Concert Review: Wingdale Community Singers – June 24, 2005

Wingdale Community Singers

Housing Works Used Book Cafe – New York, NY

June 24, 2005

Originally published in Delusions of Adequacy, July 25, 2005

If record release parties represent a public birth for a collection of songs, it would be hard to think of a more comforting or welcoming midwife than the intimate crowd that gathered at Housing Works Used Book Café on June 24 to celebrate the arrival of the Wingdale Community Singers’ self-titled full-length.

Sitting in wooden chairs or crouched on the floor among towering bookshelves, the group was an eclectic one — a patchwork of teenagers and older friends, unshaven college students, and young babies sharing lap space — but the reception was almost uniformly warm.

It felt less like a crowd craning their necks or forcing their way to center-stage to catch a live performance than a group of neighbors sitting in a carefully lighted living room as some friends shared a couple songs they’d recently written.

The musicians and participants, knowingly or not, clearly fed and encouraged these environs. The evening started with See Through author Nelly Reifler, who followed an a cappella rendition of the Girl Scout theme with the reading of a prose-poem based, in part, on prescription-drug spam she had been filtering out of her inbox.

As people smirked with the turn or the rhythmic twist of a phrase or let their glares linger as Reifler read an imaginary screenplay titled “Motel, Director’s Cut,” the author played off the immediacy of her surroundings, further nursing the sense that the crowd was, indeed, just a few friends she pulled aside to hear her latest completed piece.

Claudia Gonson and Shirley Simms — most recently known for their work on Magnetic Fields’ 69 Love Songs – did much the same, frequently poking fun at themselves and joking with the engaged audience as they unreeled a 10-song set of mostly acoustic fare.

While the duo, performing together for the first time in New York, sometimes projected the folksy charm of a coffeehouse act, their songs occasionally drifted into more ethereal or pensive terrain, calling to mind an acoustic Low or Edith Frost.

Elsewhere, they cranked up the novelty elements and playfulness of their work, making faces as they covered the Monkees or hammered out an addictive little romantic-dramedy whose catchy chorus included the couplet, “Well I can’t see the future / But I can see that you’re fucked up.”

Rick Moody occasionally assisted the duo on acoustic guitar and a vintage Wurlitzer keyboard, a foreshadowing of things to come.

When the Wingdale Community Singers took the stage, one couldn’t help but notice the room sort of lit up in a bit of anticipation.

And rightfully so.

The trio of Moody, Hannah Marcus, and David Grubbs was in top form at Housing Works, injecting the vast majority of the 15 songs on their Plain Recordings disc with a striking balance of levity and gravitas. It was difficult to say which song sounded best or, maybe even better, which one the group enjoyed playing the most. In between playful and sometimes quite funny between-song banter, the Wingdales delivered the album-opener “Dog in Winter” and the somber “Holy Virgin Star” with surprising depth as Grubbs sawed away at his electric guitar or Marcus pushed every ounce of her voice into a measure.

Moody and Marcus feel like primary songwriters on the record but, live, each member seemed to carry an equal footing and contribute to the set.

Moody’s emotive and sometimes-understated vocal delivery helped anchor the playful “Sugar and Salt” (where he sang the set-stopping lyric, “Salt was the end of Lot’s wife”), introduce the song-story “Bike Shop Boy” (a narrative, he noted, about a boy who works in a bike shop and takes care of Marcus’ dog), and give balance to Grubbs’ energetic ho-down on “Fishnet Stockings.”

The artists, for all their seemingly inherent chemistry, were also refreshingly difficult to pin down stylistically — a whisper of Gillian Welch here, a little hint of Bill Frisell in Grubbs’ angular guitar work there, a little Morrissey reference thrown into the mix to shake up the appearance of things.

One of the night’s most strangely beautiful moments, though, may have been delivered solo when Grubbs drop-tuned an acoustic guitar and quietly played the mournful piano ballad “Family Plot, Mayfield Kentucky.” It was a more-than-interesting aside, a rumination on death (and, yes, the form of cemeteries) that resonated and played well — however unknowingly — off the theme of birth that the best of these sorts of record release parties often invite.

Concert Review: Ipecac Records Geek Show – May 23, 2003

Ipecac Records Geek Show

Irving Plaza – New York, NY

May 23, 2003

Originally published in Delusions of Adequacy May 30, 2003

It is only due to the wonders of two very small, bright orange earplugs that I am not completely deaf right now.

The ear-threatening volume of the Ipecac Records jetset blew right into the rain-stricken gloom of New York City last week, leaving spectators to marvel at just how much the walls of Irving Plaza could tremble with the sounds of roaring guitars, pounding rhythm sections, and Mike Patton’s infamous sideshow slideshow of vocal stylings.

Last Friday, Patton and company exploded during the finale to a much-anticipated, several-day stint at Irving, with four Ipecac acts and one surprise special guest playing to a sold-out crowd.

