Crystal Stilts / Blank Dogs / Women
Music Hall of Williamsburg; Brooklyn, NY
Pop songs infused with a bunch of reverb and distortion have become something of a theme among Next Big Thing designees in the past year or so. Blank Dogs and Crystal Stilts are among two of the most recent Brooklyn bands to make a name playing verbed-out garage pop, and both were on the bill with Women (pictured), whose great 2008 record plays with pop more discretely and carefully than those bands.
But if Blank Dogs or Crystal Stilts wrote a song like Women's "Group Transport Hall," it probably would've been cloaked in reverb. Women, on the other hand, play it straight, sweet, and quick. Rather than overlaying melodies with a coating of noise, Women place them side by side, on equal level. The (comparatively) dulcet tones of "Transport Hall" stood next to the more abrasive "Lawncare" and "Shaking Hand" that, especially in their live show, created a sense of unpredictability and excitement. None of Women's songs departed greatly from their recorded versions, nor did the new ones break the mold in any way -- but the essence of each song, like the brilliantly unresolved tension of "Lawncare," stands out in a live context. Women's live show proves their status as under-appreciated forerunners of 2009 indie rock ‘n’ roll, but it also shows that this state of affairs won't change any time soon.
Meanwhile, Blank Dogs are like a Stereogum wet dream, with their pitch-perfect ’80s nostalgia, ambiguously dark lyrical themes, and garbled pop melodies. But for all their admittedly pretty great and prodigious recorded output in recent months, it's clear that Blank Dogs are still finding their sea legs in respect to the stage. If their live sound is more reminiscent of Big Black than Joy Division, they make up for it by stalking the stage like mopey Cure fans. On this night, they didn't sound bad, but they didn't sound especially good either -- and while it's hardly a surprise, given the effort they've put into maintaining some anonymity and mystique, they certainly didn't wow anyone with theatrics. "Setting Fire to Your House" came off well, but "Leaving the Light On" was the song that really stood out from the set, hinting at something resembling Jay Reatard-garage-pop chops under all the gothic affectation.
Crystal Stilts also towed a similar line, backing up their critically approved output with what would undoubtedly be a critically approved show. Not to be a downer, and maybe it's just cause I had been listening to classic freestyle all day, but I'd personally love to see bands like Crystal Stilts and Blank Dogs try tearing down the fourth wall of reverb, taking a good look at their audience, and lightening up a little.
The Books
Mass MoCA; North Adams, MA
A drug-addled gay icon once said, “There’s no place like home.” When The Books quietly stepped back onstage for their first show in two years, it was, fittingly, at the place they call home. Living in North Adams, MA, Nick Zammuto and Paul de Jong previously served as artists in residence back in 2006 for the little-town-that-could’s illustrious Massachusetts Museum of Contemporary Art (Mass MoCA if you’re nasty). Like any homecoming after a long absence, the boys were both happy and a little nervous. “Just like we’d never been gone,” Zammuto quipped, after the crowd’s warm welcome. Taking up his cello, de Jong surveyed the theater, “You came! I’m astounded! …And visibly shaken!”
While fiddling with the DVD and projection system that would accompany the band’s mixed-media stylings, Zammuto attributed the two-year layoff to the “massive collection of audio and video tapes” they had to sort. Undoubtedly having found a self-help psychiatry goldmine at some poor sap’s garage sale, he introduced the first piece by saying “we’re really into hypnotherapy. ...Usually it’s one therapist and a group of patients; this is one patient and a group of therapists.” One of a handful of new songs debuted on the night, “Group Therapy” combined the band’s familiar loops, dulcet cello, and inventive guitar as floating heads spouted psychobabble ranging from the impenetrable to the utterly laughable.
“That Right Ain’t Shit” and “Take Time,” both from the group’s second album, The Lemon of Pink, elicited cheers of recognition from fans, and were accompanied respectively by old footage of men with and without hats, and a mélange of scenes depicting communities in Bible Belt megachurches and poor African villages.
Following the two old favorites were more debuts. “Cold Freezing Night” featured the voices of children making disturbing or perplexing statements against a pounding staccato score. One child repeatedly makes death threats, often elaborating in graphic detail: “I’ll kill you. I’ll cut off your toes… work my way up. I’ll rip your hair off.” Another little girl simply repeats the phrase “I wish I was a boy” throughout the song. The song’s refrain of “Cold freezing night/ Oh baby!” lends some comedy, combining with the angry child’s gruesome imagination for some interesting gallows’ humor.
