Man Or Astro-Man?
Le Romandie; Lausanne, Switzerland


I know we’re all a little jaded when it comes to reformed bands of yesteryear, and I realize it’s old hat to marvel at the necromantic power of the internet and its globalized fan bases to resuscitate underappreciated groups of past decades , but still, I’m a little nonplussed that the new Man or Astro-Man? LP didn’t receive more attention when it was released last summer.

Not only was Defcon 5…4…3…2…1 overlooked by the humble site you’re reading now (though we covered their set at Psych Fest 2013), but it was also denied the review treatment by “the essential guide to independent music,” which more or less entails that it doesn’t really exist. And this is a shame, because their first album since reuniting in 2010 is no mere nostalgic regression to the already “hyper-nostalgic” sounds of Is It … Man Or Astro-Man? and Experiment Zero. To give it my capsule review, it’s freaking ace, so it’s a good thing Tiny Mix Tapes got the chance to make amends, sending me all the way to a country none of us had ever heard of before, where I watched the quartet detonate their spaceage circus before a captive and impeccably sober audience.

Touching down to the anticipatory techno of “Defcon 4,” the Astromen said hello by immediately flinging themselves “Inside the Atom” with characteristic neglect for earthly standards of restraint. Coco the Electronic Monkey Wizard may not have beamed down with them, but the Alambamian’s didn’t want for energy or exuberance, twitching and rushing around the small Swiss stage to the point where taking a non-smeared photograph was an impossibility. With their famed banter kept to an efficient minimum, they sped from one turbo-charged, uranium-soaked bombardment to the next, their selection balanced perfectly between older and newer cuts, ranging all the way from a scalding “Invasion of the Dragonmen” to a punishingly moody “Antimatter Man.” That said, their patented crowd interaction made the occasional appearance, since after a particularly rowdy version of “Sferic Waves” Birdstuff jumped into the crowd with a mic, handed it to some bearded and dreadlocked cheesemonger, and coaxed the guy into producing an indescribably profound hum for several seconds.

Then he announced that the band were to going to play “Aunt’s Invasion” by Shadowy Men On A Shadowy Planet, at which point I mouthed a silent thank-you prayer to the Almighty, Steve Jobs. Without wanting to detract from the evil genius of Man Or Astro-Man?, Shadowy Men On A Shadowy Planet are so great even Rod Stewart himself could come out, play one of the Canadian trio’s numbers, and then get back to his personal mission of euthanizing music, and it would still be one of the greatest gigs ever. And if their alive and affectionate rendition wasn’t enough, MOAM? topped it off with “Man Made of CO2,” which sounded no less crazy than its recorded template and yet all the more snappy and virile.

Things only became more energetic from there, with “Defcon 5” from the newie and “Maximum Radiation Level” from Experiment Zero being two simultaneously gleeful and intense highlights. Even 20 years after their debut, Man Or Astro-Man? exist in a dimension unto themselves, apart from any single rock scene or domain that might potentially dilute the novelty and impact of their sci-fi surf rock by reproducing it ad nauseaum. Of course, it could be argued their anachronistic “goofiness” has prevented them from ever representing modern life as it unfolds for millions of people, in all its pettiness and gritty detail, but it also could be replied that it’s precisely their seeming detachment from reality that makes the whole MOAM? aesthetic so pure and potent.

Either way, Star Crunch, Birdstuff, Avona Nova, and Victor Vector never let up from start to finish, with the noisy Vaudois crowd lapping up every second of their kinetic freakshow. After Birdcrunch praised a short, dancing guy in front of me for having a well-shaped head (seriously), they rounded off their set (and the European leg of their tour) with the Venusian one-two of “Destination Venus” and “Transmissions from Venus” before a final salvo of “Special Agent Conrad Uno” saw Nova dive into the pit with her guitar, much to delight of fools with cameras and the arm-waving chap she’d accused of flashing her halfway through the performance. And like the gentle astro(wo)men they are, the four-piece capped this overspilling closer by trashing their equipment, leaving us all with stupid grins on our faces as we were transported safely back to Earth.

