New Lines had this adorably quirky indie rock band circa 1995 look, like they’d be scratching their feet in the dirt all sheepish-like if they hadn’t been playing a show. Unfortunately, that’s probably what they went and did after a set besieged by technical difficulties. It seems strange to say of something “It was so loud I couldn’t hear it” but that’s the sort of effect the mixing had – it seemed like every other thing was drowning the vocals, but I couldn’t tell specifically what needed turning down. Surely one guitar, or even the keyboard, couldn’t be obliterating my ear drums. Then they asked for “less iPod” followed by “less backing track” followed by some other way of saying “we don’t have a bassist, so we need to play our songs over another part of the same song that we already recorded” and I suddenly understood. After a false start, the band stopped playing their last track halfway through a second attempt and left the stage. Even so, I wanted to hug them and tell them not to give up; I could tell that given a proper opportunity to listen to their poppy, psych-influenced songs I might fall madly in love with them. Luckily, they have a bandcamp and the only thing missing there is the trippy projections that swirled behind them as they performed.
Misty Mary on the keys
After the longest equipment change of alltime, the Cosmetics frontwoman explained “We got caught in asnowstorm on the way here.” I was not sure if she meant from thebar to the stage or what, as it had been sixty degrees (!) in NYCjust hours earlier. The songstress was lovely to behold and had anice voice, while her equally attractive male compatriot backed her up on no less than three mini-synths. The overall effect was a semi-sluggishbrand of electroclash but I think given time to develop and expand ontheir sound this could be a really fun band to see again. They havetwo seven inches out on Captured Tracks (which you can listen to at bandcamp) and it will be interesting to see if they are able to movepast their sweet tooth for Glassy Candy.
Patrick tunes his bass
Blouse took the stage just aftermidnight. Leading lady Charlie Hilton repped the band name in aflowing garment, cuffed at midwrist and layered over tan short shortsworn with sheer tights and tall black wedge booties. I don’t know ifthat is relevant to anything, but it seems when you’ve named yourband after the fanciest of shirts that it might matter just a little. According to Patrick Adams’ cool haircut it matters. Misty Mary(likely not her real name) tapping her toes clad in ripped pantyhoseindicates that it matters. Everything about drummer Paul Roper saysit matters – from the suspenders to the Elvis Costello frames,partially shaved head to the vintage tee.
What definitely matters is that Blouselived up to the hype that’s surrounded their self-titled release, out last November on Captured Tracks. The set was blissed-out and dreamy, yet retained the signature new-wave throwback sound that has garnered so much buzz for Blouse.  Ms. Hilton’s emotive crooning made me feel like the onlyperson bopping around in the cavernous, graffittied space. Her limitedbanter was sweet and humble. But for one song, the set was comprised entirely of material from the record, and the live renditions were flawless.  They closedwith heavy-hitter “Into Black” before politely ducking offstage. You can watch my video of “They Always Fly Away” below.

no, seriously. put another dime in.