The Trevor Dunn Trio started the night out with a more eclectic, less distorted, and less aggressive set than what most expected from the trio’s Ipecac counterparts, treating the audience to a half-hour offering of rhythmic, angular rock and free-jazz compositions.

While Dunn has received the most notoriety for his work with Mr. Bungle and Fantomas, the group of his namesake sounded less like a colorful or furious exercise in post-modern pastiche than it did a free-form experiment in disjointed verses and planned dissonance.

The jagged electric guitar and bass of Dunn’s trio sounded alternately like they were racing and attempting to catch up with each other, giving choruses and refrains where the trio stopped on a dime or crashed together a sense of tremendous impact. The sound was sort of a mutant jazz hybrid of Don Caballaro, Big Lazy, and The Reverend Horton Heat, with Dunn leading the way as his fingers dashed and darted feverishly around the fretboard of his upright bass.

While a studio recording of this material could reveal a taught and edgy underbelly, the live chemistry lent the songs a kind of drunken, improvised energy. The whole band seemed to be working from notation, but they also seemed to have the audience convinced that they were wandering lost through the proceedings and loving it.

The intricacies of Trevor Dunn and his cohorts bled right into emo/uber-rock act Isis, which turned the volume up to 10 and cranked out a full set of methodical but emotive numbers built around a brooding core of electric guitars, bass, and keyboard.

Though far from the best received band of the evening, the crowds front and center seemed to respond to the guttural roars of Isis’ frontman, and the band seemed more than willing to thrash around and follow suit. As more than a few people waited for the Melvins to take stage, however, a good handful of Isis’ songs seemed to sound the same, more than a slight curse on a five-band bill.

Japanese noise quartet Melt Banana jumped into Friday night’s rotation, without warning or notice, offering a surprised crowd a noisy blast of a musical interlude before the Melvins took stage.

Far from out of their element, Melt Banana raced through their explosive mix of lightning-fast punk and noise-rock, an indication perhaps of what an old Nintendo game would sound like if it were providing the backbeat to Armageddon. This male-female outfit — whose guitarist came equipped with a facemask to stunt the spread of SARS, perchance — was clearly out to stun the audience and leave them dazed but hungry for more.

Though playing with volatile time signatures and crazed stop-start shifts in their songs that could have knocked most chorus-conscious rock bands off their feet, Melt Banana lit up Irving with a kind of buzzsaw energy and precision.

As ever and as always, the Melvins — for whom the earplugs definitely came out — were incredible live, filling all expectations for those who have seen them in the past.

On record, the band is lean and venomous and composed but also immense, a thunderstorm of a rock band who never fail to line their rock-punk-metal offerings with some dark humor or tongue-in-cheek playfulness. Live, they can be all this and more, exploding with sound in every direction, drummer Dale Crover, bassist Kevin Rutmanis, and the ever-popular King Buzzo displaying an incredible volume and chemistry as they rocket through song after song after song, almost constantly without pause.

In short, pig don’t let it.

The band’s set on Friday included more than its fair share of songs from the fairly recent Hostile Ambient Takeover, including “Ol’ Black Stooges” and a vicious take on “Foaming.”

(Those waiting for “Dr. Geek” had to go back to their car stereos to get a listen.)

In their hour-long noise-fest, the band also included pieces that have seemingly become mainstays in their sets – many from their Atlantic/Mammoth years — like “Night Goat,” “Revolve,” and “The Bit.” Every time you hear them, they get better.

(While I — like many — continue to listen to the band’s live version of “Charmicarmicat” from the K. comp, I’m still waiting for the Melvins to take stage one of these days and play Gluey Porch Treatments start to finish. Where is Mr. Matt Lukin when we need him?)

After a lengthy break — possibly to allow Melvins and Tomahawk bassist Rutmanis to pause and catch his breath — Tomahawk took the stage and, even compared to the monstrous performance of the Melvins, tore down the place, as the expression goes.

Mixing up familiar tracks from their self-titled debut with slabs from their latest offering, Mit Gas, Tomahawk came through as one of the most intense but professional rock bands out there today. Listening to Patton scream and wail and roar — with the aid of three microphones, countless effect pedals and gadgets, and keyboards — you’re reminded of why this guy used to front one of the biggest rock bands of their day.

While I did not see Faith No More perform live until near the group’s demise in late 1997, one has to wonder if they ever sounded this incredible on the road.

Forget the earplugs, brother.

Duane Denison, his chops still razor sharp even after the end of his Jesus Lizard days, was in top form, and John Stanier and Rutmanis proved that they did more than provide Tomahawk with its rock-solid backbone.

Patton was vintage Patton, half lunatic carnival barker and half velvet-voiced crooner, and he was able to replicate even the most complicated and dense passages from the band’s growing catalog.

But, have we come to expect anything else, really?

