There’s really no entity that compares to the genius of Phil Elverum. He’s like a mythical creature or enlightened being from another planet. He’s been actively making music and art for nearly fifteen years under a variety of monikers, with common threads and motifs connecting each project to the next. His soft, cooing voice sounds bashful but the words they convey are anything but; together they form a cohesive aesthetic whether the tunes are performed as a black metal band or as stripped down acoustic melodies. I’ve been amazed and inspired by his work for most of my adult life, finally getting to see him play live (in a glorious cathedral no less!) during Northside fest in the summer of 2011.
I saw him again a few months later at le poisson rouge. The opener both times was Nicholas Krgovich, who put out a 7″ on Phil’s record label P.W. Elverum & Sun. This is significant because he also accompanied Phil, playing keys and synths and adding backing vocals. The set for both shows spanned a lot of Mount Eerie material (and there really is so, so much of it) but from show to show was pretty similar. They were both moving in their own way, although far from my dream set, or what I’d imagined a Mount Eerie set might be like after countless repeated listens to their infamous triple LP recorded live in Copenhagen.
For Saturday night’s show, Brooklyn-based electronic indie pop outfit La Big Vic warmed up the crowd with bouncy set, each beat measured against swirling synths and vocals. Their smartly crafted dream pop is sort of like waking up from a dream you just had where you were lying on the beach sunbathing but the sky was all shifting neon colors instead of the standard blue. The majority of the crowd paid rapt attention to the attractive trio, with Toshio Masuda casually looping guitars, Emilie Friedllander bowing a violin or cooing into the microphone, and Peter Pearson manning the keys.
During the set, Phil Elverum and his bandmates could be seen milling about the crowd – putting finishing touches on set-up, selling records, and chit-chatting with fans. This highlights one of the best aspects of Elverum’s live performances and work in general; despite the emotional depth to his work and its esoteric facets, he is really just normal guy. He doesn’t take himself too seriously, preferring to interact with the crowd, making jokes at his own expense. The band had a little trouble with initial set-up, blowing two amps and lacking connections for some of the instruments, during which Phil took it upon himself to introduce the new material as well as his four touring bandmates, all on loan from their various bands and side-projects.
I was really excited to see him play with a fuller band, especially because the additional vocals sounded particularly heartbreaking. There was also a fake campfire on stage, which added a bit of kitsch but also a bit of setting, and setting is what the new Mount Eerie material is all about. In his introductory speech, he’d mentioned that the evening’s setlist was composed of songs taken from each of his two newest records, Clear Moon and Ocean Roar.
These albums were recorded simultaneously in Elverum’s new studio, The Unknown, while he took a year off from touring, and he divided the material into separate records afterward. He has stated that the records are truly meditations on his hometown in Washington state and what it meant for him to be in that one place, day after day, walking from his home to his recording studio and back and then spending quiet evenings reading about Anacortes history. They represent two sides of the same coin; Clear Moon is as succinct and glistening as its name might suggest, in exactly the same way that Ocean Roar is murky and embattled, its dense layers rolling over tumultuously over and over one another. In a live setting, the juxtaposition of the material highlighted the breadth and beauty of the sonic divide. Moving from quieter, dreamier movements into towering walls of drone, Elverum knitted these conjoined twins back together to stunning affect.
Last minute, some friends and I decided to grab tickets to Ariel Pink’s Webster Hall show. TEEN was opening and I hadn’t seen Ariel Pink in roughly two years, the last time being at Irving Plaza when I was going through some major melodrama that kind of ruined the whole thing for me. So despite the hefty ticket price and less than ideal venue, I logged on to Ticketmaster, rolled my eyes at the ‘service’ surcharges, and was just about to click on “Submit Order” when I heard a familiar gchat ding. My roommate was informing me that Holy Other had announced a secret show at 285 Kent via a Twitter message that had already disappeared. All that remained was the following cryptic tweet from the venue:
Todd P’s reply tweets seemed to confirm that it would all go down after Ariel Pink finished the Webster show. Holy Other was opening for Amon Tobin at Hammerstein, so that also seemed to make sense. 285’s facebook dangled a 3am set time like a carrot on a stick. The matter was discussed with friends; it simply made more sense to skip Webster on the chance that Ariel would play later, cheaper, and in a rad venue instead of a lame one.
My brain was buzzing while I excitedly coordinated a new game plan for the evening. Sure, I’d been excited to see TEEN, but had no doubt they’d play a CMJ showcase somewhere. Holy Other was a more than suitable consolation prize. And I was curious about R. Stevie Moore’s set as well. But something about the prospect of seeing Ariel Pink at 285 seemed so epic, even though it was nothing if not the scaled-back nature of this alternative venue that made it that much more appealing. There was something else at work here – the rumors, the hush, the knowing wink (or in this case, knowing retweets). The magic of the ‘secret’ show.
What is it that makes a secret show feel so magical? By its nature, even indulging the rumors means you are part of a club that is “in-the-know” and from there you have two options: play the part of the cool skeptic, or go all in on the chance that whatever happens might be spectacular. It’s not like buying a ticket for a bill announced well in advance; while the anticipation might be just as acute there is the added glamour of uncertainty. The venue could be jam-packed! The ensuing show could be mayhem! It might not even happen until the wee morning hours! There could be insane special guests! Suddenly, I was starring in a saga that had yet to unfold, knowing that if any one of these grandiose scenarios came to fruition, there were major bragging rights to be had.
After all, it was only about a month ago that Pictureplane and Grimes infamously took over 285, aided by surprise appearances from araabMuzik and A$AP Rocky. I had been at that show; I got tickets before they sold out without thinking about the fact that I was supposed to work that evening, but it ended up taking place much later than expected so I just went afterward. I’d had some friends in town that weekend so by the Sunday evening on which the show took place, I was exhausted, ready to keel over. I was quite enjoying Arca’s DJ set but also feeling impatient and super-annoyed by the underaged seapunks populating the crowd. Pictureplane didn’t go on until after midnight, as though enacting some backwards Cinderella clause. I was simply too worn out to stick around for Grimes and her gaggle of buzzy artists, but the next day I admittedly kicked myself for not sticking it out a little longer. A very well-known ‘journalist’ infamous for his over-use of superlatives tweeted: “Seems clear @285Kent will one day be regarded as a legendary NY scene. Easily the wildest + most creative I’ve witnessed in my 5 years here.”
