Ponytail / These Are Powers / Pattern Is Movement
The Bell House; Brooklyn, NY
It was an eclectic group of East Coast weirdos who emerged last Friday to rock Brooklyn's Bell House. First on the bill was Pattern Is Movement, a beefy, bearded duo from Philly recently cited as one of the hottest bear bands of 2008 (note to bTalk: Dan Deacon in ’09?). As Chris Ward drums with more energy than a skinny guy on meth, Andrew Thiboldeaux takes care of everything else, from keyboards to bass to vocals. And his singing voice is really something -- plaintive, operatic, and sometimes hilariously melodramatic -- recalling Antony Hegarty. The thoroughly enjoyable set ended with an astonishingly on-point cover of D'Angelo's "Untitled (How Does It Feel)."
Next up was the home team, Brooklyn's own These Are Powers, a band I had been hearing about for a while and was excited to check out. Upon releasing their 2007 debut, Terrific Seasons, the trio declared themselves a "ghost-punk" band, and that description actually sounds about right. Performing amidst multi-colored strips of fabric hanging from mic stands and amps, These Are Powers unleashed a storm-like combination of hard-hitting, guitar-and-synth attacks and quiet, ambient moments that almost made me forget I was watching a band perform. By far the most riveting person onstage was vocalist Anna Barie, whose ululations are somewhat reminiscent of Gang Gang Dance's Liz Bougatsos.
While the opening bands brought moments of excitement and repose in equal measure, the headliner left no room for peaceful contemplation. Although I've been following Ponytail for about two years now and have seen them at least five times, the Bell House gig was the first time I saw them in a proper club rather than on the floor of a warehouse or on a makeshift, outdoor stage on the banks of the Gowanus Canal. And I was a bit nervous. Could all that frenetic energy survive in a club setting? Taking the stage in a Baltimore Ravens jersey, with streaks of blacking under her eyes, manic munchkin Molly Siegel answered my question tout de suite: Yes, yes it could. And boy did it.
Ponytail blew through song after song with a genuine enthusiasm, seemingly grateful that the audience's exuberance matched their own. Guitarist Dustin Wong joined Siegel on the mic more frequently than I've seen before, giving her high-pitched yelps and squeaks added dimension. Meanwhile, in the audience, the entire front half of the room transformed into an enormous mosh pit, with ladies and gents bouncing and sweating in harmony (well, except for the lady who was wearing stilettos in the pit and stomping on people's feet. Note to this girl: flat shoes next time, please). At the end of the night, Ponytail did something else I'd never seem them do before: play an encore. And though I was a bit disappointed to see them bow to this tired rock convention, I can't say I minded hearing more.
[Photo: Sean Ruch]
Metronomy
Chop Suey; Seattle, WA
Metronomy mix the silly and the serious: playful falsetto vocals and a song about a girl named Radio Ladio mingle with foreboding synths and austere beats borrowed straight from The Cure. Opening with “Holiday,” the London-based three-piece started off their set at Seattle's Chop Suey playing with an intensity that was more inline with their serious side. However, the lights soon dimmed and the chest-mounted tap lights began switching on and off with the music. Suddenly, Metronomy started resembling Devo more than The Cure.
Singer/guitarist Joseph Mount sounded apprehensive when he asked the audience, “This is our first time in Seattle, can we make Sunday a Funday?” but the synchronized saluting, magic fingers, and revenge-of-the-nerds dancing (especially well-executed by bassist Gabriel Stebbing) certainly got the crowd going. Although the turnout for the Sunday-night gig was tiny, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a show where such a high percentage of the audience was dancing. Aside from a few onlookers staked out at the bar, everyone was gathered close to the stage and dancing wildly or at least shuffling rhythmically.
With the exception of a blistering melodica solo and some extra keyboard lines provided by Oscar Cash, none of the songs were changed from their studio incarnations. But I didn’t mind, and no one else seemed to either. Any band that can combine the hilarious and the heartfelt as well as Metronomy gets my recommendation.
Fucked Up
Outback Lodge; Charlottesville, VA
I once saw Jose Gonzalez perform, and the audience sat in cross-legged silence as the troubadour covered The Knife, Kylie Minogue, and Joy Division. This Fucked Up show was the opposite of that Jose Gonzalez show. Singer Father Damien began the set wearing a gold baseball hat, jeans, and some kind of shirt. About three songs in, the imposing front man had stripped to his underwear, coiling his head with the microphone cord and exposing a field of back hair for a throbbing sea of adoring moshers and crowd surfers. He hopped a short wall bordering the stage and partied with those of us near the bar; a pair of girls pleaded for me to shield them, and I think he kissed a guy on the mouth.