feed this jukebox.  Sharlene’s, 353 Flatbush Ave. Prospect Heights, Brooklyn
I’ve seen my share of jukeboxes, butthis weekend I had my mind blown by one.
It sat there like a birthday present,hunched in the back of a crowded dive bar. My friends and I had justhad dinner to celebrate my 29th year, and contemplatedcalling it an early night. There were simply too many people around,not enough seats, and some really intense metal blaring over thespeakers.
But then – silence. We were standingin the glow of the very thing that just moments earlier had assaultedour eardrums, and the credits stood at zero.
I whipped out some ones without muchthought. There’s nothing worse than waiting around to hear yoursongs after some idiot has blown twenty bucks to play Bob Dylan’sentire catalogue, but when given the opportunity to start a new roundI take full advantage.
The first, most obvious thing aboutthis amazing machine was that it played CDs. Now, I’m sure there arejukebox enthusiasts out there that would scoff at such a modern thingin favor of 1950’s era boxes that play 45s. Not I, not existing, asI do, in a wasteland of ugly wall-mounted digital jukeboxes. Evenbars that I consider my favorites are foolish enough believe thatthese abominations fulfill their jukebox requirement, but that ispainfully false. I can appreciate the breadth of choice offered bydigital “jukeboxes” (if you feel it appropriate to bestow such atitle on a overgrown, overly flashy mp3 player), but the highlyinflated costs per play and the sacrilegious option to “play thistrack next” offered to line-jumpers are just a few of the evilsthat permeate the atmosphere around any digital box.
So yes, I marveled, if not rejoiced,that this was an automated CD player before me, and began to selectmy plays. Choosing songs for an entire bar full of strangers holdssimilar rules to making mixtapes for friends. You don’t put onmultiple tracks by the same artist. You don’t go for the obvious –sorry, Johnny Cash, Abba, “Sweet Caroline” by Neil Diamond, etc –unless you want to come off like an amateur. Deep cuts are alwaysmore respectable than well-known hits. Start with a banger, becauseeveryone can see you still standing there choosing the rest of yourtracks. Don’t be afraid to vary genres and eras. And while theymight be permissible on a personal mixtape, in a bar on a Saturdaynight there is just no room for downers.
The main difference in selecting songsfor a playlist and selecting songs on a jukebox is of course that ona jukebox, selections are made from a set of curated parameters. Often this includes the dregs of the bar owner’s collection ofMetallica discs. But not on this jukebox. Instead, I was flippingthrough hand-made mixes and comps. Not Weezer’s recent (read:shitty) albums, not Frampton Comes Alive! or the soundtrack toGrease. These mixes had themes and titles – WHAT IT IS! wasfleshed out by 60’s girl garage bands, WALKING THE DOG had Morrisseyfollowing Blondie, The Kinks, and Ike & Tina Turner. There werefour expert Motown collections, three assemblages of unusual covers,and a smattering of rockabilly, sixties classics, glam rock, andnineties indie darlings under headings like TEXAS FUNK, DANCINGBAREFOOT, and THE DAY BARTENDER. When a band’s repertoire warrantedrepresentation by a whole disc, a best-of mix often featured deepercuts alongside more well-known hits. Everything had personality -the Michael Jackson card was handwritten and labeled “Dead KidToucher (R.I.P.)”. It was like this jukebox was trying to animateand enliven and expound. I felt that it may even be able to teach mesomething and found myself wanting to go back to the bar in thedaytime and start with 0101 until I’d cycled through every choiceavailable.
The fact is that most jukeboxes neverstrive for more than “decent” status. My favorite jukebox of alltime was in a diner in Ohio and had the Shins before Garden Stateblew them up, and the second EP the Liars put out, among other gems. Playing the last track on “They Threw Us In A Trench and Stuck aMonument On Top”, which clocked in at thirty-plus minutes thanks toa never-ending loop (the vinyl version is locked-groove), sometimesresulted in the staff shutting the jukebox down, and once resulted inthe entire restaurant clapping when the onslaught had ended. But itwas a “prank” we pulled often, over huevos rancheros and blackbean burgers alike, at least until the old dear was replaced by adreaded TouchTunes. The jukebox I met this weekend is leagues aboveall that. It feels wholly original, personable, and thought out bythe bar’s proprietors, and that alone sets it apart. It is ameditation on bar soundscape, a chance for everyone to become themost in-the-know DJ.

An introduction to me and the music I love

Before I start describing to you my impression of the past year in music and what I’m looking forward to in the coming months (a succinct way to give you a glimpse into what you, our reader, can expect from me), I’ll tell you a wee bit about myself.

I was born and raised in a small Midwesterntown like so many other Brooklyn transplants. My parents placed my hands onthe keys of a piano at the age of three, and the bow of a cello in my fingersat the age of nine. I’d like to think that music is in my blood, but I knowbetter—for instance, that the early influence of Handel’s “Water Music” inshaping my perception of the world, or the memory of watching,atop shoulders, my dad play reggae at a local summertime concert, has more todo with my love for music than what my blood may contain. Still, I get afunny feeling in my heart when I hear certain songs, as if something mightbe waking up…

Though I never became aspectacular musician, by anyone’s standard, I still play occasionally. Moreimportantly, however, I learned in playing music for my whole life, to keepopen ears to whatever might waft through the airwaves. Subsequently, music hasbecome sine qua non to the diversity of my experience in the world, especiallyas a young city dweller. Without live music (even if the sound sucks, or thevenue is sub par), without the excitement of anticipating the newest album fromone of my current favorites, and without the joy of stumbling upon someundiscovered new treasure of a band (or DJ, or subway busker for that matter),life would just sparkle so much less vibrantly. New York would be such a drag.

