Live Review: Calvin Harris at the Bowery Ballroom [4.28.08]

Among his many charms, Calvin Harris is quite direct. His songs don’t meander around before getting to their core message – no, he gets straight to the point. The pattern began to emerge as Calvin tore through his upbeat set at the Bowery Ballroom. In “Merry Making at My Place,” Calvin tells us just what is happening at his place. You guessed it – merrymaking, and drug taking. In “Girls,” he expounds upon exactly what kind of girls he likes: namely, Black girls, White girls, Asian girls, mixed raced girls, Spanish girls, Italian girls, French girls, Scandinavian girls. “Acceptable in the 80’s” lists the rewards bestowed upon those lucky enough to have been born in that magical decade: specifically love, and hugs. Dylan he aint, but hey, at least Calvin Harris is a straight shooter.

In addition to his propensity towards lyrical list-making, Calvin Harris also wants to make us dance. In fact, he’s determined. A bundle of energy on stage, Harris is backed by an able band, who also serve as hype men of sorts – when not playing guitar, one member runs from side to side of the stage, mugging to the crowd and taunting us to cheer louder. It’s a rainy Monday night, and the majority of the sold out crowd must be soggy and frizzy from the days’ downpour, probably still recovering from their wild weekends, or else trying to shake off the first bout of 9-to-5 exhaustion. It’s not an easy task, but Calvin Harris is dedicated, and he’ll jump around the stage as much as it takes until we’re jumping along, and then keep going.


Turns out, it doesn’t take much to get us to dancing, and Calvin’s smooth beats coupled with those catchy hooks are pretty much irrefutable. You’ll probably sing along too, as on “This is Industry”, or “Vegas”, where the hook, “When I go to Vegas!” becomes an immediate chant in the crowd. Though Calvin’s lyrics are pure irony - Are they? They are. I think? - his music is pure dancefloor. He may not have created disco, as his debut album title would lead us to believe, but he has created a unique hybrid combining commercial dance music’s cheese, pop music’s irresistibility, and punk rock’s detached attitude and brevity.

It’s a winning formula, to say the least.


[Photos by Mina K]

Live Review :: Motel Motel @ The Annex [4.26.08]

"I don't need your help. I can feel helpless on my own." It's a paralyzingly lonely message coming out of Eric Engel's mouth and we're only two songs into the set. Depending on who you ask, Engel is either talking about a failed relationship or the inherent and troubling aspects of being an indie rock band in New York City. Despite a relatively full house and a recent "Honorable Mention" in the L Magazine, Motel Motel is still fighting their way through the fuzz; and it's lonely as hell.

If you can't hear the heartbreak in Engel's voice, you're not listening hard enough. The phonics are twisted and the aesthetic is nasal - like Conor Oberst decided to go front The Walkmen. The graveled tones sound like Marlboro Reds on a Saturday night, cut with a glass of bourbon to wash down a sore throat. On this night, Motel Motel squeezed a string-quartet on stage (at the Annex this is clown-car impressive) and even as the strings rise, the emotional punch is coming from the singer. We're supposed to feel moved. And it's working.

There are slow spots, to be sure - a little depression mixed with some booze and a girl who burnt your house down (metaphorically). It starts to wear. After all, you can only break our hearts so many times before they're just broken, never to be fixed again. If the show is missing something, it's pathos. We came here to bleed but, hopefully, to heal. It's unclear if Engel is ready to close the wound. The lyrics are faded romantics and the songs a blend of honkey-tonk piano, soaring strings, and twitchy, thrashing breakdowns; at least a little disjunctive. If there's catharsis here, we're going to have to find it on our own. It looks like Engel's got his own shit to deal with.

But it's not all Kate Bush and thundershowers; there's something uplifting in play. In the final pre-encore song of the night, during one of the drastic (but leaning toward productive) tempo changes Engel says, "I won't let you down." He says it no less than five times and things get a little brighter. The crowd is starting to get drunk and the dancefloor is starting to pack. If Motel Motel intentionally brought us down, they might just end bringing us up. The bassist ends up pounding on the piano and it's more exuberance than frustration. If they began the night as another New York band fighting a million other New York bands for ink, fans, and cash, they're ending it with a punch. They thank us and begin the world's largest equipment breakdown.

But they didn't break us down without fixing us up. Engel's got his problems and so do we. Our problems just don't go as well with flourishing strings. Our problems don't sound quite as painful or quite as dramatic when they come out of our mouths. And our problems probably won't get us noticed in a city full of bands with problems. But his might. So pound that fucking keyboard.

Live Photos: Handsome Furs at Bowery Ballroom [4.6.08]

When fans impatient for a new Wolf Parade album came out in droves to the Handsome Furs' Bowery Ballroom set, everyone seemed to get their fix. Despite singer Dan Boeckner clearly having had his, his spastic, jittery movements only detracted slightly from what ended up being a near perfect performance. Possibly even more minimal than their already bare bones album, the duo perfect their sound live; the disortion laden, simplistic riffs matched with maxed out beats of seemingly default drum machine samples are a formula they have tweaked flawless, coming off less like an electro-infused folk band than a punk guitarist fronting a rave. If you catch them on tour, don't be surprised if the Handsome Furs get you to move. Just try not to look as furtive as they do.

Live Review: Stephen Malkmus and the Jicks at Music Hall of Williamsburg [04.02.08]

If there exists indie rock royalty, a band that pioneered a movement...a band that is the the very dictionary definition of indie rock for a generation, it would be Pavement. The band who definitively proved that bedroom intimate recordings were important, that the 4-track was an instrument unto itself... and at the center of Pavement was Stephen Malkmus. Even after their hiatus, Malkmus' self titled release was out on Matador within months, he just couldn't stop recording, still making it sound so deceptively easy.


The thing that struck me most, watching him play at the Music Hall of Williamsburg, is that he is hands down an incredible guitarist, not only was he effortlessly delivering the lyrical wandering of the songs, but he's accompanying it with this amazing guitar work. It all makes perfect sense now...of course the melody follows the lyrics, the irregular lines all over the place, kind of sloppily delivered, are just sketches for the vocals. But it's not indifference or just going through the motions, he's making the song his again, pausing just a little too long, keeping the audience and the Jicks on their toes. The Jicks are undoubtedly a supergroup - drummer Janet Weiss from Sleater Kinney, guitar and keyboard player Mike Clark, and bassist Joanna Bolme are all amazing in their own right and they seemed to be right at home enjoying the drawn out jam parts, waiting for Stephen to slump onto his amp as the feedback takes over the sound, watching for the change that doesn't come as they go back again for another measure of solo.


I'm sure I must have seen Pavement at some three day concert, I know they played Lollapalooza at some point, during the salad days of alternative rock's lucrative major label end, but I must not have been paying attention, or was stupidly at one of the the 10 sidestages. My point is I don't have anything before to compare it to. But standing there watching him genuinely enjoy performing, doing a Neil Young impression for the crowd in between tunings...I imagine it was much like this, he is after all a regular guy off in this new direction of Real Emotional Trash with classic rock influenced prog jams. It's a show undeniably run by Steve and he's been let go unchecked off on his own completely.


The critics might have panned Pig Lib but it was great, it had to be...yes it might kind wander too much at times, "1% of 1" could have been 4 minutes shorter, but maybe I should just listen and appreciate every extra minute, after all, I don't want to live in a world of unreleased Malkmus ideas. Much like Ween's epic jam "Woman and Man" from La Cucuracha, maybe it's not meant to be taken so seriously, maybe it's part of a conceptual new direction, trying on the progressive rock jean jacket to see if it still fits. Playing to see if there's any life left in this tired genre, or maybe it's just plain fun to play. But where's the problem? He's got an undeniable presence onstage, he's a natural recreating this stream of consciousness, it sounds better every time and that's how it really shines, it's even easier for him.