“Hypnotherapy” continued the psychiatry theme, this time with a medical slant. The song’s percussive march evoked the sounds of heavy breathing, which were appropriately accompanied by synchronized video of a trachea drawing in air.
“Geese” came next, exemplifying what The Books do best. The song floats along pleasantly, using the flourishes of odd-sounding goose calls to lend unique color. If not for the title, or the source video of camo-clad hunters perfecting their call of the wild, one might picture the noise coming from some obscure instrument, a perverted kazoo, or hacked-up ProTool. The band recognizes that potential in the strangest of sources, and beautifully incorporates it into their musical landscape.
A short spoken-word piece dubbed “Meditation,” followed. The word repeats with different inflections as anagrams appeared onscreen -- “Do it in meat” being the biggest hit with the audience. “It Never Changes to Stop,” from Lost and Safe, twinkled along with its simple banjo, described cryptically by Zammuto as “the voice of the planet Saturn.”
In its 8/8 time signature, a new track, appropriately named “8 Frame,” centers on a slow build. The song boasts a wonderful change when the 8/8 verse gives way to a brief bridge in 3/4, before continuing its momentum. The build then pays off as the crescendo is matched onscreen by gorgeous super-slow-mo footage of popcorn kernels popping and a bursting water balloon.
“Classy Penguin,” by Zammuto’s brother Mikey, who has a band that shares the song’s name, was played to quirky home movies. The instrumental is one of only a few songs in The Books’ repertoire without lyrics or added audio. Another of Zammuto’s brothers, Mark, inspired the next piece, “Smells Like Content,” with his woodland stream-of-consciousness musings. The Books played dueling basses as the video ran the lyrics and images of nature. The Animal Planet theme then continued with spliced footage of wildlife for the ensuing song, “An Owl With Knees.”
A collaboration with artist Rich Remsberg, “Funeral March” closed the set. Inspired by a series of the saddest videos they could collect, the lyrics reflect the content. “I was born with a tea cup on my head” accompanies footage of an undersized infant with a tea cup held on its head to illustrate its size. The reel progresses with images of fire, flooding, and suffering, matching the song’s sorrowful tone. However, the subdued feel did not prevent a rousing ovation, as the men gave their thanks and made what would be their first attempt at an exit.
Unsurprisingly, the hometown crowd wouldn’t let Nick and Paul walk off stage so easily. Barely making it beyond the curtain before turning tail back to the spotlight, The band’s cover of Nick Drake’s “Cello Song” served as a rewarding encore. Recorded with Jose Gonzalez for the compilation Dark Was The Night, the subtle IDM backbeat gives new perspective to the major scale melody and memorable cello riff. When they stood up, just as before, it was obvious the noise would not be dampened without another return.
The two re-emerged, again, for one more song. Zammuto shared that he’d just had a baby, and that the last track, “All A’s,” was written for him. Best described as Sesame Street on a bad acid trip, the video moved through the alphabet, as the music leapt dramatically in mood from measure to measure -- one relaxed and the next instantly scatterbrained. It was easy to see why the new dad said his tribute scared his newborn.
After the two finally exited successfully, the crowd milled about the space, either browsing the wares, peeking at the art, or waiting for a word or two with one of pop music’s most innovative duos. Promotional materials for the museum lay about the rooms. The back of one magazine read, “Enjoy art more often.” With The Books around, that is certainly possible.
Setlist:
Group Therapy
That Right Ain’t Shit
Take Time
Cold Freezing Night
Hypnotherapy
Geese
Meditation
It Never Changes to Stop
8 Frame
Classy Penguin
Smells Like Content
An Owl With Knees
Funeral March
--Encore--
Cello Song (encore)
All A’s (second encore)
[Photo: http://www.thebooksmusic.com]
Jukebox the Ghost / J. Roddy Walston and The Business
DC9; Washington, DC
Have you ever been to a show where you hoped during every song that it wasn’t the last, because you didn’t want the show to end? Jukebox the Ghost’s set at DC9’s five-year anniversary party was one of those shows. There was yelling and dancing and clapping and the kind of frenetic energy normally only seen at house shows.
