Benoît Delbecq Unit
Pannonica; Nantes, France
I
bought a season pass at Pannonica in January because I know pretty much
nothing when it comes to jazz. For a hip-hop fan, this is regrettable. For a
New Orleanean, it’s insupportable. The venue is relatively new: it’s odorless,
and the paint still sports a fresh latex sheen. Pannonica hosts an impressive
variety of shows, ranging from indie electronica acts to traditional jazz
musicians. Benoît Delbecq Unit fall somewhere between these two camps; the
concert flyer described their show as “jazz / sonic exploration.” The group I
saw included Delbecq at piano, a violinist, a saxophonist, a drummer, and an
upright bassist.
For music that was decidedly quiet and unhurried throughout, I felt frequently
overwhelmed. Ultimately, I found that the best way to take in the performance
was to focus on the musicians singly or in pairs. Studying the relationships
between them was far easier than trying to force a clumsy cohesiveness upon
the music. Sheet music circulated from time to time, but their “songs” seemed
to be written in oft-erased pencil rather than permanent ink. Hushed
conversations that took place even in the middle of several pieces affirmed
the impression that they were not afraid to retool and improvise while on
stage.
They played two sets, each an hour long, with a short intermission in between.
The first half was more cautious, ambient, and quiet. It was rare that the
whole quintet would play at once; instead, two musicians would work at what
was less a duet than a sort of dada dialogue. In the second set, the group
tightened their songs a bit, giving them a deceptive coherence that could be
unravelled in a moment, like a slipknot. The one-on-one dialogue gave way to
full band jams that retained the peckish uncertainty prevailing before the
break. Their constant play with textures and conflicting rhythm was like a tug
on a fishing line, providing a definite, but gentle surprise that unseated any
anodyne routine threatening to settle in. Surprises came also from their
unorthodox playing styles.
The bassist, for example, draped himself over his instrument and proceeded to
knock, tease, pluck, brush, rub, and fondle it. I had never heard a bass
whinny before. His lips moved in ventriloquist mumbles, as if the bass were a
giant puppet with an eccentric voice. He was stationed behind the saxophonist,
who seemed to be breathing through the sax rather than blowing into it. He
manipulated the keys with dexterity and imagination, unafraid to let tones
quail, falter, and disappear instead of inflating them to flamboyant squeals.
I’m used to thinking of a saxophone as a bold, sexy instrument, but he
uncovered a vulnerability that denuded grooves rather than encouraged them.
Delbecq was the first on stage, and he prepared his piano, Cage-style, with
pencils, wood blocks and other small objects. He and the violinist were
usually in conversation with one another, the seventh chords and arpeggios
creating a florid backdrop for her spare pizzicato and intermittent bowing.
I had the best seat in the house: right behind the drummer. Experimentation
has a way of both breaking a thing down to its simplest parts and then showing
off the variety that can result from the interactions of those parts, and this
wiry drummer reminded me that, at its foundation, percussion is simply two
things touching. His tactile approach to the kit brought forth sounds and
rhythms that both grounded and destabilized the songs. He used the rims of his
cymbals and drums as much as their heads, dragging ends of sticks, brushes,
and his fingers across them, playing with contrasts between soft and sharp,
hollow and full, metal and skin. What at first seemed like aleatoric jamming
came into focus as multibar patterns that would approach a tantalizingly
violent climax and then stop with the tacit closure of the hi-hat. I felt like
I was leaning into a seat belt anticipating a crash that never came.
The two hours I spent with Delbecq’s group taxed both my patience and
imagination, but I left feeling oddly satisfied and opened. For me, jazz is
something huge and historical and intimidating, and still relatively unknown;
I’m pleased that Delbecq and his colleagues were there as guides of one of my
first explorations of it.
Ted Leo/Pharmacists / The Duke Spirit / Les Aus
40 Watt; Athens, GA
The thing you should know about
Athens concert venues is that shows start at 10:30 pm--as in, the
opening band finally shuffles up on stage nursing PBRs when an hour away in
Atlanta a second group is setting up their gear. Townies and underage co-eds
with fake IDs are already on their third or fourth beer (even more if it's the
weekend or Thursday) and talkatively make their way into the now smokeless
clubs. I've arrived at a place like the Caledonia by 1am and not missed the
headliner. In fact, the last band's still finishing their set.