Am I just beating a dead Pavement horse? Too wrapped up in the mythology to even objectively examine this performance, or the album? There's just no way that whatever incarnation Stephen Malkmus and the Jicks take that it's going to sound like the strangely familiar '93 vintage indie rock tracks. I guess that's the burden of monumental success... but let's face it we're both older, we've both changed. I don't have the same attention span, and he isn't playing the same no-fi, experimental pop, but I feel lucky still to have witnessed this icon in any form he takes.

[Words by Jason]
[Photos by Mina K]

Live Review: Boredoms at Terminal 5 [03.30.08]

I attended this concert, in part, for my Music of East Asia class (which focuses primarily on Japan). The following is adapted liberally from my essay. I added in footnotes in spirit of an academic paper.

"Boredoms are like a moon on a lake. Only there is no moon and no lake. Only Boredoms." This quote from Yamataka Eye, the fiercely dreadlocked leader of the described Japanese noise collective, has been circulated amongst fans for so long that its origins are unclear, magnifying the enigma of Eye’s words. The history of the band also echoes this mysteriousness, as Boredoms have evolved from their brash “acid-punk” “spastic chaos-rock period” to their more spiritual, trance-inducing sun-worshiping period [1]. This mysteriousness is also, in a sense, fitting, as those who have not experienced the band before may find it hard to situate Boredoms as a Japanese band, as a modern band, as musicians [2].

Boredoms, also consisting of Yoshimi P-We, Yojiro and Muneomi Senju, played in the round in the middle of the audience area, providing an intimate setting in an otherwise cavernous Terminal 5. This set up also allowed startling perspectives for those watching from the balconies; the centrality of the setup could only be fully appreciated from above [3]. From the third floor, I watched intensely as Eye began in darkness, harnessing two lights in his hands. As he brought them together, static, glitches and booming engines sounds blasted through the sound system. It was like looking in on a tribal ritual – indeed, Eye was yelping and screeching like a shaman – fittingly echoing the mystery and spirituality captured in the abovementioned quote. The overture led into an unrelenting chorus of tightly synchronized drumming (three drummers!), Eye’s seven-necked guitar (played percussively!) and Yoshimi’s intermittent keyboard and foot-piano (!). Considering the different sounds (distorted through complex-looking consoles) and thunderous volumes, the result was unexpectedly orderly and melodic. There was an intense physicality that connected audience to performer. It was like peering onto an unfamiliar ceremony – I can’t necessarily translate all the words, but I felt the significance of the experience. Boredoms totally seized my attention. I stopped noticing the headbangers or the people dancing or the crowd. For the intense, two-hour marathon of drums and noise, it was only Boredoms.


[Words by Diana Wong]
[Photos by Mina K]
______________________________________________________
1. For more details on their extensive history, see Kevin Hainey’s “TIMELINE – Boredoms: The Art of Noise.”
2. Paul Hegarty’s Noise/Music: A History (New York: Continuum, 2007) provides a detailed discussion on this matter. Also a worthy read, "Full of Noise: Theory and Japanese Noise Music."
3. An even more extreme example of benefits of an aerial view comes from Boredoms’ 77Boadrum performance on 7/7/07. I watched the drum circle from the Brooklyn Bridge while other Loose affiliates were lucky enough to be on ground-level.

Live Review: Caribou @ Bowery Ballroom [3.28.08]

Friday night at Bowery Ballroom, Caribou played an understated but manic set for a sold-out crowd. It was a birthday party of sorts, as the prolific music maker and sole genius behind Caribou in its recorded form, Daniel Snaith, turned 30 right before our eyes. Snaith—with bandmates Ryan Smith, Brad Weber, and Andy Lloyd—nearly perfectly recreated his electronic-inflected pop music (or is it pop-inflected electronic music?) in a live setting. The melding of pop and electronic, man and machine, was evident all evening.

Fuck Buttons, the opening band out of the UK, made giant repetitive toy keyboard and synthesizer soundscapes. I enjoyed their music when it was at its most gargantuan and diverse: for instance, the first song of their set, “Sweet Love for Planet Earth,” which began with a small, key-clinking opening that gave way to huge washes of keyboarded distortion and then “vocals” sung through what looked like a fisher price toy cassette recorder microphone. It was fairly blissful noise music. But at other times their repetitive structures didn’t layer together as well, and the music sounded like a cheesy club-beat pulse with processed stuff over top. (Perhaps this is something we can forgive them; they are after all, European.)

Caribou then came on stage and were met with unbridled enthusiasm. The packed crowd, which had remained distant for Fuck Buttons, pushed up to the stage. The psychedelic turn in Snaith’s music—and its unabashed melodicism—have not changed the percussion heavy sound of the band. The stage plot was entirely representative of this: the two drummers (Snaith is one of them) were at the front of the stage, while the bass and guitar languished in the shadows (revenge for drummers after decades of being shoved to the back!). The main drummer, Brad Weber, was—to put it indelicately—insane. Hooked by in-ear headphones to a laptop giving him tempos (so that various samples could be played at the right time during the songs), he looked and sounded like an android. His eyes were always in the time-marking distance, and his body was completely in thrall to the incredible beats and fills he played (was programmed to play?). When Snaith joined the fracas the patterns and crosspatterns threw our bodies and brains all over the place. Amazing. And suddenly I realized that Caribou are secretly math-rock…



But with a heart. The melodies and the bright guitar and keyboard lines kept everyone’s brains from exploding, while Snaith’s quiet vocals created a delicate (and very un-math-rock) warmth and intimacy. The best expression of this was perhaps the band’s performance of “Hello Hammerheads.” Snaith, over a folk-like guitar line and only a small pulse from the drums, liltingly sang “She told me to stay/or go away/and I looked in her eyes/and left her.” Then came a barely-there chorus of harmonized “ohs.” It was a sad, intense song and came across even more so in the midst of all the percussiveness and noise of the evening.




[Words: John Melillo]
[Photos: Adam Weinberg]

Live Review :: The Wombats @ The Annex [3.17.08]

The Wombats look a little like hell. They tell us they are sleep-deprived. They tell us they've been in seven time zones in two weeks. Their lead-singer looks a little bloated and is losing his voice - facts they don't need to tell us. It's debatably St. Patrick's Day on the Lower East Side and The Wombats look a little like hell.

Frontman, Matt Murphy is sweating through his green sweat shirt in little viral colonies. As little spots of sweat establish foothold on the front of his chest, they slowly expand to include other sweat-spots until there is an outbreak of wetness darkening the shamrock green. In a time-lapse video this would look like a reverse Pangaea - disparate parts coming together to form a larger whole. If he was working less hard, you might think he was sick. If The Wombats were playing less hard, you might question their ability to make it through the set. Murphy's voice strains but not from illness. He sweats but not from fever. This exhaustion isn't just from time change or sleep deprivation. It's from playing this hard in seven time zones and how the fuck can you sleep on that?

The Wombats open with "Lost In The Post," a song, ostensibly, about dating a girl who is all sunshine and rainbows when you're all rain storms and Wuthering Heights. There's some irony afoot when a band this exuberant addresses being too depressed for a girl who just wants to watch Mary Poppins. Then again, irony ain't a stranger and halfway through the set they play "Let's Dance To Joy Division" and everyone shouts the lyrics,"Let's dance to Joy Division/and celebrate the irony." A little like the irony of a band this tired playing a set with this much fervor. It. just. doesn't. wash.

