VAS/A HAPPY DEATH/ADVISORY/LITTLE BARRIE @ Dante's 5/30/2012
Great thing about shows like this - touring headliner (in this case, Little Barrie, a power trio from Nottingham, England) blows into town without any support attached - is that it gives relatively unknown local bands a chance to hone their act from an honest-to-goodness real stage. The not-so-great thing about shows like this is that it gives...(etc etc). Vas aren't bad, just raw and in need of seasoning (though there's plenty of salt in some of the lyrics. "Take me, rape me" figures in the chorus of their second song). A trio, with a woman bass player/singer, a 30-something guitarist/singer (who is more than a little seasoned, some tidy/fierce soloing as it happens) and a working man's drummer, they trade in a somewhat unfocused, shadowy 90s sound, with hints of both punk snarl and some basic bar chord midwest indie. Earnest, if a bit ploddy, once they find a following, once they find a few more hooks (that don't belong to Blondie - the set's penultimate song couldn't owe more to "One Way Or Another" if it took out a mortgage with it), they'll hopefully find their footing. For now, the stage at Dante's feels too big for them.
Happy Death, another trio, kicks it up the proverbial notch straightaway. Singer's playing a Gibson, has a curious early adolescent voice that somehow works and the opening 2-minute boogie shuffle thingy is a welcome hiccup in the evening. Next is an indie psych, White Stripey garage number though not slavish to any of those adjectives. Though 'now' enough in appearance and attitude, sonically they wouldn't sound out of place on a bill with Mountain in 1969. Confusing? Yeah, but in a quite promising way. They veer from the aforementioned almost T-Rex stylee to plaintive factory town lament to flat out rock assault with punky aggression. I call this a good thing. They aren't plundering the style spectrum for the sake of it but because they can, and it suits them. Their card (yes, a business card, a band with a business card that's more like a mini-flyer), handed me by the drummer during Vas's set, proclaims it's "rock and roll for the end of the world," and whereas I would have thought that maybe death metal and not Happy Death would fill that bill, I'm, um, happy at the prospect of this particular alternative. I'll take the peeling of psyched-up garage riffs over growling sludge any day of the apocalypse.
If nothing else, Advisory help propel one of the most abiding truisms of our (rock 'n' roll) time: a trio is too big a band. Just a mouthy guitarist and a mouthy drummer, they nonetheless pull out the panache necessary to command the stage. Playing a kind of ragged trailer park blues rock mayhem, what they lack in self-confidence is ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. The drummer with his Keef Richards bandana and the guitarist dude with his mohawky quiff tear it up as best as two delightfully rude gentlemen can. Here they lurch into some go-to-hell rockabilly, there they descend into a faux-weepy ballad like Jack Nitzsche if he'd been raised in a flea market (later I'd be reminded of The Minutemen if Boon Watt & Hurley had been raised on a diet of Flatt & Scruggs and hillbilly crack). Sometimes they tear it up pretty good, sometimes they just tear it up, but whatevs, they're a couple of good time lads well worth a Friday night's worth of whoop-up even if it's only Wednesday.
OK, I gotta admit, it's a damn shame that a band the stature of Little Barrie (three well-received LPs since 2005, #'s 1 & 3 produced by Edwyn Collins, #2 by Dan The Automator), in a rare, first-ever appearance, attracts a crowd of fewer than thirty people to Dante's on a balmy late spring evening. Chalk it up to some decent competition in town at other venues, but we may as well be at a rehearsal. Which, come to think of it, turns out to be a damn nice thing for those of us smart enough to be there (and besides, in 1979 I saw Killing Joke in a North London pub in the company of about a dozen other punters, and that wasn't nearly as good a show as LB put on this evening). Located on a classic British spectrum between Small Faces and Dr Feelgood, this is unapologetic working class rawk, loud, choppy-tight and addictive. On second song 'Twisted Little Blade,' guitarist-singer-band namesake Barrie Cadogan and bassist Lewis Wharton trade vocals with a petulant abandon while drummer Virgil [son of Steve] Howe does this ecstatic rhythm thing that parses the territory between Dave Grohl and and a Sufi dancer that happens to be doing his thing while sitting down. And again I'm struck: charismatic guitarist with typical British dexterity a la Johnny Marr, bassist in quiet young John Entwistle mode, drummer as just described, where's the audience? Whatever the reasons - second LP "Stand Your Ground" didn't find a US label, new album "King Of The Waves" has been out less than a year - if the band continues to bang it out at the pace they do tonight, they'll attract a small army of follower everywhere they go. Fifth song 'Precious Pressure' brings it all together, a proto-Stone Roses groove, a guitar explosion worthy of, say, Humble Pie (or, yes, the Faces) and though it's unashamedly retro, it's too damn iconic-sounding to ignore and seems to leap over the decades and land in our laps, which for most of us don't exist, of course, as we're too busy being up and dancing. Throughout their set, in fact, this is what they're doing, playing at the speed of dance, the jerking and bobbing-of-head type, jungle urban rock and roll, baby, and we're all as unselfconsciously happy to be moving to it as they are to be playing it. Next-to-last offering 'New Diamond Love' is a kind of singalong that morphs into a righteous kick-out-the-jams rock monster while still retaining its earworm hook and as such wins highlight of the night honors, though 'Love You' off "Stand Your Ground" is right behind it, both literally and insofar as the highlight reel goes, quoting as it does the raucous riff from 'Train Kept A-Rollin' and by this time there's a low boil of delirium trembling through the room and most of us are exuberantly drained enough that the lack of an encore comes as welcome news. After the show I talked at some length with Lewis about the band's history, how they've gelled since Virgil's come aboard and the rather odd nature of this tour (playing places they've never been before, some of them quite out of the way). First though, I apologized for the sparse attendance to which he politely demurred. "No," he said, "in some ways we prefer playing to a smaller room like this. That way we can see how much everyone's enjoying themselves," (or something to that effect, don't quote me quoting him) and I have to say I see his point, as everyone I happened to glanc at during Little Barrie's set was clearly enjoying themselves. So hey, rare as it was that Little Barrie was in town, should they come blowing into Portland again, even if it is on a Wednesday in late May or, for that matter, a Monday in the darkest middle of January, don't you dare miss them.