Between political ramblings on whether or not the band is fascist (I have no idea what he was talking about) and vivid commentary on the Canadian bus decapitator, Fucked Up assaulted the intimate venue with some of the most aggressive playing I've witnessed in a long time. As fans of the Canadian punks will recognize, the band is fantastic at blending ferocious hardcore with melodic undercurrents in a way that recalls classic Hüsker Dü. The band’s brutal live musicianship and Damien’s guttural vocals tended to stress these hardcore roots at the expense of the melody, but there were moments of softness to pull it all together, making it possible for everyday hipsters to enjoy the tunes alongside Zoloft-popping James Dean look-alikes and menacing grindcore toughs.
Spectre Folk / Kurt Vile / MV & EE / Pink Reason / Christian DeRoeck
Monster Island; Brooklyn, NY
“Do you want to hear it mellow or do you want a chunky version like Lil Wayne does?” Matt Valentine asked the crowd gathered in Monster Island’s basement, just a few steps from the East River. “Chunky!” someone shouted from the corner of the room.
Of course, drawing a link between the New Orleans rhymester and the "free folk" of MV & EE might seem a little absurd at first, but since Valentine brought it up, let’s roll with it: both are quite prolific, releasing a spectrum of releases that range from DIY to major label-linked affairs, and both have a morphing sonic territory that includes that very realm of chunkiness.
Valentine and Erica Elder were joined by two percussionists for their set, but the chunkiness really came from Valentine’s guitar stylings, which, whether acoustic or electric, have a thick, deliberate, but also natural sound. The duo focused on their latest release, Drone Trailer, kicking off with its opening track “Anyway” and finishing up with a swirling take on the title number, which progressed from a blanket of banjo noise to a soaring electric guitar outro.
MV & EE were by no means the only notable act of the night, though. Christian DeRoeck, formerly of Meneguar and Woods, kicked off the night, and Pink Reason followed, amping things up with dual guitars and drums. After Valentine and Elder did their thing, Kurt Vile did his: effortless but intricate folk held together with grit and simple honesty.
Spectre Folk (Pete Nolan of Magik Markers) brought things to a close with tinny percussion loops, noodling guitar wanderings, and occasional vocal spurts. The crowd had thinned by this point, but Nolan meandered on as chatter floated from the back of the room and Valentine and Elder lounged and listened nearby. He was a spectre to some, but not all. And that seemed perfectly fine with him.
Max Tundra
(Le) Poisson Rouge; New York, NY
I always thought Max Tundra was a hermit, taking forever to make new records and playing live only sporadically. But since he released Parallax Error Beheads You last year, it's clear that the weirdo from the secluded lair is out -- at least he certainly doesn't perform like someone who's been locked in a cabin with an 808 for six years. Actually, his stage presence is more like that of a grizzled road warrior than a guy who I expected to see play a DJ set rather than attempt a real live show.
Can I talk for a minute about his stage moves? He's got two, which is usually one more than you need if the music is good enough. First, he's got the arms up-and-out, testifying stance. This stance instantly turns a song about delivering pizzas into a sermon about delivering pizzas. Second, he's got the manic jumping-up-and-down, shaking-his-head-back-and-forth dance, which he executes with characteristic precision, often punctuating it with a controlled yet violent lateral snap of the head.
Wait, remember a few sentences back when I said "if the music is good enough?" Thankfully it is. Max Tundra's real secret isn't that he's been wood-shedding his dance moves, but that he can flat-out sing. I always thought the best tracks from Mastered By Guy at The Exchange were those with his sister's vocals -- his own voice sounded overly processed, a little cold and thin to me. I won't go so far as to recant that opinion, but I will say that cold and thin were two things Mr. Tundra's voice certainly were not in a live setting. Between playing two melodicas, guitar, piano, synthesizer, and xylophone, he sang like he meant it. He even managed to make "Merman" and "Lights" -- two songs whose recorded versions can give you the feeling that he's developed a brand new kind of computerized voice -- sound real, present, and adamantly human.