As the night rolled to a close, Patton engaged in light patter with the crowd, mocking us for screaming every time he said the words “New York.” Closing with a track from their first LP, Tomahawk blazed into a meltdown of feedback, Stanier slamming away while Denison dropped to his knees, repeatedly tapping the neck of his guitar and putting his hands together in prayer as he swayed back and forth.

Wait, was this a show for geeks or a push for a bit of conversion?

I’m sure I wouldn’t be the only one to sign his name on the dotted line.

Concert Review: Slint – March 18, 2005

Slint

Irving Plaza – New York, NY

March 18, 2005

Originally published in Delusions of Adequacy March 28, 2005

And that, my friends, was — without question — the best live show I have ever seen.

On the reunion of the reunions, more than a decade since it dissolved in the wake of the frighteningly perfect Spiderland, Slint rolled into New York City. Rumor had it that this was only the second time the band had ever performed live here but, from the sounds of it, you would think they had never left the stage.

There was anticipation written all over the faces of the sold-out Irving Plaza crowd, an anxiousness made all the more pronounced by the number of years that have passed since the Louisville-bred quartet last took to the road.

But the band delivered and it delivered big.

There was an alarming energy and precision in the entire performance, sure, and not a note was dropped or mumbled during a set that featured the entirety of Spiderland, the vast majority of Tweez, and both songs off the band’s posthumous and untitled EP.

But there was also an unexpected chemistry on stage, a give-and-take between the musicians that was downright eerie given the fact that Slint — notwithstanding a rumored reunion around the time guitarist/vocalist Brian McMahan formed The For Carnation in the early/mid-1990s — has been nothing more than a presence in vinyl grooves and the minds of its fans and followers for the better part of 15 years.

It was the type of performance that leaves you at a loss for words, one that you know, in 10 or 20 years’ time, you’ll look back and say, “I was there.”

The band, performing alternately as a quartet and quintet, kicked things off with a brilliant and pummeling rendition of “Good Morning, Captain,” the bass-driven tension-builder/tension-releaser that closed Spiderland.

During the song, listeners got their first glimpse of Slint featuring The For Carnation alum Todd Cook, who did a more-than-adequate (and sometimes almost instinctive) job of filling in for former bassists Ethan Buckler (now in King Kong) and Todd Brashear. They also got a sense of how much the rhythm section of the band lent its songs much of their power.

After hearing just how hard Britt Walford hit his drum kit, one might be driven to return to Slint’s back catalog and reconsider if it is always the glassy guitars of David Pajo or the affecting whispers of Brian McMahan that are the band’s most riveting or ravishing moments.

On record, Walford’s percussion is inventive and, on further listens, almost strange in how atypical yet natural it sounds. Live, though, he’s a percussionist in the controlled-yet-explosive, post-rock tradition of John McEntire (in his Bastro days) and Kyle Crabtree (circa Eleven Eleven or Shipping News).

The set-opener was also alarming because it seemed to remind McMahan of the bombastic refrains and sonic landscapes from which he came.

(Please remember Squirrel Bait.)

While The For Carnation has mastered the majesty of muted notes and carefully whispered refrains, there may have been fewer moments of the evening that were more dead-on and emotive than when McMahan, slowly rocking back and forth in a plain white t-shirt, his neck crained back and eyes seemingly closed, roared that familiar closing to “Good Morning, Captain” — “I miss you!”

It only got better from there.

The band knocked out an enveloping and beautiful version of “Washer,” its most devastating recording, and energetic, even pristine takes on both “Breadcrumb Trail” and “Nosferatu Man.” (The live performance of “Washer” will go down in several minds, mine included, as a long-time wish fulfilled.)

The crowd responded with glee when Pajo busted into his bluesy solos in the Tweez gem “Pat.” During the kick-drum breakdown in “Kent,” more than a few smiled as they read (or lip-synched) lines from the song: “Don’t worry about me, I’ve got a bed.”

At other moments, when the band wandered into quieter terrain, the crowd fell to complete silence. During a hushed performance of the slowly unfolding instrumental “For Dinner,” or a somber take on “Don, Aman” (led by Walford on guitar and vocals), you couldn’t hear a pin drop. You could the breathing of the person standing next to you.

Elsewhere, the energy of the group’s performance was infectious — during the verses of “Glenn,” heads bobbed up and down and limbs swayed as if they were captured in the rhythm of a moon-raptured tide.

While it was often the songs from the critically lauded Spiderland that seemed to move the crowd the most, the Tweez tracks were a particular treat, if only because they resonated differently live than in the crevices of Steve Albini’s not-lauded-enough 1987 recording of them.

On the eight-song LP, Slint sounded like a young quartet exploding out of the progressive rock tradition, a direct descendant, even, of acts like King Crimson. This was due, in no small part one would guess, to Albini’s clever and inventive recording of the songs, which lent them a sonic richness but also an unexpected kind of color and shape.