Fast-forward to the end; instead of an encore, The Wombats' drummer makes a reference to cutting through the bullshit and why bother with the charade of going backstage when you and I know damn well that they've got two more songs they're planning to play. They've already played "Moving To New York," a song that uniquely lights up New Yorkers to feel successful and important based solely on zip code, and it's easy to wonder what the band has left to close this show. But, for a second-ever show in New York, The Wombats save "Backfire At The Disco" as their final note.

The song is about things going abjectly awful at a nightclub - about totally, completely bombing with woman. That seems a little out of sorts for band who just killed The Annex for the past 45 minutes. The irony is things have been going pretty well. But then again, a worn out band shouldn't have played this set in the first place. And again, the dark green sweat spots on Matt Murphy aren't simple exhaustion but they are why he'll feel a little worse tomorrow than he did today. Because sometimes you give enough to look like hell. And you can't fucking sleep on that.

Live Review: Ra Ra Riot @ Bowery Ballroom [03.07.08]

On Friday night, the miserable cold and rain outside of Bowery Ballroom was made all the more miserable by its contrast with what was happening on the inside. Ra Ra Riot, along with Bear Hands and Sam “Buck” Rosen, filled the space with a kind of unadulterated, giddy happiness that blasted away all thoughts of rain, disappointment, and sadness. And perhaps even thought itself. After all, we — a crowd of separate people, individuals — found ourselves melted down into a single mass of smiles, or rather, one giant smile that stretched across the room and that was so big and so long it made our collective face hurt.

Sam Rosen started the evening with flair and a lot of delay soaked solos with doubled trombone. Then Bear Hands took the stage, and began to blast us with the kind of hybrid rock we expect from good bands in New York. That is, they are an unapologetically aggressive guitar band, but they combined dance-able moments, evocative spaced-out guitar, and sing-along vocals with the old-fashioned riffage. I will resist saying that they are “tribal” merely because they have a stand-alone tom played by the bassist, but they definitely make use of complex and interesting rhythms. I especially enjoyed the sweet-and-sour noisescapes created by guitarist Ted Feldman and—in a nice throw-back twist—the theatrical spitting by bassist Val Loper.

They played a short but searing set. Their new song, which was, in the words of lead singer Dylan Rau, “About FUCKING VIETNAAAAAM” stood out for the dramatic contrast between its piercing guitars, the huge drum n’ bass throb, and the chanting chorus. The audience wanted more: Bear Hands were definitely ear and eye-catching.

But then Ra Ra Riot took the stage and it seemed as though all the other bands disappeared in the audience’s mind—not just the other bands on the bill but all bands everywhere always. They were truly stars of the show. The hall was packed in that intimate way only the Bowery Ballroom can be. Everyone stood shoulder-to-shoulder with stranger and friend and screamed for the six beautiful people on stage.

Ra Ra Riot, feeding off that energy, didn’t disappoint. They began the evening quietly, with just Wesley Miles on the keyboard playing what he called, “Crazy Days, an old John Pike song that we’ve never played this way before.” As he played, the drummer (sadly, not John Pike, as we all know) entered and then came the rest of the band in short order, building up the song. It was a perfect start. The rest of the show seemed to go the same way: every song built upon the last song, until it seemed like it was one single extended peak of sing-along happiness.

The band played and sang with completely unself-conscious abandon. I know that this is what we expect of all bands, especially bands that project Ra Ra Riot’s brand of catchy rockness, but here genuine excitement and genuine gratefulness shined through the players’ faces. They rampaged around the stage, knocking into each, dancing around, hugging, singing. They looked like an amoeba stuck under glass, constantly pushing out and reshaping itself at its periphery but always remaining stuck together. Or a less ridiculous metaphor: it was a living room dance party with really close friends and family. They presented themselves as a model for the kind of life we’d all like to have: togetherness, happiness, and boundless energy.

The best part of the evening came with the conclusion. Asked back for a second encore, the lead singer told us, “We don’t know anymore songs. We played all of them.” So he took a vote (election season everywhere), and the audience wanted to hear “Ghosts Under Rocks.,” instead of a newer song. They roared through it again. Singing the anthemic chorus, Miles was sucked into the crowd, where he surfed on top of loving hands and then found himself deposited on stage for the conclusion of the tune. Live music is so cool.

[Words by John Melillo]
[Photos by Bryan Bruchman]

Live Review: The Stills @ Bowery Ballroom [03.08.08]

In almost three years of New York City concert-going, I have never seen a venue worker alter the stage lights between bands. Yet somehow The Stills accomplish this feat, floodlights moved not by some random yahoo, either, but by the middle-aged, beer-bellied man who guards the entrance to what passes for backstage at the Bowery. As the Montreal band and its roadie set up the stage, the "guard" — earplugs still firmly in place — uses a 10-foot pole to move the lights above the stage into their proper position.

As he works, the buzz in the room, killed by openers Wild Light's dull set, builds. The Stills have come from the Great White North to conquer New York. They've already broken the take-no-shit, close-enough-to-a-bouncer veteran of hundreds of shows. The only obstacle left are some indie kids, waiting and willing to be transported. We are ready to explode with arms-crossed, head-nodding fury.

As the band takes the stage, the reason for the overhead light shift becomes clear. Eight brilliantly florescent vertical bulbs light up behind them, throwing guitar and bass and black clothes and unkempt hair into a silhouetted rock band tableau.

This should be epic.

It's not.

For the next hour, The Stills are fine. Solid, tight, and occasionally alluring, most notably on "Lola Stars and Stripes" and "Still in Love Song," the two jams that, judging by crowd reaction, introduced 75 percent of the audience to the band. The show's enjoyable, but never transcendent. Interpol threw out these black uniforms two years ago. The florescent backdrop works, then grows tired and morphs into a gimmick The Stills purchased at The Strokes' stoop sale last month on Second and A.

Canada's finest are never light-alteringly good. The songs aren't quite there, and neither is the live show. They are a good band, with an excellent first album and a weaker second one. If the two songs they play off their upcoming third album are any indication (one called "Eastern Europe," another about tea), they'll try to recapture the magic of "Logic," get close, but ultimately fall short.

Just as the show does.

By about 10 feet.

Live Review: They Might Be Giants @ The Beacon Theater [2.2.08]

John Flansburgh, exactly one-half of They Might Be Giants, reacts as naturually as possible. Someone near the back of the Beacon Theater screams, "play 'Boat of Car,'" a song that defines the term "deep cut" and is, in all probability, not included in tonight's set-list. Flansburgh hardly notices, passing spare aknowledgement, but suddenly there are multiple people yelling, in unison, "Boat of Car." Flansburgh looks out into the stage lights and decides to address this miniture movement in the audience. His face registers somewhere between flattery and frustration. In all probability, these people would rather hear other songs. "Boat of Car" isn't a particularly good song, but it is particularly obscure. And sometimes obscurity is currency. You either know the song or you don't. These people asking to hear "Boat of Car" don't really want to hear the song. They want everyone to know that they know it. And, they want to see if the band will play it.

They Might Be Giants admit, at one point, that they've never sold out The Beacon Theater before. It's hard to tell if this statement is based on a body of work ("We've played here 10 times and never sold out") or if it's based on a first-timer's impression ("We mostly play The Bowery and, frankly, it's amazing we packed something on 74th and Broadway"). Either way, the 2,850 members of the audience seem equally impressed with themselves and the band. It feels good to be there the first time something happens.