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Saturday, May 19, 2012
DJ Klyph presents: The Movement
New music and new Neighborhood residents. Over the last month I've interviewed some of the hardest working artists, and have built community with some really good folk.
In April Chill Crew MCs Jon Belz and PC with producer Stewart Villain came through to talk about the upcoming collaboration "Return of The Chill" and premier the 1st single "Concrete". I had a chance to see them perform the single weeks later at The One Off in Portland at The Crown Room. These young cats bring the same energy to their stage performance that they bring to the record. You can check out the web sites chillcrewmusic.com and stewartvillain.com
The Sandpeople have been representing the northwest in a big way for years now and no one has carried the flag further than world rap champion Illmaculate. He carved out time in his busy schedule between the release of his latest solo effort Skrill Talk and the Sandpeople European tour to pass through the Neighborhood. I got a chance to witness in person a lyrical master at work as he gifted the listeners to a cypher session live in studio. Illmaculate has a grip of great content over at the irapbetter.com including videos and free music.
A member of two northwest super groups both Sandpeople and Oldominion, IAME can't help but be busy. When he's not performing with one of these crews or doing guest verses on projects, he's working on his own material like the latest release, a collaboration with producer and fellow Oldominion member SmokeM2D6 entitled Lame$tream. I was happy to finally get IAME to pass through the Neighborhood following his album release party at Backspace in Portland and just before he left on a west coast tour. We talked up upcoming projects with artists like Goldini Bagwell and the evolution of the Heaven Noise record label. Check out free music from IAME at heavennoise.com
Big up to Keeara of 360degreesunlimited.com for connecting me with Pat of Urban Bridges. The Dream Big talent search is coming up on June 29th and should be a great event, providing some young folk an opportunity to showcase there talents as well as providing an opportunity to build community. More info is available at urbanbridges.org
Matty made his second visit through the Neighborhood as he's finishing up Mr. Nice Guy 2. It's always good to hang with Matty and it was cool to hear the tour went well that he talked about on his last visit through. The website is up with some cool content at thisismatty.com and you know Matty always does it right with the promotions. Check out the video coverage of his visit.
The Neighborhood continues to grow in residents and I'm looking forward hosting some new friends and returning guests over the next several week. Stay tuned to the blog for updates and recaps plus check the links below for the podcast and video links. The name will change, but the content will be the same as three7: becomes DJ Klyph presents: The Movement.
Until next time, be blessed.
Klyph
Welcome to the Neighborhood on iTunes
WTTN with DJ Klyph on Vimeo
In April Chill Crew MCs Jon Belz and PC with producer Stewart Villain came through to talk about the upcoming collaboration "Return of The Chill" and premier the 1st single "Concrete". I had a chance to see them perform the single weeks later at The One Off in Portland at The Crown Room. These young cats bring the same energy to their stage performance that they bring to the record. You can check out the web sites chillcrewmusic.com and stewartvillain.com
**Note: Explicit Content**
DJ Roane is a real low key dude. I've known him for a couple of years and didn't even realize he was recording. Reva DeVito has been blessing the northwest with soulful vocals doing guest spots as well as with band as a solo act. They came together in February to release Cloudshine, a project that perfectly blends Roane Namuh's soulful production with Reva's vocal styling. They spent some time in the Neighborhood playing select tracks from the album, talking about the show at Mississippi Studios and the release of the first video from the project for the song Frozen. Check out the full project at roanenamuhrevadevito.bandcamp.com
Matty made his second visit through the Neighborhood as he's finishing up Mr. Nice Guy 2. It's always good to hang with Matty and it was cool to hear the tour went well that he talked about on his last visit through. The website is up with some cool content at thisismatty.com and you know Matty always does it right with the promotions. Check out the video coverage of his visit.
The Neighborhood continues to grow in residents and I'm looking forward hosting some new friends and returning guests over the next several week. Stay tuned to the blog for updates and recaps plus check the links below for the podcast and video links. The name will change, but the content will be the same as three7: becomes DJ Klyph presents: The Movement.
Until next time, be blessed.
Klyph
Welcome to the Neighborhood on iTunes
WTTN with DJ Klyph on Vimeo
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
CLUBLAND!
ALLO DARLIN', THE WAVE PICTURES, ADVENTURE GALLEY
(May 10, 2012, Mississippi Studios)
There was a period there, fifteen twenty years ago, when you'd go out to a club to see a favorite band and tacked to the bottom of the bill would be an afterthought, filler. Most often you'd arrive a bit late in order to miss them. Those days seem to be over. Nowadays, arrive late, miss out.
Though indeed local, Adventure Galley are anything but filler. Sporting smart synthy overtones supported by a throbbing catch of New Order-y bass and snappy epileptically precise drumming, they both plunge and soar into their set, christened by generous dollops of glitter applied first thing by the guy behind the Roland, a ritual that would be observed throughout their set (though able to track down names later on their facebook page, those names - David Aaron George Jesse Forrest and Brock - were not attached to instruments). Regardless of the fact that it's the troika of synths up there that catches the eye, this lot is as much a guitar band as Interpol, their sound similarly hynotic though brighter, more openly melodic. Hell, the third song of the set (song titles were unforthcoming), an alternately brooding/popping ramalama, has every member but two - drummer and lone keyboardist - gripping a guitar neck of some kind. Seeing as how song after song carries a brace of well-worn, exceedingly well-done pop tropes - isolated harmony bits, woo-hoo-hoos and the like, not to mention catchy-as-catchy-gets progressions - Adventure Galley rank as a singles band, which is to say a band marvelously out of time. Though lacking quite the zaniness factor (and, frankly, Tim Finn's vocal prowess), one is reminded rather fetchingly of Split Enz. Seemingly effortless pop suss, a brace of 45-ready songs, a streak of irreverence and a crowded stage (six of 'em shoe-horned up there). All's that's missing is the crazed sartorial sense, but what the heck, we'll let the glitter stand in for that.