[Photo: Baron von Kissalot]


00: Defcon 4
01. Inside The Atom
02. Evil Plans of Planet Spectra
03. Anitmatter Man
04. Put Your Finger in the Socket
05. Planet Collison
06. 9 Volt
07. Sferic Waves
08. Aunt’s Invasion (Shadowy Men on a Shadowy Planet cover)
09. Man Made of CO2
10. Invasion of the Dragonmen
11. Defcon 5
12. Maximum Radiation Level
13. Escape Velocity
14. Name of Numbers
15. Televsion Fission
16. Destination Venus
17. Transmissions from Venus
18. Special Agent Conrad Uno

Sun Araw
Georgia's apartment; Chinatown, NY


I’m sitting at work, and usually when a number I don’t have saved calls me (which, I don’t have ANY numbers saved right now ‘cause I’m fucking with an old phone), I answer with my headphones plugged in, no mic, and just let the caller talk. I hear background chatter, a hang-up, and then a text: “YO man — private Sun Araw show in Manhattan in a few minutes man, totally forgot to invite you earlier. I’m so sorry!!! It will start around 6.” It was 4:30, and I’m out on Long Island. I find a train at Mineola (around the corner) that leaves at 4:53, I duck outta work telling ‘em I forgot about a dental appointment, blast it to the bank, blast it to the train, train is late by 14 minutes, buy two Four Lokos and two Black & Mild wine’s, train comes, I drink an entire can of Four Loko as I’m standing up, and arrive in the city around 5:20.

Around this time in NYC, especially the devil’s asshole that is Penn Station, people are EVERYWHERE. So I did some pushing, which was shitty, so I’m sorry if I pushed you yesterday and you’re reading this Live Blog. Ran around outside looking for the yellow line, couldn’t find it, the line to grab a cab was stretching back INTO Penn, and I see a dude on one of them bike gondolas. I grip a ride from him, his legs are individually both larger than my torso and he tells me something about Obama being in town, and I drink the second Four Loko, am probably smashed, and my buddy calls me and says, “We’ll wait 10 more minutes. It’s on the fifth floor. Ask for Georgia.” I get off the bike around Chinatown, see Fatima Al Qadiri doing yet ANOTHER interview, and the biker charges me $100 for the ride. -_-

SMASHED on booze and JACKED adrenaline, I run up to the door, buzz it and say, “Georgia, it’s Clifford, and I’m here for the show!” Georgia is a dude, which is chill, and hugs me SUPER tite. Alex Gray and Cameron Stallones already have played “Like Wine” and are in the middle of “Right Out of Town.” There’s hardly anyone here, maybe 20 people MAYBE.

I take a spot on the floor inches away from the aura Sun Araw is pulsating. Then they get into this original jam, unrecorded, and zones become deeper than dirt. It feels like Chinatown is going to stop all at once outside and look in. To the left, Stallones is occasionally shredding the most minimal licks while keying some slippery synth sounds. On the right, Gray is fucking around on a sampler and completely going to town on them buttons — maybe it’s a drum machine – flinging out tin bongo sounds, while he also moves his finger on a laptop mouse pad as if it is a Kaossilator, and it sounds like liquid metal, or as if all the programs and software on his computer are melting together. Once they finish flaying music into next-level dimensions, I foolishly forget they are about to do a collaborative tour with Laraaji and are all in New York ‘cause they are leaving that next day for Europe, and thus the legend joins them on stage.

The three played together for about 20 minutes. Honestly, I couldn’t tell who was doing what. The only time I noticed a single person’s sound was when they were either playing a solo-ish part or when Laraaji used the electronics to his left, or chose a different way to play his zither (options: fingernails, a bow, brushes, sticks). And Laraaji was decked OUT in orange, including a fanny-pack and fisherman’s hat, which blended well under the red lights above the stage and philodendron sprouting out from corners. I didn’t even notice it getting darker, but considering it was an early show, I didn’t give a shit. Oh, I also didn’t give a shit about most anything else ‘cause it was Sun Araw with Laraaji, live and intimate.

When they finished, Stallones and Gray came over and hugged everyone still in attendance. Georgia put out a bunch of wine, of which I probably had a bottle, ‘cause after I wished them a safe trip and I left, I gave a homeless lady $10 for walking directions to Penn and she hugged me really hard, and I don’t remember finding Penn or getting on the train. I just remember not being able to get into the other train car for the bathroom and now a train in Long Island smells like cheap wine. A passenger on the train asked if I wanted gum, but I couldn’t because of my braces, and Ken thinks she was picking me up. BOTTOM LINE: Sun Araw brings the adventure, always.