The crowd, despite totaling somewhere close to 3,000, would appear in the S-section of the dictionary under "subdued." People are standing up but are, as is the case at The Beacon, confined to their rows. On some classic TMBG songs and upbeat new tracks, the crowd bobs around and sings the lyrics. Otherwise, this is the micro-brew and latte set. They came here to see the show, not be a part of it. Entertainment comes in a million different shades but this is not the interactive one. If They Might Be Giants expect to be elevated by the crowd, they are going to be sorely disappointed. Luckily, the stage show is backed by a vicious light-show, rockets of confetti, and, at one point, a dizzying disco-ball effect that makes the room pitch and yawn. A hard-working rock-crowd isn't really necessary for all this to be impressive.

In many ways, this accounts for where They Might Be Giants stand as a movement. No longer are they the architypical nerdy, downtown rock band. No longer do hyper-literate, vaguely post-modern kids come to stand near the stage and pogo up and down to the kind of anthems that are either fatally ironic or deadly serious. They Might Be Giants still play those songs, but those kids are adults now. And standing near the stage means having a front row seat. And having rows and seats means we are nowhere near the slightly edgy scene that this band lived, loved, and, ultimately, transcended.

Which brings us back to "Boat of Car," a song written long before They Might Be Giants ever sold-out The Beacon Theater on 74th and Broadway. And it brings us back to John Flansburgh, looking into the stage lights, towards the back of the orchestra section to find, blindly, where this "Boat of Car" chant is coming from. He thinks. And reacts naturally. "You see," he says, "this whole computerized light show is already in place. We ... we can't really get off the script here." People laugh and it is funny. But he's actually not kidding. The light show is fantastic, even a little propulsive at key moments. But it is totally computerized. The show might only have room for the obscurity already in the script. This quirky band might only have space in the set for pre-planned quirkiness. When you open your doors to 3,000, sometimes there isn't room for everything. Sometimes you just won't play "Boat of Car."

[Photos by Chris Owyoung courtesy of Prefix. Full gallery can be seen here.]

Live Review + Album Review: Apes & Androids @Red Door [12.21.07] + Blood Moon Released!

Still groggy from our respective naps, my friends and I headed over to the Apes & Androids show in Chelsea. The performance space is simply called "Red Door" - upon entering, doubts rushed in. Was it worth disturbing my precious sleep to hear a good band get raped by bad acoustics and questionable atmosphere?

Apes & Androids struck their first chords as a fog machine rolled out some clouds. Their live set, showcasing much of their debut album Blood Moon, commanded us to move our limbs accordingly and sing along where our plebian vocal ranges allowed. Green laser lights shone through the band members onto the crowd, proving that laser lights aren't just for boy bands and stoner planetariums. Impressive multi-tiered harmonies and throwback stage antics had the audience in a tizzy. Any element of "bad" at this shoddy venue died a glamourous death.

I'd love to elaborate more on the show, but the last thing I will point out is the d-bag suited mess that spilled beer all over about five people in the audience, ending with a finale on my own dryclean-only shirt. Where do some show-goers come from? I digress...the key to this post is that Loose Record is publishing the first "official" words on Blood Moon before the blogosphere runs rampant with references to Queen, Prince, and Beck Hansen. Besides, I totally invented Queen in 1970.*

We graciously received our review copy at last Friday's show, the day the CD arrived from the press. I've since been asked how people can get it before the January 19th CD release show at Mercury Lounge, and my best answer is to keep checking their Myspace page for updates.

Blood Moon is an 18-track narrative that touches down to earth with strong hits "We Don't Understand You" and "Hot Kathy," and returns to the home planet after dropping the surprising epic "Riverside." One of the understated gems is "Sweetest Secret," a sexy number that tells a dark story and clinches with a satisfying snare-driven outtro. Acoustic guitar overdubs add an overall air of crispness and sparkle to much of this record. And it goes without saying that David and Brian's striking lead vocals, along with the band's harmonies, help brand Blood Moon as "pop-opera." (If you prefer, replace this with another made-up music fusion term.)

It's easy to note that "Johnny & Sarah" smells heavily of Queen, and similarly somewhere in the album there is a synth hit that distinctly reminds me of Queen's "Body Language." "Locked In A Car" channels Radiohead's sombre masterpiece "Life In A Glasshouse." While Apes & Androids' influences are clear, the outcome is far from a carbon copy. Blood Moon is a welcome and original product that walks at a different pace from the hoards of new music I've trod through in the past year. (Visualizing the stacks of promo CDs lined up against my wall from 2007 alone will help measure the weight of this statement.)

Your next steps:
1) Watch Apes & Androids live first and let your senses be overwhelmed.
2) Spend the $15 to buy the full album, rather than stalk blogs to piece a measly 4 tracks together.
3) Visit RCRD LBL and download the outtake "Creepy Girls."

[Live photos by Justin Ouellette]
* Fact checkers can chill out.

Live Photos: Le Loup @Mercury Lounge [12.13.07]

In remorse for not having posted any photos of Le Loup's lead singer Sam Simkoff on my CMJ review, this post is visually devoted to him. The below photos were taken at last Thursday night's Mercury Lounge gig, where the band was opening for Margot & the Nuclear So & So's. The first pair of shots depict Calm Sam, and the last pair feature him turned up to 11.

Being an evangelical fan of Le Loup, I'm tempted to boast that everyone should have caught this show, but the truth is that I think the talented kids were a little off their game after the 8.5 hour drive from Boston through snow and slush. There are seven players, which warrants tight coordination, and I think fatigue simply didn't fold in seamlessly on this particular night.

That being said, I still reveled in the heart emanating from the ensemble's lively set, which was refreshingly honest in comparison to the overly-polished and substance-void headliners to follow. The set reminded me of a good ol' hillbilly punk O'Death show, except that the audience consisted of very un-hillbilly people sporting gigantic fake Balenciaga bags. Perhaps Le Loup could benefit from touring with a headliner who draws a more energetic, soulful crowd.

[Photos by Mina K]

Live Review: We Are Wolves at the Knitting Factory [12.13.07]

December 13th was an epic night. I managed to catch three shows and also had the experience of getting into a cab whose driver took me three blocks in the wrong direction before trying to turn the wrong way up Broadway when I told him to turn around! Getting back to the music, though, it was really a great evening. The first stop, and subject of this review, was the Knitting Factory to see the Montreal band We Are Wolves.

WAW is made up of Alexander Ortiz (vox/bass/guitar), Vincent Levesque (synths/drum machine/vox), and Antonin Marquis (drums/percussion) and they play an amazing (mystically enhanced!) blend of darkly-tinted post-punk dance music, in both French and English. Unfortunately I arrived a bit late and missed the first couple of songs, but came in right as the band was launching into "Teenage Bats and Anthropology." I've been listening to WAW lately, and have really liked their album so I was definitely looking forward to this show and was disappointed I missed the first half of their set. I was not disappointed in their live act, though this was the first time I had ever seen them play, but I was surprised by how similar to their recorded album the music sounded. Normally bands sound fairly different in a room larger than my headphones, but WAW held it together and really sounded spectacular. I was, however, anticipating a bit more venom in their live show.

In any case, WAW quickly followed up with "Vietnam" and "Coconut Night," both songs off their current release Total Magique (Dare to Care; September 2007). The band members were solid, made no mistakes, and even managed to banter a bit with the crowd in French. I think the best aspect of seeing live music is being able to watch how musicians interact with their audience, and this was no exception. To see Ortiz, in a red and black plaid lumberjack shirt and mohawk-verging-on-mullet flirt with the audience in a quintessentially French way (giddy with applause, showing off, yet with style and reserve) totally cracked me up. Perhaps my amusement results from having grown up in the Northwest where lumberjacks were big, burly, axe-wilding, testosterone-exuding rednecks... wait, minus the big and burly, I just described Alex Ortiz perfectly. WAW certainly exude testosterone.