First thing you notice about The Wave Pictures tonight? They have a lot more room on stage. A 3-piece from Wymeswold, a tiny village smack in the center of England (pop. 1000), they're finally starting to get the attention they've deserved for a while now. Next thing noticed? This is a band for whom lyrics are an integral, finely-honed element. Turns of phrase turn over each other ("Once you wrote your name in peppercorns, poured out on the table"), there's no throwaway here. Helps too that the songs keep pace musically. Dave Tattersall's Gibson playing has this clean swinging authority, the solos rolling off with the clarity of marbles bouncing off the neck with genius precision. Can't overemphasize how nice it is to hear those delicious Gibsonian tones in a straightforward rock context again. Equally refreshing? Seeing the small knot of people whooping it up dancing next to the stage, not so much square-dancing as trapezoid-dancing, which, given the XTCish zest for wordplay yoked to something akin to driving barndance British guitar indie, comes as no surprise. Third song "Seagulls" (off new LP Long Black Cars just released on Moshi Moshi) has a rousing hoedown zing to it that establishes beyond any doubt that the trophy for dextrous playfulness wedded to hopalong songcraft goes to...(envelope please) The Wave Pictures! I'd not seen nor heard them before today (youtube-ing in preparation) but I'll be walking out of here tonight with The Wave Pictures as one of my favorite discoveries of 2012.
Allo Darlin' jump right into with with new song "Barren," as misnamed a song as you'll ever hear, beginning with spirited staccato handclaps and bursting into joy with a shameless abandon, singer Elizabeth Morris chipping away at her baby ukelele like it's a lifeline, and in fact she never lets go of the thing the entire set with the exception of "Capricornia" and "Wonderland." Regardless, we are immediately in boisterously capable hands and it's a pretty safe bet that we'll be smiling a lot tonight. "If Loneliness Were Art," the follow-up (from 2010 self-titled debut), is reggae funk pop (get your head around that for a sec) and we're all in its thrall. Certainly a key to a memorable night at the club is when the band are enjoying themselves as much (or more) than the audience and such is the case tonight. By fourth song "Europe" (title song off latest Slumberland-released LP), I already can't believe how good a time I'm having. Live, the songs off the album come so, well, alive. Allo Darlin' are the kind of spastic wonderful that makes you simply glad to have been born.
The band's style is such that they occasionally slip into idyl, as in "Let's Go Swimming," a mid-set pacesetter that serves to solidify the band's status as effortless popmeisters a la, say, Orange Juice. Which is a fine moment to pause and address the 'twee' issue. If irresistibly melodic, relentless pop gems like these qualify as twee then Allo Darlin' are twee. But I'd argue there's far too much rhythmic muscularity inside each of these song's structures to merit what is generally considered an unflattering adjective.
"Wonderland" is a perfect example. Beginning all jangly and sweet, it soon enough leaps into a blossomed chug of a groove that puts paid to such critical laziness. And really, if anything should guarantee 'tweeness' it would be a song anchored by the ukelele and Morris's voice alone. But "Tallulah," off Europe, is one of the night's standout offerings, projected with a fierce honesty that you'd question at your own peril. It details that odd kind of happy loneliness when you're away from the place you're comfortable in (both geographic and otherwise) but are nonetheless thrilled to be where you are and boasts the delicious lyric "so I sent you a postcard from Berlin/of a fat man eating a sausage/ hid the fact I was hiding/ as the DJ played another terrible song." Needless to say, it's a literate night.
"Woody Allen," a song request emailed to them that they're only too happy to oblige, is a signature interlude in the set. With its kind of aggressive C-86 beat, its rather plaintive subject matter and its blink-and-you-miss-it length, it's this band to a T, at least til the next song starts. "Still Young" (also off Europe) encapsulates everything in Allo Darlin's insinuous pop-wizardry: sprightly beat, wry lyrics, a jangling and abiding confidence.
Final song "My Heart Is A Drummer" builds into an incessant groove that guarantees a clamor for an encore, which, of course, we get, with the pixie-ish singer again alone with her ukelele, somehow soft and achingly sharp at the same time. It's spellbinding to see the stage commanded so simply via devotion and belief in craft and a voice that's half a child's dreamy soprano, all glassine and innocent, half a wistful, very adult, knowingness. Just before their absolutely final song of the night, we find out it's Ms Morris's birthday and the expected roar goes up but I for one am left feeling a bit awkward. I mean, here it's her birthday and yet Allo Darlin' have been showering us with gifts for well over an hour like it's our birthday. Which, come to think of it, is a pretty apt description of how it felt seeing this band, as I swept out the door and back to my car with just the type of effervescent jubilation I might feel if I'd just been celebrating my birthday. Almost seems as if I should send the band a Thank You card.
(May 10, 2012, Mississippi Studios)
There was a period there, fifteen twenty years ago, when you'd go out to a club to see a favorite band and tacked to the bottom of the bill would be an afterthought, filler. Most often you'd arrive a bit late in order to miss them. Those days seem to be over. Nowadays, arrive late, miss out.
Though indeed local, Adventure Galley are anything but filler. Sporting smart synthy overtones supported by a throbbing catch of New Order-y bass and snappy epileptically precise drumming, they both plunge and soar into their set, christened by generous dollops of glitter applied first thing by the guy behind the Roland, a ritual that would be observed throughout their set (though able to track down names later on their facebook page, those names - David Aaron George Jesse Forrest and Brock - were not attached to instruments). Regardless of the fact that it's the troika of synths up there that catches the eye, this lot is as much a guitar band as Interpol, their sound similarly hynotic though brighter, more openly melodic. Hell, the third song of the set (song titles were unforthcoming), an alternately brooding/popping ramalama, has every member but two - drummer and lone keyboardist - gripping a guitar neck of some kind. Seeing as how song after song carries a brace of well-worn, exceedingly well-done pop tropes - isolated harmony bits, woo-hoo-hoos and the like, not to mention catchy-as-catchy-gets progressions - Adventure Galley rank as a singles band, which is to say a band marvelously out of time. Though lacking quite the zaniness factor (and, frankly, Tim Finn's vocal prowess), one is reminded rather fetchingly of Split Enz. Seemingly effortless pop suss, a brace of 45-ready songs, a streak of irreverence and a crowded stage (six of 'em shoe-horned up there). All's that's missing is the crazed sartorial sense, but what the heck, we'll let the glitter stand in for that.