Red Bull Music Academy: Robert Henke's Lumière / The Haxan Cloak (US debut)
The Brooklyn Masonic Temple; Brooklyn, NY


I arrive with minutes to spare after bumping between Fulton and Greene for 10 minutes, stupidly having misread Google Maps. My thinking was not focused on finding the temple; I was considering the structural meaning of sound, how it is ensnared by language and such — fitting. I arrive at the temple, emerging out of a mass of classic, distinctly upper-middle class Brooklyn homes. Surrounding the temple is a large line, winding around the building. But there is a second mass — press. That was for me. I merge in, state my name — in. The temple features open hardwood floors leading to a stack of speakers and a fenced-off stage covered by a screen for projection. Hanging in the periphery, eclipsed by piercing spotlights, was the balcony, which is nearly full. I wait.

The thing about this performance is that the ideation of space, real space — so not the ideation, its point, weight in space — will be under attack. I’m excited by the possibility of being bowled over by sound, physical warpings of resonant frequencies and the congealing of sounds heard and unheard collapsing spaces within a zone. I remember the first time I heard “Taku” from Monolake’s Ghosts, the sound of a metal, spherical object hitting, bouncing, multiplying, and then dividing back into a singularity, sliding from one ear to the next.

Rising before his oddly jovial audience, Robert Henke appears docile and chipper, with a sheepish demeanor that’s infectious (isn’t it strange how shy and happy the “headier” musicians appear to be?). But despite his sheepishness, Henke requests no mobile phones be used during the performance, to which the crowd responds with strangely resounding applause. With a nod, Henke darts off the stage, appearing moments later behind a wall of projectors.

Although the press essentially calls Henke’s performance an advancement of the Pink Floyd laser-light show trope, the idea of spectacle is all but lost on me, as a single slither of light dots the massive screen. Before long, the room is submerged in dangerously low tones paired with panning drones and blistering snaps. Tumultuous, chest-shattering kicks strike and tumble half a breath behind the anchoring beat, as the two-dimensional, line-and-point-oriented lights shift into a generative and measured body of pivots and throbs.

I’ve always felt a romantic dystopianism in the sounds of dubstep, and Henke’s performance proves this to be more true than I initially thought. The fidelity-draining, form-twisting aspects of dub, applied to a firm beat pattern, is spectacular in its pinning-down of sonic qualities. Despite much of the “light show,” which was phenomenal in itself, the sound design is what strikes me the most: even as fog is expelled, bridging the lights toward an evolved three-dimensional prismatic shape, I am entranced by the uncanny valley-breaking sound objects employed by Henke.

Quickly after, The Haxan Cloak (real name Bobby Krlic) takes the stage for an intensely physical set. Through gauzes of white noise spiking suddenly into broad strokes of blatantly acoustic deconstructive scapes, my earplugs become a handy friend.

Russian Circles / KEN mode / Helms Alee
The Metro; Chicago, IL


Chicago is a brutal town. How brutal? A building on the south side caught on fire, froze over from the influx of water from firehoses, and then caught fire again while frozen. This city is brick and concrete and hard angles and six-month winters and natives who’d rather see a tourist get hit by a taxi than offer directions (myself included). Naturally, brutal music would spring out of this unforgiving soil.

Russian Circles fucking destroy live. I’ve been a huge nerd for this band since they played a show at my alma mater in 2007 in support of Enter, and they’ve only honed their craft in the ensuing years. It is dizzying how cavernous three dudes on a stage can sound, and the support for Memorial is their magnum opus of making and playing crushing, enormous, desolate music.

Everything about this show lined up. They played The Metro, one of my favorite venues in the city, and brought along two other trios, KEN mode and Helms Alee, as openers. A friend whom I was meeting at the show ran late and asked me to describe KEN mode in 10 words, but I only needed nine: “Hating god through a Drop D Southern Metal barrage.” I stand by the accuracy of my statement. Also: big ups to surprise hit of the night Helms Alee. Their show was all syncopation and prog riffs and making me wish I was alive for metal shows in the 70s.

