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
Black Hat Brigade
Fathers EP
May 29th 2009
Unsigned
Black Hat Brigade- Zombie City Shake
Far from the cavernous sprawl expressed by earlier recordings, Black Hat Brigade has recorded an EP that will be described as one of the best releases of 2009. Their Fathers EP kicks so much ass, they aren’t permitted to tour in America for fear that their presence will make the heads of residents in Williamsburg, Greenpoint, and Bushwick explode. This really is a national security thing. It is worth noting that the religious right and Billboard magazine have rigorously lobbied INS to approve visas for the band—clearly an attempt to silence northern Brooklyn’s pesky music scene. You know what I say? Fuck it’s worth it! Get your asses to NYC! Sure Robert Haughey’s vocals might remind some of fellow Canadian Dan Boeckner, but who really gives a damn?
Like the morose joy of Eagle Seagull, Black Hat Brigade’s music is entirely different and in many ways better than Wolf Parade. Fathers is defined by a paradox. Dark lyrics that speak of blood, guts, and zombies are cradles inside of some of the brightest and most expansive dance music written for the small club stage. Or maybe it is just that I can dance to anything, but we all know this to be untrue. While there is not a bad track on the 7 song + 1 reprise EP, there are certainly a few standouts. Zombie City Shake, Castlevania, and Vera are all exceptional. These songs not only have the pop sensibilities that provoke inebriated jigs, but they throw back to the epic layers common on their first EP. Here, the voluminous multifaceted interplay is harnessed to produce ridiculous crescendos, the heights of which truly press the limits of grandeur.
A local graffiti artist has tagged this awesome portrait of Senator Obama on the side of a brick wall on Grattan between Morgan and Bogart. If you want to check it out take the L train to the Morgan stop. It was evidently done in reference to one of Obama’s latest speeches titled “A More Perfect Union.”
The National
Phosphorescent
Maps & Atlases
Eisner and Lubin Auditorium NYU
February 28th 2008
Let’s get the negatives out of the way, shall we?
1st- There was no beer. Now this might seem to be a point of rather small stature but given points 2 and 3, the omission of alcohol was severely detrimental to the entire experience.
2nd- Don’t let its name fool you, The Eisner and Lubin Auditorium is pretty much a high school gym. The sound was pretty awful. The show was only $8 so complaints are hard to make, however, them’s the facts folks.
3rd- I was surrounded by NYU students. This isn’t inherently a bad thing, but I felt as if I was attending a hipster-slut convention.
I entered the auditorium as Maps & Atlases began their set. Mustaches make for darling bands, do they not? These guys were very talented on the music making front. Their style is very similar to Unique Chique, utilizing elements of jazz guitar tone fused with progressive rock beats. In fact Maps & Atlases are a pretty standard example of Chicago indie rock. They even use vibraphones. If Tortoise, Sea & Cake, and Unique Chique are your thing I am absolutely positive that you’ll appreciate Maps & Atlases. The vocals of Dave Davison set them apart from other bands in their genre in that they are punchy. The vocals don’t necessarily play second chair to the jazzy, experimental music. The guitars are tapped instead of strummed so that the collective punch of the drums, bass, vibraphones, and vocals combine in a free-flowing percussive orchestration. All the instruments work in syncopation.
The three bands were very different from one another. Phosphorescent has a beautiful and soft quality laden with animistic lyrics and an American Gothic aesthetic. I would not be so familiar as to outline Matthew Houck’s influences except to say they certainly hail from the vicinity of southern folk. As mentioned to me by a friend, the band seemed stuck in a perpetual state of near collapse. Each musician was very concerned with what the other band members were playing. But this looseness did not detract from the performance. Houck’s vocals were a tremendous croon. He did not shy away from experimentation, looping his voice over with octaves of bellows and screams, a sure sign that he writes his music solo. In many ways I’d compare him to O’death minus the psychosis. He seems to be pleading not seething. Fair play Southern troubadour, fair play.
