Arthur Killroad
The Longest Day of My Life
June 2010
Self Release
I Don’t Eat Syrup, I’m a Man
Life in the Malebolge
Once again I have spent way to much time considering how I should approach a record that is miles away from my cup of tea but one which I have great respect for in terms of song writing and recording. What can you say when a guy simply does what he does really damn well. Arthur Killroad’s music reminds me of a good and dear friend who, even when surrounded by the snobbiest of snobby indie kids, says “I write great pop songs, I can’t help it, and I’m not going to run away from it.” Arthur Killroad, or Mike Petruccelli if you prefer real names, has recently self-released The Longest Day of My Life, a seven track pop-core confection that shamelessly employs nearly every hook in the book producing a record so easy on the ears you almost forget the constricting waistline of your Skinny 511’s™. Killroad’s latest effort has markedly improved on his last venture, which was similarly hook laden, but this time around he has not only kept the lyrics clever, but he has cradled his words in a soundscape of music employing much more than his flicker fast acoustic guitar and gruff impassioned voice.
The addition of a trap set, bass, and the occasional crunchy distorted guitar punch in has added considerable value to his project. This is not to say that his solo recordings are empty, but he has simply written better music that functions in large part due to layers and contrasts. In some ways I think he could go even further. Fine…he can keep the hooks, keep the borderline emo-nouveaux melodies, keep the Ben Folds inflected voice; keep ‘em, but The Longest Day of My Life demonstrates that Killroad knows how to orchestrate, he knows how to arrange and I am interested to hear what comes next. Killroad hails from Athens, Ohio; though I am pretty sure I spied him walking around Alphabet City last year. His myspace mentions that he is on his way to Chicago, a town I am very familiar with. With new plans, a new city, and new friends, he will have a whole new pool of experience from which to draw. Killroad has let it be known that he has turned a corner in his life and his music clearly reflects that.
I showed up at Pete’s Candy Store with a couple friends around 10:30, having missed every single act to play that night except for Adrien Reju. I had no idea what to expect, and I preferred it that way, as my friend dragged me out of my warm apartment after all day of a pretty solid hangover and delightful deafness from the previous night’s show at Zebulon.
We sat down in Pete’s cozy venue as Adrien Reju and her band tuned and warmed up. From the first note, they exuded warmth, and their set stayed true to that feeling throughout. The band has a quiet, bluegrass sound peppered with twangy country and singer/songwriter-ness. Their look is perfectly humble. My favorite part was Jason Loughlin’s guitar, looking like it could have been found in the back of a barn under a pile of straw. Adrien herself is small, sweet, and adorable: a look which suits the music, not to mention the venue. It seemed like Pete’s small stage and the décor in it was made for Adrien and her musicians. But back to the music: the tunes are sweet and melodic, though the rare time, they come dangerously close to coffee-house banality.
With the beauty of Adrien’s voice and the ease with which she seems to sing, the vocals were rich and interesting. The voice and its innuendo drove the subtle emotions of the songs home. The real treat of the performance was the vocals. An accompanying singer, whose name I didn’t catch, produced perfect harmonies. What a beautiful noise they made.
9:00 Beep Beep
10:00 UUVVWWZ
11:00 Old Canes
12:00 Orenda Fink
1:00 Miles Benjamin Anthony Robinson
This Thursday, October 22nd, Beep Beepkicks off Saddle Creek’s showcase in the appropriately placed Knitting Factory; appropriate, because it is in Williamsburg, Brooklyn and a hop, skip, and a jump from my front fucking door! Beep Beep is an eclectic 5 piece with band members ranging from Darren Keen, one man beat dropper of The Show Is the Rainbow, to Ian Francis, lacerating drummer from The Machete Archive, a progressive postrock bud of a band making noise in Nebraska (check out Keen’s newest release Wet Fist, definitely worth a listen, and The Machete Archive’s debut Tempus Omnia Vorat).
Beep Beep is textured with threads of comfortable androgyny. Their music is a soft velveteen seduction, punctuated by the jarring insertion of an almost violent outburst of guitar and drums. Come prepared to swallow the groove, to ogle the hot one in the crowd, to watch Beep Beep set the cool and smooth in motion only to knock each other off center, exposing the slightest tension in an otherwise graceful fusion of romance and erotic emanations. It is like listening to Sade, Morrissey, and the Rapture at the same time. YUM!