The Metro was writhing by the time Russian Circles took the stage. The last time I saw them was 2011 at their Fun Fun Fun Fest aftershow in Austin, and Dave Turncrantz was still operating floodlights behind him with his hi-hat foot when he got the chance. Their set-up post-Memorial is now a solid two-row track light of pivoting flood lights and enough fog to give one/all of the Bronte sisters a ladyboner. Russian Circles have always been able to mold and cut a set list for maximal dynamics, but at this point they have it down to an art. From opening with “309” and slinging at least twice the decibels of Helms or KEN, Dave Turncrantz, Mike Sullivan, and Brian Cook covered the entire discography. My two favorites from the night were by and far “1777,” in my opinion their best-crafted song to date, and “Deficit” because it’s the most punishing track on Memorial and the second half of the song sounds like the most metal Zelda dungeon ever. Can that be the rest of my life, metal Zelda dungeons?

[Photo: Robert Elwood Photography]

St. Vincent
Commodore Ballroom; Vancouver, Canada


Chances are if you have heard of any music venue in Vancouver, it’s the Commodore Ballroom. With a capacity of about a thousand, the Commodore is the tipping point between the city’s many fine clubs (The Cobalt, Biltmore, Fortune, etc.) and fabulously appointed concert halls (Orpheum, Queen Elizabeth, Vogue, etc.). It ties the city together, and there are few music venues in North America still thriving that boast its kind of history.

Designed in brilliant art deco style by H.H. Gillingham, the Commodore Cabaret was built in 1929. Unfortunately, that also was the year of the great stock market crash and subsequent depression, which had the effect of forcing the venue to close mere months after it opened. A section of the original stylized wall paneling is still on display near the coat check, a small piece of the art deco design puzzle that becomes rarer by the day in this terminal city presently infected by condo gentrification. To keep the Commodore alive in those lean years, the owners focused on dinner and dancing, with an evolving house big band (12-14 piece orchestras) the venue would maintain into the early 1970s. From the 30s to the 60s, the shadows of traveling artists Count Basie, Cab Calloway, George Burns, Duke Ellington, Sammy Davis Jr., and Tommy Dorsey all darkened its stage. However, it wasn’t until Drew Burns took over its lease in 1969, and changed its name from the Commodore Cabaret to the Commodore Ballroom, that it became iconic.

Under Burns’ direction, Captain Beefheart, New York Dolls, Kiss, Tim Buckley, Bo Diddley, Canned Heat, Talking Heads, and the Ramones all played there in the 70s, including the first Vancouver appearances by Patti Smith, Blondie, Devo, Tom Petty, The Police, and the North American debut of The Clash. The ’80s saw gigs from U2, XTC, the Cure, the Cramps, Iggy Pop, Gang of Four, Echo & The Bunnymen, Pixies, and others, while the 90s hosted the likes of Nirvana, The Pogues, The Buzzcocks, Primus, Happy Mondays, My Bloody Valentine, Beastie Boys, David Byrne, P.J. Harvey, Jesus Lizard, Stereolab, and too many more to name here.

Good times can’t last forever, though. When Drew’s lease ran out at the end of 1995, his vision went with him. The venue sat empty for three years, leaving a big hole in the local scene, until Live Nation (then House of Blues) dumped $3.5 million into renovations, replaced the bouncy dance floor and colored bubble pillars with a more subtle design, and started filling the venue with impressive names again. Under their control in the 2000s, the Commodore landed marquee performances once again, even convincing Tom Waits to play his first club show in nearly three decades to commemorate the venue’s 75th anniversary.

The great sightlines of the open floor design make the Commodore a near-perfect place to see an explosive artist like St. Vincent. Her sound is so vibrant, her performance so captivating, both of which have exponentially improved even since her last appearance at the Commodore in 2011.

Indeed, a former Polyphonic Spree cultist and touring bandmate of Sufjan Stevens, Annie Clark has been through a lot of changes. She released her major label debut, moving from the legendary independent 4AD to a Republic sub-label for her eponymous 2014 record, which has reached her highest point on the U.S., UK, and Canadian charts yet. Her music popped up on Boardwalk Empire and Twilight, while her appearance on a Season 4 episode of Portlandia all but cemented her pop culture relevance for this generation. Perhaps most importantly, though, her 2012 full-length collaboration and tour with David Byrne (who also has multiple Commodore appearances to his credit) seems to have given her wings on stage and in life. It’s with no false modesty that her new album was self-titled. She has just arrived.