First thing you notice about The Wave Pictures tonight? They have a lot more room on stage. A 3-piece from Wymeswold, a tiny village smack in the center of England (pop. 1000), they're finally starting to get the attention they've deserved for a while now. Next thing noticed? This is a band for whom lyrics are an integral, finely-honed element. Turns of phrase turn over each other ("Once you wrote your name in peppercorns, poured out on the table"), there's no throwaway here. Helps too that the songs keep pace musically. Dave Tattersall's Gibson playing has this clean swinging authority, the solos rolling off with the clarity of marbles bouncing off the neck with genius precision. Can't overemphasize how nice it is to hear those delicious Gibsonian tones in a straightforward rock context again. Equally refreshing? Seeing the small knot of people whooping it up dancing next to the stage, not so much square-dancing as trapezoid-dancing, which, given the XTCish zest for wordplay yoked to something akin to driving barndance British guitar indie, comes as no surprise. Third song "Seagulls" (off new LP Long Black Cars just released on Moshi Moshi) has a rousing hoedown zing to it that establishes beyond any doubt that the trophy for dextrous playfulness wedded to hopalong songcraft goes to...(envelope please) The Wave Pictures! I'd not seen nor heard them before today (youtube-ing in preparation) but I'll be walking out of here tonight with The Wave Pictures as one of my favorite discoveries of 2012.
Allo Darlin' jump right into with with new song "Barren," as misnamed a song as you'll ever hear, beginning with spirited staccato handclaps and bursting into joy with a shameless abandon, singer Elizabeth Morris chipping away at her baby ukelele like it's a lifeline, and in fact she never lets go of the thing the entire set with the exception of "Capricornia" and "Wonderland." Regardless, we are immediately in boisterously capable hands and it's a pretty safe bet that we'll be smiling a lot tonight. "If Loneliness Were Art," the follow-up (from 2010 self-titled debut), is reggae funk pop (get your head around that for a sec) and we're all in its thrall. Certainly a key to a memorable night at the club is when the band are enjoying themselves as much (or more) than the audience and such is the case tonight. By fourth song "Europe" (title song off latest Slumberland-released LP), I already can't believe how good a time I'm having. Live, the songs off the album come so, well, alive. Allo Darlin' are the kind of spastic wonderful that makes you simply glad to have been born.
The band's style is such that they occasionally slip into idyl, as in "Let's Go Swimming," a mid-set pacesetter that serves to solidify the band's status as effortless popmeisters a la, say, Orange Juice. Which is a fine moment to pause and address the 'twee' issue. If irresistibly melodic, relentless pop gems like these qualify as twee then Allo Darlin' are twee. But I'd argue there's far too much rhythmic muscularity inside each of these song's structures to merit what is generally considered an unflattering adjective.
"Wonderland" is a perfect example. Beginning all jangly and sweet, it soon enough leaps into a blossomed chug of a groove that puts paid to such critical laziness. And really, if anything should guarantee 'tweeness' it would be a song anchored by the ukelele and Morris's voice alone. But "Tallulah," off Europe, is one of the night's standout offerings, projected with a fierce honesty that you'd question at your own peril. It details that odd kind of happy loneliness when you're away from the place you're comfortable in (both geographic and otherwise) but are nonetheless thrilled to be where you are and boasts the delicious lyric "so I sent you a postcard from Berlin/of a fat man eating a sausage/ hid the fact I was hiding/ as the DJ played another terrible song." Needless to say, it's a literate night.
"Woody Allen," a song request emailed to them that they're only too happy to oblige, is a signature interlude in the set. With its kind of aggressive C-86 beat, its rather plaintive subject matter and its blink-and-you-miss-it length, it's this band to a T, at least til the next song starts. "Still Young" (also off Europe) encapsulates everything in Allo Darlin's insinuous pop-wizardry: sprightly beat, wry lyrics, a jangling and abiding confidence.
Final song "My Heart Is A Drummer" builds into an incessant groove that guarantees a clamor for an encore, which, of course, we get, with the pixie-ish singer again alone with her ukelele, somehow soft and achingly sharp at the same time. It's spellbinding to see the stage commanded so simply via devotion and belief in craft and a voice that's half a child's dreamy soprano, all glassine and innocent, half a wistful, very adult, knowingness. Just before their absolutely final song of the night, we find out it's Ms Morris's birthday and the expected roar goes up but I for one am left feeling a bit awkward. I mean, here it's her birthday and yet Allo Darlin' have been showering us with gifts for well over an hour like it's our birthday. Which, come to think of it, is a pretty apt description of how it felt seeing this band, as I swept out the door and back to my car with just the type of effervescent jubilation I might feel if I'd just been celebrating my birthday. Almost seems as if I should send the band a Thank You card.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
CLUBLAND!
Colin Stetson/Sara Neufeld/Gregory Rogove - Mississippi Studios, May 3rd, 2012
Sometimes you find yourself at a show where the roster of artists is barely known to you but, due to what you've heard about them and what you've actually heard - via videos, NPR links, what-have-you - you're fully intrigued by the potential inherent. So it is on a promising spring evening in May I find myself, again, at Mississippi Studios (and how about a quick shout out to the place, a truly neighborhood venue that despite its relatively young age feels as if it's been there for decades). Gregory Rogove is a fully unknown quantity to me, as I would guess he is to many. It is only by the parenthetical association included on the club's handbill - "(Devendra Banhart)" - that I have any context at all. Sarah Neufeld's name, on the other hand, is at least recognizable from Arcade Fire and of course Colin Stetson's work has begun to penetrate the cerebral cortex more steadily over the past year via (invariably glowing) reviews and appearances on facebook threads. Despite my relative ignorance, however, all three, from what I've gleaned pre-show (thank you, youtube) promise a splendid, slightly left field and possibly more classical evening than maybe I'm used to.