Live, the songs had the same sense of texture and depth but felt more connected to the band’s later material, which many cite as the foundation of post-rock. As Pajo hammered out the familiar patterns of “Darlene” or Walford and Cook slammed away on “Warren” or McMahan softly narrated, the work sounded like more and more like a bridge to Spiderland – a youthful predecessor to the decidedly mature and reflective work that followed it.

The band closed, after running through the vast majority of its songbook (sorry kids, no cover of “Cortez the Killer”), with an extended take on “Rhoda.”

Instead of ending with a few distorted notes (a la Tweez) or the drone of a seemingly unattended electric guitar (a la the untitled EP), though, New York audiences were treated to a full-blown meltdown. As strobe lights did seizure-inducing somersaults, the band went into full-attack mode, McMahan and Pajo and the rest playing with a reckless abandon that, despite the scope of a mind-blowing set, it clearly had been saving for last.

It was yet another reminder, if any were needed, about why this band has been cited by everybody and their grandmother as one of the most influential indie groups of the last 20 years.

And rightfully goddamned so.

As the crowds poured into the streets, there were, no doubt, a few glazed looks, a few half-dropped mouths and even more expectations and curiousities and mutterings of, “What next?”

Will Slint fade back into darkness as quickly as it unexpectedly had risen from it? Will Touch N’ Go convince the group to put aside its other projects (between McMahan, Cook, and Pajo alone we have The For Carnation, Papa M, touring duties with Shipping News, and collaborations with Will Oldham to consider) and focus on writing/releasing new material? Will we get a compilation of live sets recorded as Slint criss-crossed the globe on its much-anticipated reunion?

Time will tell.

For a handful of nights and for those with the foresight to find tickets, though, one of the greatest bands of the 1990s was here again, just like a dream, proving that wine and whiskey aren’t the only things that become more rich with each passing year.

Review: Shesus – Ruined It For You

 

Originally published in Delusions of Adequacy Feb. 14, 2005

Forget O-Matic. When it comes to gauging Michelle Bodine’s work as a guitarist and songwriter, the standard is always Brainiac’s Smack Bunny Baby, the only full-length she recorded with Dayton, Ohio’s favorite Surrealist pop-punk noisemakers.

On the disc, released on Dutch East India-distributed Grass Records way back in 1993, Bodine’s guitar is less an instrument with six electrified strings than it is an open window peering out on colorful and often-bizarre horizons.

There’s that grungy slur of a power chord and the rousing chorus, sure, but there are these strange little bursts of sound, atypical chords used sparingly but also filtered through effect pedals to saturate the listener’s ears with microscopic sound-portraits in each precise strum and upstroke. Bodine further refines the technique on Shesus’ addictive Ruined it For You EP, a seven-song offering that, on first blush, is an energetic addition to a growing line of female-fronted indie pop-punk outfits.

But that’s first blush.

Ruined it For You is, without question, a powerful outing from a band that would be easily dubbed

pop-punk if the term hadn’t been watered down and bastardized by every Sony-constructed group of idiots with nothing in their musical arsenal but a Marshall stack, an engineer who knows how to work the boards, and some really killer promo pics. Shesus is more than that.

For evidence, look no further than Bodine, whose guitar work on the Narnack Records disc is inspired and deceptive in its sometimes-muted, sometimes-flashy complexity.

Take “Debbie’s Shoes,” the opening track. On it, Kari Murphy’s driving bass and Dave Colvin’s tinny pitter-patter of drums are cut with quick stabs of funky but distorted guitar chords before the whole quartet launches into the bizarro chorus, complete with swelling Moog-ish keyboard textures and vintage Brainiac guitar leads that sound like Bodine is hammering out her refrains underwater.

It’s also right from square one that the listener is introduced to vocalist Heather Newkirk, who seems to be the only one who could make Bodine share the spotlight.

Newkirk snarls and wails her lyrics in a liberating, punkish voice that calls to mind a list of leading ladies stretching back to Debbie Harry. But she also has the good sense to use her moments in the limelight well.

Unlike some singers who are all too aware of their abilities or the allure of their confident performances, Newkirk is willing to sublimate her status as band leader to the power of a key instrumental segue or a moment where the band’s chemistry is on full display.

(There may be few other yard sticks for great band leaders, it could be argued, than knowing when to take a step back and, you know, let the band lead.)

On songs like “Debbie’s Shoes,” the borderline fight-song “K-O,” or the urgent dance-floor punk shuffle of “Cheekbone Dance,” her delivery also has an instrumental charm all its own, the way syllables get spit out or stretched to match with Bodine’s and Murphy’s pacing or play as a kind of sugar-coated harmony to the band’s more acidic refrains.

(Newkirk’s half-cooed, half-spoken delivery of lines like “Distilled / Diluted / What makes the difference? / Do I embarrass you?” plays as big an instrumental role in songs like “Debbie’s Shoes” as does the guitar.)

There are moments when the band strays from this surefire approach (the spare but soulful lead on “For Now,” the naïve playfulness of “Overseas Alert”), but even the departures are great. And then there are songs that are just incredible.