Eventually, the lights dimmed and, after fashionable pause, the synth lead from “Rattlesnake” kicked in and Clark drifted into position. She was totally pale, save her piercing blue eye-shadow and a floral disemboweling on her summer dress, her wild blond mane channeling the kind of Einstein-crazy of which Wayne Coyne would approve. Clark’s guitar sound and technique is impossible. It sounds something like Steve Vai or Tom Morello, but placed in an indie art-pop context well beyond the comprehension of either. On this tour, she relied on supporting guitar/synth player Toko Yasuda (formerly of The Lapse, Enon, and, briefly, Blonde Redhead), keyboardist Daniel Mintseris (who Clark later introduced as “a priest of ones and zeroes”), and percussionist Matt Johnson (“thrower of hot lava” and former drummer for Jeff Buckley) to create the skeletons for her to flesh out with her elegant vocals, delivering cerebral yet relatable lyrics, and tasteful guitar. She shreds with alien theatricality, ever mind-boggling yet never showboating, favoring intuition over classical training as a dozen assorted pedals forge her distinctive timbre. Her voice was incredible too, an angelic tone pure as the driven snow one minute and modulated with guttural tones the next.

Apparently working with artistic director Willo Perron (of Lady Gaga fame) and choreographer Annie-b Parson for this tour, Clark gave off a far more confident vibe onstage than she did when I first saw her at the 2010 Calgary Folk Fest. She seemed reluctantly thrust into the spotlight by her undeniable talent and vision back then, just after her sophomore album Actors hit the shelves. Now, her nervous energy has been channeled into effortless smiles and plot-driven gestures, like trading skitter walks with Yasuda as they swapped riffs, slowly rolling down a set of stairs at the back of the stage, taking her pulse during “Digital Witness,” and head-banging harder than Beavis and/or Butthead on “Your Lips Are Red” (which bore little resemblance to the version on her 2007 debut Marry Me).

Some of the biggest cheers and sing-alongs went to older material, namely “Cruel” and “Cheerleader” from 2011’s Strange Mercy. Her set-list heavily favored her new album, though, and she did an amazing job of balancing her older tracks with her present style, having evolved from its comparatively simplistic beginning and baroque development to the maximalist noise-pop present, what she described as “a party record you could play at a funeral.” Nothing was played exactly as it was on record, but nothing was alienating. The arrangement for “Laughing With a Mouth of Blood” from Actor was more dramatic than the studio version, using electric instead of acoustic guitar and driven by digital strings rather than embellished by an organic string section, likely out of necessity but employed to great effect. The titular track from Strange Mercy received the most drastic change, performed in the encore with only Clark’s emotive vocals and mournful electric guitar.

As of late, the Commodore’s soundsystem has been sounding tired, the victim of too many excessively loud shows tipping over the distortion boiling point, yet Clark held it together admirably while demonstrating Bowie-level charisma. While Yasuda added essential ingredients on the Theremin and Moog Voyager, Mintseris triggered choir and synth patches with a MIDI keyboard, and Johnson filled in the blanks on a hybrid drum kit, you couldn’t take your eyes off Clark for a second. She twitched, shrugged, and nodded, burning a hole in the fabric of space/time with her smouldering glare. She’s unreal. It doesn’t seem possible by the laws of physics and chance that a human being could be this weird, gorgeous, and talented.

But seeing is believing. It’s heartwarming to watch someone who came out of the gate so full of promise realize their full potential. Annie Clark is a fantasy become corporeal, maximum skill and style. Right now, she deserves all the fucking praise she can get.

[St. Vincent photos: Caily DiPuma]

Thee Silver Mt. Zion Memorial Orchestra
Reitschule; Bern, Switzerland


“We just like to swear a lot,” is probably as frank an explanation of a song title as you could ever hope to hear from a frontman, and it suits the bellicose path Silver Mt. Zion have been forging of late, what with Fuck Off Get Free being a hail of fuzzed guitars and amped violins. Accordingly, their set at Bern’s Reitschule — a reclaimed horse-yard now functioning as a cultural center for people of an anarcho-socialist-communist-feminist-leftist persuasion — was coruscatingly direct, and as the opening quote implies, it began with a surge through the title track from their latest. And it didn’t end there, since the band thrashed out renditions of every other track on the album, reveling in their migration from the plaintive elegies of yesteryear to the indignant tirades of the present.