And it is kind of true. If there’s a venue in Brooklyn that’s really taking the reins as far as booking avant-garde artists and quirky parties, it’s 285. While it’s no doubt benefited from its proximity to neighborhood DIY stalwarts Glasslands and Death By Audio, it has also had to set itself apart from these institutions. It does so by catering to subcultures so specific to an ever-fleeting moment that, while the general populous tries to come up with a searing punchline to describe it, the nature of the ‘scene’ has already morphed into something else as explosive and as vibrant. As with any scene there are downsides and caveats, but boredom isn’t in the vocabulary.
So when a place like this announces a secret anything, be there with bells on. These aren’t just stories to tell your grandkids, these are stories that will make your relatives believe you are starting to go senile, because what you’ve described seems so fantastical. No, you’ll insist: these are things that happened. To me. And they will either commit you to a geriatric care facility right then and there, or their shining eyes will widen and they will beg you to regale them with more tales from your debaucherous twenties. You’ll play them a Grimes record, they will make strange faces.
Last Friday wasn’t quite so legendary as I’d hoped it would be, but Holy Other played an absolutely killer set. His features were totally obscured by fog-machine sputter and pitch black lighting save for a mesmerizing laser projector cutting through the darkness. Now, don’t go thinking I’m some stoner who could spend hours in Spencer gifts staring goggle-eyed at lava lamps and blacklight posters, but this laser thing was incredible. It had a presence, like you could reach out and touch it, and it made geometric shapes and waves in myriad colors. When I was living in Ohio, we had a regular karaoke spot and the DJ, Dave Castro, was the main reason behind our repeat attendance. From time to time he’d have contests and give away this DVD he’d made for cats. It was literally called Cat DVD and it was looped footage of goldfish swimming around or birds hopping through a forest or… that’s right, lasers. The idea was that when you had to leave your cat at home alone, you could put on the DVD and then instead of napping the whole day away it would watch and be stimulated. It was also really good for backgrounds at parties – much better than a lava lamp and much less likely to short out and cause a fatal blaze. Watching Holy Other and his magical laser box was like getting sucked into Cat DVD in the best way I can describe. When I talked about the show with friends afterward, the laser was the focus of conversation. We wondered where we could get one, then decided that you had to know a wizard or a unicorn who could hook you up with it.
Holy Other’s latest album Held makes good on all the promises of his early demos, singles and EPs. Right at home on label Triangle Records, Holy Other is often associated with witch house, but he’s a front runner and a creator within that genre, not an imitator or piggy-backer. He invented the sound that would define that movement, in all its sinister glory – skeletal beats marred by thumping bass, syrupy samples, seemingly random bleeps which emerge after repeated listens into blissful sonic fractals. It’s hard not to be moved even during a subway ride with headphones over the ears or via computer speakers while you’re supposed to be casually checking email. But with the volume up as loud as eardrums can handle, letting every pulse wash over you, the experience is truly one of holiness.
His set was plenty satisfying, but we had to know if Ariel Pink would show up so we stuck around, breathless from the experience. What we got instead was bizarro pop Ariel Pink protege Geneva Jacuzzi, whose live performance I was surprised to learn just consists of her leaping barefoot around the stage in questionable attire while she howls over iPod tracks. Since it was by that time close to 3AM if not well past it, and because grilled cheese from Normaan’s Kil was calling my name ever so faintly, my friend and I reluctantly left. The reluctance was mostly mine and mostly only a byproduct of that uncertainty still reverberating through my psyche – what if Ariel Pink did show and I missed it?
While we waited for our cheeses (Solona + Vernice for LIFE!) I checked twitter for any news, mostly to no avail. Finally someone posted an Instagram of a blurry, nearly obscured R. Stevie Moore backed by a band which may or may not have been Bodyguard and may or may not have included Ariel Pink, but there was no definitive account of who was actually onstage. The person who posted the picture said they stayed at the venue until six in the morning.
In the end, the takeaway is this: the experience as a whole was totally worth it. If I’d really wanted to see Ariel Pink I could’ve gone to Webster Hall, and for that matter I’m sure I’ll have another opportunity to bask in his weirdness. In return for giving the promoters the benefit of the doubt, I was witness to an absolutely majestic Holy Other performance that I’m sure would have been nowhere near as intimate or haunting at Hammerstein. It’s a great reminder that there is only one moment, and it’s the one you’re in. You’re only a sucker if you stay home.
As a founding member of Black Dice, Eric Copeland has been melting my face for years. I’d seen them live a handful of times in the early- and mid-aughts and had fond memories of sweaty thrashing and abused cilia. I was overjoyed when they were announced as openers for Animal Collective’s Celebrate Brooklyn show last summer and pleased that they were just as great as ever, even though the venue was not the sort I was used to seeing them play. Even though I enjoyed Eric Copeland’s solo material I’d never gotten a chance to see what it is exactly that he does by himself in front of a crowd. At Death by Audio on Sunday, I found out.
I was in a somewhat poisonous mood despite being very excited about the show. August was not a kind month to me, and it was beginning to wear me down; my hope was that the show would lift my spirits. I was jazzed up for opener U.S. Girls, whose moniker is misleading in that is is actually just one girl. That girl, Meghan Remy, layers her sultry but detached vocals over fuzzy electronic beats and looks damn chic doing it. She’s released a handful of records, done a split with Dirty Beaches, and has an album, entitled Gem, coming out on Fat Cat in September. She was also selling some pretty rad little collages at the merch table.
Musically, the production values remain lo-fi enough to add a little grit to a glamorous ethos that clearly informs her work. There weren’t tons of people filling the DIY space for her set, but those who were seemed to be under a kind of spell; heads bobbed but eyes were glued to the stage. She closed with her lead-off single from Gem, “Jack”, a cover of a somewhat obscure glam-rock jam from 2004 by a band called Danava. Remy also performed an awesomely perverted version of Monica and Brandy’s 1998 smash hit “The Boy Is Mine”. While you would think R&B doesn’t have much to do with the swirling, dubby haze Remy creates, it’s actually a pretty appropriate reference point; though her distorted, witchy vocals and hazy compositions are far from slickly produced pop top forty, the diva swag is the same, and the jagged spines of these songs are sheathed in beats just as infectious.