The album-closing “K-O” starts with just a simple walking bass line and some almost skeletal drums, but it quickly gives way to quirky and jagged-edged guitars and a high-octane Newkirk punk performance filtered through a guitar pedal that makes her sound like she’s barking, at times, through a bullhorn.

The anthem “Weapons of Love Destruction” is the finest moment on the disc and one of the finer examples you’re likely to hear in the first half of 2005 of energetic but inventive punk. The song has its edgy and new-wave 70s-inspired interplay of guitar, bass, and drums, but Newkirk steals the show, laying down multiple backing tracks in the chorus where she spits out lines like “Don’t count on me” over an infectious groove of vocals and guitar.

Placed at the EP’s end, the track would be the encore-inducer, the rousing track meant to bring the big red curtain sailing down. Situated in the middle as it is, though, the track feels more like a promise or a harbinger of things to come.

Let’s hope so.

Concert Review: Shipping News – Feb. 13, 2003

Shipping News

Tonic – New York, NY

Feb. 13, 2003

Originally published in Delusions of Adequacy Feb. 13, 2003

It says a lot about a band when they can face technical obstacles and malfunctions on stage and still manage to pull out an incredible live performance. Shipping News did just that on February 13, overcoming problems with guitarist Jeff Mueller’s amp to present an intense eight-song valentine to a packed audience at Tonic, in New York City.

Over the course of two studio records and a limited run EP, the Louisville trio has developed a certain level of renown – as well as a loyal following – for crafting aggressive but atmospheric and lyrical post-rock compositions.

To see them live, however, is to know that they are one of the finest indie bands on the road today. Those who managed to score a copy of the band’s live split release with Metroschifter in 1998 have the evidence.

Shipping News may be the only rock band on the face of the planet who are tighter on stage than in the studio, and the only act who can perform live with both astounding precision and a sense of energetic, near-reckless abandon.

At Tonic, the band exhibited this live chemistry with a set that featured songs from 1997’s Save Everything and 2001’s Very Soon and in Pleasant Company, as well as cuts from the newly released Three-Four and some as-yet-untitled fare.

Marred by occasional problems with Mueller’s amp, the band opened with three unreleased tracks – working titles: “Leuven,” “Mores” or “Demon,” and “Face” – each more energized and volatile than what preceded them. Playing live with four members instead of three, the new songs seemed larger in scope as well as volume, integrating multiple guitar lines into choruses and refrains that echoed some of Mueller and Jason Noble’s earlier work together in Rodan.

Far from the atmospheric, often-hushed tones of songs like “How to Draw Horses” – from Very Soon and in Pleasant Company – the Shipping News’ live sound is edgy and more explosive. While the band members seem to communicate with each other through an almost intuitive sense of rhythm, much of the credit for the live set’s cohesion may go to drummer Kyle Crabtree.

A hard-hitting percussionist in the vein of Dale Crover and Mac McNeilly, Crabtree attacks his set with venom but also manages to still keep time for even the most strange time signatures or patterns that Mueller and Noble present.

Listen to Crabtree slamming away on “Nine Bodies, Nine States” on the band’s live EP and you’ll see exactly what I mean.

The live set at Tonic, however, provided room for all four members of the band to shine. And shine they did.

In addition to the new tracks, the band performed “Quiet Victories,” “March Song,” and an especially lucid version of “A True Lover’s Knot.” Tonic audiences also got the chance to hear full-band takes on two songs from the recently released Three-Four, a record of solo performances by Crabtree, Mueller, and Noble taken, in part, from the band’s recent RMSN EP series.

Mueller took lead vocal and guitar duties on a fleshed-out version of “Dogs,” a song he recorded for Three-Four. To close the set, the band launched into “Paper Lanterns,” a Noble song from Three-Four that features a trance-like bass progression and blasts of interjected sound.

While, on Three-Four, the track is reminiscent of Noble’s recordings with Per Mission, it was a different creature when performed live, focusing more on the give-and-take between bass and drums, and Noble’s whispered vocals.

While Three-Four, released earlier this month, is a welcome addition to the group’s growing catalog, there may be little that’s comparable to the experience of seeing them live.

What are you waiting for?

Review: Scoville Unit – Everybody Knows

Originally published in Delusions of Adequacy July 21, 2004

Scoville Unit’s Everybody Knows is an aptly titled debut from an up-and-coming group of five Connecticut friends, a guitar- and vocal-driven pop-rock affair that taps into some familiar melodies while keeping its audience bouncing in carefully synched unison.

But the 11-track Ernest Jenning release doesn’t develop a unique voice so much as it stabs at, alludes to, and references others, from the quirky 80s keyboard-flecked choruses of “The Switch” to the swaying balladry of “Do Not Disturb” and “The New Design” to the playful folksiness of (the poorly named) “Last Train to Scoville.”

There are moments when the band’s sound seems to work, when it feels like a vaguely promising, though somewhat underdeveloped, outfit in commercial radio’s studio-polished, hit-driven pop-rock legacy.