John Doe and Exene from X / Justin Townes Earle
Music Hall of Willamsburg; Brooklyn, NY
“Live fast, die young” used to be punk rock's de facto mantra. But, as it turns out, there are innumerable options for punks to grow older, as long as you didn't check out early like Sid Vicious or Darby Crash. You can stay brutal like Lydia Lunch and Mark E. Smith or become an increasingly racist and irrelevant curmudgeon like Johnny Rotten. Bands such as Buzzcocks and Mission of Burma keep themselves youthful by releasing forgettable new albums and touring on the strength of older material. And then there's X-Ray Spex's Poly Styrene, who became a Hare Krishna in 1980 and finds time to release the occasional solo album between visits to the ashram.
Or, like John Doe and Exene Cervenka of the quintessential LA punk band X, you could continue to evolve, generating an ever-growing catalog of side projects, solo ventures, and one-off experiments. Doe and Cervenka divorced in 1985, after five years of marriage, and went on to publish books of poetry and pursue acting careers (fun fact: between 1986 and 1997, Cervenka was married to Viggo Mortensen). But neither abandoned music. They perform together and apart, by themselves and with new bands, with guitarist Billy Zoom as a reunited X and, now, as a minimalist, country-flavored duo.
To set the mood for a cold, snowy evening of Americana, opener Justin Townes Earle — Steve Earle's son — brought the sounds of Tennessee to New York. He had recently moved to the somewhat rough Brooklyn neighborhood of Crown Heights and proclaimed it “very nice,” adding, “I like the people.” As Earle strummed a guitar and sang songs for his father (sample lyric: “I am my father's son/ I've never known when to shut up”) and for Woody Guthrie, a fellow mustachioed southerner, clad in head-to-toe denim, accompanied him on mandolin and banjo. Boasting the kind of voice most often found on dust-covered 78s, Earle is undeniably the real thing. His music feels old-fashioned, but in a timeless, not anachronistic, way.
When, at the end of his set, Earle announced that he would perform a song by his favorite Minneapolis band, I was afraid he would ruin the night with something by fellow Brooklyn transplants The Hold Steady. I heaved a massive sigh of relief when I heard the opening chords of the song he'd chosen: a flawless, stripped-down take on The Replacements' “Can't Hardly Wait,” which drove the audience wild.
It was a fitting segue to John and Exene, who took the stage in simple, black-and-white outfits, looking a little bit like the Appalachian folkies who inspire their music. Although their romance ended nearly 25 years ago, the pair retains a certain chemistry and tenderness that comes through in their patient, funny onstage banter. And, before we get into the music, there's something else you should know about John and Exene: Their fans — from 20-somethings to 50-year-old punks — adore them. Not a moment of silence could pass without someone yelling, “We love you, Exene!” or good-naturedly joking with John.
As someone who's devoted a lot of time to thinking about X -- I just submitted a 33 1/3 proposal on Los Angeles -- the performance was a chance to reflect on the way their music has evolved over the years. Although the road from punk to Americana seems long, the movements are tied together by the raucousness of rockabilly. And the space between the sex, drugs, and death that fueled LA punk and the sex-booze-death triumvirate that has driven American roots music for a century has never been that great. As it turns out, the California noir and Southern gothic aesthetics may just be kissin' cousins.
For much of the set, John's acoustic guitar was the only instrument accompanying their voices, as they paged through a selection of each musician's own compositions, a handful of covers, and a sprinkling of X classics. Throughout, John and Exene kept the audience engaged. John joked about his excitement to contribute a track (“The Losing Kind”) to a Samuel L. Jackson movie and the disappointment of discovering just how bad Black Snake Moan turned out to be. As Doe put it, “Even Christina Ricci running around in her underpants couldn't save it.” And before performing the Carter Family standard “Poor Old Heartsick Me,” they told the story of their chance meeting with June Carter, who apparently told them, “If I never sing that song again, it'll be too soon.”
Of course, for an old X fan, the highlight of the evening was hearing two of my favorite old-school tunes, “I Must Not Think Bad Thoughts” and “In This House That I Call Home.” During the second encore (that's right, kids — both about to turn 53 and still gracing audiences with multiple encores), a few people shouted out, “Los Angeles!”
“On an acoustic guitar? Really?” John shot back, without missing a beat. I knew he was right, but I couldn't fault them for the request. Even on an acoustic guitar, I would've liked to hear it, too.