Eric Copeland was certainly more unassuming than the audaciously blonde Remy in her leopard-print wedges, dressed as he was in a dark cap and ragged shorts. Every so often, Copeland would croon into a microphone, his voice a distorted moan, and during those moments he’d direct his gaze briefly and furtively into the bizarro dance party he’d given rise to. But mostly he kept his head down, sometimes whipping it back and forth during particularly turbulent rhythms. Much like Copeland’s work with Black Dice, his solo work is layered with mashed loops and whacked-out samples, and it has followed a similar trajectory. Copeland started producing his solo records right around the time that Black Dice moved away from the harsh feedback and persistent drone of their early material, replacing it with something no less experimental but certainly a bit more synth-oriented. With the release of this year’s Limbo, Copeland’s created something that embraces that more playful ethos. The beats are almost bouncy, layered in psychedelic repetitions and oozing pitch-shifted samples. It’s still a challenging listen at times, due to its more disconnected moments. But in a live setting, you could actually pull out some weird dance moves and shake to it. I don’t think I’ll be walking into a dance club anytime soon to hear a DJ spinning “Fiesta Muerta”, but attending this show was a reminder that there are all types of grooves, and sometimes the kookiest ones are the most rewarding.
If I had to make a shortlist of the best bands ever, Liars would probably be on it. Perfect ratios art, myth, experimentalism, talent, and persona have made this one of the most prolific bands of my formative years – perhaps not critically, but definitely in a personal sense. Until last Tuesday, I’d never seen them live. But when I heard they were playing Webster Hall I decided to put aside my hatred for this awful venue and buy tickets immediately. No way would I miss this.
That night was one of the hottest of the summer so far. I was certainly not looking forward to standing in a mass of seething Liars fans in a poorly air-conditioned concert hall while we all moshed around, but life’s about trade-offs. The first hurdle I had to get over were the opening bands. I caught about ten seconds of Bubbles, but opted to stand in front of a fan near the entrance to cool off a bit before venturing back upstairs to get in place for a show I hoped would be just the right amount of epic. This also required enduring a set from Oneohtrix Point Never, which was torture enough.
If you’ve ever looked at a photograph of Daniel Lopatin while listening to his glitchy, undulating experimental electronic collages, you’ve basically seen the equivalent of his live “show”. It was one of the most boring things I’ve ever witnessed on a stage. Granted, I am not much of a Oneohtrix fan. I like parts of his music well enough, but the stutters and wails of electronic fuzz get to me after awhile and I start wishing it was just the pretty parts. Not surprisingly, that notion climbs tenfold when you’re super hot and you’re standing around in a huge concert hall with the amps turned way up and there’s really nothing to see him doing. I’ve been to a lot of electronic shows. The best DJs and producers and beatsmiths are actually a joy to see at work, deftly twisting knobs and noodling on synths and maybe even singing or drumming. Most of the others realize they are boring to watch at work but for the sake of being able to play out employ backup dancers or projections, which is always appreciated. Even if the performer is a little stiff, usually you can at least dance to the music and ignore the fact that someone is on stage “playing” something. But none of these things apply to Daniel Lopatin. We amused ourselves with the concept that at parties he only refers to himself in the third person (as his band) and says things like “Oneohtrix Point Never changes facial expressions” or “Oneohtrix Point Never gonna sound like real songs” or “Oneohtrix Point Never playing Webster Hall again”.
People hail this guy as a genius, which I don’t understand, especially when there are far less hyped folks who go totally unnoticed and actually care if they appear completely uninteresting in a live setting. Maybe it’s the hype that makes his nonchalance seem downright smug, but either way, the impression given is that his live set doesn’t have to be engaging because he is just that brilliant, and we should want to pay money to bask in his glory. If I had paid money to see Oneohtrix I would have demanded it back. I might see Lopatin’s side project with Joel Ford (creatively titled Ford & Lopatin) but I haven’t really noticed them touring and I’m sure he doesn’t do much there either, besides what I’m doing now, which is sitting in front of a laptop pushing buttons. My hope would be that Ford is an engaging enough performer for the both of them. Meaning he would have pretty spastic and/or wearing an insane costume.
Luckily the intensity and showmanship exemplified by Liars redeemed all of this as the lush opening bars of “Exact Color of Doubt” swirled over the audience. The vibes were appropriately creepy, with a sinister Angus Andrews moaning “I’ll always be your friend/I’ll never let you down” into the mic. Julian Gross took his place behind the drums and waited patiently for the mood to steep, with well-timed bursts on an electronic hybrid kit, while Aaron Hemphill temporarily ignored his own, smaller drum set as well as his guitar, presiding instead over a collection of synths. Throughout the set he would play each in turn, sometimes sharing with Andrews. “Exact Color of Doubt” expanded into the cavernous space almost like a meditation, but it was the last quiet moment in a show so loud I could feel the floor shaking and my arm hairs vibrating. They blasted straight into “Octagon” rendered with far heavier strokes in its live setting than it is on WIXIW, the band’s sixth studio album.
Much of the material on their newest record was showcased here, but it blended seamlessly into older tracks from their previous albums. The trajectory of Liars has been notoriously hard to pin down, with each album set apart from the others by its own theme, either sonically or conceptually. WIXIW has already been labeled the band’s “electronic” album and it’s true that they’ve used it to introduce a very timely exploration of computer and synth generated sounds. But the innate weirdness, sinister sensibilities, and fearless experimentation that mark all of Liars’ releases is just as prominent, even if the finished product is one of the more reserved pieces they’ve put out to date.
If anyone was worried that the more subtle tones of the new record would inform this latest tour, that worry was shattered not only by the sheer volume radiating from the stage, but also by the energy exhibited in particular by Angus Andrews. He’s every bit the cult leader, his limbs raised fantastically above his stringy locks, never removing his black jacket despite the unrelenting heat, said jacket looking almost too small on his menacing, gangly frame. One moment he would shudder violently, the next bouncing or twirling like a mental patient gone off his meds.