I arrived halfway through J. Roddy Walston and the Business’ set and was immediately drawn to the twangy country-rock filling every corner of the room. Their bassist had metal-as-fuck hair, and the band members were obviously enjoying themselves. Their set ended when one of DC9’s owners came on stage to introduce Jukebox the Ghost, who he thanked for playing “even though they’re too big now to play at DC9.”
Jukebox the Ghost seemed overjoyed to be back on home turf (they recently relocated from DC to Philadelphia) and immediately dove headfirst into their set. They’re a band whose live show clarifies their recorded material, and the energy blindsided me; I came in not feeling particularly invested in their debut album, Let Live & Let Ghosts, but walked out excited to listen to it as soon as I got home. Keyboardist/vocalist Ben Thornewill’s intricate piano trills provided a surprisingly effective anchor to the songs, as he hammered away at the keys with precision, successfully carrying melodies from simple to bombastic and back again within the span of a single song. Guitarist/vocalist Tommy Siegel provided both unobtrusive chords and expertly shredded solos, while drummer Jesse Kristin kept the beat both thumping and danceable. They tore through every song, pausing briefly for the occasional midtempo quiet moment, but the energy never subsided.
As their set came to a close and I thought things couldn’t get any better, they came back with an encore consisting of two excellent covers, “Beautiful Life” by Ace of Base and -- this is where they won me over completely -- Rage Against the Machine’s “Guerilla Radio.” Hearing most everyone in the venue screaming “All! Hell! Can’t stop us now!” and watching the band stumble around the stage screaming along was the perfect end to a nearly perfect night. They couldn’t have picked a better way to finish, because I don’t think anything in hell can stop Jukebox the Ghost.
Dirty Projectors
Walker Art Center; Minneapolis, MN
The indifference of Western formality was made poignantly clear when Dirty Projectors took the stage at The Walker Art Center. There we were, sitting in our particularly comfortable seats (The Walker's McGuire Theater isn't even four years old), while one of the most rhythmically complex guitar-based bands traveled at the speed of light in comparison to our rigid immobility. Dave Longstreth, Dirty Projectors' "musical director," jerked about the stage, hardly concerned with the technicalities of his labyrinth guitar lines. It was eye-opening just witnessing Longstreth scaling all over the neck of his left-handed guitar, stroking the strings just above the pickups with nary a pick (besides for a few rock-out moments).
A bulk of the set was comprised of new songs, mostly from Bitte Orca, their forthcoming album on Domino. Much is made of the group's stylistic appropriations, and these new songs projected this two-fold. Like the songs on Rise Above, they were melodically acrobatic, intricately composed, sharply accented, and structurally daring -- and if this performance was an indication of things to come, Dirty Projectors' increasing complexity is being matched by their increasing accessibility. They claimed to have little experience performing these songs, but it was certainly hard to tell.
Aside from Longstreth's expressive warbling and explorative guitar technique, the night was made successful by a wonderful rotating cast of bandmates. The foundation was held down by Brian McComber on drums and Nat Baldwin on bass, while Amber Coffman (vocals/guitar), Angel Deradoorian (vocals, guitars, keyboard, samples), and Haley Dekle (vocals) decorated the songs with additional rhythmic and harmonic ornamentation. I found their vocals at their best when creating textures ("Gimmie Gimmie Gimmie") rather than repeating lyrics or assuming lead vocals (Amber took a couple songs, and Angel did another), but it was nonetheless a welcome variation to DP's otherwise hierarchy of voices.
The rest of the set drew mainly from Rise Above, including fantastic versions of "Six Pack" and "Thirsty and Miserable," plus a stunning encore of "Spray Paint (The Walls)" performed without mics and in the crowd. Although I can't stand the ego and theater involved with encores, the naked performance of "Spray Paint" was refreshing, especially since the sound for the full-band portion was terribly mixed. It's as if the sound dude was trying to spotlight Longstreth like he was Neil Young, turning up his vocals and guitar and completely de-emphasizing the other members' contributions; the lopsided mixing essentially obliterated the dynamics of the rhythmic juxtapositions on songs like "Knotty Pine." Nonetheless, Dirty Projectors put on a thoroughly engaging, impressive performance -- and anything that gets me closer to Walker's Fluxus collection is a plus in my book.