Sadly, the show ended soon after I arrived (I only got to hear five songs), but it was enough to make me a converted fan of the band. I think that these guys are fun to listen to, fun to watch onstage, and also accessible to a wide range of people. Their music is post-punk dance rock with simple, yet sharp lyrics. The last song they played was "Total Magique," en français, and I think we were all sad when it ended. Come back and play for us again soon!

[Photos by Cecilia Song]

Live Review: Ra Ra Riot and Jukebox The Ghost @ Union Hall [12.01.07]

Two-sixths of Ra Ra Riot are in what amounts to the front row, watching opener Jukebox The Ghost. A girl whispers to a guy, it doesn't really matter who, the guy laughs at, well, it's hard to tell what, and they are the picture of a young band in love with their lifestyle and quite possibly each other. Jukebox The Ghost has their feet tapping to what might sound like Ben Folds Five circa 1996, fired through the lens of liberal arts education, musical theater and our nation's capital. There is something special happening here and it's not just the music. It's one band, killing itself in front of a crowd who mostly didn't come to see them, and it's parts of another band paying their respects in the front row; basking in the glow of being 22 years-old and a headliner - the only thing keeping more of your people out of this room is the city-imposed fire code. Both are equal parts becoming, just at different places on the trail.

Jukebox The Ghost comports itself well. They seem to wander in places, a little too chatty on stage, but, then again, they're not un-charming and their asides aren't irritating. At one point, someone yells, "Play music" and the band quickly agrees. The nameless heckler is either their good friend or a complete asshole. Jukebox doesn't seem rattled and they preface one of the tracks with an astounding amount of information dealing with God, the destruction of earth, and futuristic space travel. It's a three-part song, they say, and in practice, it's got to be close nine-minutes long. They make sure to close the night with "Good Day," which has an ending rollicking enough to make people remember your band - whether or not you played a three-part opus about space travel in the middle.

Ra Ra Riot takes the stage with the gravitas of people playing to their friends, close acquaintances, and already converted supporters. If there is a single person in the room who hasn't heard their music, it might be shocking. Further, if there is a single person who hasn't heard their music, that person or those people are about to be leveled. Ra Ra Riot is pleasant on recording but they are positively electric in person. Somehow you can't put front man Wes Miles on mp3 and have him stay there until he pops up in your iTunes - he just doesn't fit. And it's not just a singer. This band, their bassist with his loping on-stage maneuvers, their charming string section and a guitarist and drummer who look like they permanently stuck in the best part of the day, and Wes Miles - these six people just won't fit in your stereo. Your iPod is woefully tiny for a band like this. And if you're not going to come see them live, you might not get it.

Union Hall is one of the venues where if you're not in the first three rows, you can't see shit. This means that roughly three-quarters of the 92 people in the room can't tell what's going on. Luckily, Miles, soars above the heads and puts his hand against the ceiling. He communicates in a million not verbal ways and almost all of them are overly dramatic. He mimes crying in some songs and pounds his chest in others. The bassist and guitarist lean against each other like two mutually dependent parts and somehow through all of this the band is moving the whole floor in a place where the back of the room is built to make you feel disenfranchised. There is something pouring from the stage besides sound.

The band closes with the song that contains the phrase that appears first on their website, "the dying is fine." Forget death for a minute, it's a beautiful image to depart with. If the dying is fine, it's only because this show has been so fucking alive. So for a quick encore, they play Kate Bush's "Hounds of Love." It ripples the concrete floor and vibrates the empty PBR cans sitting on the bar at the back of the room. And, like that, it's over. Like the whispered joke with which we began, from girl to guy, lips almost touching ear, we'll end with something shared and smiles from front to back.

[Photo by Andy Cotteril, courtesy of Myspace]

Live Review: The Thrills @ The Mercury Lounge NYC [11.9.07]

The Thrills are one of those post-modern bands that make your head hurt if you think about it too hard. They're Irish and have a huge Irish following. It's not quite The Pogues but the Mercury Lounge is easily a quarter-Irish on this Friday night. And, with all due respect, the 25-percent of the crowd that claims Irish heritage is predictably drunk and making themselves heard. But. The Thrills don't play Irish music. They play a sun-shiny version of California-pop. There is absolutely no connection between where they come from and what they play. This is art entirely detached from meaning. Don't even bother trying to piece this thing together.

What is connected is that The Thrills have a great new album, Teenager and they're in New York for the first time in two years promoting the release. They open with the album's first, and possibly best song, "Midnight Choir." We're pushing midnight on the Lower East Side and the Mercury Lounge is completely sold out and singing along. The band rolls into material from their first record playing, "Big Sur" and "Santa Cruz (You're Not That Far)." The songs are cloyingly cute and would remind you of The Beach Boys covering Neil Young's catalogue. There are some obvious limits to their earlier work.

But the new record is deeper and the sonic differences are many. The Thrills are willing to sound similar on all their three albums, but they're not willing to stay in one place. They use the mandolin prominently on the new disc and it seeps out of the Mercury Lounge speakers like a sunny June morning. The silky three-part harmonies the band uses to flesh out their arrangements also sound well-rendered and someone should probably throw the sound guy twenty bucks because he's making all this fit together.

The Thrills smartly stay away from most of the material from their second album, Let's Bottle Bohemia. It's the record that put their career, their major label deal, and their finances in jeopardy and it seems like they know. The sneak in "Found My Rosebud," and it sounds fine but they clearly would rather operate of the limited but charming first album and the more rich, if in places incomplete, third album. Teenager is a real ode to youth culture, the beauty and the beast of being young. For a band three albums deep in their career, it's a nice image.

Singing the chorus of "This Year," lead singer, Conor Deasy says over and over again "this year will be our year/this year will be our year." When the song finishes, he backs from the mic and says "thank you" with a little bow. There is something particularly gracious going on here. He's not kidding and he's not faking. He really is thankful. For a band back from the brink, with a good new album and a capacity crowd, it makes sense why. There's a connection there. Even if it is an Irish band singing California.

Live Review: Jimmy Eat World @ Terminal 5 NYC [11.09.07]

When discussing indie rock bands, there is no better way to declare your refined musical taste than to say, “I only like their old stuff.” In my experience, I have heard this phrase used with the most frequency in reference to Jimmy Eat World. JEW (I apologize for the unfortunate acronym) started their career playing ambitious, deeply layered songs that can only be described as emo. However, to the disappointment of many of their previously devoted fans, they have recently developed their sound into a blend of bombastic pop anthems and corny-yet-sweet slow ballads. If any of these jaded former fans happened to make it here to Terminal 5 this evening, I am positive that JEW was able to seduce them right back into the fold.

I arrived a bit late and had some difficulty securing my tickets from the will call booth, but when all was said and done, I ended up with an extra photo pass. At this humongous sold out venue, this turned out to be quite a valuable item. For the first three songs of the set, I was able to post up by the barricade, right in front of stage. JEW came onstage and started out with a bang, opening with “Big Casino,” the first single from their new record, Chase This Light. This was one of only four songs that JEW played from their latest release, which is surprising since they just released the album less than a month ago. They are obviously aware that they have a lot of ground to cover.

Frontman Jim Adkins says that JEW have been playing NYC since 1996. Most of their shows were undoubtedly poorly attended, until their 2001 breakthrough, Bleed American. Looking at this crowd tonight, it is hard imagining that they ever had a problem securing a fanbase. This show was open to all ages, and for a good reason. From the 15-year-old girls in the front row to the 50-year-old men drinking cocktails by the bar, JEW’s appeal has widened significantly since they tweaked their style.