While the set was definitely skewed toward the songs on WIXIW, they were offered alongside a well-curated selection from their previous records. As such, the show acted partly as revue, partly as history lesson – spanning from Liars’ emergence as dance-punk purveyors of ten years past, through art rock witchiness, percussive experimentation, forays into shoegaze, and finally the punishing, barren soundscapes of 2009’s Sisterworld. And while these selections were a treat to a longtime Liars fan like myself, the WIXIW songs were executed so well that they held their own in the cannon of favorites like “Broken Witch” “Let’s Not Wrestle Mt Heart Attack” and “Plaster Casts of Everything”. Though Andrews has said that it was unnerving to present partially formed ideas and arrangements to the band during WIXIW’s almost claustrophobic writing and recording process, none of that insecurity shows now that the album is making its live debut. It’s hard to believe a decade has passed since the release of They Threw Us In A Trench And Stuck A Monument On Top, and indeed I feel like I’ve spent most of my adulthood in the locked groove of “This Dust Makes That Mud”. But the Liars are nothing if not uncanny for their ability to evolve and to challenge, and the show at Webster Hall was a perfect affirmation of such.
On Saturday I had every intention of seeing Gap Dream and Grass Widow but had absolutely no energy left for anything not resembling sleep. My family was still in town and while it was wonderful it was still totally draining. I did make sure to catch the Sacred Bones showcase on Sunday at Glasslands, but didn’t get there until Vår were almost finished with their set.
As a side project of Danish band Iceage’s Elias Rønnenfelt, Vår could be considered a slightly darker and more electronic-based iteration of the hardcore punk for which Iceage is known. This show was supposed to be their New York debut but only a few days prior they’d played a raucous secret set at Wierd in which Rønnenfelt and bandmate Loke Rahbek made out to an instrumental track for almost ten minutes. When I arrived at Glasslands, the place was swathed in thick clouds emanating from multiple fog machines, and Vår was performing perhaps their best known single, “Hold Me In Your Arms”. The pounding beat and pleading vocals were not unlike an arrow through my chest, with any other senses obscured as they were by the dense fog.
I was slightly side-tracked by trying to locate my own crush, and by the time I found him Rønnenfelt and Rahbek were already locked in an embrace that made ours look pretty hetero-normative and not so Scandinavian, either, so we debated instead about whether their move was “brave” or “gimmicky”. The fact is that no matter how much I want a show-stopper like that to be commonplace, we live in a political climate where it’s still challenging to some. So challenge away, you beautiful Danish teenagers you.
[fusion_builder_container hundred_percent=”yes” overflow=”visible”][fusion_builder_row][fusion_builder_column type=”1_1″ background_position=”left top” background_color=”” border_size=”” border_color=”” border_style=”solid” spacing=”yes” background_image=”” background_repeat=”no-repeat” padding=”” margin_top=”0px” margin_bottom=”0px” class=”” id=”” animation_type=”” animation_speed=”0.3″ animation_direction=”left” hide_on_mobile=”no” center_content=”no” min_height=”none”]I borrowed this image from nyctaper, since it was way too dark & foggy for me to get photo or video of my own. Thanks nyctaper!
Amen Dunes played next, with Crystal Stilts to follow. But Amen Dunes’ set was admittedly less interesting to me at that point than going somewhere for a burger and flirting, so after they played a version of “Bedroom Drum” that (inexplicably) did NOT feature the essentially titular bass drum we took off.
Sacred Bones does a pretty awesome job forwarding the interests of the bands they represent; I think I’ve seen every band on that label play somewhere in Brooklyn or beyond at least once with exception of, I don’t know, Slug Guts? And maybe Pop. 1280 because I’m just not that into it. It’s not all that strange that label stalwarts Crystal Stilts headlined the show. But with all the buzz surrounding Vår, not to mention the fact that the band needed passports to get here, makes putting Amen Dunes above them on the bill a somewhat questionable move. After all, this was Vår’s official debut, and Amen Dunes plays NYC constantly. Then again, I can also go to Dumont anytime I like, so maybe there’s also something to be said for force of habit.
In past years, I’ve mostly ignored Northside unless there was a specific touring band I wanted to see (last year these included Mount Eerie and Beirut, for example) mainly because the festival takes place over a weekend and I’m usually working during those. But this year my little sister and my niece were in town so I took the whole week off and began entertaining mad fantasies of putting the tourists to bed by nine pm and galavanting about North Brooklyn all night. Unfortunately this turned to be a bit unrealistic, considering that I was exhausted from playing tour guide all day and that many of the showcases took place a little too early.
Thursday was a total no go, and on Friday I completely missed Jens Lekman, of Montreal, and Beach Fossils playing the McCarren Park show which had originally cited as justification for the purchase of the badge. I suppose this means I am oddly doomed to only see Beach Fossils side projects live and never ever actually see Beach Fossils. While pondering how that could be, I realized that missing that show meant being able to see Tuareg-Berber jam band Tinariwen and headed to The Warsaw. The venue is a Polish dancehall that hosts more Polka than Punk Rock, but their sound was perfect and the ballroom is absolutely gorgeous.
Tinariwen had just started playing and the sight of them was stirring: five men in brightly colored traditional Berber dress beamed pure joy at the audience, seated behind traditional drums or deftly strumming electric guitars. The band was founded by Ibrahim Ag Alhabib and has included upwards of twenty members, with a rotating line-up due in large part to political turmoil in the band’s homeland
Though Tinariwen’s roots in disparate refugee camps is by now legendary, the five touring members onstage at The Warsaw played in perfect sync with one another, their voices and rhythms seeming timeless. When one man sang, another would lead the audience in polyrhythmic clapping before the two would switch roles, weaving together a variety of traditional and African pop sounds with spidering Western guitar parts reminiscent of blues rock.
Percussion also plays a huge role in Tinariwen’s sound; they utilize drumming techniques and instruments from all over West Africa which anchor clarion guitar solos. One particularly compelling drum had a cylindrical base like that of the djembe but the head looked to be more like a calebasse gourd. The top could be pounded for a deeper bass sound or the percussionist could make more rapid, sharper tones using some rings worn on his thumbs.
I’ve never seen a band happier to inspire an audience the way Tinariwen did; when they shouted messages between songs in French, or in Tamashek (their native language) they were often met with enthusiastic replies. It’s not hard to understand why; in the many live performances I’ve had the pleasure to witness, few bands have met the talent I saw this particular evening. I was so moved that I signed up to see them again on Monday during a taping of an encore performance for MTV’s Iggy. Paul Simon was in attendance, and Kyp Malone of TV On The Radio performed a lovely version of “Tenere Taqqim Tossam”, then insisted on doing it again, but better.