When The National took the stage, it was immediately apparent that this band had their shit together. First off it must be said that even as I compared Bryan Devendorf‘s drumming to Stephen Morris from Joy Division, experiencing the on stage presence of Matt Berninger was amazing. It was as if Ian Curtis never died, grew up, and mellowed out. The resemblance is pretty astounding, if not in looks than in spirit. When he wasn’t spittin’ his poems into the mic, he turned away from the audience and let the music consume him. His stage manner is conterminously intense and timid. Especially memorable was their performance of Mr. November. Watching this guy go ape-shit was a treat. When I watch a gorilla looking metal fuck scream and wince it has no more appeal than a cow fart. When a rail thin, contemplative type, hugs him self so hard that he bellows out his sweet, sweet words, I am simply moved.
These guys definitely knew what they were doing. I got the sense that they have been around for a while. In contrast to Phosphorescent, they commanded their instruments with exactitude. Every note was hit with deliberation. Fake Empire was ridiculous. They made us certain that after our trite experience as 20 somethings, we can definitely look forward to a period of disgruntled 30 somethingness. In short through no fault of their own they made the bourgeois problems of the disaffected youth look pretty pathetic. What does a 21 year old really have to say about life? Sigh…
Pela Apollo Sunshine Liam Finn
The Music Hall of Williamsburg
February 27th 2008
Liam Finn, son of Crowded House front man Neil Finn, took the stage to a slightly sparse crowd in Williamsburg. I hate to start off a review by identifying Mr. Finn with his father, but I think it is kind of important. You won’t find me calling this kid an independent wunderkind. He toured with Crowded House at age 14. He began his own band Betchadupa in his mid-teens and toured with Pearl Jam and Cold Play. He was born with a signed record contract.
That having been said, he and his nameless stage mate made some good music last night. His voice was really the center piece of the act. Armed with an autoharp and a percussion stand, a young lady with a sizzling hot unbuttoned dress sang exquisite harmonies. No matter what music writers say, he was no one-man-band. Mr. Finn made a damn fine ruckus on the guitar after which he craftily looped a base line and vocals. At the height of the song, he would sit and bang the drums like a Muppet named Animal. Let’s be honest though, the loop thing is beginning to be a little boring and necessarily formulaic.
Nevertheless, I am definitely going to give Finn’s latest record I’ll Be Lightning a listen. The song Second Chance is brilliant. This New Zealander seems to be genuinely interested in making honest music. He is set to tour a bit more with Pela through March and then with Eddie Vedder as he embarks on his solo tour in April. He might want to give a little credit to his busty sidekick though. I mean really…
Next a spectral druid came on stage to tune his bass guitar. I was frightened of the skeletal frame that seemed to hover. Apollo Sunshine it turns out is fronted by a bearded ghost named Jesse Gallagher. Their music sounded like good old Midwest rock and roll played in an obscure, apocryphal style, as if they were locked in a video game console. They are definitely technically skilled. Everyone I know from Berklee College of Music has talent. Sam Cohen’s guitar makes animal sounds like Hendrix and the band can move to the groove while keeping time and tone. They would make a great double feature with Stardeath and White Dwarfs. I really must say that Mr. Gallagher looked like a strung out caveman from a Gieco commercial.
When Pela finally arrived I shifted a bit closer to the stage. I caught their last show in New York at the Bowery Ballroom during the CMJ Music Marathon. It was their last show of the year before recording their upcoming record in California and it was very excellent. This show was certain to include more tracks from their new LP. The crowd grew to what I later learned was sold out status, and they seemed to be happy to be back in New York. Billy McCarthy shouted out greetings to Brooklyn, smiling as always. His positivity is pretty outstanding. One thing about a Pela show, you do not leave without feeling loved. They are perhaps the most crowd thanking band I have ever seen.