Those moments, sadly, are few and far between, though, and the record often more closely resembles a demo for a band that has yet to find the sound that really makes it who it is.

Examples of this – let’s call it a rough draft syndrome of sorts – abound over the record’s 40-minute running time. There’s a strange and inviting noise intro to “The Morning After” — the opening track on Everybody Knows — but it quickly disappears behind the band’s palm-muted guitars, careful but predictable harmonies, and pseudo-catchy Big Rock refrains.

There are some interesting dissonant keyboard interludes in “Do Not Disturb,” but there’s no way the song merits nearly five minutes of repeating choruses and bridges.

The record’s closing “Everything” is clunky and awkward at best, a five-minute track with some interesting (and even fulfilling) asides that never seem to contribute to a larger whole. And then there’s the Unit’s take on “Wildest Dreams,” a song that was played to death again and again and again long before the band decided to rehash it with little distinction from the original. Listening to the track, it’s tough to shake the notion the band learned to play it only to crack wise during sets at local bars. (When will this fad of pop/pop-punk bands covering deader-than-dead 80s radio hits just shrivel up and go away?)

But, in all fairness, the record hits some of the right notes for those ready to receive it.

“Bitter Drinks” accents its crunchy guitar choruses with interesting bits of piano and keyboard. In “Secret Mission to Your Heart,” despite some occasionally sophomoric lyrics, Gandhar Savur’s sometimes-monotone voice lends an air of tenderness and soft-spoken simplicity to the proceedings.

The slightly-less-than-hi-fi “Oh, Centuries Ago” has a buoyant charm to it that may leave some wondering how many early Beatles or Monkees records these guys have in their personal collections. These moments, though, are just that: moments.

In its entirety, Everybody Knows isn’t much of a complete package as it is a series of snapshots of a group of friends just beginning to collaborate musically. The songs are there, sure, but Scoville Unit’s sound itself hasn’t quite developed to a point where it’s distinguishable from countless, countless other acts. If you’re looking for something to keep your attention for a few minutes on the radio, Everybody Knows has a few things to offer.

If you’re looking for something more, though, you’d best wait for the band to develop and spread its wings on tour and on future releases.

Review: The Scientifics – Future Mothers and Former Babies

Originally published in Delusions of Adequacy May 18, 2005

When in doubt, blame Devo.

Sure, the group was a staple of 1980s pop and quirky electronica, and it left an odd legacy, however implicit, on indie rock, but it also just somehow feels responsible for the glut of good-intentioned but lackluster electro-pop that’s surfaced in its wake.

The Scientifics, despite the best efforts put forth on the nine-song Future Mothers and Former Babies, seems to fall right in the line with this ever-growing group of Devo-descendents, though the group’s modus operandi and metabolism are clearly their own.

Instead of inheriting Devo’s sense of humor or metronomic delivery (see Servotron), The Scientifics play everything down, somewhat literally. Most of the tracks on the Translucence CD are murmured bits of electronica and reverb-laced space-odes, all delivered in a gray and borderline-disaffected kind of mono-singing that owes a bit to bands like The Cure.

The disc gets moving — in what the listener will come to realize is an unexpected and somewhat atypical fashion —with “Cloud of Gas,” a swinging science lesson (the band thanks Time-Life Books) complete with great keyboard-wash breakdowns, interjected electric guitar scales, and bouncing choruses.

The song runs well beyond its logical conclusion (to nearly five minutes, to be more specific), and Eliot Rose’s Calvin Johnson/Jad Fair delivery isn’t what you’d expect to lead the way, but the track is one of the record’s best, a number that calls to mind fellow Casio-advocates like the underrated (though far more energized) New Jersey songsmith Tris McCall.

Much of the rest of the record is hit or miss, a lo-fi series of stylistic juxtapositions that either work or don’t.

The keyboard loops on “My Aerial Held High” are vintage Ethan Buckler/King Kong, but Jack Shriner’s reflective and spare guitar work instead calls to mind The Smiths.

“Trembling Babies,” with its verses of endless theremin, and “Long Time Passing,” with its swirling electronics and out-of-place percussion tics, both seem to go nowhere. “Brazil” tries hard not to ape the familiar song-theme from the film of the same name but ends up nearly doing it anyway.

(The song does get points, though, for some interesting travelogue details: “Tokyo / Where the neon never lost its glow / Where the moon’s beamed off of satellites to video / And every rocket flying upward sends down flames.”)

“The Girl Who Fell in Love With the Sun” wanders all over the map, but, when it does find its pace, it’s charming in its welcoming naivete and sense of wonder.

The closing “Cave Man Came” builds to a surprising crescendo and then fades with a disquieting sonar pulse, only to ruin the understated beauty of the moment with closing exposition and an unnecessary bridge of echo-chamber narration.

It’s halfway through the record that The Scientifics may nail down their finest track, the bouncy (and vaguely British) guitar pop of “Quarter In My Pocket.”