After having my mind blown by Tinariwen, I was probably better suited for laying around on some grass looking at stars than catching another show, especially one so hyped as hip-hop chanteuse Kitty Pryde’s NYC debut at the Knitting Factory. Opener Deniro Farrar hit the stage late, his style classic and mostly laid-back with spurts of aggressive rhyme. The true highlight of his set was his ultra-chill DJ, whose jams tempered Farrar’s more unabashed outbursts. Even if Farrar, who has been plugging away at the rap game for a while now from his home base in Charlotte, North Carolina, was a bit stung that he had to open for a teenage white girl from Daytona Beach, there was no sign of it; Kitty related a story in which Farrar gave her a backstage pep talk and he was actually far better at hyping her performance than her hype man (who was actually her brother).
Kitty appeared onstage in a pink ruffled prom dress that she claimed to have bought at Kohl’s and a pair of black patent leather combat boots adorned with diamond studded cats. Even during her more awkward moments, Kitty has that attitude specific to nineteen year olds in which they feel they can pretty much do whatever they please without a second thought of being judged. Kitty Pryde is actually very aware of what judgements are passed on her and simply doesn’t let it affect her; even her raps are rife with jokes made at her own expense which has got to cut down on plenty of naysaying right off the bat. In fact, she’s so self-aware and so good at tongue-in-cheek references to things like online dating and Justin Beiber that it’s hard to believe she’s only nineteen. She looks and acts like it, sure, but could someone that young make such acerbic and often very funny observations about pop culture? A healthy teenage bravado and her awkward Skillex-haired brother tagging along are really the best pieces of proof that she is as young as she claims, and besides that I guess it would be a pretty silly marketing ploy to fake your age and not make yourself old enough to drink even if you’ll get served alcohol regardless.
We weren’t really sure what to make of Kitty Pryde’s flirtatious anthems. Sometimes they border on scandalous, and considering her (supposed) age and coquettish attitude that leaves us just a wee bit queasy. As a rapper she’s not nearly as talented as other ladies in the biz, relying more on her wit and cutesy personae more than anything else. It was hard for her to get through a verse without giggling, some of which is actually written into her lyrics, but most of which was probably an “adorable” way of covering her fuck ups. She basically exists in a sweet spot created by Kreayshawn, the only heir apparent to that particular throne, though she cites a slightly wider range of influence that includes several members of Odd Future and Kid Cudi among others.
The one thing that really irked me more than any other detail was the laziness behind her production. Granted, she’s been sitting in her bedroom making YouTube videos and basically only has access to beats not made specifically for her. If you have to borrow from someone, you could certainly do worse than the genius of Madlib, but that’s a guy who digs through crates upon crates of 45s and has an encyclopedic knowledge of soul and funk that would probably rival Wikipedia itself. So it’s kind of cheating when you just nonchalantly coo over “Accordion” or whatever (and also call that song “Accordion” on your demo). On the latest EP she’s posted to bandcamp, entitled Haha I’m Sorry, she gets some production help and samples some Carly Rae Jepsen, so maybe the lack of imagination will be less of a fault as DJs come out of the woodwork to get a piece of her pie, which hopefully doesn’t have to be a sexual innuendo.
What Kitty has going for her (other than tons and tons of buzz) is her fearlessness and her clever charm. For someone who essentially raps about getting a crush on everything, her delivery is slightly more badass and a lot smarter than Britney Spears or Christina Aguilera were able to provide ten years ago (when Kitty Pryde was nine, for those of you not-so-quick with the math). According to the demo for “Thanks Kathryn Obvious” her trajectory went something like this: “I thought I was Sheena – you know? A punk rocker… til I grew into wanting to be Flocka” so maybe being a pop sex kitten was never totally her thing, but she’s certainly feeling out similar territory. She’s also been very quick to build friendships with influential artists, which of course won’t hurt her hype.
After Kitty’s set we moseyed over to a Lazerpop party at Glasslands where Pictureplane was DJing some not so choice cuts, but when he announced he was playing a show at a warehouse pretty damn close to Queens if not actually in it, we thought that we might as well attend. The loft was super sweaty and crowded with kids who had likely waited all night to see him perform. Once he started the floor felt like it was going to cave in so we pretty much called it a night just a few jams in. Then again it was close to 4am at that point so I guess we were actually calling it a morning.[/fusion_builder_column][/fusion_builder_row][/fusion_builder_container]
Coco Maja Hastrup Karshøj is a pretty intense name, but if there’s anyone who lives up to a moniker like that to the fullest, it’s got to be the lead singer of Denmark’s Quadron. Listening to her honey-drenched vocals on the band’s 2009 self-titled debut is enough to make the hardest heart swoon; they are equal parts sensitive and intense and delivered with a dose of pure bliss. With producer Robin Hannibal, the band’s lush, loungey blend of electronica and neo-soul has garnered quite a following stateside, prompting the band to put the various side projects they both have on hold, relocate to Los Angeles, and focus on Quadron.
I truly had no idea how large and heartfelt following this band has until I attended a recent performance at Cameo Gallery. I was expecting the vibe to be a very chill version of 1950’s sock-hop, the room mostly empty as the gig was scheduled on a Monday. Boy, was a I wrong. The show was technically sold out, though my friend and I had no problem paying a paltry 10$ at the door and waltzing our way into the the little black box tucked behind Lovin’ Cup. The place was packed. Teletextile opened, but were playing their last song by then. We settled in behind one of the tallest guys I’ve ever seen – he must have been at least seven feet tall, and he was standing front and center. Now, I’m all for everyone enjoying the show, but this guy could have seen the show from New Jersey, and was currently blocking the onstage views for at least fifteen people standing in his vicinity. If you are a tall person who goes to shows regularly, please be aware of the fact that you aren’t see-through and there are tiny people standing on tiptoe for a glimpse of the action. This guy became aware of his wall-like obfuscation when someone behind him took matters into their own hands, got a stool from the bar, and brought it to the front of the crowd so this dude could sit down. With my view now unobscured I settled in to enjoy the show.