Perhaps it's indicative of the laid-back Southern mentality (face it, Atlanta
runs on corporate Eastern seaboard time) or maybe it's just that Athens runs
on "rock time." Either way, the occasional exception out of the late-night
norm has caused me to miss nearly entire sets by legends like Daniel Lanois.
Gauging the out-of-the-ordinary early set is difficult. You have to ask the
following questions: Is the performer older in his years? Will the people be
more the party-all-night, Guided By Voices crowd or the be-in-bed-by-midnight,
Death Cab For Cutie crowd? Is the performer worth staying up until last call?
Are you looking for an excuse to get toasted until last call, you lazy drunk?
I can now add a new factor: the performer's health. Ted Leo's been in and out
hospitals and therapy for vocal chord inflammation over the past few years. He
tours harder than most bands, talks with countless radio stations and fans not
heavy-handedly like a merchandiser but more like a rock prophet. I converted
with many in 2003 with the advent of Hearts of Oak, a record that
re-revitalized my hope for punk rock and music in general. The hooks were real
and vigorous, but it was Leo's vocal enthusiasm that solidified him as a
legend in the making. Imagine my concern when the veteran opened the show
saying that night was the first in a week they'd been able to play.
Because we arrived at 10:45 pm, my lady and I missed Les Aus, a group whose
description in the local weekly ("Catalan-sung psychedelia") sounded extremely
promising (on later exploration, I found out they did, indeed, rule). We did,
however, catch the tail end of The Duke Spirit, one of those "Breaking Out"
bands or something NME probably shit their trousers over, that sounded like PJ
Harvey fronting Spiritualized or maybe an extroverted Nico singing for a
friendlier Velvet Underground. I didn't really buy it. The lead vocalist,
Liela Moss, certainly acted like an energetic stage performer, beating the
tambourine within an inch of its life and dropping to the floor like the
famous live Doors footage you also see of Jim Morrison on VH1's 100 Most
Shocking Moments in Rock montage. I can dig a musician as performer in the
latter role's "performative" sense, the qualities of the whole stage show, but
only when the performance is genuine and not presented as an object to gawk
at.
Despite Ted Leo's opening explanation, the audience and the band grabbed onto
each other immediately. After a week's rest and visibly a little discomfort,
Ted Leo wanted nothing more than to get back to what he does best: creating a
real relationship with the audience. At one point in the show when his voice
was giving out, Ted Leo told the audience to get off their lazy asses and sing
along, or more helpfully, get on stage and grab a microphone. No one,
unfortunately, took him up on the latter offer, but we did all shout the
chorus to a song off Shake the Sheets, to which Leo was appreciative.
After a one-two punch of Hearts of Oak material, the band introduced
"Army Bound," which still sounded like it was in its formative stages, but the
extended guitar solo was a nice surprise I hope comes through the recording.
Unfortunately, the whole time I couldn't help but think the man was a leader
with half an attentive audience. He's one of the few in rock ‘n roll that has
something honest and real to say both in lyric and in conversation. Watching
him was like seeing a solo Billy Bragg on national television a month ago: a
solid, heartfelt performance, yet almost wasted on a crowd only intent on
being entertained. Sure, entertainment is a large part of why people attend
concerts, but musicians like Billy Bragg and Ted Leo offer the possibility or
the challenge of change. This brings in the question of audience
responsibility: does it exist? Should the crowd invest in the performance as
much as the performer? More? Experience on the latter question suggests yes,
but there are still those who expect product shouting, "Here we are now,
entertain us!" (never thought I'd quote Kurt Cobain). Nevertheless, Ted Leo
will tirelessly continue to give his 110%, and I hope that, for rock ‘n roll's
sake, there are people out there giving back more.
Bring 'Em Home Now! Benefit Concert: Devendra Banhart / Conor Oberst / Michael Stipe / Moby / Peaches / Fischerspooner
Hammerstein Ballroom; New York, NY
As I
walked to the end of the line waiting to enter the Bring 'Em Home Now
concert, I observed the devolution of the liberal American protester. It
started with the old lefties who arrived early, simply out of habit, then
regressed to the young idealists with anti- this or that petitions in hand,
before ending in the primordial ooze of hipsters—their ambivalence gently
lapping at the shores of dissent.