As for their performance, Pela played standards like Waiting on the Stairs and Tenement Teeth to a fawning and vocal audience. Their new songs were well received and kept in style with their work off Anytown Graffiti. This certainly could have been a byproduct of the limitations of a live show, but I wouldn’t expect their new record to sound drastically different than their last. It was really enjoyable to see them again. I felt a little distracted by their constant flirtation with the crowd. Not to bitch that a band is too friendly, but at one point I thought to myself, “I get it already!” In retrospect, it was not such a bad thing. After all, Pela played very well and we didn’t have to wait through two entirely shitty bands to hear them. Gravy!
The Magnetic Fields
Distortion
January 15th 2008
Nonesuch Records
Despite my doubts about the new album Distortion from The Magnetic Fields, I was fortunate enough to be outsmarted by my neighbor, who insisted I give it a chance. Distortion is just as its name implies; it is framed in an early 80’s gothic-rock style and flooded with metallic reverberations and cavernous melodies. The Magnetic Fields have clearly drawn influence from post-punk innovators Joy Division/New Order. Much of this comparison is directed at the production of the record itself. The slightly distant and droney tone of Stephin Merritt is highly reminiscent of Mark Smith of The Fall. Hello Bend Sinister, meet Closer. At times it seems as if the zygotmatic pre-thoughts of Talking Heads wandered into the love child of The Jesus and Mary Chain and My Bloody Valentine ala Factory Records. In short this shit is potent!
The Magnetic Fields’ similarities and analogies to other bands have their down side too. Till the Bitter End has a Blonde Redhead quality that reminds me of just how much I want another Blonde Redhead album. Somehow I don’t imagine they were counting on the subliminal advertising of Magnetic Fields tunes. Drive On, Driver cannot be reconciled with the rest of the record. It is like a hot chick with bunions or a hump back (for the record, I have nothing against bunions or hump backs). But songs like Please Stop Dancing and Zombie Boy are unmistakably brilliant. Their detached and defuse pop appeal is inspiring. In a strange way they embody everything Stars want to but can’t because they are too narcissistic. The Magnetic Fields on the other hand are extremely self-reflexively aware of Distortion’s influences and have taken steps to ensure that they do not appear to take themselves too seriously. This awareness not only saves the record from obsolescence, but it is exactly what makes it so relevant to how the music industry navigates itself forward, sometimes stopping to reflect on the nostalgic moments of its past.
Other Music
Distant Plastic Trees- 1991
The Wayward Bus- 1992
The House of Tomorrow EP- 1992
Holiday- 1994
The Charm of the Highway Strip- 1994
Get Lost- 1995
69 Love Songs- 1999
i- 2004
Eric Bachmann/ Henry Mena
Southpaw
January 30th 2008
I am not sure how I even heard of Saddle Creek singer/songwriter Eric Bachmann, but for whatever reason, I decided to bust out of Bushwick to see his show. He was playing in Brooklyn, I liked what material of his I had heard, and it was only a measly $15.00.
For those of you who haven’t been to Southpaw before, it is a pretty cool Park Slope venue with cans of beer for $4.00 and pints for $5.00. It has plenty of space, a beautiful dimly lit bar, and a locked up and covered pool table. There is even a coat rack for people who wear coats. I was slightly surprised when I found myself surrounded by nicely complected, upwardly mobile twenty-somethings, all of whom had black pea coats. I was almost convinced that I had walked into a secret society’s monthly meeting. It wasn’t until Henry Mena walked on stage that I remembered that I was at a show.
Now I say, if you can avoid seeing Henry Mena I would suggest it. Some of you out there may enjoy poorly crafted sing-songs; if you have ever considered buying a Hootie and the Blowfish record, Henry may be your man. For the rest of us out there, Henry Mena is poison to the ears. This may come off as a little harsh, but his lyrics are like a 6th grader’s Valentine’s Day card. He could be likened to a train wreck. His affected stage presence was so hard to stomach that for a second I was sure I was enduring a poorly played SNL sketch.
He can say one thing for himself however, he is positive, optimistic, and confident. He’ll love you baby, and if you can’t feel his love, well then, he’ll show you to the door, cause there is a lot of love to give in this world and there are others out there who will join him on his sweet, sweet journey. I know it takes a lot of guts to get up on that stage and sing. No one should tear another artist down; we should build each other up. But this guy was just not my cup of tea, and it shouldn’t be yours either. Does that about cover it? Good.