JEW churned out one hit after another, mixing old and new songs together, managing to keep the audience just as happy as they are. Older songs like “Blister” and “Goodbye Sky Harbor” remind the audience of why they fell in love with JEW, and newer songs like “Always Be” and “Let It Happen” fit in just as well with the old ones. All in all, they played 22 songs for just under 2 hours. This may seem excessive, but nobody in the crowd seemed to think so.

JEW disappeared briefly before returning for a 5-song encore, which could possibly be a world record. Their country-tinged reinvention of “Your House” turned out to be a minor disappointment, but they quickly rebounded with a song for the ladies, “Hear You Me.” They followed this slow jam with their strongest song in the roster, “Sweetness,” before finishing with “The Middle” – that little tune that alienated so many fans and enchanted so many adolescents.

Say what you will about JEW, but they have not changed anything but their ambitions. If you were tired of getting dropped from major labels and underselling mid-level venues, you might start writing catchier songs too. They are clearly not wistful for the bad old days, and neither should you. They are still the exact same band that they always were; only now, they are much, much bigger. Please, don’t hate.

[Photos by Mina K ]

Live Review: Shout Out Louds @ The Music Hall of Williamsburg 10.26.07

There is an undeniable level of immediacy associated with The Shout Out Louds - an emotional catharsis built on explosive evocation. Even their very name communicates a desire to express things quickly, vehemently, and exorbitantly. And if the method is to shout. out. loud: what then is the message? The Music Hall of Williamsburg, at about 90% capacity on a rainy Friday night was supposed to find out. Tell us what you want us to say, and we will say it. Tell us what to shout and we will shout it.

On their most recent record, Our Ill Wills (Merge), the band makes a plea for escape velocity. It is no coincidence that the first single featured a title that said "Tonight, I Have To Leave It." Even the infectious "Impossible" seems to express an inability to remember the familiar and a need to avoid the crippling stasis of a failed relationship. Perhaps the most sentimental is "Normandie" which urges us to "say goodbye to the people we don't know." Get up, get out.


But this presents some problems in the live environment. This is your concert and if you're so busy telling us to leave, what is our impetus to stay? Adam Olenius and his band have to tip-toe the lines between impermanence and togetherness. They want us here but, at some point, everybody will have to get on their way. Sound like a band who's been on tour for almost four years straight? Maybe a little.

Tonight they are tight and sharp and absolutely not messing around. They play "The Comeback" early and run through other favorites from their albums. Bringing out a female guest-vocalist for "Impossible" earns the silent disapproval of a few other females in the crowd. She has a silky-sweet voice and pants that go up to her breasts. She owns the hook on "Impossible" with the same quiet elegance it contains on the record. As the song tumbles into it's second movement, the whole crowd is mouthing or singing, "Impossible, impossible."


Olenius looks less like Jason Schwartzman than I remember and is commanding the room in an un-commanding way. When he sings lyrics with numbers in them ("and the last two weeks/were the saddest weeks") he holds up the same number on his hands. In other circumstances it would seem like cheap musical theater shill but, here, now, it feels communicative and good. As if the hand-gesture alone is adding a level of legitimacy to what is coming from his mouth.

It seems obvious they will close with "Tonight, I Have To Leave It." They don't but it arrives near enough to the end of their set to issue a "this has been fun but, like we told you, shit doesn't last forever." The Shout Out Louds head backstage and the crowd actually works for the encore. After all, the only way to fight departure is with anger or affection. We choose the later and soon enough the band is back. The play a quick-three song set and then are gone for good.

This is the second time I've come to see this band wanting to know what their message was - and it's second time I've left without quite knowing what or how they want me to feel. They are young and they are good. And, perhaps, so are we. Despite our need to keep moving and the desire to leave things behind, we can still share that in its totality. So, we say it - we shout it: We are young and we are good. But to share that for more than a night might be impossible. Impossible.

[Photos by Diana Wong]

Live Review: CMJ's Choose Your Own Ending

It was another "slow morning" today...but the last in the CMJ 2007 series. The final night of this year's new music festival concluded in the wee hours with special appearances, parties, and "secret" shows on both sides of the East River. Xtina and I were faced with the difficult choice between dancing through an unannounced Justice set at Studio B at 3am, or bopping with our Almost Gold friends to the beat of Peter and Bjorn (plus Doug from Dirty on Purpose) at Galapagos. Here is evidence of the ending we chose to this year's CMJ story:

The tiny venue of Galapagos was packed thick with bodies when we arrived, at the tail end of the Black Kids set. We waited patiently in the company of Isaac (Almost Gold), George (MuseBox), Jackie (SPIN Online), and other media folks who were barely hanging on after this week of concert insanity. Peter, Bjorn and Doug kicked off their set with a velocity that blew the tired out of our heads immediately. Peter Moren's feet were an unstoppable force. They were in hop/tap/dance hyper-drive for the duration of the show.

Towards the end, Peter got so excited that he leapt into the crowd, sacrificing the functionality of his borrowed guitar for the next song (that was Isaac's guitar).

There were a few special guests too (including Matt from Foreign Born):


The rest of CMJ Day 5 will have to be covered piece-by-piece, but I felt that this cool and cheery finale was worth reporting to you all first.

[Photos by Mina K]

Live Review: The Pogues at the Fenix, Seattle [10/17/2007]

The first Pogues song I ever heard was "The Old Main Drag" when I was 12; I was immediately hooked on the crass, vivid imagery of the seedy streets of London. While my interest level has waxed and waned over the years, they have always been close to my heart, and Rum, Sodomy and the Lash has remained on my top 10 albums of all time. I have seen Shane MacGowan play with the Popes on multiple occasions, but I had never gotten to see the Pogues live until this last Wednesday night, October 17th, at the Fenix in Seattle. I am not usually one to shell out 60$ for a ticket, let alone take a day off work and drive 3 hours there and 3 hours back, but I felt my fandom of the Pogues was worthy of the effort.

The set list was great -- they catered to the loyal, opening with a raucous "Streams of Whiskey", and playing some of their lesser-known songs like "Kitty", "The Body of an American" and "Star of the County Down". I was bummed that they didn't play "The Old Main Drag", but my disappointment was appeased by "Sickbed of Cuchulainn" and "A Pair of Brown Eyes." The room sounded really good, with an excellent stage and a great crowd.

However, taking my adoring-fan-colored glasses off for a second, while the band was tight as hell, Shane MacGowan was a mess. Some years ago, he broke his nose when he fell off a bar stool and hit his face on the bar, and his singing has just not been the same; rather than being charmingly slurred, it's all nasally and downright unintelligible. He was drunk as per usual, but also out of breath and missed parts regularly. As a Pogues fan, I am willing to accept this as just Shane being Shane, but as someone who paid 60$ for a ticket and drove 6 hours, I felt like it was a marginal performance at best. I felt sorry for the band because they sounded great and it was obvious that they had prepared well for the tour. I can only imagine the frustrations of Spider Stacy and the rest of the Pogues at having to re-enact "Weekend at Bernie's" with Shane night after night.

[Photos By Mandy Becker]

Live Review: Ravens & Chimes at Fontanas [10.16.07]”

If you are an avid Loose Record follower (and by now, who isn’t?) you may remember that awhile back I heaped some well-deserved praise upon a little band, fronted by our very own Asher Lack, called Lost at Sea. A few things have changed for the band since the innocent days of spring 2006 – they now have a new name, new record, new band members, and well...I guess Asher still has the same haircut, though I’m sure he was wearing some new shoes or something.

Luckily, the main thing that has not changed for the band is their winning blend of grand instrumentations along with a healthy amount of toe-tapping indie pop goodness to balance out lyrics which tend to lean toward the melancholy side of the emotional spectrum.