Meanwhile, an attack was being waged. Pamphleteers trolled the line for
sympathetic eyes, offering communist newspapers for a dollar an issue, mailing
lists for everything but paper conservation, and various Bush puns on pins. It
was enough stimuli to make Times Square jealous.
Once inside, and having missed Margaret Cho's crowd warm-up—a feat no more
impressive than Yao Ming slam dunking on a Fisher-Price hoop—I found myself
watching a cross between Cirque du Soliel and Depeche Mode. The band was
Fischerspooner and their singer yelled, "This war is ridiculous!" I kept my
sentiments to myself. Sometimes a glass house needs to be broken.
Afterwards, Moby came on stage and prefaced his performance with the
reassuring disclaimer, "Not to sound like a crazy old hippie…" Then, with
vocal help from the Cultural Director of MoveOn.org, he strummed the
Forrest Gump classic, "For What It's Worth."
This was the first sign that even the artists were facing an identity crisis.
While Moby recognized the stigma of the '60s protest hippie, others like
Devendra Banhart, fully embraced it. His freak-folk entourage and wispy "it's
simple, we don't want to kill" lyrics surely triggered a few LSD flashbacks.
On the other end, however, was Peaches. By no means a throwback, her brand of
barf-out-loud gender play is entirely of this generation: confused but certain
that shock value has meaning.
If any artist brought a sense of hope and individualism to our time of war, it
was Conor Oberst. Old Bright Eyes himself crooned the crowd to its feet,
singing "I guess God just calls a spade a spade, when the president talks to
God."
Incendiary and poignant, he sang, "In truth, the forest hears each sound, each
blade of grass as it lies down. The world requires no audience." Those just
hearing him for the first time smiled, like they'd just felt what they should
have felt all along. One even turned to me and said, "He's like Dylan."
Another throwback? No. Not this time. Oberst may draw comparisons, but it's
not in image. It's in words. Just as Dylan reminded folks of the way Woody
Guthrie made them think about themselves, Oberst has the ability to do the
same for a new generation. When it comes to politics in music, that's all you
can ask for.
Americans, for all our flag-waving, are a hard bunch to inspire towards
action. Those of us who know change is needed seem to think the struggle ends
at pointing it out. Michael Stipe fell victim to this during his set, saying
Noam Chomsky once lamented that in all his travels and lectures, Americans are
the only ones who ask "What can I do?" In nearly every other country Chomsky's
visited, people tell him what they're doing.
It was a point without a point, perpetuating the very complacency it derides.
But that was the underlying theme of the Bring 'Em Home Now concert: the
co-opting of various protest images in the absence of real protest substance.
Here's an idea: take that Hammerstein Ballroom full of people and tell them
something they can do. Tell them to cancel their newspaper subscriptions if
they want the print media to report the truth. Tell them to suspend their
cable payments until providers take Fox News off the air. Tell them not to pay
their taxes if they want the war to end in Iraq, maybe even send it to war
charities instead.
Imagine what would happen if those 6 in 10 people who supposedly oppose this
war just withheld their money from the government. That's what Cindy Sheehan
did. Too bad all the people who came out to see her at last week's concert
weren't motivated to do the same.
I'm one to talk. You won't see me doing any of these things either. So long as
my life seems unchanged by war and I am able to afford tickets that cost $30,
you won't even see me raise a stink.
What we need is someone to help us see beyond ourselves. Guthrie and Dylan did
that. And so did Oberst, for just a flicker of his three-song performance. If
we can inspire our musicians and artists to inspire us back, then maybe we
have a chance. People like me (and I'm sure that includes you—we online music
'zine readers aren't too different) need to know there's more than just safety
in numbers. There's power to force change.
The next time a protest concert rolls into your town (should you be so lucky),
forget about your inflammatory pins and t-shirts. Leave your
bureaucratic-bound petitions at home. They're just substitutions for the real
thing. Help raise the level of thought and action to something more than just
a vague bygone idea of the American protester.