Moving from “Fuck Off Get Free,” they bullied “Austerity Blues” and “Early Grave Blues,” producing voluminous walls of sound that fattened as they were increasingly reminded of everything that pisses them off from day to day. “Austerity Blues” was introduced as a tribute to, “How the rich keep wanting more, and the poor keep getting less,” and though the sheer force of the assault threatened to singe ears, the space provided by the live setting allowed the heavily FX’d violins of Sophie Trudeau and Jessica Moss to take the foreground, wherein they could venture into and explore new melodic territory, territory that radiated the quintet’s inimitable fusion of sorrow, vitriol, melancholy, and determination.

In fact, it’s this inclusivity and openness that’s one of the most striking aspects of the Mt. Zion live set. The band were assembled in a symmetrical V formation, with Trudeau and Moss opposite each other at the front, Menuck and Thierry Amar mirroring each other in the row behind, and finally David Payant manning the drums at the V’s tip. Coupled with the fact that each member is equipped with a mic for vocals, this arrangement subtly communicates their ideals of equality and democracy, which they also artfully manage to unify with the ideals of individuality and individual expression evoked by the deeply personal laments of each instrument. This marriage was borne out when, after the escalating heat of “Austerity Blues,” Menuck confessed its blurry ending is “all noise, it’s all just noise; we’re all just making [self-absorbed, uncoordinated] noise,” but that they nonetheless end together as a unanimous entity, since they “look at each other, and we go 1, 2, 3, 4 — uh, the end.”

Outside of the gracefully punishing Fuck Off Get Free material, they treated the audience to Kollaps Tradixionales closer “Piphany Rambler,” and to newie “All Their Kings Are Dead,” another prolonged, transcendent punk jam that showcases an aggravated breakdown and newfound taste for semi-falsetto vocal hooks. Yet despite the energy streaming out of the amplifiers the Swiss crowd were, for whatever reason, a little polite in their applause, with Menuck at one point asking them, “Is everything OK, what the fuck is going on? Are you guys alright?” Regardless, the band said goodbye to them with a powerful, St. Valentine’s version of “What We Loved Was Not Enough.” And for me at least, this was more than enough.


01. Fuck Off Get Free (For the Island of Montreal)
02. Austerity Blues
03. Rains Thru the Roof at the Grande Ballroom (For Capital Steez)
04. Early Grave Blues
05. ‘Piphany Rambler
06. All Their Kings Are Dead
07. What We Loved Was Not Enough

Encore: Little Ones Run

Dolphin Tears & Angel 1
Body Actualized Center; Brooklyn, NY


Cutting out the mysteries flourishing around reality at the Body Actualized Center, the Beer on the Rug “showcase” — as was presented to me by way of DeForrest earlier that night — completely bugged out. I’ll keep it short, ‘cause the fellow editing this piece ALSO had his mind hacked that night and we’re still all trying to put things back in place.

Dolphin Tears was ACTUALIZED within a tank. The tank was filled to the brim of water, and rolled out by Total Reality International label owner George. The whirling and mutilation of electronics began to sound off as arms along the side of this tank transformed, reaching above the tank’s opening. Sprinkles and twinkles of glitter dust down upon the pool of water, which brings about the emergence of a dolphin that grows into a full-sized echo, sonaring out of the water and into the audience’s psyche; the audience is dancing of sorts, or laying on the ground. Slowly, the bottom rolls out a rubber circle, and beings to blow it up with air as the dolphin is dancing within the splashing tank. The walls of the tank are removed, water is caught within the bloated rubber, and with the last bit of room, the dolphin jumps out and into the pool, finishing the act of metamorphosis in sound and body.

Within a ‘poof’ of purple, Angel1 is found floating above where the pool once was, drumming at a rhythm of all open hearts, towering with a voice of every being. Layered in a halo of mist, the mighty voice of Angel1 echoed across the audience as chords of every note within the life of music. Breathing amongst the holy, chimes of bells and lush melodies skitter across a beat that danced with and as an audience to the performance. Still robed within a cloud formation, Angel1 lofted along the stage area with ease and was protected by a man practicing sword formations. More of a yogi-worrier than an attacker, this swordsman fended off all negative energies within the immediate area and softly made evil entities flee. Dancing ensued across the wood floor in praise of Angel1’s magic and might, and sweat became healing, as one melted into the other.

Trans Pecos; Brooklyn, NY


Trans Pecos was dark inside, which is pretty usual for backdoor-style venues in Brooklyn, and had a bunch of hidden and mysterious passageways, doors, and windows outlined in the shadows, throughout. Sam Hillmer was serving beer in a side corner room. The fellow from Words+Dreams, Matt, was DJing 100% Silk and DJ Clap in the play space, and was pretty much the only person in the room. People ended up showing around an hour later, which [again] is pretty usual for backdoor-style venues in Brooklyn.