Other bands gracing the stage are UUVVWWZ, a band that has come a long way from their humble beginnings. This band personified all that was musically confected in 2007; I knew it was only a matter time before someone caught on. Jim Schroder still plays his masterful guitar. These guys are quite the fucking experiment so it should be interesting to some and lost to others.
Old Canes, fronted by Chris Crisci of The Apple Seed Cast, is an amazing acoustic oriented Americana act that keeps its home in Lawrence, Kansas. This will be an great addition to the lineup. I know that Mr. Crisci and I share a love for Sunny Day Real Estate.
Next is Orenda Fink, wife of Todd Fink of The Faint, is an excellent folk singer armed with an arsenal of talent. Her bucolic lyrics and melodies are simply gorgeous. She could have been the Muse that possessed 27 year old James Agee to write Let Us Now Praise Famous Men.
The night ends withMiles Benjamin Anthony Robinson, a surprisingly young dude with a very strong voice and a unique approach to making pop music, which seems to be his forte. This man’s emotions may get the better of him, but as he explodes on stage, it will be a powerful unraveling.
Wilco
Wilco (The Album)
June 30th 2009
Nonesuch Records
The danger of writing an unabashedly and deliberate self-referential album is immense. It is often the kind of indulgence that eternally condemns and confines many records of its kind to Best Buy bargain bins. Of course there are the great cannon makers who will always be remembered for their eponymous contributions, Led ZeppelinI,II, III, & IV; The Who Sell Out; The Beatles (commonly referred to as The White Album); etc. Wilco goes beyond imprinting their name on a record or a song (in this case both). Blaring their self awareness, they have titled their newest record Wilco (the Album), and the first song on the release Wilco (The Song). But with all this narcissism, the album’s contents are not Xeroxed copies and remakes. The songs are fresh.
The band has moved effortlessly from their post Uncle Tupelo reformations, A.M and Being There, through the nascence of Summerteeth to their seminal Nonesuch release Yankee Hotel Foxtrot and then on to the whammy crazed, Nels Cline addledA Ghost is Born, which won a basket full of awards—partly based on merit and partly based on the cachet accumulated by the release of I Am Trying to Break Your Heart: A Film About Wilco—arguably the greatest music DVD ever released. The film documents the production of Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, cementing their status as industry underdog, giving even more attention to their follow up. From there they released a live CD documenting their 2005 show at The Vic in Chicago and later in 2007, Sky Blue Sky—a masterful retreat into neighborhood nostalgia and hometown reflection. With such a varied spectrum of song typology, where was Wilco to go? Their answer was a satirical celebration of themselves. The answer was Wilco (The Album).
Unquestionably the most polished and produced record of Wilco’s catalogue, this newest venture sees the band marinade amongst themselves. They are like an old married couple, the husband and wife begin to look alike. Cline and Tweedy alternate and converge through scales of distortion and wild free form feedback. Pat Sansone plays it straight with his standard roots rock licks that occasionally serve to anchor an otherwise frenetic guitar section. The album is eclectic in itself at times characterized by experimental loops and other times by subdued pop melodies. Leslie Feist duets with Tweedy on the song You and I. The song is soft and easy. It is a perfect midpoint between the pop orchestration the erupts in the beginning, Wilco (The Song), and the record’s conclusion, Everlasting, a song with subtle experimentation and a beautiful outro of wisping loops of Wilco’s signature guitar medley of Tweedy and Cline.
Wilco’s performance at Keyspan Park in Coney Island was worth the $55. I broke my own ethics in buying the tickets. No show should cost this much. When bands price themselves that high, it is a “fuck you” heard loud and clear. But I bought the tickets anyway and solemnly swallowed my convictions knowing that I’d get to see Yo La Tengo open. The predication of Ira Kaplan’s distorted wall of noise to the Tweedy/Cline symposium was phenomenal. It was like seeing my two favorite two cousins. The show lasted three sets. This confused me because I was pretty sure Tweedy was a little put off by the audience. It was tough to tell whether he was mocking the thousands of fans, many of whom were middle aged khaki wearing stiffs with pink ball caps or fraternity brothers sucking down fifths of Southern Comfort and screaming “wooo hooo” like Homer Simpson. At one point he stood in disbelief, shoulders ashrug when the crowd continued to sing Take Me Out to the Ball Game when he jokingly suggested it was his next tune. This underscores Tweedy’s dickishness but it doesn’t explain why he gave us everything that night. No matter the reason, it was a brilliant and a great show. Wilco is/are absolutely classic in every sense.