Coco is as adorable as her voice suggests, and she was dressed to kill in periwinkle cascades of ruffles and matching pointy bustier. The sheer joy that informs many of Quadron’s musical arrangements oozes from Coco as she sways, claps, and croons, her between-song banter far more shy than her singing-style, which can only be described as a full-on serenade. She introduced crowd favorite “Pressure” as a song she wrote about living in her sister’s shadow, and “L.F.T.” as an homage to the girlfriends she left behind in the process of relocating for her career. So while Quadron’s music is informed by the Motown smash-hits of 1950’s and 60’s girl groups, it is hardly a lovesick reiteration of the genre. Coco is young but fully possessed by her own powers as a jazz singer, and the year that Quadron spent honing their sound before releasing their debut record has helped them form a sound that is unique and well-rounded, never relying too heavily on any of the genres it so expertly blends.
Much like the Beaux-Arts facade of the Brooklyn Museum coming to meet the modern, sheer glass enclosure of the Rubin Pavilion & Lobby, there are grand forces coming together to bring Brooklyn’s Audiophile series to the masses. The three-part series, in its second year, was created by L Magazine and showcases up-and-coming and innovative Brooklyn-based musicians – once in April, then again in May and June. This year’s festivities are curated by MTV’s Weird Vibes host Shirley Braha, formerly of New York Noise. Say what you will about MTV, but Braha’s taste is impeccable and her radar finely tuned; if all of MTV’s programming was left up to her I’d be as glued to the tube as I was leading up to 1996 (before Total Request Live mentality took over/when the Jersey Shore kids were just fist-pumping toddlers).
Though I’d missed April’s installment (Oneohtrix Point Never and Body Language) I was not about to miss New Villager and Caveman. That particular Thursday was one of those nights where there are a handful of awesome events taking place on the same evening – a presentation of the ultra-rare Rock and Roll Hotel at Spectacle Theater was a close second – but the museum is within walking distance of my house and I was hoping that New Villager would do something crazy in the space. We reviewed a live performance of the band at Mercury Lounge in January, where they’d let their performance art leanings shine despite the artistically cramped setting. I figured that the glass ceiling would be the limit when they played the Brooklyn Museum.
[fusion_builder_container hundred_percent=”yes” overflow=”visible”][fusion_builder_row][fusion_builder_column type=”1_1″ background_position=”left top” background_color=”” border_size=”” border_color=”” border_style=”solid” spacing=”yes” background_image=”” background_repeat=”no-repeat” padding=”” margin_top=”0px” margin_bottom=”0px” class=”” id=”” animation_type=”” animation_speed=”0.3″ animation_direction=”left” hide_on_mobile=”no” center_content=”no” min_height=”none”]NewVillager at the Brooklyn Museum
As it turned out, New Villager was reserving their “A” game for Bushwick Open Studios the following weekend, in which they incorporated musical performance, dance, costumes, gameplay, and mystery into a multi-location scavenger hunt. The performance at the museum was spot-on but low-key in comparison; there were some costumed performers swaying beneath the scorching spotlights, and the set was similar to the one they played back in January, though infused with some promising new tracks and certainly no less enthusiastic. Though they didn’t take full advantage of the gorgeous, multi-level sheer glass enclosure, the grandness of the lobby took advantage of the band. While I was watching New Villager, I was also watching Brooklyn – kids dancing on the steps of the plaza, splashing in the fountains, or dashing across the elevated promenade, jets swooping toward LaGuardia against an ultrablue sky, traffic inching its way around bright orange construction fencing. This element not only seems to be what the architects had in mind, but hopefully the curators and sponsors behind Audiophile embraced as well.
[/fusion_builder_column][fusion_builder_column type=”1_1″ background_position=”left top” background_color=”” border_size=”” border_color=”” border_style=”solid” spacing=”yes” background_image=”” background_repeat=”no-repeat” padding=”” margin_top=”0px” margin_bottom=”0px” class=”” id=”” animation_type=”” animation_speed=”0.3″ animation_direction=”left” hide_on_mobile=”no” center_content=”no” min_height=”none”]Cavemen at the Brooklyn Museum
By the time Caveman took the stage the sun had gone down, the night falling like a curtain behind the performers, their shimmering brand of psych pop sounding like it could have been played by the dancing reflections on the glass as opposed to the real, live band before it. Despite their rough and prehistoric sounding name, these five guys mostly wore button ups and were more clean-shaven than I’d hoped they’d be, but their set was totally rewarding otherwise. Unlike so many bands that come from elsewhere to Brooklyn to make a name for themselves, several of Caveman’s members actually grew up here, and given the setting, lead vocalist Matthew Iwanusa was really stoked on reminiscing about the days when he was meeting guitarist Jimmy Carbonetti in school. Standouts “Old Friend” “Decide” and “A Country’s King of Dreams” from 2011’s Coco Beware rolled over marble floors bounced through columns and rolled around steel beams like a one of those gargantuan prehistoric serpents. They also debuted some great new material. Iwanusa employed the use of a floor tom, front and center stage, to punctuate rollicking choruses with next-level immediacy, never replacing the rhythms of Stefan Marolachakis’ drumming behind him but accentuating certain passages, catapulting the songs into a different realm. While Caveman’s sounds are not new territory, they are skillfully pulled off with an enthusiasm and authenticity that’s hard to come by, and there’s a level of artistry that goes on behind the scenes; Carbonetti makes all the bands guitars. They’re playing several shows in Brooklyn over the next few months and are definitely worth checking out.
Additionally, The Brooklyn Museum will be hosting the next installment of Audiophile on Thursday June 21st, and it’s a doozy – Lemonade opens for Small Black. As always, the shows are free and the museum stays open late on these nights; the permanent collection is the inspiring answer to the questions that the Guerrilla Girls have posed since 1985 by including a wide array of women artists and artists of color. There’s also a stellar Keith Haring exhibition in the Morris A. and Meyer Shapiro Wing on the 5th Floor that’s must-see and closes July 8th.
It must be difficult to emerge from the shadow of a ten-year-long, critically acclaimed project as prolific as The Books. Few solo projects reach the heights of the acts that begot them, and in Nick Zammuto’s case, the hope here is that his new output – creatively titled “Zammuto” – will somehow be comparable to one of the most innovative and beloved projects in experimental pop and sound collage in the last decade. It would be nice if it was possible to separate the two acts and evaluate this new venture on its own individual terms, but the reality is that there’s probably no one who will write about Zammuto (the band) without mentioning Zammuto (the musician’s) resume, and in this case especially, it’s extremely difficult to avoid.