So as the saying goes, “Without the sour the sweet ain’t as sweet.” This was true for that cold January evening. After Mr. Mena’s set, Eric Bachmann took the stage and arranged his gear. He had trouble getting an ancient looking pedal to power on, and I became a little concerned. Dressed in slacks, a coat, and a flat cap, Bachmann invoked the spirit of the labor worker. Down to his thickly dusted boots, he looked as if he had finished a shift at the mill and come directly to Southpaw to articulate to the pea coat clad audience his blue collar woes.
He exquisitely sang beautiful ballads about love and strife without sounding contrived. His lyrics had a Yeats quality that allowed him to be a little obvious, yet entirely genuine. This dynamic gave a measure of depth to his songs. After the show I almost asked him if he knew that Ireland has a voracious appetite for singer/songwriters such as him. Yes Mr. Bachmann, I am suggesting that you move to Ireland in order to skyrocket your career. It was simply great to see someone with that much talent interact with the audience.
He asked for requests and played them even if he barely remembered the lyrics. This aspect did not annoy the audience, rather it demonstrated that Bachmann considered himself one of them, a part of the people for whom he played, not someone above them. When he could not remember them, he would surgically stop the song to recall the words and the begin again as if the music had never been segmented. The ability to express bitter sweet pain leaves no doubt that his music was made for county Cork.
Was it worth the price of admission? No, I don’t think so. Will I buy his record? Yes, his talent is amazing.
O’Death/Hoots & Hellmouth
The Mercury Lounge
December 21st 2007
The night began at The Sidewalk Café. I met friends for drinks in preparation for New York’s own O’Death. My friends had introduced me to the band over the summer nights of grilling on our roof in Bushwick. To be honest I wasn’t sure what to make of them then. They sounded like deranged Appalachian whiskey hounds preparing to make some poor city slicker squeal like a pig. That and the Manhattan cityscape make a frightening combination. I had to see them live. While at the café, we received information telling us that O’Death’s show at The Mercury Lounge was canceled due to the fatality of the drummer’s fiancée. We were very disappointed.
“Another round of beers,” we asked the server.
By this time my beautiful wife had arrived and we had become anxious to know what the story was with our evening plans. I mentioned to my friends that despite the unfortunate events, O’Death might be the kind of band that would play on. I mean being featured two nights back to back at The Mercury Lounge is quite an honor, and what better way to remember a loved one than to celebrate them with music?
The doors of the venue were surely already open so I volunteered to walk down 1st Ave to Houston in hopes of learning our fate. I approached the doorman outside Mercury and asked him if O’Death were going to go on that night. He gave me a confused look, kind of tilted his head, questioning what the hell I was talking about. I explained that I had come into information that put into question O’Death’s participation in the show. I was slightly blotto by this point and was ultra cautious to be as sensitive as possible. He said that he knew nothing of it, and that the show was to go on as scheduled. I wasn’t convinced. We all know that a venue will say anything to get people in the door buying drinks.
I just knew that if I were to buy tickets that 11:00 would come around and someone would slink up on stage to announce, “Unfortunately due to unforeseen circumstances, O’Death will not be able to join us tonight.”
By then it would be too late to get our money back and we would have had to sit through an unknown number of crap songs only to be denied our desired band.
So I pressed a bit harder, “You promise that O’Death will play tonight?”
“Ask the band yourself,” he replied, pointing to a man lighting a cigarette.
“Excuse me sir, do you know if O’Death will be playing tonight?” I asked.
“Yea,” he quietly croaked as the flame of his lighter expired and the cherry of his cigarette transformed into a tiny inferno.
“I mean, are you sure?”
“Yea, we’re all here,” pointing inside to the long wooden bar inside.
“The thing is, I was told that someone close to the band suffered a fatality and that the show was canceled,” I insisted.