UPDATE: A reader points out that Nels Cline did not in fact play on A Ghost is Born. This is a misperception on my part stemming from the fact that I saw the group tour for A Ghost is Born and Nels was aboard. Thank you very much John-Paul for the correction. Somehow it is indeed more satisfying that Tweedy plays those solos himself. Though Nels is incredible.
Other Records
A.M.-1995
Being There-1996
Summerteeth-1999
Yankee Hotel Foxtrot-2002
A Ghost Is Born-2004
Kicking Television: Live in Chicago-2005
Sky Blue Sky-2007
01 “Wilco (The Song)”
02 “I Am Trying to Break Your Heart”
03 “Shot in the Arm”
04 “At Least That’s What You Said”
05 “Bull Black Nova”
06 “You Are My Face”
07 “One Wing”
08 “Handshake Drugs”
09 “Deeper Down”
10 “Impossible Germany”
11 “Jesus Etc.”
12 “Sonny Feeling”
13 “I’m Always in Love”
14 “Can’t Stand It”
15 “Hate it Here”
16 “Walken”
17 “I’m the Man Who Loves You”
18 “Hummingbird”
Set 2
19 “Heavy Metal Drummer”
20 “You And I”@
21 “California Stars”*
22 “You Never Know”*
23 “Misunderstood”
24 “Spiders (Kidsmoke)”#
Set 3
25 “The Late Greats”
26 “Hoodoo Voodoo”*
@ w/ Feist on vocals
* w/ Feist and Ed Droste of Grizzly Bear on backup vocals and percussion
# w/ Yo La Tengo
Summer shows are a double edged sword aren’t they? The heat makes us acutely aware of the sticky auras enveloping ourselves and everyone around us. Forced to mingle, we herd ourselves into the small venue or cram ourselves as close as possible against the outdoor stage, sacrificing our personal space like the legions of L Train morning commuters riding in from northern Brooklyn. But the shows, they are amazing and they are aplenty. This summer looks to be very promising indeed.
Of course for me it has gotten off to a piss poor start. I intended to write a feature about a Norwegian band called Pirate Love. It would not only review their tiny EP, but talk about their live show as well. I was fortunate enough to be guest-listed for last Thursday’s performance at Pianos. A few companions and I had arrived early for a little pre-show drinking. I bullshitted with the bar-back, discovering that he is from Nebraska and that we know a few of the same folks—an altogether enjoyable experience.
Then it turns out that my name slipped through the cracks and was omitted from the guest-list. What to do? I had money for beer or the show, and seeing as one of the expenses was unforeseen, like any normal human being I chose the beer. A few other friends arrived at Pianos later that night. They relayed to me the following day that Pirate Love played a great show. From what I gather it would be a big mistake to miss these guys next time they are in town.
The following night a few friends and I were off to Prospect Park to catch Blonde Redhead. The weather, we can all remember, had been shitty the past couple of days, and it wasn’t looking good for our Friday plans. Again we arrived a bit early and stopped at a pub to drink some pints of Bass and tequila shots. After drinks we began walking toward the park as it began to sprinkle and spit. The line into the venue was very long, but clearly the fans were willing to suffer the rain—for a while. When it came time to open the gates, the park workers kept the doors closed. What was at first a slow drizzle turned into a down pour and no umbrella could really do the job. So, defeated, we walked back the F Train and headed on home. When we finally arrived in Bushwick the rain had passed and the sun broke through. Mother fucker, two shows in two days blown—and we actually made it to the venues. We did the best we could to make up for the lost time. We bought and ate some baguette, stinky cheese, and pastis while watching the sun go down on our converted factory roof.
What will come of the rest of summer is anyone’s guess but I certainly look forward to actually getting inside venues. As always, there is a standing invitation for suggestions on venues and bands. Let us know what should be seen and where. Next week, we go to Wilcoopened by Yo La Tengoat Coney Island’s ill-named Keyspan Park. I haven’t seen these guys in a while, although I was able to get a copy of their newest effort months ago. A review is certainly pending.