What you can expect from me, with that said, is straightforward descriptive musings about the things that move me, namely good music (and sometimes not so good music too). If what you want though, is pretentious self-impressed sounding pseudo-journalism, then, well, I can direct you toward a few good music blogs for that too. Oh, and I have a degree in International Economics…So you may get a few tangential rants here and there about the security of oil supplies pumped throughout the Caucasus and Middle East, blah blah blah…

Anyway please read-on and (hopefully) enjoy a few personal highlights from the past year in music along with forthcoming shows and albums that I’m anticipating will be amazing. Organized categorically of course–because who doesn’t love lists?

Best new band of 2011: Beacon

My favorite newbie from 2011 is by far the band Beacon, whom I discovered at the Brooklyn Electronic Music Festival thanks to my friend Jakub, who runs the label Moodgadget, to which they are signed. Comprised of Thomas Mullarney and Jacob Gossett, Beacon sounds like an amalgam of what I consider to be the best elements of R&B and electronic, respectively, with mellow, synthy keys, smooth falsetto vocals and layers upon layers of textured beats. Before you check out their newest EP, No Body–a luscious soundscape of tunes about life and love–, listen to their cover of “The Rip”, by Portishead. You can find it Here. And if you like it, check them out live on February 4th with Tycho, at Music Hall. Ms. Rhoades and I would love to see you there.

The album of 2011 I was most surprised I like: Suck It and See

When I heard the first song off the album Suck It and See, I thought to myself “I really like this. It must be some sort of new wave I don’t know of…Yeah, definitely from the 80’s…Is it House Of Love? Hmmm…No…”. I then glanced over the album cover, nearly falling off my chair in surprise, to find that it was the irascible gang of drunken, juvenile Brits themselves: The Arctic Monkeys.  They seem to have inexorably matured about ten years since, say, Favourite Worst Nightmare in 2007 (we all remember “Fluorescent Adolescent’s” jabby opening chorus line “you used to get it in your fishnets/ now you only get it in your nightdress”). And I like what they’ve become: still raucous, but a bit less self-pitying and a bit more circumspect, both sonically and emotionally (if the two can even be disentangled when it comes to music). Self-possession really does suit them, for instance in the “Black Treacle” lyric “now I’m out of place, and I’m not getting any wiser/ I feel like the Sundance Kid behind a synthesizer”. It sounds like a conundrum I’ve found myself in too, these days. And bravo, Arctic Monkeys, for being all the more perspicacious in actually admitting to it.

Best girl anthem of 2011 that feels like a throwback: “Sadness Is A Blessing”

Lykke Li’s “Sadness Is A Blessing”, from Wounded Rhymes pretty much sums up my teenage years. And I’m sure had she been around in the 90’s, I would have most certainly been dressing and acting just like her. The opening chords are an immediate reference to all the 60’s girl groups whom I love, with a catchy I-IV-V key progression. Then comes Lykke’s raspy, unapologetic plea to some heartbreaker out there, to come back to her, in spite of her . Alas to no avail, she resolves herself to the infinite sorrow that awaits her in his absence. It’s a  beautifully haunting song that seems to capture every decade of pop since the 50’s. It shows that women creating incredible music about how much it sucks to be love-sick is a motif that transcends space and time.

Best Album of 2011 by a girl-led band, that can even begin to compete with Body Talk by Robyn: Ritual Union, Little Dragon

All of those who know me know that I would cross the street to tell a stranger how much I love Robyn. Body Talk may actually be one of my favorite albums of all time. With that said, when I heard Ritual Union–the newest  from Little Dragon, I was pretty damn excited to have found what I consider to be a futuristic iteration of everything I like about everything Robyn’s ever done. Whew. Ok, enough hyperbole for you? Yeah, me too. Anyway, Ritual Union is an album full of pulsating dance beats featuring heavy snare, combined with smooth synthetic bass lines and of course, Yukimi Nagano’s beautiful, sultry voice. And while I don’t have it on repeat or anything, it’s perfect to play at the end of the night, when all your dinner guests have had a bit too much to drink, and some of them want to get stoned at sit on the couch while others just really need to have a freaky dance party .