As Rose half-whispers “And stale light came seeping out of my eyes” or, later, begins to sing more passionately, “I had a quarter in my pocket / but I couldn’t find a payphone / I have no one to call when you’re not home / I like to listen to your ring-tone,” it’s both engaging and sadly tragic. It’s just too bad the rest of the record doesn’t follow suit.

Concert Review: Rachel’s/Clogs – May 25, 2006

Rachel’s / Clogs

Merkin Concert Hall – New York, NY

May 25, 2006

Originally published in Delusions of Adequacy June 5, 2006

It was a night of quiet, fragile, and sometimes haunting music, with refrains that slowly unfolded and wrapped their delicate fingers around listeners, as two like-minded indie-chamber ensembles helped close New Sounds Live’s 2005-06 season.

But, those who filled the seats of Kaufman Center’s intimate Merkin Concert Hall didn’t seem interested in farewells, and Rachel’s and Clogs, appearing together live for the first time, seemed more than willing to follow the audience’s unspoken lead, offering hour-long sets that felt more like intimate conversation between friends than break-the-fourth-wall performances.

The on-stage presence of WNYC’s John Schaefer no doubt helped out, as did the occasional radio-interview Q&A that served as segues and footnotes.

(Those who missed the sets live can hear them June 22 — minus Greg King’s projected film/video accompaniment, of course — on WNYC or online thereafter at www.wnyc.org.)

Clogs — a quartet featuring guitar, viola and violin, bassoon, and percussion — breathed life into its sometimes airy and sometimes eerily complex brand of avant-classical soundscapes with a set that included multiple pieces off their new CD, the 12-track Brassland offering Lanterns.

While the group’s most intoxicating moments may have fallen in the poly-rhythms and oft-kilter lullaby-sway of the set-opening “2:3:5” (a reference, yes, to the strangely cohesive time signatures on which the song is built), other songs also soared. Like the elegiac pulsing and aching viola moans of “5/4,” whose bridges called to mind Godspeed You Black Emperor at its most subdued.

Or the heart-tugging weeps of “Death and the Maiden.”

Or the tension-generating roil and rumble of “Canon,” where glassy, digitally delayed guitar lines tumbled onward with swelling strings and bassoon or understated drums.

Rachel’s managed to live up to the high standards set by Clogs and then some, focusing mostly on Systems/Layers-era pieces instead of the gems dating from earlier — and, to some degree, less experimental — sections of their back-catalog.

Performing alternately as a sextet and septet, the Louisville-bred outfit surged through songs like “Moscow is in the Telephone” and a breathtaking rendition of “Water from the Same Source.”

But the shining moments often came from details that may not seem, at first, to drive the Rachel’s recorded output — the seeming force Christian Frederickson used to saw his viola as he stood alone at center stage, King’s scene-setting patterns and Structuralist pseudo-narratives projected behind him; the unexpected, almost-thunderous pounding of Edward Grimes’ uncluttered drum kit on an offering from The Sea and the Bells; Jason Noble’s playful between-song chatter or the dense but unassuming sonic backdrop he and Frederickson produced with keyboards and a laptop.

Little could have been better than a repeat performance, so, this being that sort of night perhaps, the group obliged, treating the crowd to an off-the-air encore (sorry, WNYC) of the swaying Selenography album-opener “A French Galleasse.”

The set-closer was exactly what the audience of loyal listeners seemed to come that evening to expect: a communal setting and an all-too-familiar gem that — thanks to a phantom-led improvisational interlude and the muted but soothing repetitions of Noble’s acoustic guitar — still harbored its share of surprises.

Review: Scary Kids Scaring Kids – The City Sleeps In Flames

Originally published in Delusions of Adequacy April 4, 2006

Scary Kids Scaring Kids are suffering from a little bit of an identity crisis, and not the edgy but semi-accessible kind you’d imagine a commercially accessible metal/punk act would put out there in an effort to attract the ears and empathy of disenfranchised youth.

No, this is more of a scatterbrained affair, and its psychosis is splattered all over The City Sleeps in Flames, the Arizona-based sextet’s studio-sculpted full-length debut.

Is The City Sleeps in Flames a series of post-hardcore explosions or radio-rotation punk-pop barnburners?

Are the 11 songs a song cycle — as lyrics and cover art seem to suggest — on that most iconic of metal themes, the ever-impending apocalypse?

Is the Immortal Records disc an attempt to lure all those sadly

mislabeled “emo” devotees from the traps set by My Chemical Romance and its frontman’s dreaded mascara?

Your guess is as good as mine.

The City Sleeps in Flames throws all the ingredients into the mix. There’s some pseudo-legit post-hardcore grinding and throat-shredding screams (“The Only Medicine,” “Faith in the Knife”).