During the show, Asher pointed out that the day marked the one-week anniversary of the release of Ravens & Chimes' debut album Reichenbach Falls (Better Looking Records). “It’s like a high school relationship”, he deadpanned. “Tomorrow I’ll buy it flowers and take it to see Superbad”. Springing for flowers on a one-week anniversary? Man, Asher must have been an excellent high school boyfriend. I think mine might have given me a can of soda to mark the occasion...?

Joking aside, the band certainly has a right to celebrate – Reichenbach Falls is a beautiful record, and though they’ve garnered comparisons to Wolf Parade, Bright Eyes, the Decemberists and the Arcade Fire (all good things); their sound comes across as distinct and fresh. Isn’t this why the CMJ Festival exists...to watch as bands come into their own? Sure, I love a good indie star-studded showcase, but I think the real treat lies in those moments spent watching as a spiffily-dressed band gives it their all on a small basement stage somewhere in Manhattan. I thought the band did a great job of translating the slow build and crescendo crashes of album opener “This is Where We Are” for the stage, and the urgency behind keyboard-driven “General Lafayette! You Are Not Alone!” was pretty much undeniably appealing.

I’ve been lucky enough to watch the band evolve over the years, and as I watched the group perform their final number (a rousing cover of Leonard Cohen’s “So Long Marianne”) it was nice to know that in the audience at Fontana’s that night, a whole new group of music fans got a chance to discover Ravens & Chimes for the first time.


[Photos by Mina K]

Live Review: Sigur Ros at the Florence Gould Hall [NY,10.06.07]

Sigur Ros are human, I saw them with my own eyes. They even spoke to us in english. Not to knock their second language speaking skills, it's just that with their hopelandish-branded vocals and immersive, ethereal soundscapes , I always likened them to winged beings such as that depicted on the cover of Agaetis Byrjun.

Attendees of the US premiere of Heima, Sigur Ros's '06 Icelandic tour documentary, were allowed a glimpse at the musicians and treated to a rare acoustic performance, sans backing band Amiina or other orchestral accompaniment. Hearing them in this context - a piano, two acoustic guitars and a drum kit the only instruments on stage - revealed the relatively conventional songs the band have seemingly been writing all along. Having heard their music for years obscured by layers of long reverb tails and feedback, the clarity of simple compositions with unaffected melodies was elating.

The film was shown after an unfortunately brief three song set (the word "brief" attributed to three minimal, eight minute songs attests to the awe of their performance), and provided a gorgeous, revealing portrait of the band, their eclectic audience, and the Icelandic landscape. It documents the group's travels throughout Iceland after a world tour, organizing free shows in tiny, secluded towns to play for young and old. The film's style shares the bands sincerity, at times awkward (in the best of ways) nature, and idealistic vision of connecting each other. It's actually about as human as it gets.

[Photo by Adam Weinberg]

Live Review / Interview: Minus the Bear at the Warsaw [Brooklyn,10.05.07]

These days, especially here in New York City, it seems that we are buried deep within the trenches of the hipster movement. There are more “indie-rock” bands popping up out of the woodwork each day, about 90% of which are completely forgettable. With nearly every band attempting to bite the style of their British new wave forefathers from merely two decades ago (i.e. Interpol, Bloc Party, Editors), it is easy to dismiss the entire scene as a pretentious mass of copycats.

In light of these developments in the world of independent music, it is refreshing to find a band that not only refuses to revel in the past, but also manages to remain endlessly progressive. Minus the Bear is precisely this sort of band. This Seattle collective have been putting out records for the past six years, growing more dynamic and expansive with each effort. Upon listening to these albums, one would think that the live recreation of these songs would be nearly impossible. However, Minus the Bear always manages to keep up with themselves.



The Warsaw at the National Polish Home, packed to the rafters with a strange blend of hipsters, teenagers, fratboys and B-boys, looks more like the setting for a High School homecoming dance than a rock concert. Nonetheless, Minus the Bear plays with the same intensity as though they were playing a hardcore basement show. Opening with “Knights,” the first single from their new record Planet of Ice, guitarist Dave Knudson lays down an effects-laden riff that sounds like it would fit perfectly into a Chemical Brothers breakbeat. Along with the newest member, keyboardist Alex Rose, Knudson uses his unique finger-tapping technique and immense pedal board to create otherworldly sounds that somehow translate into indelibly catchy melodies.

Drummer Erin Tate arranges beats that often sound like they are programmed by computers, being inhumanly possible to perform, while bassist Cory Murchy upholds the difficult task of keeping the songs cohesive. Singer/guitarist Jake Snider complements Knudson’s chiming guitar with his own intricately placed lines, all the while trading off between laid back, crooning verses and shouted choruses that incite sing-alongs from the crowd on each song.


Sticking to their trend of forward progression, Minus the Bear hardly look back, even into their own catalogue. They play eight of the ten songs from Planet of Ice, including the King Crimson-esque epic “Dr. L’ling” and the bouncy pop number “Throwin’ Shapes.” They fill in most of the rest with songs from their previous record, Menos El Oso, performing only three songs from their debut, Highly Refined Pirates.

After a brief break, they return for an encore, playing their most infectious and well-known song, “Absinthe Party at the Fly Honey Warehouse.” They finish with the entire audience singing along with the resonating line, “Let’s get a bottle and drink alone tonight!” The only disappointment that anybody in this crowd feels is the fact that Minus the Bear, who had just played for an hour and a half, inevitably left at least four or five of their favorite songs off of their set list.


A few hours before the show, I got a chance to catch up with Alex Rose and Erin Tate to ask them a few questions.

Loose: Alex, you are the most recent addition to Minus the Bear. How long have you been with the band?

A.R.: A little bit over a year and a half now as a keyboardist. I was touring as a sound guy before.

Loose: How did you originally get associated with the band?

A.R.: I went to high school with Cory, basically, and then I moved out to Seattle and wrote him and asked him about who I could talk to about sound recording, and then I turned into their live sound guy.

Loose: MTB’s music is characterized by intricate, complex song structures. How do the songs usually come together?

A.R.: For this record, it was a lot of just everybody playing together at the practice space. A lot of times Erin, who plays drums here – he and Dave will come up with a basic song structure and everyone will lay parts over that. The first couple songs for this album happened that way, and the rest happened pretty much – still a lot were based on Dave’s riffs, but everyone was at practice for a lot of the songs working on parts. We’d record parts and versions of songs and take them home, come back, and keep working on them. Some songs would take 2 or 3 weeks or more and then some would be faster.


Loose: The two newest records, Menos el Oso and Planet of Ice, are much more atmospheric and expansive than your previous work. What caused these stylistic changes?

A.R.: I think we just wanted to make better records. (Laughs). Different influences, I guess.

E.T.: Things change with time. Certainly as we get older, our musical direction and focuses changed a bit.

Loose: Was there anything in particular that influenced the sound of these records?

E.T.: A lot of stuff. The Menos el Oso record was a lot of stuff – Dave and I listened to a lot of glitchy, electronic music and weird kind of stuff, and the last record we had written was based a lot around Dave and I going down to the practice space, and the two of us just started taking the feel of the electronic music we were listening to and making full riffs out of sampled loops and stuff like that, as opposed to full guitar lines. A lot of the general vibe of the new record was the sound of 5 guys in a room jamming and not so much like the previous stuff, where it was just Dave and I. The new record is much more laid back. We weren’t afraid to jam parts out longer, and just that alone changes it from anything we had done previous.



Loose: Last week, my little sister called me and told me that she heard songs from your new record on commercials for The Hills and The Real World. How did the band come to be involved with MTV?

