CMJ Day 1: Once More Into The Breach, Dear Friends

It is 7pm on Stanton St. and already inappropriate things are happening. To my left there is a band, we presume, leaning against the wall outside Arlene's Grocery. Someone has stuck a camera in their face and is interviewing them about their record. No one seems to notice as their lead singer runs through some rock-platitudes and the rest of the band puts on their best Casablancas pose. No one actually seems to care at all. I put on my Gucci sunglasses and mock them openly. Absurd? Absolutely. It's CMJ, people - and this cluster-fuck is just beginning.

Downstairs in Arlene's Mixtapes and Cellmates are in the middle of their set. The crowd has horse-shoe'd around the back of the room, leaving a huge space in the front near the stage. This is classic New York bullshit. Kids from Sweden travel all this way to get crossed-arms, vacant stares, and "we've seen all this before" attitude. We push to the front and some of the crowd comes with us, or maybe they just can't see past our heads. Either way.

Mixtapes and Cellmates sound like a hybrid of The Shout Out Louds and The Postal Service. We joke, "It's the Shout Out Service" as processed beats from an iPod form the backing of every song. They have a female bassist who will, after their set, open-mouth kiss a man who we can only assume is her boyfriend. She has a wonderful voice and they don't really allow her to sing. The real lead-singer is doing a rip-off Alex Kapranos routine and then the mic-stand collapses and he has to bend over to keep singing. The sound guy fixes it with an attitude that says, "yes, this is my job but I don't have to like you or your music." Soon enough the set is over and Mixtapes will head to Milan for a show next week. One CMJ show might be just enough.

The Teenage Prayers hit the stage with all the energy of an over-sized sound-check. They have six members and this is turning into the set-change nightmare of the year. If I hear, "can I have some more (fill in the blank instrument) in the monitors" I am going to throw up everywhere. And that has nothing with the margarita and the beer churning through my brain. It is 8.15pm and I need to watch the Red Sox. The night is full of hope.
Four pint glasses of tequila, triple sec, and lime mixed with the Red Sox getting their faces kicked in and we're headed to the Bowery. We hear that they're not accepting badges which is, in its own way, completely bullshit. After some wrangling, we're in just in time for another two rounds of beers and Voxtrot's sound check. We've missed about five bands but it probably doesn't matter.

Voxtrot sounds great. I've seen them before but mostly in small clubs and bars. The sound was never good and mostly, the show was fun because their EPs were so strong and created so much buzz. I could never really picture them in a venue like The Bowery Ballroom without thinking how empty it would sound. Well, they've evolved. It was like they moved into a big apartment without enough furniture. They were playing big venues but didn't have the sound to fill it. So, they bought a couch. The arrangements are tight and explode in and out of chorus and verse. The drums sound great and frankly, this is making me like their full-length record which, previously, I had completely written off. They play no encore but allow the crowd to choose the last song. "We" choose "Start of Something" which is just fine but does reveal the ways their song-writing has shifted. We're not dealing with your father's Voxtrot. This band is re-energized, hungry and sound like they could blow the pavement of Delancey St.

And just like that we wrap Day One: A band from Sweden, a band with too many members, a baseball team with not enough heart, and Voxtrot, a band who have tasted both sides of the media's love and hate - and still play on. Let's do this thing, New York.

[Photos by Mina K]