A table is set up by the sound guy — I think it was the sound guy — and electronic junk and wires were dumped upon it. Two dudes donned the play-stage area and began trying to put all these electronic bits and pieces together on the table using cassette tape reels as adhesive and CDs and records as stabilizers for their concoctions. Assuming it was LAMPGOD & **Ł_RD//$M$, I snapped a picture, and immediately after, a projector screen blinked on and a mixture of VHS recorded clips began to shuffle through at random: vegetables, women working out, old science videos, sunsets, prepared meals, traffic, passenger-view driving, animals running and raring, skateboarders, etc. Then, creaking out of outlined shadow passages of the venue, emerged (in sync with the music and practically choreographed) seven or eight women dressed in Nike neon-tight workout gear from the Jazzercise-era of the mid-90s.

While (presumably) LAMPGOD & **Ł_RD//$M$ ripped through the guerrilla electronic style of mind-hack mixture, as heard on their **$$EXT8PE, these women began to aggressively tear each others’ clothing from their bodies, revealing that they were animatronic beings. At their elbows, knees, hips, and shoulders were lines revealing dips in their circuitry as they grinded into every nook and cranny on their automatic bodies, flowing mechanical clear fluids upon the crowd and drenching LAMPGOD & **Ł_RD//$M$. This measure of liquid made it seem as though their mix sparked more transitional initiative, finding further development by way of sampling worlds and dimensions. VHS images projected over all of this, making the visual of this reality seem as though it were an impulsion of color and shapes and noises.

As one dimension opened up another, the real world collapsed and out emerged a vision of Weller-esque RoboCop, wielding an enormous lazer; the pile of humping lady-bots behind LAMPGOD & **Ł_RD//$M$ parted and made room for the sci-fi being, swarming his existence, and is swallowed in the mound of fake flesh. The mess of orgasm climaxing as the music began its end, members of the display individually wobbled and/or crawling out, weak, finding their ways back into the passages from which they came. RoboCop had disappeared within the logic of things, yet the eye strip from the bot’s helmet has somehow been integrated into the LAMPGOD & **Ł_RD//$M$ installation. All at once, the music completed, the VHS fried out and smoked the projector, and the two fellows picked up their pieces and left the court. The audience, now packed, has been left in awe, and makes its way to seats within the venue.

Roseland Theater; Portland, OR


Neurosis is an exacting band. So exacting that after every song the quintet played, the lights onstage would go dark and the three guitarists at the front of the stage would spend an uncomfortably long stretch of time tuning their instruments before launching into another psych-metal epic. So exacting that every move Noah Landis made – from hitting a synth pad with a drumstick or playing two notes on his keyboard – looked like it took every bit of his concentration to pull off. So exacting that when someone or something caused Steve Von Till’s microphone to get knocked over, you would have thought someone had stolen a guitar pedal from him. He spat and swore and looked completely off-put for far longer than anyone should in such a situation.

That kind of attitude works for Neurosis. Their music is so tightly wound that to let one little sound or step slide would cause the entire edifice to come crumbling down around them. The result wasn’t a staid, mannered set, surprisingly. The volume and intensity that all five men brought to the music burst forth more strongly than those darkened moments while the audience waited for the group to start up once again.

The long tune-ups that we had to endure might also have been a result of a new austerity the band is exhibiting now. Two years ago when Neurosis played the same venue as part of MusicFest NW, they had an elaborate visual presentation with them and tore through the show like the quick swing of a katana. With no bells and whistles and no guitar techs to hand instruments off to, all that was left were the five players and their slow-boiling musical fury. Nothing was lost as a result other than a few extra minutes of sleep by the time we made it home, dizzy and deliriously blissed-out from the show.