With that as pretext, then, it is with some delighted surprise that the visuals accompanying Gregory Rogove's first piece involve monkey sex. Or, more accurately, a primate depiction of the fall of man. Turns out every solo piano piece Rogove plays is backdropped by imagistic videos that were commissioned from various artists ("What does this song look like" was the only instruction) and that run a gamut from allegorical to playful, coy to whimsically disturbing and more besides. The playing itself is stark and declaratively beautiful as only an acoustic piano can be. Neufeld is enlisted as an extra pair of hands for "Conti," a selection that to these ears is driven by the power of loneliness. The next, "Love Cherries," comes back with a kind of demanding hopefulness, what I suppose might more simply be called love. Just impressions, mind, and I could be wildly off, but Rogove's style is explicitly impressionistic, emotional, mysterious, often chilling, a parlor recital mixed with the Whitney Biennial, and it invites such responses. The audio doesn't always sync with the visual yet the effect is no less arresting and possibly more so. Short set, twenty minutes, but the presentation is fresh enough, the music kind of daringly naked enough, it won't be soon forgotten.
If it's just you and a violin up there on stage you best be powerful, compelling, mesmerizing. Sarah Neufeld is, at the very least, these three things. By turns frantic and passionate, gentle and bursting with pathos, she is no less than commanding the entire time. Between pieces, talking, she's sweet and deflective, but with bow in hand she's fiercely present, the playing spellbinding and confident. No doubt these pieces have names attached but never has it mattered less. At time it sounds Cajun, square-dancey and good time, other times contemplative and raw. Mostly, she sounds like a wild child that flew the coop and discovered the fiddle as a means of salvation. Technology fails her at one point - the reverb hasn't kicked in - and she apologizes but we don't care, seeing as what's just gone by was visceral and quite wonderful and pin-drop quiet-making. Few moments later she's playing bass to her own slicing leads and it's as if a hypnotist has stepped on stage but no, wait, the fact is her whole set has been like that and it's been a privilege to hear it, as it's not likely she'll be touring in an intimate solo capacity like this again any time soon.
According to Wikipedia, circular breathing "is used extensively in playing the Australian didgeridoo, the Sardinian launeddas and Egyptian arghul, as well as many traditional oboes and flutes of Asia and the Middle East. A few jazz and classical wind and brass players also utilize some form of circular breathing." A fairly recently developed (20th C.) technique, it allows for almost endlessly sustained playing as the musician breathes in through the nose and always has an extra store of air in the cheeks. It's been used by the likes of Evan Parker, Clark Terry, Roscoe Mitchell, Ian Anderson, Wynton Marsalis and scores of others, a list to which must now be added the name of legend-to-be Colin Stetson.
Bellowing immensely, exquisitely, through a colossal bass saxophone that looks like a relic salvaged from a Welsh colliery band circa 1908, the prowess on display here is simply a deafening wonder. By deafening I don't mean loud per se - though it lacks not for decibels - but deafening in the sense of stopping you in your tracks. It truly is hard to believe so much sound is coming from one person. Sounding at once like a herd of crying pissed-off elephants and the aloneness of a post-bop dude blowing on the Brooklyn Bridge at 4 in the morning, one is simply stupefied by the mastery. Using effects as a rhythm base (often it's his own breath, and/or his own voice murmured from within a complex of sound), he's constantly intense. Opening with a new song called Hurting, which is stunning and no less, then into The Righteous Wrath Of An Honorable Man (off new album "New History Warfare Vol. 2 - Judges" on Constellation), where he repeats similar tricks on a tenor sax, it is ten minutes into his set and his status as a singular phenom is so irrevocably established it's hard to believe he hasn't already been on the cover of Time. The intensity is palpable and there's no turning it down the entire time. How well tuned his own body must be to turn this stuff out night after night is unfathomable. Really, intensity-wise, it's like seeing Battles in the form of a one-man brass band that has just graduated from John Coltrane Summer Camp. This is the kind of music where you marvel at the blood vessels not burst.
Watching him can be, umm, breathtaking, though not just because of the physicality alone but the expressiveness as well. A Dream Of Water is a perfect example, based on the (true) story of a whale forever lost to its pod, and I dare you to hear those unearthly, submarine cries of floating despair and tell me your heartstrings aren't plucked. Such a powerful 'lostness' in there you may not recover. Remarkable.
Not long after that an almost-tuba sound comes 'round the corner - not surprisingly originating from that enormous bass sax - and on it builds a slow, low keen of a groove like a wolf playing back its howl with the tape slowed down. It is sad, is it forlorn, but then it begins to gallop and you think 'Ahh, the genius of Colin Stetson, that animal's gonna run free after all.' Again, one man's interpretation, of course, but you get the idea of the utter gripping primal nature on offer here. Like nothing you've ever heard, it's crazy abandon under the strictest control. And the amazing thing is, it's not so much the virtuosity - though of course there's plenty of that - as it is tone and shading, the place where the emotions are, and there are a lot of them. Forceful, angry, regretful, melancholic, hopeful, dreaming and redemptive, it's all there. Melody may come second but boy does it come, lifting itself out of the middle of cacophonous strands like a moaning wind. The evening's last piece, "A Part Of Me Apart From You" is almost lullaby-like like in its waves of yearning, and is an ideal note to bring an extraordinarily artful night to a close. It's nights like this you're thrilled to be alive, lucky to have ears and the human capacity to interpret sound. I found it difficult to get to sleep once I got home and when it comes down to it, that's what you want, isn't it? You can't really ask much more from a night of live music than that, so thank you, Colin (and Sarah, and Gregory).
Sometimes you find yourself at a show where the roster of artists is barely known to you but, due to what you've heard about them and what you've actually heard - via videos, NPR links, what-have-you - you're fully intrigued by the potential inherent. So it is on a promising spring evening in May I find myself, again, at Mississippi Studios (and how about a quick shout out to the place, a truly neighborhood venue that despite its relatively young age feels as if it's been there for decades). Gregory Rogove is a fully unknown quantity to me, as I would guess he is to many. It is only by the parenthetical association included on the club's handbill - "(Devendra Banhart)" - that I have any context at all. Sarah Neufeld's name, on the other hand, is at least recognizable from Arcade Fire and of course Colin Stetson's work has begun to penetrate the cerebral cortex more steadily over the past year via (invariably glowing) reviews and appearances on facebook threads. Despite my relative ignorance, however, all three, from what I've gleaned pre-show (thank you, youtube) promise a splendid, slightly left field and possibly more classical evening than maybe I'm used to.