But listen people…the best news of the week is thatSunny Day Real Estate will be reuniting for a 20 date tour (see dates below), supporting the rerelease of their first two records Diary and LP2. My fucking God this is amazing! Jeremy Enigk is without a doubt a major hero of mine. I feel slightly ashamed that the last time I got the chance to talk with him was 2003 and I was quite drunk. My brother and I drank dirty gin martinis until he puked and was booted from the venue. It was his 21st birthday. I felt like such a dick. My brother’s inebriation didn’t stop from seeing what was then a Fire Theft show at a joint called Knickerbockers. I asked Enigk something to the effect of “Jesus or Buddha?” He snarked back at me and said “Both.”
Luckily he wasn’t too offended about my mocking allusion to his past exploits in Christianity. He went on to disclose that his favorite band is The Who. After the show I got to sit in the booth with Nate Mendel and William Goldsmith. I am not sure how I pulled it off, but it was one of the greatest moments I’ve had. We’ll see what we can do this time. Although they play at Terminal 5, a shitty venue with what seems like a million people, half of whom will be complete assholes because they hate the music. Their friends dragged them there. Enigk had an amazing showing at the Bowery Ballroom supporting his 2006 solo record World Waits. This is easily the most anticipated reunion of the decade. I wonder what else, if anything, could top it.
Here are the calendars for a few of the better NYC venues:
Sunny Day Real Estate Tour Schedule
September 17 Vancouver, BC/Commodore Ballroom
September 18 Portland/Crystal Ballroom (Musicfest NW)
September 20 Salt Lake City/Murray Theater
September 21 Denver/Ogden Theater
September 23 Minneapolis/First Avenue
September 24 Chicago/Metro
September 25 Detroit/St Andrews Hall
September 27 New York/Terminal 5
September 28 Boston/House of Blues
September 30 Washington DC/930 Club
October 1 Philadelphia/Trocadero
October 3 Atlanta/CW Center Stage
October 5 Dallas/Granada Theater
October 6 Houston/Warehouse Live
October 7 Austin/La Zona Rosa
October 9 Tempe/Marquee Theatre
October 10 Anaheim/House of Blues
October 11 Los Angeles/Henry Fonda Theater
October 13 San Francisco/Fillmore
October 15 Spokane/Knitting Factory
October 16 Seattle/Paramount Theatre
Brad Hoshaw
Midwest Dilemma
Peasant
The Living Room
May 20th 2009
The miserable venue—cynically named The Living Room*—was cold and covered with stickers and fliers advertising upcoming and past shows. Songwriter Justin Lamoureux of Midwest Dilemma sat in the back corner, humbly offering his merchandise while Brad Hoshaw completed his brief sound check. Hoshaw, a folk singer from Omaha, sang songs that recounted low life moments and hurtful memories. It isn’t that these songs were uncomplicated because they were thoughtless or uninteresting; they were uncomplicated because they dealt with the “oh fuck” moments of every individual who has drank in bars too long and made bad decisions with clouded and deluded minds. Some may say these states of bar stool savagery are rooted in some inner turmoil born in childhood and thus are necessarily complicated, but Hoshaw isn’t a damn psychologist. He has a formidable voice and a sharp stage personality. While many might criticize his attachment to the stagnant genre of whiskey pickled folk music, he could just as easily explain that this music has existed forever and will continue to exist as long as there are local watering holes willing to cater to the legions of eager drinkers roaming the mother-fucking world. Oh and that Blue Bicycle song was so damn cute.
Justin Lamoureux took stage, traveling to New York under his pseudonym Midwest Dilemma. He explained to the folks listening that he often feels conflicted when playing the City. He comes here wide eyed and wondrous, but he sees people move through New York without awe or interest. Do they know where they live? Is he supposed to expend every ounce of energy and soul, playing in a city where people are despondent and unimpressible? Should he sing his guts out for a few navel gazers? The thing is, Mr. Lamoureux is good enough that he can ask these questions. He can have these expectations. His record Timelines & Tragedies is simply incredible. Despite all his ambivalences, Lamoureux picked up his high-action, nylon acoustic guitar and told his family’s stories with piercing emotional expenditure. His lack of accompaniment did not detract from the songs, which are typically performed by a multitude of musicians. This is not to say that the 22 other musicians heard on Timelines & Tragedies are unnecessary or superfluous, rather simply that the heart of Midwest Dilemma can be defined by the narrative told by Lamoureux. The stories are without question prime.