Earth / Sir Richard Bishop / James Blackshaw
The Tractor Tavern; Seattle, WA
The night’s triple bill was as jangled as one can imagine. While Earth, Sir Richard Bishop, and James Blackshaw focused on sounds coaxed from guitar, the hands doing the work were from three completely different worlds. James Blackshaw’s work is intricate and deliberate, transforming 12 strings into a symphonic work based around simplistic raga melodies. Richard Bishop is much more cunning, choosing to transform his own six strings into Mediterranean pastels and cheeky reinterpretations. Meanwhile, Dylan Carlson’s approach to guitar is uniquely his own, as he manipulates modest drones from crafted blues slides and subdued riffage. Despite the perceived differences, however, each act had something more in common that we were all to discover as the night wore on.
James Blackshaw quietly opened the show. As soon as he began strumming, the once scattered crowd lumped together group-by-group to gaze at the wonderment that is Blackshaw and his fingers. Much like his recorded material, one gets lost in the easy flow that Blackshaw creates. Minds begin to wander, thinking about the day’s events. Once disposed, the mind continues to quickly drift back to younger memories — all the while Blackshaw produces his dreamy melodies. Your childhood begins to adopt 12-string lullabies-as-soundtrack, as the steely plucks reverberate from stage to wall. There is little to differentiate Blackshaw’s live iteration from his recorded output, though there’s a richness to be gained by standing in a crowded club as each note bounces from one person to the next before reaching your ear. Blackshaw tore through material from his upcoming The Glass Bead Game and politely exited the stage
If Blackshaw left like a lamb, Richard Bishop came storming in like a lion. Bishop wasted no time delving into his erratic and cutting guitar ruminations. Whereas Blackshaw forms melodious, well-rounded ragas that sing with high notes and twinkle like stars, Bishop picks and plucks at each string with the fury of a lumberjack, as if he’s determined to split each in two to prove a point. His set began with much of the Eastern ideas that have graced his recent output, Polytheistic Fragments. Slowly, the mood changed, as Bishop drifted into a more classic rock sound. The songs began to rise and fall to match his breathing. Bishop would hack out a stanza with an unseen — but easily heard — anger while apologetically caressing those same strings to create a piece of beauty and sorrow. Bishop finished his set by inviting James Blackshaw and new Seattle resident Ben Chasny (who was in the crowd for much of the evening) onstage. The ensuing chaos not only found the crowd clutching to cameras, but found the trio slowly building their own unique styles into a ball of frenzied guitar. When the collaboration reached its overpowering climax, it was difficult to tell which guitar was loudest, but every audience member was standing on their tiptoes waiting for it all to fall apart into a glorious mess.
Earth claimed the stage shortly after Bishop, Blackshaw, and Chasny finished their jobs. Dylan stood alone with the band’s new cellist waiting for the rest of the band to get their asses onstage. The band kicked off the set with “Omens and Portents I: The Driver” and proceeded to trudge through the tar that is their sound. It’s hard to explain Earth’s music — for as simple and derivative as it may seem, it’s a calculated morass of thick blues and deconstructed rhythms. Earth is a niche all its own, despite being tagged with the ‘stoner rock’ moniker for quite some time. There is plenty of musical evidence to back up such an assertion, and I don’t doubt for a second that if Earth were sharing a bill with a methodical jamband, they’d be all over etree.org for long-jam aficionados to devour. ‘Earth’ would probably be the best describer of Earth, for as the set flowered, it was as if each clumsy cymbal shot, each impromptu organ stroke, and each slack-jawed bassline was coming up from The Tractor’s foundation. Dylan and company were meticulously destroying the old crust and building a new one at 33 1/3 speed, and no one cared if they were swallowed whole.
William Elliot Whitmore / ft (The Shadow Government) / T Wehrle
The Picador; Iowa City, IA
Stepping into the Picador in Iowa City Saturday night for William Elliot Whitmore's sold out CD release show was not unlike stepping into one big Iowa family reunion. The house lights of the small club were on, even as opening folk crooner T Wehrle played his Iron & Wine-meets-Sea Change tunes. T Wehrle was more like a house band for hipsters and farm town folk to mingle and drink to while awaiting the main event. See, Whitmore's new record Animals in the Dark just came out on ANTI-, which is a big accomplishment for the gravel-voiced neo-bluesman from a small town nestled down in Mississippi river country. Saturday night felt like a celebration of Eastern Iowa itself, in the form of praising one of Iowa's favorite musical sons.