Julia Holter / Lucrecia Dalt
Village Underground; London, UK


After spending the last few months immersed in Lucrecia Dalt’s sound, I was intrigued to find out how the music would translate onstage. Her latest album, Syzygy, sounds like it was custom designed for private playback in an area no bigger than the Barcelona flat in which it was recorded, so I wondered how that was going to unfurl in front of a large audience. As it happens, the Village Underground was the perfect venue for exploring that — it has a dank ambiance that sits wonderfully within the space that Julia Holter would later describe as a “trapezoid.” The stage was arranged with two mics, Dalt’s signature moogerfrooger midi murf and a home-made foot controller that channeled her bass as she approached the audience. I felt a heightened level of tension as the Colombian musician stood beneath the venue spots and Simon asked, “What do you think she will open with?” I lost all train of thought. The main hall was just beginning to fill as Dalt meandered into “Waste of Shame,” the first of three songs taken from Commotus.

As the opening number unraveled into a longer, more expressive version of the original, it became more apparent Dalt’s compositions are never static. Her music doesn’t exist as a singular moment that’s unmodified or void of alteration as she moves each number into a different living space. The tracks, under the names they have been given on record, felt like guidelines more than anything else, and this lent each rendition an alternate dimension in which to roam — a license to remain unadulterated and free while taking on new sonic forms. Even as a running trilogy, “Inframince,” “Soliloquios,” and “Vitti” were adapted for the stage, it was as though they were being presented not as songs but ideas continually in motion. Despite how personal and captivating they were to hear live, I was forced to think about my experience with these songs and the way it transforms over time. Our perception of music is, after all, cradled by the environment in which it is heard.

That sensation was less evident during the Commotus material, wherein “Turmoil” played out as a stunning highlight that was immediately more powerful but perhaps less thought provoking. “I’ve been doing business with the devil”, that memorable line, which sounds so poignant on record, was given a fresh sense of urgency with a backdrop of slowly pulsating beams as the artist stood with her hair draped across her face. It’s difficult to say where the suspense was grounded, but I was surprised at how affecting the music was, considering the form it took. Dalt’s intentions appeared to echo in the set closer “Mirage,” during which she poured over “absurdity in abstraction” and “contemplation.” Indeed, it was only while reflecting on the show that it dawned on me just how bold the performance was — but hey, it’s been a great year for Dalt. She has consistently proven to exceed every sense of expectation.

In contrast to Lucrecia Dalt’s soft-spoken seduction, Julia Holter wasn’t shy when it came to sharing her thoughts that evening. A third of the way through “In the Green Wild” she casually griped, “There’s a fly on my keyboard,” jabbing a run of bum notes on her Nord Stage 2 in an effort to scare off the gatecrasher that had just touched down on her piano. Clearly the insect had good taste, having been entranced by the floating charms of opener “Maxim’s I” and then quickly pulled in by the cloistered discord of its followup. But even if it momentarily distracted the object of its unrequited affection, the song barely suffered, carried and magnified as it was by Holter’s band, who over the last few months of touring have quickly become her not-so secret weapon. Consisting of drums, saxophone, violin, and a cello that, for “Green Wild,” was moonlighting as a double bass, they painlessly settled into the de-industrialized warehouse that was the Village Underground’s main hall, filling its cavernous space with aural torrents as strident as they were elegant.

You might not expect that coming into a Holter gig; having heard the ornate, confidential nature of her records, you’d be forgiven for supposing her sets were cyphered, semi-withdrawn affairs that implied more than they explicitly revealed, teasing at the emotion underlying her music but never fully delegating it to our voyeurism. Well, you’d be wrong, because with the brunt of the four well-oiled minstrels behind her, the strains of Loud City Song and Ekstasis assumed a rancor and febrility that imbued them with a volatile dimension. “Horns Surrounding Me” became an emergency scramble through crashes of sax and violin, the ghostly arpeggios of “Marienbad” were intersected by walls of turbulent improvisation, and “Maxim’s II” throttled towards a near-cataclysmic ending, easily upping its recorded version in terms of riotous abandon.

In the midst of these heightened energetics was Holter herself, her voice keeping an imperturbable clarity and poise that levitated above her band’s animation. And just because they were in a bullish mood didn’t mean that she or they neglected more intimate material. Barbara Lewis’ “Hello Stranger” was the perfect foil for the labyrinthine rendition of “Four Gardens” that preceded it, the cover’s delicacy translated into waves of fragile euphoria, borne out by Holter’s body language. Equally penetrating was set closer “In the Same Room,” the haunted estrangement of its lyrics and instrumentation proving a hit with that same fly, who’d been circling incessantly around the stage for the entire set, and who probably wasn’t the only new convert to what was some intoxicatingly rarefied, yet powerful, music.

[Photos: Baron von Kissalot]



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