Peasant began his set without so much as a peep of a sound check. For those who have not been hip enough to know who Peasant is, take some time and do yourself a damn favor. Go out and buy, steal—whatever—Peasant’s latest release On the Ground. As Frederick Foxtrott has been mentioning for nearly two years, Peasant, aka Damien DeRose, has a voice that is as tender and contemplative as they come. He simply began his set performing his material chronologically, singing some old dusty songs. Peasant’s stage presence continues to be unassuming. Another Brooklyn musician sitting in the audience mentioned to me that he couldn’t believe DeRose’s voice was coming out of his body. The dude’s voice is flawless. His set of love damaged ballads was a great match up with the other voices and stories in the night’s line-up. Musically, the night was well worth the trip to the Lower East Side.
* The Living Room is the worst fucking venue in NYC. Okay this may be a bit of hyperbole at work, but here is what you need to know about this shit hole. The shows are free, but the catch is that every audience member has to buy one drink every set in order to stay in the venue. Now I have to say, I am not one to go to a show and lay off the sauce, but for fuck’s sake! My 5’4” girl had a beer and wasn’t exactly ready for a second when the waitress approached. She asked what she could bring Hills, who naturally declined. Hills was then informed that she’d have to leave. I had drank 2 pints during the last set, you would think that the boyish bodied waitress would have had enough brains to put this all together. So I kindly ordered two more beers, both of which I drank. This fucking bar is so insecure about their ability to sell alcohol that they mandate a drinking schedule to their guests. I suppose Hills should have had to drink 5 pints in 3 ½ hours. I count the days until The Living Room goes out of business.
In recent memory there has not been a band that has so succinctly captured the deep meaning and purpose of voyaging toward something unknown as the Whiskey Go Go’s. This is not only represented in their music, but also in their recent movement through New York City and LA. As the industrial malaise suffocates the broad sea of creativity and talent, some have made it their mission to ensure that their extraordinary presence in independent music is still felt. Vocalist/guitarist Matt Hutchinson and drummer Michael Noonan have exhibited their affinity for Brooklyn, playing multiple venues over the past two months. After their stints at The Trash Bar, the Whiskey Go Go’s played a set at Union Pool withParlor Grand whose MySpace quote says it all, “There are some Indians, There are some Whites.” Parlor Grand had a Crazy Horse aesthetic and a joy for performance that made their set entirely worth showing up for. Of course Union Pool’s delicious outdoor Taquito stand and wood burning fire pit didn’t hurt.
The audience at Union Pool was markedly different from that of The Trash Bar. I am not sure if this resulted from the particular type of punter each venue attracts, or from the high volume of random sophisticates and eager girls that decided to attend Union Pool that night. In any case, Union Pool’s show was somewhat more subdued. This is not to say the show as any less impressive; Hutchinson still had that same dramatic intensity. His eyes began tightly shut and his hands spoke with subtle movements. As the show continued he became ravenously wide-eyed and his hands seemed to reach out and extend past the crowd. He abused the whammy bar and scrapped the strings of his guitar along everything he could find, from the microphone mesh to the cymbal’s edge.
Mr. Noonan also played exquisitely. He is a disciplined drummer with excellent chops, which is important being that there are limited permanent members touring the U.S. There would be no room on this tour for an impressive front stage presence hampered by the dulling baggage of mediocrity. It was a privilege to get to see a second showcase of their new project Whiskey Rain, which is the title of their yet-to-be-released record. While unmastered, I have had the opportunity to listen to the new record. Though the record is largely influenced by various strains of Americana, it contains an authentic voice of its own. That voice contemplates love, loss, and ways to pacify the clutter of an unkempt mind…namely drinking…a lot.