With that as pretext, then, it is with some delighted surprise that the visuals accompanying Gregory Rogove's first piece involve monkey sex. Or, more accurately, a primate depiction of the fall of man. Turns out every solo piano piece Rogove plays is backdropped by imagistic videos that were commissioned from various artists ("What does this song look like" was the only instruction) and that run a gamut from allegorical to playful, coy to whimsically disturbing and more besides. The playing itself is stark and declaratively beautiful as only an acoustic piano can be. Neufeld is enlisted as an extra pair of hands for "Conti," a selection that to these ears is driven by the power of loneliness. The next, "Love Cherries," comes back with a kind of demanding hopefulness, what I suppose might more simply be called love. Just impressions, mind, and I could be wildly off, but Rogove's style is explicitly impressionistic, emotional, mysterious, often chilling, a parlor recital mixed with the Whitney Biennial, and it invites such responses. The audio doesn't always sync with the visual yet the effect is no less arresting and possibly more so. Short set, twenty minutes, but the presentation is fresh enough, the music kind of daringly naked enough, it won't be soon forgotten.
If it's just you and a violin up there on stage you best be powerful, compelling, mesmerizing. Sarah Neufeld is, at the very least, these three things. By turns frantic and passionate, gentle and bursting with pathos, she is no less than commanding the entire time. Between pieces, talking, she's sweet and deflective, but with bow in hand she's fiercely present, the playing spellbinding and confident. No doubt these pieces have names attached but never has it mattered less. At time it sounds Cajun, square-dancey and good time, other times contemplative and raw. Mostly, she sounds like a wild child that flew the coop and discovered the fiddle as a means of salvation. Technology fails her at one point - the reverb hasn't kicked in - and she apologizes but we don't care, seeing as what's just gone by was visceral and quite wonderful and pin-drop quiet-making. Few moments later she's playing bass to her own slicing leads and it's as if a hypnotist has stepped on stage but no, wait, the fact is her whole set has been like that and it's been a privilege to hear it, as it's not likely she'll be touring in an intimate solo capacity like this again any time soon.
According to Wikipedia, circular breathing "is used extensively in playing the Australian didgeridoo, the Sardinian launeddas and Egyptian arghul, as well as many traditional oboes and flutes of Asia and the Middle East. A few jazz and classical wind and brass players also utilize some form of circular breathing." A fairly recently developed (20th C.) technique, it allows for almost endlessly sustained playing as the musician breathes in through the nose and always has an extra store of air in the cheeks. It's been used by the likes of Evan Parker, Clark Terry, Roscoe Mitchell, Ian Anderson, Wynton Marsalis and scores of others, a list to which must now be added the name of legend-to-be Colin Stetson.
Bellowing immensely, exquisitely, through a colossal bass saxophone that looks like a relic salvaged from a Welsh colliery band circa 1908, the prowess on display here is simply a deafening wonder. By deafening I don't mean loud per se - though it lacks not for decibels - but deafening in the sense of stopping you in your tracks. It truly is hard to believe so much sound is coming from one person. Sounding at once like a herd of crying pissed-off elephants and the aloneness of a post-bop dude blowing on the Brooklyn Bridge at 4 in the morning, one is simply stupefied by the mastery. Using effects as a rhythm base (often it's his own breath, and/or his own voice murmured from within a complex of sound), he's constantly intense. Opening with a new song called Hurting, which is stunning and no less, then into The Righteous Wrath Of An Honorable Man (off new album "New History Warfare Vol. 2 - Judges" on Constellation), where he repeats similar tricks on a tenor sax, it is ten minutes into his set and his status as a singular phenom is so irrevocably established it's hard to believe he hasn't already been on the cover of Time. The intensity is palpable and there's no turning it down the entire time. How well tuned his own body must be to turn this stuff out night after night is unfathomable. Really, intensity-wise, it's like seeing Battles in the form of a one-man brass band that has just graduated from John Coltrane Summer Camp. This is the kind of music where you marvel at the blood vessels not burst.
Watching him can be, umm, breathtaking, though not just because of the physicality alone but the expressiveness as well. A Dream Of Water is a perfect example, based on the (true) story of a whale forever lost to its pod, and I dare you to hear those unearthly, submarine cries of floating despair and tell me your heartstrings aren't plucked. Such a powerful 'lostness' in there you may not recover. Remarkable.
Not long after that an almost-tuba sound comes 'round the corner - not surprisingly originating from that enormous bass sax - and on it builds a slow, low keen of a groove like a wolf playing back its howl with the tape slowed down. It is sad, is it forlorn, but then it begins to gallop and you think 'Ahh, the genius of Colin Stetson, that animal's gonna run free after all.' Again, one man's interpretation, of course, but you get the idea of the utter gripping primal nature on offer here. Like nothing you've ever heard, it's crazy abandon under the strictest control. And the amazing thing is, it's not so much the virtuosity - though of course there's plenty of that - as it is tone and shading, the place where the emotions are, and there are a lot of them. Forceful, angry, regretful, melancholic, hopeful, dreaming and redemptive, it's all there. Melody may come second but boy does it come, lifting itself out of the middle of cacophonous strands like a moaning wind. The evening's last piece, "A Part Of Me Apart From You" is almost lullaby-like like in its waves of yearning, and is an ideal note to bring an extraordinarily artful night to a close. It's nights like this you're thrilled to be alive, lucky to have ears and the human capacity to interpret sound. I found it difficult to get to sleep once I got home and when it comes down to it, that's what you want, isn't it? You can't really ask much more from a night of live music than that, so thank you, Colin (and Sarah, and Gregory).
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
CLUBLAND!
Doldrums/Blouse/Bear In Heaven - Mississippi Studios, Portland, April 12, 2012
It's 9 o'clock and the lights are doing funny things and the individual on stage is programming eerie synth washes and slow bumping beats that pause long enough for him to begin singing in a classic pop falsetto, androgynous and fetchingly yearning - quite affecting, in other words, quite pretty - then the beats resume, the lights cover him like television snow and now I know, the show's begun.