There’s catchy punk/metal/pop hybrids, complete with jagged breakdowns and bright choruses that do their job in sinking hooks beneath the skin (“The World as We Know It,” “The Bright Side of Suffering”). There’s borderline pop-punk interjections (“What’s Said and Done”), the faux-emo/My Chemical Romance templates (“Drowning”), and the requisite power-ballads, all swelling keyboards and layered vocals (“Just a Taste”).

There isn’t, as you may have guessed by now, much in the way of cohesion.

While Scary Kids Scaring Kids shows itself a quick study in many of the genres in which it’s experimenting and dabbling here, it also doesn’t quite take full ownership of any one of them.

The band seems to get closest to hitting its stride on the more ambitious and bombastic fare on The City Sleeps in Flames, tracks where vocalist Tyson Stevens gets a little ballistic and guitarists Steve Kirby and Chad Crawford dual to see who can hammer out the meanest or choppiest verses.

For an example, look to the closing minute of “The Bright Side of Suffering,” where a half-whispered aside of “I’m sick / and tired / inside” kicks off a meltdown of introspective self-doubt, all set to a pitch-perfect crescendo of Peter Costas’ roiling drums, crunching guitars, and DJ Wilson’s buzzing bass.

Or, go back to square one, the album-opening title track, where Stevens casually pines “The empire will fall like they planned on / Can we even last through the night? / We watch as the skyscrapers crumble / under the burning blue sky that blinds our eyes” before the full band punches its way into the song’s opening, densely patterned verses.

Unfortunately, tracks like this are followed by more formulaic fare like the pop-metalisms of “The World as We Know It,” which is aided by some of Pouyan Afkary’s vintage Faith No More/The Real Thing synths but hurt by some ham-fisted lyrical segues (“A virus known as rage / is brutally destroying and spreading all over the place.”)

The record ends, though, with more of a whimper than a bang, a deceptive sort of power ballad whose 5-minute, 44-second running time makes it the record’s longest and most meandering track. You’ve got to give these guys credit: it’s an interesting way to end a sometimes-charged rumination on a pseudo-Judgement Day, but whatever happened to a solid bit of uncorked fury to bring the curtain crashing down?

Concert Review: The Great Shakes – July 11, 2003

The Great Shakes

Luna Lounge – New York, NY

July 11, 2003

Originally published in Delusions of Adequacy July 28, 2003

Mothers hid their daughters and gentlemen guarded their beers while in New York City recently, and for good reason. The Great Shakes were in town, making a lot of noise on their own home turf, and they were definitely looking to stir up some trouble.

New York’s latest response to the bland and over-produced junk cluttering up the charts, The Great Shakes took the stage of Luna Lounge on July 11 with one goal in mind: launching into a vicious and crowd-engaging set before they embarked on a tour of D.C. and the West Coast. Well … mission accomplished.

In front of a crowd that responded with shrieks and applause to most every noise the band was making, The Great Shakes ran through the entirety of their debut EP on Rich and Sexy with a vengeance but also provided a sizable glimpse of the new material on which they’ve been focusing.

For those who have yet to hear it, the new songs are inviting, unexpected, and – for a New York band driven by dueling guitars – something a little strange to behold.

While the quintet’s five-song debut was an engaging palatte of equal parts rock energy and attitude, punk venom, and trashy refrains, the new songs – at least live – were incredibly textured and more multi-dimensional.

Falling before, after, and all around crowd favorites like “Want/Got” and “Duty Free,” the band’s latest tremors still kicked and screamed, but did it with a peculiar attention to detail. Imagine, for a frame of reference, if Jon Spencer decided to step up and front Sonic Youth, all the while still hollering that all he wanted to do was get down.

Of particular note were new songs like “Residence” – which closed the all-too-short set – all angular guitar riffs and crashing verses. Kids, this is the music that Brainiac’s Timmy Taylor is conceivably dancing to in the hereafter.

But while the band went through their new songs with a frightening precision and energy, what may have been the most interesting element of the evening was the chemistry the band displayed on stage and the madness frontman Darren displayed, of all places, in the crowd.

The Great Shakes blaring away on stage, the singer – whose gestures during live performance seem to hint at that most infamous of Dead Kennedys, Mr. Jello Biafra – walked menacingly through the crowd, stealing drinks and stirring people up as he went.

While far from the lunacy of a David Yow, the act worked, and the audience seemed to stand on edge throughout the band’s set as a result, waiting for any one of them to break the fourth wall and begin lounging around in the crowd. Luckily for those of us who wanted to finish our own drink, the rest of the band was perfectly content to knocking us off our feet from the stage.

Only a year and change after playing their first show in May 2002, The Great Shakes are set to see if West Coast crowds will be as taken with them as the fans who continue to pack bars and clubs where they’re playing in the Big Apple.

If July 11 is any indicator, this is a band that’s not only going to knock over club-goers in Los Angeles, it’s a band that’s going to be making the rounds nationwide soon enough. Catch them in New York City before Darren has security guards at his feet and the only crime in your cocktail is the price you paid for it at the concession.