The record is assembled with precision. The opening track, titled Whiskey Rain, is a collage of barely comprehendible exhortations, a wish list of affection set over amazing pop guitar. It is easily one of the most well written songs released this year. The following track, Wooden Hearts, is a bass driven, distorted soliloquy, narrating events with descriptions of natural elements and of violence, erupting into the refrain:
“You are the lady that I love…You are women that I adore”
This marks a defining feature of the Whiskey Go Go’s work. Hutchinson has written phrases that when heard are nearly impossible to suppress from being repeated over and over again in your head. Bang Shot is another incredibly well written track that begins with a simple and soft guitar melody joined by a perfect hum from the band. The song builds as Noonan’s snare pop makes the song onomatopoeic. The crescendo has all instruments at fever pitch as Hutchinson croons a new take on the old adage that it takes two…
“I held the gun, but she pulled the trigger.”
As a whole, the record succeeds almost immaculately, with only a few subjective missteps occurring. Every track is creative—undeniably a product of a band that benefits from the momentum of charisma and determination. Songs like Devil’s Banquet and Love Song round out the record, ensuring that it has balance and weight. Even White Angel and Yours Sincerely, the record’s most problematic tracks, have moments of stunning beauty and imperfect charm. The Whiskey Go Go’s have made a nice addendum to 2007’s Proud Tale to Them of Us, which itself boasted plenty of great songs like Rodeo and True Love. Hutchinson’s hollering madness and rustic sophistication is impressive. It is only a matter of time before they receive wider recognition. We are glad to have seen them when we did.
Fontana’s
Wednesday, January 28th
105 Eldridge Street, New York NY LES
First it should be noted that for those of you who have never been to Fontana’s in Manhattan, this place is great—go there soon. Granted the place was not exactly packed Wednesday evening, so I do not know the levels of douchebaggery that flow into the joint during peak volume, but I do know the aesthetics are excellent. They have a purple felt pool table…
The venue itself is in the basement. It is a typical Manhattan hole in the ground. The best thing about this set up is that its small size and earth insulated walls ensure ear damage. Fontana’s is blissfully loud. It is dimly lit, giving the room the tenor of an opium den. The bar is positioned in the back, the amber lights drawing attention to the various colored liquids resting on the liquor shelf. It was the perfect place to view The Depreciation Guild in all their shoegazey glory. As of late it has become objectionable to allow oneself to be called “shoegaze,” but there seems to be no argument from the band when people deploy this genre definition—the word appears on their Myspace page no less than 14 times. The thickly constructed wall of melodic noise pulsed from a dark stage. The stage background was lit by a projector emanating Technicolor geometric shapes over the face of the drummer, Anton. Christoph and Kurt were shrouded in pitch, orchestrating their knobs and pedals to direct a deafening wind that blew to the back of the venue. The vocals betray an intense infatuation with 80’s pop melody construction. Their brazil nut colored mod hair styles matched—they looked like a band from an era when constituent musicians would share some attribute, whether it be a hair cut, a t-shirt, or a jacket. Combined with the forceful ambience of guitars, a post-punk back beat, and an accentuation of low-bit synthetic sounds, The Depreciation Guild engaged in an orgy of reverberation and distorted harmonics. Their strong performance confirmed that this wouldn’t be a night of openers and closers, but a menagerie of varied but equally impressive musicians. Rarely is one subjected to such a luxury.
The bands began about a half hour late due to what I can only assume was a lack of audience, but as The Depreciation Guild finished the crowd began to thicken. By the time Cymbals Eat Guitars’ gear was set up, the room was coming alive with chatter and the clinks of whiskey glasses. From the first note, it was determined that Cymbals Eat Guitars was entirely different show than that of the band before. The energy was not subdued, it felt coursing and adrenal. Joe Ferocious’ voice was brain lacerating—a braided arsenal of calm and sensitive croons, lined between what too few people are able to achieve, dopamine inducing screams. And the Hazy Sea exemplifies how the band shifts during their live performance. It is the song that initially hooked me in. Live, the song was twice as loud, twice as energetic, and twice as good. Mr. Ferocious worked his guitar over—tapping and sliding and tweaking the strings into disjointed and caustic solos. It was delicious! The contrast between The Depreciation Guild and Cymbals Eat Guitars cannot be overstated. Ferocious and company’s infatuation with pop doesn’t spend much time contemplating dreamy things; their infatuation is a result of years of underage drinking and late nights listening to Pavement, Pinkerton era Weezer, and Issac Brock. It is an optimism wrought with defiance and the desire to remain unshackled by social expectation. Is this what these people really mean with their music? I don’t know—but it is exactly how their music makes you feel.