Best album of 2011 that almost makes me like Bob Dylan: Slave Ambient, The War On Drugs

I had heard Slave Ambient several times over the past months and didn’t think too much of it, considering all the attendant hype. However, after listening to a few of their terrific live performances on NPR’s “Sound Check”, I decided to revisit it and see if there was something I had been missing. And ok, fair enough, they’re pretty damn good. The songs do accompany arcane, poetic lyrics sung by a raspy-voiced front man, with a shit-ton of folky guitar melodies. This in and of itself makes them (to me) start to sound an awful lot like Bob Dylan tunes. I can’t really help it. And for those of you who know me know I would cross the street to tell some girl’s expensively-groomed chihuahua that I don’t like Bob Dylan.  But here’s the difference: each instrument including the vocals has reverb applied, as well as any handful of cool effects. This little aspect manages to transform each track from derivative (at best) into luscious, ambient and original. Amazing what a bit of creative thinking can do, no?

Best Album of 2011, Period: Year of Hibernation, (Youth Lagoon), tied with  Father, Son, Holy Ghost, (Girls)

So this was really, really challenging. It’s basically like having to choose your favorite kid (not that I have any, but I imagine it would be an equally difficult task ). Anyway, upon much deliberation I decided to narrow it down to two. And I challenge any music lover to try and do better than that.

Ok, so first, Youth Lagoon: Who knew that some kid making songs in his bedroom would have such a substantial impact on the world of indie rock. And what makes these songs great is not that they are innovative, as is the case with much of the incredible Garage Band-made music these days, but rather the ways in which they sound like something you’ve heard a million times but can’t quite pin down. They’re nostalgically psychedelic, but simple and quiet at the same time. Trevor Powers’ voice is thin but powerfully resonate. The melodies are pedestrian but unique. The lyrics are about a childhood we can all relate to; yet somehow his words still give me pause. Every time I listen to Year Of Hibernation, I discover something new about the songs. They will put me simultaneously in a good and bad mood. And that, my dear friends, is one illustrious feat.

It’s rare that a band’s sophomore album actually surpasses their debut, but Father, Son, Holy Ghost manages it somehow, although I’m sure there are plenty of folks out there who would disagree with me. The songs range from excruciatingly slow guitar ballads to Beatles-esque jingles, which is a wide spectrum to cover, and speaks loudly to the band’s versatility. Christopher Owens is a pretty self-aware dude (being a Children Of God escapee and all), and he wears is heart on his sleeve, evident in lyrics such as “They don’t like my boney body/ They don’t like my dirty hair/ Or the stuff that I say, or the stuff that I’m on”, from “Honey Bunny”, which is a track that perfectly encapsulates the band’s sound: upbeat classic rock ‘n roll, underpinned by dark moody intimations (think Beck’s “Sun Eyed Girl”).  And this little fact alone will keep me coming back to these songs again and again, probably forever.

Runners up: Unluck (James Blake),  Hurry Up We’re Dreaming (M83)

 

Well, clearly I could go on ad infinitum about  2011, but I figured I should leave the past where it belongs, and instead look toward what awaits us right around the proverbial corner. I’ll list a few albums about which I’m “stoked” (as they say in left coast vernacular), and then sign off, for now, with a lineup of shows I hope to attend. Who knows, maybe we can catch a few together…
xxo
Annie

Albums I can’t wait for:
Mark Lanegan Band, February 6

Die Antwoord, February 7

Sleigh Bells, February 21

School Of Seven Bells, February 28

Bruce Springsteen, March 5

Spiritualized, March 19

Choir of Young Believers, March 20

Where to track us down these days:

01.25 Lucinda Black Bear, Union Pool
01.31 Blouse, 285 Kent
02.02 Thurston Moore, Lincoln Center, Allen Room
02.04 Tycho, Beacon, Music Hall Of Williamsburg
02.07 Mark Lanegan Band, Bowery Ballroom
02.11 Dum Dum Girls, Maxwell’s
02.11 The Kills, Terminal 5
02.14 Lily and the Parlour Tricks, The Bowery Electric
02.25 Sharon Van Etten, Bowery Ballroom