Nick Zammuto has a lot going for his first self-titled album. Some of the elements and ideas that made The Books’ recordings so compelling make appearances here from time to time – the curated snippets of bizarre audio from anonymous sources, carefully constructed but sometimes chaotic sounding progression, digitally processed vocals, exacting wit and clever wordplay. There are a few songs (“Too Late Topologize” “Harlequin” “The Shape Of Things To Come”) which would be right at home on any Books record, and then there are those that would somehow not. These contain a kind of straight-forwardness that obliterates the mystery, beauty, precision, and whimsy that made The Books what it is. At best, the indignant, driving undertones of “F U C-3PO” improve on the ambiguity that marked Zammuto’s prior work (though what he has against beloved the Star Wars character is not made apparent). But at its most cloying, the jam-band tendencies of “Groan Man, Don’t Cry” might make some Books fans want to groan and cry, and the disembodied female androids “rapping” through the entirety of “Zebra Butt” seem, well, asinine. Overall, however, the record is a triumphant experiment in the same spirited vein as the music Zammuto made as one half of The Books, yet sets itself apart just enough for these explorations and new additions to remain interesting (stream it below via the band’s soundcloud).
Nick Zammuto met Paul de Jong in 1999 as tenants in the same New York City apartment building, but it wasn’t until six years and two and half albums later that they finally started touring, screening unique and often hilarious video collages of found material during the shows. For Zammuto, Nick’s wasted no time in assembling a group of considerably talented band members and embarking on a proper tour, borrowing some elements from his former musical project but creating something that is wholly different. That tour culminated at Glasslands last Monday, with Lymbyc Systym opening.
Lymbyc Systym is a two piece that sounds like a band five times its size. Hailing from Tempe, Arizona (but now based in Brooklyn), brothers Jared and Michael Bell make earnest, transcendent post rock. Their intricate compositions are thought out to the most minute detail and replicated live with stunning exactness. Having not released an album since 2009, this particular set featured plenty of new material, much of it tinged R&B beats and influences. Though there’s very little to see onstage – Jared hunches over some electronic equipment, while Michael drums beneath a swath of dark curls – the sounds they make take on a breathing, seething life of their own, instantly occupying every inch of space from floor to ceiling. While the nostalgic undertones are at some points crushing, there is no room for pretentiousness and it never really has a chance to rear its head. For having played with so many huge names in indie rock, the pair have remained humble, and that nonchalance somehow makes their music seem that much more potent. They were joined on stage for a few songs by a friend with a violin, the strings adding sweetness and drama in just the right amounts.
When Zammuto took the stage it was not Nick as soloist, but Zammuto as a full band, joined by brother Mikey on bass, Sean Dixon on drums, and Gene Back (who had also played intermittently with The Books) on keys and additional guitars. Like an actual extension of the mood introduced by album’s first track (entitled “Yay”) there was a collective, ecstatic enthusiasm so apparent it could have been a fifth band member. The sense that it gave me was so different from having seen The Books; whereas The Books wanted to tickle at thought processes, Zammuto’s live show is all about the act of playing. Nick in particular seems so motivated by desire to expand on a live sound and share it with anyone willing to bear witness that it’s hard not to respect – though it is slightly ironic when you consider that he manufactures most of these sounds by himself, holed up in a shed behind the eco-house which he inhabits with his wife and children in the sprawling countryside of rural Vermont.
In terms of visual stimuli, Zammuto also had something to offer, though the projections here were less choreographed and a bit more random that the video pairings I’d seen at Books shows. A bit more akin to Found Footage Fest or Everything is Terrible, the first projection was a chopped and screwed how-to for finger skateboarding, while another took stock photos of actors “experiencing” back pains, headaches, and otherwise twisting their faces and contorting their bodies into unpleasant shapes. But the most intriguing video was one that actually formed a song – for “The Greatest Autoharp Solo of All Time”, Zammuto took the sights and sounds of a Bob Bowers-led instructional video for the autoharp player, editing the song “Battle Hymn of the Republic” until it was all but unrecognizable. The band played alongside the video, drawing on its unique rhythms to form a cohesive, moving piece with just a hint of a clever smirk.
The only real low-point of the show, for me, was a crunchy version of Paul Simon’s “50 Ways To Leave Your Lover” that fell flat mostly because it lacked imagination and also because in Paul Simon’s oeuvre “50 Ways” has got to be one of the weakest, most trite tunes.
The encore of Zammuto’s set was the big payoff for fans expecting another Books show. In attempting to present “Zebra Butt” live, there had been some unexplained technical difficulties. Nick had promised to come back to it, even offering to hook up another computer that supposedly would have had the necessary files. For whatever reason, these plans were to no avail and resulted in one of the most awkward interstices between set and encore I’ve ever observed. But out of that wreckage came the first twangs of “Smells Like Content”, the seminal philosophical love-letter to living from 2005’s Lost And Safe. I’ve been trying to decide whether this was a cheap shot – if picking out the most instantly recognizable and moving track that you’ve built your musical career on as an encore to one of your new band’s first shows is somehow a weak move. Would I have felt more gratified if he’d chosen a “deep cut” as opposed to a “hit”? Did I feel slightly pandered to, being reminded in such an obvious way of one of the greatest contributions The Books made to independent music? Yes, but also no.
There’s this beautiful and sort of tragically funny truism that appears as a sound-byte at the end of the recorded version of “Smells Like Content” (Expectation leads to disappointment. If you don’t expect something big, huge, and exciting…. usually uhhhh… I don’t know… you’re just not as… yeah) and though Zammuto didn’t roll the clip at the end of playing the song, its unforgettable to anyone who’s listened to that song as much as I have. Thinking of it served almost as a caution not to expect Books-caliber output from only half of the band, that it would by its nature be the same in some ways, different in others, and there was simply no reason to obsess over the particulars when you should just try to enjoy it. While the high-minded creativity that propelled The Books is present in some aspects of this project and absent in others, Zammuto (as a band) is a new iteration in that direction. Even if in the end Zammuto doesn’t feel as wholly imagined as its predecessor (because one half of it is literally missing), there’s plenty of merit and beauty in the music that Nick Zammuto is still more than willing to create. And whether its fair or not to evaluate this album against The Books’ releases will stop being a question the longer he continues to produce work and come into his own, shedding those expectations and freeing himself for further sonic exploration.