SXSW: Day Four
03-18-06;
Reaching the final full day of festival activity, I was beaten-down but still
ready to be impressed. Strangely enough, it was raining in Austin (a rare
event these days). This blocked my first attempt to see Dr. Dog in the parking
lot of a pizza joint (Home Slice). I had seen the band at SXSW 2005 and found
them to be one of the highlights of the festival. Their glammy take on prog
and power pop is ambitious and packed with energy. Alas, I would have one more
chance to them later in the day.
In the meantime, I hightailed it over to Longbranch Inn on East 11th. It's a
great little neighborhood bar, yet, during SXSW, like most other watering
holes, it becomes a music venue. United State of Electronica were set to play
at 1:45 pm, but due to some shifting, had started early at 12:45. I came in
during their second song, and the crowd was already heaving with a boisterous
neo-disco pulse. That this can happen at 1 in the afternoon is a testament to
the character of USE's performance. Daft Punk-style guitars blazed over
rock-solid bass and drums pounding out a tight 4/4 groove. The vocal melodies
tended to be shortened to the simplest (and catchiest) of phrases so that one
or more of the six vocalists could easily rouse the audience into unison
chanting. One can tell that they've worked hard to hone their onstage skills
and that the work has unquestionably paid off.
It's sad that there are not many bands with the same commitment to the live
experience that USE has. Their ability to whip an audience into a frenzy is
almost unparalleled, at least for a band working with their means. It makes me
hope that they find the right backing so that they can some day develop their
stage show unfettered by limitations. Truly one of the most awe-inspiring
events of my time at SXSW.
My second attempt at making it to see Dr. Dog was thwarted, this time by an
obscene queue. In contrast with 2005 where I was never turned away from day
showcases by prohibitively long wait times, this marked the third time that a
line had kept me from seeing a band in 2006. A little rundown by the activity
level of the past few days, this disappointment sapped my energy, and I took
some time to regroup. Feeling that I should eat something before attempting
any night events, I went with a small crew of fellow festivalgoers to a
reputed southern cooking establishment. This was my big mistake.
Two smothered pork chops and a bevy of sides later, I waddled my way down 6th
Street towards Exodus, where the new Manchester-based XFM were hosting an
evening of entertainment. With this being the case, I wasn't all that
surprised to see Tony Wilson there introducing the acts; although, I must
admit that I was a bit starstruck. After all, here's the man who brought the
world Joy Division, A Certain Ratio, Durutti Column, Happy Mondays, and at the
very least, one of my favorite films (24 Hour Party People) is based
around him as the main
character.
Regardless, the first act upon arrival was Liam Frost, a focused
singer/songwriter with a warm, distinctive voice. His music was wonderful, but
as he rocked with acoustic fury, the warning signs of food coma were coming
on. My eyelids began to close uncontrollably while I was still standing. I
decided that I needed to find a bed as soon as possible, and with as much
energy as I could muster, I charged through the doors of the club. I barely
made it back to the car without collapsing on the sidewalk, but once there, my
saintly wife drove me safely to our abode. I was asleep in no time.
Upon reflection, this rather unceremonious end to SXSW 2006 holds some
important lessons for me. One, I need to remember that when running a marathon
(literal or metaphorical), pacing is the real challenge. Two, just because a
band is incredible and the beer is free doesn't mean that I should lose count
of my afternoon beverages. Three, that hole in the bathroom wall is not safe
to fiddle with. And four, I am a cranky old man. I hope to apply this newly
acquired self-knowledge to any future festivals that I'm lucky enough to
stumble into, but if I can impart any one festival lesson to you dear reader,
it would be this: if you see a man slumped against a club's wall drooling
gravy, please give me a friendly shake and ask the bartender to call me a cab.
(Day One)
(Day Two)
(Day Three)
(Day Four)
SXSW: Day Three
03-17-06;
Strongly
feeling the after effects of a poor diet and a couple of late nights, it's a
minor miracle that I was able to gather the wherewithal to make it to the
venues before evening. Attendance swelled, evidenced by the long lines snaking
out of any club offering a daytime show. Although my original intention had
been to circulate among various shows, I recognized the necessity of picking
one and staying with it. My decision was to wait for the Brian Jonestown
Massacre set at Red Eyed Fly--a show rumored to have free beer available.