“That’s the first I’ve heard of it,” the man tossed his twice puffed butt into the street and headed for the entrance.
This convinced me. I felt like I had unduly worried a band member. Clearly everything was okay and whatever information my friends had received was false.
When I returned, I shared the news with my beer and wine sipping comrades. It was good news and bad news. Good because the show was still on and bad because I had started a texting spat between the provider of the seemingly false warning and the individual who disseminated the information among the crowd. One insisted on its veracity, while the other, convinced by my inquiry and answer, was upset at the misinformation. None the less we paid our tab and went down to the venue and paid our hard earned money for what we all hoped would be a fantastic event.
When we arrived, the first band had already finished and the second band had begun to pluck away into their set. A bearded redheaded ogre of a man fronted Hoots & Hellmouth providing quite an authentic hillbilly aesthetic. I was surprised to learn that these guys were from PA. I wasn’t aware hillbillies lived in the Commonwealth. They were a great bluegrass influenced band. I don’t remember most of their music through the fog of inebriety that was layering itself upon my hippocampus, but I remember it was good stuff. They reassured me that the evening, with or without the final act, would be worth the 10 bones it cost to enter the door.
The next band was no good. The rockabilly style they exuded was out of place and passé. After all I was drunk…I can’t like everything when I am drunk…I am sure they were a fine band, although I looked to others in my pack to confirm what I had suspected. These guys were crap. Just when I thought all the life was sucked out of the room, the lame band left the stage in prep for the final act. Members of O’Death could be seen walking amongst the crowd, so clearly some of them were to play. Maybe it would be a beatless hoedown, but to our half-surprise the drums got set up, as did the rest of the instruments. I knew this was my time to get a beer and piss before the show began.
As I reentered the room the crowd was ecstatic. The band mentioned upon commencement that this show was dedicated to a dear friend who had passed. I guess they were the type to play on after all. I shuffled my way to the front, eager to stomp around. I wasn’t sure what to expect. They ripped into their first song with the force of feisty old man named Uncle Sticky. Greg Jamie seemed to follow the same vein as Isaac Brock when he released Ugly Casanova with the guttural rasps of demonic possession fused with tooth absent, country dwelling peasantry. It is as if the rural psychosis sometimes found in Modest Mouse infected a perfectly decent and upright bluegrass band. What a delicious infection.
The drummer was an athletic type, pummeling through the set without a hint of depression. Clearly if his betrothed-to-be was deceased, he was not going succumb to the weight of loss or mourning. The bassist looked like a cave man pulled right out of the Museum of Natural History, shirtless and barbaric. At one point he leaned down and screamed in my face, I screamed back. I smashed plastic cups, and did a pounding jig-stomp that I had never performed before. I was a Pentecostal in direct communion with the Spirit. Mr. Jamie sang seated, but he never the less cranked out his tunes with a deranged face and vicious voice. The fiddler was tall and thin, looking like an intelligent, dishonest hick who we all know eats babies. Near the conclusion of the maelstrom, the band charged into a crescendo of noise. The bass player threw off his bass and jumped into the crowd, slam dancing his way through the audience, his sweat slopping to the ground like a mop head hovering over a linoleum floor, dripping in saline clumps and blots. I repeat there was a mosh pit for about 3 seconds.
When the lights came up I stumbled drunk and exhausted to the band to give my thanks. As I approached, Greg Jamie stuck out his hand and said that he appreciated my enthusiasm. I do not really remember the sound of the songs just the feel of them. The beat was omnipresent and the aggressiveness was imposing. Booze makes me pound on shit like a pissed ape presenting to his troop. My right hand was red and purple for days after. I still don’t know what to make of the band. I am not sure I’d listen to it at a party, or on an idle day of reading, or on any other occasion in fact. I know that the show was great. It was the format in which they shine. It is where they emit the energy that they intended with their recordings. It is live that the characters invoked by O’Death are given life. Perhaps this was the causation that kept the band playing that weekend- an inverted relationship between the name they display and the function they perform.