Here We Go Magic are crowd pleasers. When they released the video for “Make Up Your Mind” (in which a variety of women suffer seizures instigated by frontman Luke Temple’s mystical musical powers), they unwittingly unleashed a maelstrom of indignation from a some overly sensitive viewers. Rather than embrace the controversy or use the subtle sexual undertones (some YouTube commenters noted that the “seizures” were rather orgasmic) to generate buzz for their third album, A Different Ship, out May 8th on Secretly Canadian, they shelved the video entirely. This decision seems baffling for a band whose video projects often skew a bit bizarre and push some boundaries, but the choice was made to avoid any conflict that might take attention away from the music. That music was front and center on Thursday when the band played its sold-out record release party at The Knitting Factory. And once again, their crowd-pleasing nature came into play, with a nicely rendered set that showcased the newest album and offered surprising takes on old favorites.
Openers Glass Ghost, a Brooklyn-based band who have cultivated a creative friendship with Temple, were a nice compliment to the set. Offering a contemplative batch of eerily unspooling tunes, Eliot Krimsky’s otherworldly falsetto swirled through Mike Johnson’s ephemeral synths and diffused beats, then over an unusually reverent audience. The power of Glass Ghost lies in moody disconnect, which they achieve through an elevated sense of fragility and a slightly autistic manner of delivery. Both players were stoic to the point of coming off as robotic, interacting with the audience and each other minimally, while retro video projections flashed on the screen behind them. Though the subdued nature of the set was unusual for an opening band, whose typical responsibility is revving up an audience for the headliners, this wasn’t necessarily a detractor. As testament to how powerful ambivalence and alienation can be, the tragically gorgeous “Like A Diamond” served a perfect thesis statement, and somehow television talk-show host Marc Summers (of all people) became the poster child for that lost feeling.
Marc Summers is famously known as the wise-cracking host of Nickelodeon’sDouble Dare, which ran from the mid-eighties into the early nineties and pitted kid contestants against the likes of a giant ice cream sundae and some water balloons filled with tomato sauce; if they failed to answer trivia questions correctly they had to take a “Physical Challenge,” the end result of which often involved getting covered in some sort of goo. There were a bunch of spin-offs, including “Super Sloppy” and “Family” editions of Double Dare, which caused my parents to buy a second television when I threw a fit because the evening news theywanted to watch aired at the same time. Summers also hosted What Would You Do? in which guests were regularly doused with slime.
What does this have to do with Glass Ghost? Well, the irony in the fact that Summers spent the better part of his adulthood getting slimed and sliming others is that he suffers from Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, a mental illness which can manifest itself in a frantic need to stay immaculately clean. That dichotomy – the disjointed sensation of wanting to participate, be involved, stay there, to feelversus the failure to do so despite having these emotions and knowing what is normal, even doing what is normal but remaining out of place – is at the crux of it of Glass Ghost’s music, a lá seminal Radiohead track “Fake Plastic Trees”. So when the projections shifted to a distorted video recording of Double Dare(including many shots of Marc Summers grinning through his despair) it brought not just a wave of nostalgia, but also served as a peculiar illustration of a much deeper theme.
the beguiling Jen Turner
For all the removed grandeur of Glass Ghost’s set, Here We Go Magic brought just as much intensity to the stage, though it was of a different variety. Backed by bandmates Jen Turner (bass & keyboards), Michael Bloch (guitar), and Peter Hale (drums), Temple’s enigmatic voice soared through renditions of “How Do I Know” “Hard To Be Close” and old favorites like “Fangela” and “Casual”. The new record was produced by Radiohead’s Nigel Godrich, who became interested in the band after seeing them play at Glastonbury. For most of the tracks Godrich employed a live recording technique with few digital flourishes meant to enhance but not perfect the recordings. It’s hard to say whether that emphasis came from his initial, inspiring exposure to the band, or if the in-the-moment improvisational methods utilized in the studio have infused their latest performances with a newfound go-for-broke energy. But something magical indeed happens when the band is playing together as a cohesive whole.
It was not uncommon to see the band extend normally unassuming musical breaks into spiraling, extravagant jam sessions more apropos of arena rock bands, or hair metal even. But instead of cock rock, the audience was treated to the plaintive, dreamy “Over The Ocean” rendered epically, in all its shimmering glory. Even if it seems overwrought for more a genre of pop that is typically more humble, make no mistake: this is exactly how these songs are meant to be experienced, with all their dormant power front-and-center. It’s a bold move in these times; as the influence of technology on indie pop becomes more and more ubiquitous, it’s become increasingly uncommon to see a band who can actually rock out but that’s exactly what Here We Go Magic do, and do well. Though Temple started this project as a solo one, he’s found some tremendously talented players whose skill is so assured that they make each other look even better. And their confidence in the new material truly gives these tunes a worthy showcase. So maybe they don’t need a gimmick or a controversy to propel their own hype. No one at the show went into seismic convulsions, but the crowd was very, very pleased indeed.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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.”
“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.
“#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.
“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.
any other Jesus & Mary Chain song not prominently featured in a Sofia Coppola movie
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Ticket Giveaways
Each week Audiofemme gives away a set of tickets to our featured shows in NYC! Scroll down to enter for the following shindigs.
During the set, Phil Elverum and his bandmates could be seen milling about the crowd – putting finishing touches on set-up, selling records, and chit-chatting with fans. This highlights one of the best aspects of Elverum’s live performances and work in general; despite the emotional depth to his work and its esoteric facets, he is really just normal guy. He doesn’t take himself too seriously, preferring to interact with the crowd, making jokes at his own expense. The band had a little trouble with initial set-up, blowing two amps and lacking connections for some of the instruments, during which Phil took it upon himself to introduce the new material as well as his four touring bandmates, all on loan from their various bands and side-projects.
If anyone was worried that the more subtle tones of the new record would inform this latest tour, that worry was shattered not only by the sheer volume radiating from the stage, but also by the energy exhibited in particular by Angus Andrews. He’s every bit the cult leader, his limbs raised fantastically above his stringy locks, never removing his black jacket despite the unrelenting heat, said jacket looking almost too small on his menacing, gangly frame. One moment he would shudder violently, the next bouncing or twirling like a mental patient gone off his meds.