Unfortunately, after waiting almost an hour to get inside, I was greeted with
the information that BJM wouldn't be appearing, and that instead, the local
garage psych-ers The Black Angels would be. Shortly following this, it was
made clear to me that the free beer was tapped out. Disappointed on two
levels, I sucked it up and took in a rather long, somewhat indulgent number by
The Black Angels, which was great for what it was, but my frustration overrode
their performance.
Cutting
my losses quickly, I marched southward to Emo's IV to see if I could catch a
bit of Frog Eyes before the afternoon wound down. Luckily, they were still
playing when I got there, and I was able to take in a few of their herky-jerky
rock nuggets. Stocky and with a bit of evil in his eyes, Carey Mercer
controlled the stage with his staccato guitar attack and his stinging vocals.
At one point, during a song where Mercer was chanting "I don't do drugs"
repeatedly, he stopped dead in his tracks to shoot a cold glance at a fan who
was singing along rather loudly. The fan seemed to take great pleasure from
this chastising, as evidenced by an expression of bliss crossing his face. I
can't honestly say that I've ever witnessed anything quite like that moment at
a live show before, which is indicative of the unique demeanor of Frog Eyes.
All in all, their performance was a nice recovery for my afternoon.
Taking a little time to refortify myself for the evening, I hit the Fox &
Hound where Mum were just finishing a (unremarkable) DJ set, and First Nation
were getting ready to hit the stage. A recent addition to the Paw Tracks'
roster, they are obviously from the not-playing-well-together-equals-u-r-xperimental
school of thought. For the most part it seemed that each member was
improvising without necessarily listening to the others. Vaguely Eastern
guitar lines clashed with smatterings of drum and bass, and the mess created
could best be described as uninspired. Having my bar lowered once again, the
next band, Storsveit Nix Noltes, practically floored me. A nine-piece ensemble
of Icelanders playing punk- and post-rock-informed Bulgarian folk music, it
was unlike any music I've encountered before. Their energy was palpable, and
the crowd really got behind them, dancing in the more lively moments and
standing in rapt attention for the subdued passages.
So
the scene was set and the stage was warmed for Ariel Pink. A definite recent
favorite of mine, I was looking forward to the opportunity of witnessing the
live persona of Ariel. The show started slowly with Ariel gently (and almost
undetectably) moving from soundcheck activities to his first song/noise
collage. Standing in front of a table of gizmos with a mic in hand, he wove
together hints of melodies with looping bass lines and cacophonous drum
machine rolls. Unwilling to engage with the audience, Ariel looked to the side
of the stage. After a couple of pieces, a four-piece band joined him onstage,
at which point he assumed a crouching position by a monitor, obscuring himself
from most of the crowd. The band was good, and their version of "Last Night at
Miyagi's" was impressive; however, Ariel's reticence kept them from whipping
the audience into the buzz that the song should have triggered. Ariel
unceremoniously cut the set short, leaving me unsatisfied. I guess it serves
me right for getting musical crushes on socially awkward people.
I waited through The Mutts and Tom Brosseau, neither of which made any impact
on me, in order to see Animal Collective. Having never seen them live before
and recognizing their constantly shifting sonic identity, I was prepared for
something heretofore unknown to me, and that's what I got. With an intense and
stuttering drum machine loop providing the backbone, AC played a set that was
in essence one sweepingly epic movement. Multiple times the band would build
to a state of frenzy where the chugging guitars and chirping vocals sounded
like some type of pagan mantra summoning a deity of musical inspiration. The
sound was not Feels-friendly, but the audience didn't appear to have
any problems with that. Leaving the audience excited and satisfied, AC were a
perfect closer to put a decidedly upbeat spin on a mixed-bag of a day.
(Day One)
(Day Two)
(Day Three)
(Day Four)
SXSW: Day Two
03-16-06;
With
one day behind me, a groggy morning quickly melted away with the prospect of
day shows. Although not part of the "official" SXSW schedule of events, the
day shows are a typical way for locals to enjoy music that they otherwise
wouldn't be able to see. Also, it's a way to fit in some of the bands whose
official showcase appearances conflict with others in the evening. The first
stop for me was Emo's, where I caught sets by Field Music and Dengue Fever.