There's dogged vision at work here, not to mention inextinguishable belief in self. Doldrum co-founder Bill Kellem stands in this violently umber light, twiddling knobs and singing like a heartbroke puppy, which is a compliment. This is rock 'n' roll, with no guitars, no drums, no other band members (yet). Just a bedroom troubadour that sneaks out at night to play gigs. That he sneaks out of Montreal and is appearing here in Portland is no small feat and perhaps testament to the guy's transportive abilities, who knows. (And, again, what the heck is in the water up there in Montreal?) Regardless, if Mann or Weil had been raised in the age of glitchtronica and the i-Everything you can damn well bet they'd be doing exactly this kind of Doldrums-style patchwork, serious pop hooks all mashed into a pulp, pulled apart again then put back together through the spiraling limitless magic of the hard drive as it's seduced by software. BUT, at the heart of it, melody, hook, propulsion, same as always. Not every detour pays dividends but more often than not the two of them (Bill is soon joined by brother Matt to provide actual human percussion) end up stunning. It's No Age meets No Wave meets F**k Buttons, with more than a touch of garage intransigence thrown in, which it seems certain they just can't help. Oh, and a kind of raging hormonal white soul, I'm not kidding. I said "rock 'n' roll" before but let's change that to 'wack 'n' roll.' If this is the doldrums, actual excitement is gonna kill ya.
By the time Portland band Blouse begin, starting, appropriately enough, with "Firestarter" of their self-titled LP (Captured Tracks), the house is at capacity. Guitarist Charlie Hilton and a keyboard player that shall remain unnamed (she's obviously an addition for the tour but I've looked and looked online and can't fine out who she is) look a bit like a couple of rocking Bronte sisters and together they anchor a delicate pop trope, part Passions, part Cocteaus, dreamy but decidedly bass-driven, which is no surprise given it's Jacob Portrait on bass, doubling his workload from his duties in Unknown Mortal Orchestra. Third song "They Always Fly" shimmers with Numanesque swaths of keyboard, insistently rhythmic in a confident, unfussy way, always an effective means of conveying a melodic trance. That Blouse are influenced by the dark lilt of post-punk synth is fairly transparent. If they're not drawing from early Fiction-era Cure (17 Seconds/Pornography/Faith) then I'm Napoleon Bonaparte. This is not a criticism. To inhabit such a timeless sound (and it's by no means slavish, it should be noted) is actually refreshing, there's something guileless and genuine about it. Needless to say, this is not a band draped in cynicism. And besides, sometimes dreaming backward is the only way forward, Retromania be damned.
Mid-set jewel "Videotapes" is drving dream-pop set to stun. It's a classic in waiting and what it's waiting for is for you to discover it, download it, play it for your friends. It's the meme you owe yourself to be infected by. I can hardly wait to see them again, and if you missed them this time around, do yourself a favor, dream-synth-poptronica lover, check them out next chance you get. I'll see you there.
OK, first off, regarding Bear In Heaven: anybody out there know there was such a rabid - and numerous - BIH fanbase in Portland? No, me neither, but in retrospect it's no surprise. As soon as they burst out with "Kiss Me Crazy" off new album I Love You It's Cool - after an affectionate introduction by Doldrums (each of the bands were 'giving it up' for the others on the bill tonight) - it was understandable why. A rhythm section with innate melody, a singer's sense of commitment a la Kevin Barnes only with more charisma (that would be bassist Adam Wills), a woolen-hatted keyboard/guitar player - Jon Philpot - going about his business like a woodsman lost in ecstacy, Bear In Heaven roam that land somewhere between synthy psych and avant-indie, as if their collar tags identified them as the zeitgeisty offspring of some radical 60s hippie sect, transported to the Brooklyn-tinged American outskirts. It is, in this sense, cannibalism of the highest order, appropriating, incorporating and, yes, synthesizing a multitude of predecessor influences until they become this beast (sorry) of extraordinary strength, mashing garage prog with Spectored AM radio melody with a spindrift of Euro-continental undertones. The end result is Animal Collective if they'd been born a soul band. The end result is house music for intellectuals. The end result is heady joyous uninhibited and agreeably difficult synth pop, though no one at Mississippi Studios seemed to be having any trouble being roused by it. Portland loved it, and loved it way more, apparently (according to the band), than sitting-on-their-hands Seattle did. Makes sense though, as BIH appeal to Portland's sharp-but-slightly-messy anarchic spirit. Also doesn't hurt that the band are crowd-pleasers to the end, of course. These lads know how to put on a show.
Every song in BIH's set came from either recently issued (on Dead Oceans) I Love You It's Cool (most recent so most represented) or 2009's breakthrough Beast Rest Forth Mouth. The latter's "You Do You" brought the strobes out, the former's "Noon Moon" exposed the band's taste for the sultry groove, albeit a fast sultry, like being drunk in a hurry before descending into a kind of sweaty, pulsing electronica. Then there was "The Reflection Of You," also off of ILYIC, which was groove-bloody-tastic, Hall & Oates if they were modern merchants of high-sheen, deep-seated indietronica. Highlight still, though, has to be BRFM's "Lovesick Teenagers" with its hypnotic motorik beat, its relentless building melody and which, if there was any justice in this world, would have been a monster hit (how often have you said that over the years? Seems I do once a month), an opinion obviously seconded by all in attendance. At one point toward the close of the evening the band even bring to mind German outfit The Notwist - no small praise, that - before exploding like fireworks in a drum factory (thank you, Joe Stickney, and don't you love it when a musician seems to have been named by kismet) before resuming their march into a commanding trance coda.
Bear In Heaven are at their peak. They're young, they're a bit crazy and they're crazy talented. Show over, we all shuffled out into the cool Thursday night full of rapturous murmers and glow, floating a bit and most happy to have lived through a moment of danceable, head-noddable, feral heaven.
It's 9 o'clock and the lights are doing funny things and the individual on stage is programming eerie synth washes and slow bumping beats that pause long enough for him to begin singing in a classic pop falsetto, androgynous and fetchingly yearning - quite affecting, in other words, quite pretty - then the beats resume, the lights cover him like television snow and now I know, the show's begun.