It is hard to capture the essence of what Will Whitmore means to the state of Iowa. This perhaps owes in part to the fact that I'm not an Iowa boy. Live, Whitmore is a tremendous presence. He generally performs seated, occasionally with accompaniment but largely solo, relying heavily on his banjo but also picking up the acoustic guitar for select numbers. His weary baritone aids him in his rare ability to command a room that escapes so many performers, and yet I don't get the sense that he's particularly well-known or revered outside of Iowa. At the risk of speaking for an entire state, part of the Iowa identity is to be overlooked and underappreciated. Will Whitmore? Despite his new, high-profile record label, he's still an under-the-radar national talent.
It was certainly not the case for this show, the first of a two-night stand at his adopted hometown venue (the second being an early all ages show to counter the late-night drinking crowd). Saturday was a family affair in the loosest sense -- if you knew Will, and everyone knows him somehow -- you were family.
As they were checking my ID, one well-known hipster was checking in. Whitmore happened to poke his head around the corner and say in his unmistakable drawl, "He's my banjo tech. Let him in." Banjo tech? Really? It seemed like a stretch. One club "security" officer estimated "more than 50 but less than 100" people didn't pay for the show. Capacity is 300. You do the math -- I mean, how many banjo techs were there? Part of the allure was mysterious noise-pop quartet ft (The Shadow Government) playing as direct support. It was an obvious choice, though not aesthetically. Whitmore's cousin Luke Tweedy, who records Will and just about everyone else in Iowa City, plays in the band. They hadn't played in ages and might never play again, but their combo of punk, camp, and noise was fitting, and their short set provided just the buffer people needed to get both drunk and ready for Whitmore's set. It was a total reversal from the openers.
When Whitmore took the stage, the place exploded, and rightfully so. The crowd response was equal parts drunken fervor and swollen pride. You could tell Whitmore was just happy to be at home. The more, the merrier, but you get the sense he could have been playing for 50 people and would've been just as content. He ran through some solo songs before inviting some folks on stage to join him. Local blues performer David Zollo jumped up to play organ on a few songs. This typifies Whitmore's taste and points to his appeal -- Zollo is more of a classic blues player and definitely not a staple of the indie rock scene. He routinely does well with the 40+ sect, and yet here he was, jamming out in front of drunken hipsters. It testifies to how Whitmore has broken down a barrier that few here have. He manages to be hip to the younger punk and indie rock circuit while still attracting the old guard, folks who revere the classic playing of Bo Ramsey and Greg Brown.
Members of the Shadow Government joined to run through some new material, starting with the first track, "Mutiny," from the new disc. It must be noted here that Animals in the Dark is starkly different from Whitmore's older work, and probably weaker as well. Live, though, he sounds justifiably confident in his own work. It's obvious on "Mutiny," where he sings a cappella with a small drum corps backing him, that he is not only having fun with his boys, but also showing a bit of swagger. In turn, "Mutiny" comes off as a powerful live number, despite the cheeky nature of the outdatedly politicized closing refrain: "He don't need no water, we'll let the motherfucker burn/ Burn, motherfucker, burn." "Johnny Law" is the same way -- a song about being hassled by the law, it sounds almost silly on record. But live, these faux-politcal diatribes become calls-to-arms, or at the very least calls-to-drink, as there was plenty of whiskey and PBR going around to fuel the love fest.
But for as much as these rowdy songs punctuated the night, it's Whitmore's more sensitive moments that really stick with you. Quasi-gospel number "There's Hope For You" was dedicated to his brother's children. Haunting banjo number "One Man's Shame" is still one of his most rousing and powerful numbers. The line "Ain't no hell below, ain't no heaven above/ And I came for the drinks, but I stayed for the love" seemed to embody the spirit of the evening. But nothing speaks to the essence of Whitmore as must as his song "Black Iowa Dirt." He sings the song as though it's the last song he's ever going to sing, and the crowd responds in kind. His devotion to his home is repaid to him by his fans and followers, all of whom on this evening, at least, are family.
[Photo: Curtis Lehmkuhl]