Arriving primarily to see Dengue Fever, I found Field Music to be a bit of a
revelation. A three-piece pop outfit from Sunderland, these guys made pop more
lush than should be possible with their limited membership. The drummer
functioned as lead singer, with the synth/organist and bass player backing him
up with some tight harmonies along the way. They fell somewhere between Ben
Folds and XTC but outdid both in terms of melodic infectiousness. Truly a case
where, when their set ended, I was craving much more. Dengue Fever helped me
get over it, though, with their intoxicating resurrection and update of
Cambodian psych rock. Chhon Nimol's voice is a stunning instrument live—one
that she shows off with some impressive vocal runs. Their sound is so full
(not too full) with bass, guitar, and drums being nicely aided by the more
unusual elements of Farfisa and saxophone. The band was tight and surprisingly
lively for a 2 pm slot the day after a fairly late performance, and the
audience was definitely digging it, dancing far more than anyone should be
expected to at that hour.
From
there, the Whiskey Bar was hosting a local Austin act called Cue. Operating in
a decidedly post-rock mode in the vein of Rachel's or Godspeed, the band built
exquisitely layered instrumentals with an undeniably cinematic bent. As if to
confirm this, the band offered an inspired re-working of Angelo Badalamenti's
"Falling" from Twin Peaks. Replacing Julee Cruise's voice, Cue used violin,
which functioned in a similarly ethereal, mysterious way. Their originals were
just as sweeping and beautiful, and the drummer stood out with his ability to
juggle time-signature and other rhythmic shifts with the appearance of minimal
effort.
After a brief respite, the prospects of the evening were slightly
underwhelming. Without a sense of direction, my pal Kevin suggested that I
might check out Guillemots at Eternal. Arriving at approximately 8 pm, I
didn't get in until the band was at the very end of their set, which didn't
seem too impressive to my ears. However, while in line, I had learned that the
club would be the site of a surprise appearance by the Flaming Lips that was
to be recorded for later broadcast on BBC1. Unable to pass up the opportunity
to see them in such an intimate setting, I decided to stick it out until they
arrived. This meant standing through a performance by the well-meaning but
instantly forgettable Spinto Band. They aped The Beatles in their performance
(shaking their mop-top heads and singing duos clustered around a single mic),
but the music, while poppy, was decidedly more indie rock. Their backing
vocals and harmonies were rough approximations, and there was nary a hook to
be found. Boy Kill Boy hit the stage after with an overdriven synth-rock
sound. While they were a bit more palatable, their sound was a bit too
predictable after only a couple of songs to keep me interested.
When
Flaming Lips finally hit the stage, the place was packed to capacity. Wayne
incited the audience to make as much noise as possible during the show, as it
would enhance the recording. They smartly worked the audience into a frenzy by
kicking off with a cover of "Bohemian Rhapsody." The room quickly filled with
large bouncing balloons and confetti, which are by now to be expected. The
line-up was more basic rock band than I had seen them do in years, with live
drums, bass, guitar, and keyboards in effect. The new originals from the
forthcoming At War with the Mystics, like "Free Radical" and "Yeahyeahyeah
Song," played out amazingly well live, and the already-leaked nature of the
album was belied by the boisterous audience sing-along. Wayne was, as always,
a gracious master of ceremonies, making the whole affair thoroughly enjoyable
and setting the bar high for any subsequent performers.
I took the opportunity to hustle down to Fox & Hound for a late set by the
Brazilian Girls. Unfortunately, things were running way behind schedule (rare
for SXSW, which is normally run with breathtaking precision). I stood through
a significant portion of Particle's set, which reminded me how incredibly
boring and self-indulgent I find most jam-based music. With them wearing on my
nerves and me already being sorta exhausted, by the time Brazilian Girls
finally hit the stage (close to 2am), I was too disinterested to appreciate
their soothingly jazzy, down-tempo stylings. I decided to pack it in only a
couple of songs into their set, content that my night wasn't ending with the
wankery of Particle. With the high of the Flaming Lips still coursing through
my body, I couldn't help but feel that SXSW was only getting better by the
day.
(Day One)
(Day Two)
(Day Three)
(Day Four)