Black Diamond Bay headed by ex-Dear member Patrick Krief was yet another turn in this show’s display of style and genre. His voice is refined and his hands play a soulful guitar, fluttering the bluesy Hendrix/Stevie Ray signature across the lower steps of the E and A strings. Krief is a guitar man—he is a songwriter that frames an old and noble tradition into something new. When Black Diamond Bay took stage, the venue had largely become deserted, the once attentive audience forsaking the hole at Fontana’s for some other Manhattan happening. In the end, there only seemed to be the musicians on stage, the bands that came before, my friends, and friends of friends who remained. This was in some ways tragic and in other ways fortunate. Tragic, because the band deserved a full house—fortunate, because we had the house to ourselves and incredible musicians to keep us company. I was afraid that Krief and his mates would not perform as well as they might if the house was at capacity. The room might lack the reciprocal energy required to rock the faces off those who insisted on looking first, hearing first in the front row. I’ll say this, the collection of bands was great and every one of them performed exceptionally, but if there was a crescendo of the night—a highlight that humbled all other moments— and I think the other bands would agree, Krief’s final solo was it. The band didn’t muddle through the night for the first chance to get off the stage; they didn’t offer a half-hearted effort. Krief finished the evening with his white guitar positioned on the ground. While on hands and knees, he pounded with a forceful fist on the fret board like the final desperate moments of CPR, when the chest is pounded with abandon to awaken a dying heart, generating a freight train inside our heads.
All this in an empty venue, in a vacant bar.
Black Diamond Bay continues their tour in support of their latest effort, Calm Awaits, February 5th at The Mercury Lounge. Go…and see for yourself.
Emanuel & the Fear
The Bowery Poetry Club
January 9th 2009
Another cold night in January had me waiting in Sláinte on Bowery in Manhattan. The idea was to drink a pint until 10 PM, when the doors next door at the Bowery Poetry Clubwould open. Unfortunately the ass-hole of a bar also served as a reminder why exactly I dislike drinking in Manhattan. Eagerly leaving Sláinte, I encountered an entrance line strung along what seemed to be the length of the Bowery block.
Inside, the music space swarmed with devotees waiting for Emanuel & the Fear to take stage. The Age of Rockets opened with awkward audience conversation and what made for an interesting display of Ben Gibbard influenced pop. The crowd became thicker and thicker; the room teemed with Pabst Blue Ribbon armed teenagers and care free couples. The room’s energy was nostalgic. It has been a long time since I’ve been so intimately surrounded by bright eyed excitement. Too often these days, any sign of appreciation by the audience is taken to be social ineptness on their part. While sharing not even the remotest amount of context, the experience reminded me of being in my hometown, watching some unknown band at the Culture Center, or any number of bands down at the trailer park. The atmosphere was electric, from the girl offering herbal downers to silhouetted smiles dancing through the powdery color of neon light.
Emanuel & the Fear populated the stage like an army of musicians. The 11 band members took their places and readied their violins, guitars, and horns for the opening song off the night’s featured EP, The Rain Becomes the Clouds. In contrast to the clean and polished EP track, their live rendition snared the audience with its palpable emotion. Emanuel’s voice, while tremendous on record, cut through the room with commanding appeal. A common thought throughout the show was that the band works best live. They are built for performance. Comfortable Prison and encore closer Jimme’s Song exemplified this best. Both begin soft and fragile with punctuated vocal pauses. They then become, to different degrees, voluminous and driven. The self-titled EP has many great elements, but Emanuel & the Fear require a space that allows the instruments to differentiate themselves. The studio seems to have compressed the tones and notes. The less densely stratified textures of their live performance elevate the band from their already excellent yet humble talent. Their mix of electro-pop and orchestral quality composition are a sight to see. As for Emanuel & the Fear’s intense take on Radiohead’s The National Anthem, you’ll just have to see that for yourself.
The project is a labor of love. John especially has a real command of the music, which last night consisted of blues tunes by such legendary musicians as Charley Patton and Blind Lemon Jefferson.
John played with precision a variety of hoary guitars, and he delighted in talking about each one in between songs. Eden strummed a steel mandolin and sang with a gentle brusqueness that was more southern black woman than Williamsburg white girl.
It’s music that doesn’t quite fit in the blogosphere age. That’s what makes it good.