There's dogged vision at work here, not to mention inextinguishable belief in self. Doldrum co-founder Bill Kellem stands in this violently umber light, twiddling knobs and singing like a heartbroke puppy, which is a compliment. This is rock 'n' roll, with no guitars, no drums, no other band members (yet). Just a bedroom troubadour that sneaks out at night to play gigs. That he sneaks out of Montreal and is appearing here in Portland is no small feat and perhaps testament to the guy's transportive abilities, who knows. (And, again, what the heck is in the water up there in Montreal?) Regardless, if Mann or Weil had been raised in the age of glitchtronica and the i-Everything you can damn well bet they'd be doing exactly this kind of Doldrums-style patchwork, serious pop hooks all mashed into a pulp, pulled apart again then put back together through the spiraling limitless magic of the hard drive as it's seduced by software. BUT, at the heart of it, melody, hook, propulsion, same as always. Not every detour pays dividends but more often than not the two of them (Bill is soon joined by brother Matt to provide actual human percussion) end up stunning. It's No Age meets No Wave meets F**k Buttons, with more than a touch of garage intransigence thrown in, which it seems certain they just can't help. Oh, and a kind of raging hormonal white soul, I'm not kidding. I said "rock 'n' roll" before but let's change that to 'wack 'n' roll.' If this is the doldrums, actual excitement is gonna kill ya.
By the time Portland band Blouse begin, starting, appropriately enough, with "Firestarter" of their self-titled LP (Captured Tracks), the house is at capacity. Guitarist Charlie Hilton and a keyboard player that shall remain unnamed (she's obviously an addition for the tour but I've looked and looked online and can't fine out who she is) look a bit like a couple of rocking Bronte sisters and together they anchor a delicate pop trope, part Passions, part Cocteaus, dreamy but decidedly bass-driven, which is no surprise given it's Jacob Portrait on bass, doubling his workload from his duties in Unknown Mortal Orchestra. Third song "They Always Fly" shimmers with Numanesque swaths of keyboard, insistently rhythmic in a confident, unfussy way, always an effective means of conveying a melodic trance. That Blouse are influenced by the dark lilt of post-punk synth is fairly transparent. If they're not drawing from early Fiction-era Cure (17 Seconds/Pornography/Faith) then I'm Napoleon Bonaparte. This is not a criticism. To inhabit such a timeless sound (and it's by no means slavish, it should be noted) is actually refreshing, there's something guileless and genuine about it. Needless to say, this is not a band draped in cynicism. And besides, sometimes dreaming backward is the only way forward, Retromania be damned.
Mid-set jewel "Videotapes" is drving dream-pop set to stun. It's a classic in waiting and what it's waiting for is for you to discover it, download it, play it for your friends. It's the meme you owe yourself to be infected by. I can hardly wait to see them again, and if you missed them this time around, do yourself a favor, dream-synth-poptronica lover, check them out next chance you get. I'll see you there.
OK, first off, regarding Bear In Heaven: anybody out there know there was such a rabid - and numerous - BIH fanbase in Portland? No, me neither, but in retrospect it's no surprise. As soon as they burst out with "Kiss Me Crazy" off new album I Love You It's Cool - after an affectionate introduction by Doldrums (each of the bands were 'giving it up' for the others on the bill tonight) - it was understandable why. A rhythm section with innate melody, a singer's sense of commitment a la Kevin Barnes only with more charisma (that would be bassist Adam Wills), a woolen-hatted keyboard/guitar player - Jon Philpot - going about his business like a woodsman lost in ecstacy, Bear In Heaven roam that land somewhere between synthy psych and avant-indie, as if their collar tags identified them as the zeitgeisty offspring of some radical 60s hippie sect, transported to the Brooklyn-tinged American outskirts. It is, in this sense, cannibalism of the highest order, appropriating, incorporating and, yes, synthesizing a multitude of predecessor influences until they become this beast (sorry) of extraordinary strength, mashing garage prog with Spectored AM radio melody with a spindrift of Euro-continental undertones. The end result is Animal Collective if they'd been born a soul band. The end result is house music for intellectuals. The end result is heady joyous uninhibited and agreeably difficult synth pop, though no one at Mississippi Studios seemed to be having any trouble being roused by it. Portland loved it, and loved it way more, apparently (according to the band), than sitting-on-their-hands Seattle did. Makes sense though, as BIH appeal to Portland's sharp-but-slightly-messy anarchic spirit. Also doesn't hurt that the band are crowd-pleasers to the end, of course. These lads know how to put on a show.
Every song in BIH's set came from either recently issued (on Dead Oceans) I Love You It's Cool (most recent so most represented) or 2009's breakthrough Beast Rest Forth Mouth. The latter's "You Do You" brought the strobes out, the former's "Noon Moon" exposed the band's taste for the sultry groove, albeit a fast sultry, like being drunk in a hurry before descending into a kind of sweaty, pulsing electronica. Then there was "The Reflection Of You," also off of ILYIC, which was groove-bloody-tastic, Hall & Oates if they were modern merchants of high-sheen, deep-seated indietronica. Highlight still, though, has to be BRFM's "Lovesick Teenagers" with its hypnotic motorik beat, its relentless building melody and which, if there was any justice in this world, would have been a monster hit (how often have you said that over the years? Seems I do once a month), an opinion obviously seconded by all in attendance. At one point toward the close of the evening the band even bring to mind German outfit The Notwist - no small praise, that - before exploding like fireworks in a drum factory (thank you, Joe Stickney, and don't you love it when a musician seems to have been named by kismet) before resuming their march into a commanding trance coda.
Bear In Heaven are at their peak. They're young, they're a bit crazy and they're crazy talented. Show over, we all shuffled out into the cool Thursday night full of rapturous murmers and glow, floating a bit and most happy to have lived through a moment of danceable, head-noddable, feral heaven.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
three7: Neighborhood guests
What's up world!? 2012 has started off with a bunch of new music and I've been blessed to have so many guests on the show. Here is a quick peek at some of the visits to the station many of the artists have made. There are also ways you can get caught up and share with family and friends past episodes of the show via the station web site here, or iTunes here.
Be sure to support the artists you here on the station, and spread the word. Also, consider contributing by clicking on the donate link.
Until next time,
Be blessed.
Klyph
Be sure to support the artists you here on the station, and spread the word. Also, consider contributing by clicking on the donate link.
Until next time,
Be blessed.
Klyph
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)