E.T.: I’m actually dating one of the girls from The Hills, so she got us hooked up with that. I’m totally lying (laughs).

A.R.: There were some people at MTV and MTV2 that were fans of the band, and I know that they kind of had a rapport with Becca, who works at our label, and they wanted to get behind our last album a little more than they did. They felt like they missed the ball, so they picked us to be one of their new project where they do a band a week for promos and they pretty much approached us and asked if we wanted to do it, so we allowed them to do it. Our only involvement was that they came down and filmed us for a day doing different stuff and asked us what songs we wanted to use.

Loose: On your headlining tours, you often tend to bring along artists that are dissimilar from own style – left of center acts such as Subtle, P.O.S, Russian Circles, etc. Do you develop the tour lineups, or does the label?

A.R.: Yeah, it’s all handpicked by us – people that we are friends with or we like their music, or sometimes both. We just want people that we can see every night and we won’t want to kill ourselves.

E.T.: Every one of us is a fan of different kinds of music, and it’s more fun for all of us, personally, to go to a show and see different kinds of music – more of an eclectic, different set, and that’s the way we like to tour. Since the point when we started headlining tours, everybody’s very hands-on with this. I’ve been trying to get Subtle to tour with us for a year or two now. They’re one of my favorite bands, so I’m excited that they finally came with us.

[Photos by Mina K]

Live Photos: Patrick Wolf at Webster Hall [NYC, 10.03.07]

I entered Webster Hall to find Patrick Wolf already perched on stage with a ukelele, sporting a difficult-to-describe clubby convertible blue top, gold medallion necklaces, faded cutoff shorts, and body glitter. Oh, the body glitter.

Wolfie has one of the top amazing voices of 2007, but his show was sadly lacking energy at regular intervals. He seemed to prefer playing slow lounge-y songs that well predate his album, The Magic Position. This was a disappointment to fans who came riding on the new album high...though there was not a smidgen of disappointment for the legions of gay boys who came to surface-worship the beautifully-slender towhead under the stage lights at Webster Hall.

That said, he nailed "Bluebells" live and had me dancing a little during "The Magic Position."



[Photos by Mina K]

The Rentals - Nokia Theatre 8/23/2007

As I rode down the escalator into the depths of the Nokia Theatre - with giant LCD television screens mounted on every wall, swanky, colorful carpeting reaching across the floors, and bright neon lights beaming through the labyrinth of broad hallways - I thought to myself, “How could The Rentals, a band that was only mildly popular in their heyday 12 years ago, generate enough interest to warrant this venue?”

Of course, it is true that when bands break up, their legend increases exponentially. Years ago, The Rentals were simply a quirky, synth-laden offshoot of nerd-rock heroes, Weezer. However, over time, The Rentals’ influence has seeped its way into the sound of every geeky emo band from the Get Up Kids to Motion City Soundtrack. The Rentals made it okay to have numerous keyboards and synthesizers in the mix, finally giving untalented friends of bands a chance to join in the fun. This kind of pioneering has given The Rentals a firm spot in the emo hall of fame, despite the fact that they had only put out two albums. Despite this I still wondered, “Do enough people care about the Rentals in 2007 to fill up the basement of MTV studios?” My question was answered several minutes later, when I was informed that the venue was distributing free tickets on the street for the show, due to lack of sales.

Although this act of crowd fluffing was somewhat disconcerting, I tried to stay positive about the situation. As The Rentals took the stage – all 7 of them – singer and Weezer co-founder Matt Sharp began slowly singing the opening lines to “The Love I’m Searching For,” the first song from their debut album. The crowd seemed genuinely excited to experience this band’s resurrection, starting from the beginning. However, this was the last genuine moment of the evening. What slowly unraveled in front of this crowd at the Nokia Theatre was one of the saddest, most gut-wrenching occurrences that I have ever encountered.

The difficult thing is deciding where to begin. First, Sharp began singing completely out of his register as well as completely out of key. The three female members of the band were all providing backup vocals, all of which were too loud and poorly harmonized. This is when it became clear just how unnecessarily large this incarnation of The Rentals truly was. Sharp outsourced his bass duties to Rachel Haden, sister of longtime Rentals collaborator Petra Haden. A short-haired, muscular-yet-cute woman, Haden looked as though she was still struggling with her fundamental bass lessons throughout the set, making one doubt that this was the same woman that played in girl-grunge group That Dog for a decade. Her position in the evening could have easily been absorbed by Sharp. It would have, at the very least, prevented him from doing his awkward, ultra-nerdy Thomas Dolby impressions all night.

The other members of the band were slightly more necessary, but no less bothersome. The violist, Lauren Chipman, pranced around in her dark red evening dress, trying her hardest to fashion herself as a seductress, resulting in a performance that was slightly uncomfortable and thoroughly unappealing. She was counterbalanced by the somewhat charming guitarist, Sara Radle, who looked like Jenny Lewis as a member of the Pipettes. However, as the evening progressed, her unfortunate dancing techniques and false enthusiasm slowly eroded her initial dash of charm. There is not much to say about drummer Dan Joeright, other than the fact that he is clearly a poor man’s Pat Wilson. Touring guitarist Shon Sullivan (also a member of openers Goldenboy) looked at best mildly interested in playing his second set of the night, hardly moving from his spot to the left of the drum kit.

All of these players’ shortcomings were dwarfed by the unbridled obnoxious behavior of synth/trombone player Ben Pringle. Bulging out of his The Flash t-shirt and sporting an ironic moustache, Pringle proceeded to bounce up and down, busting out every cheesy dance move he could think of, not excluding “the robot.” Midway through the set, Sharp decided that Pringle’s moustache was not ironic enough while simply being viewed by the audience, so he proceeded to spend five minutes dragging out old John Oates and Tom Selleck jokes to accentuate it.

The Rentals continued to desecrate their entire catalogue song by song, churning out one uninspired rendition after another. Even their most classic songs, like “Please Let That Be You” and “Stay Awake” failed to kick the group out of this funk. They played two new songs from their recent offering, The Last Little Life EP, which sounded like tunes your 13-year old little brother’s band should have never let out of the garage.

The highlight of the evening for most everybody in the room was “I Just Threw Out the Love of My Dreams,” which is a Weezer b-side. One can’t help but think that Matt Sharp may serve himself better by sending in a fresh application to his old band, but it became clear long ago that he and Rivers Cuomo’s integrity died with their friendship. Just when it seemed that this performance could not go any further downhill, the band summoned opener Copeland’s singer, Aaron Marsh, to come sing “Getting By.” He looked uneasy being onstage without his own band, and the song came out looking and sounding a lot like Clay Aiken karaoke.

The greatest signifier for the failure of the Rentals’ NYC stop was when Petra Haden came onto the stage, joining her sister for the backing vocals for the groups only true hit, “Friends of P.” Haden’s vocals were unrehearsed and shoddy. She even forgot the words to the chorus – twice. Despite this, she appeared much older and dignified than the rest of the bunch, and it seemed that she had outgrown this nonsense. After one more song, the band retreated backstage for less than one minute before coming out for an encore. Matt Sharp warned that he was going to try to cram in two more songs before the venue cut him off at midnight. After only one, the sound tech moved Sharp out of the way and swiftly turned off his synthesizer. I am not sure whether this was out of strict time issues for the venue or if it was just one man’s way of saying “enough is enough,” but I do know that I, for one, would certainly have liked to perform that very same action about an hour and a half earlier.

(photos by Abbey Braden at punkphoto.com. View more photos on Flickr)

Live Review: After The Jump Festival (Night Session) @ Studio B [8.25.07]

In "The Proud" Talib Kweli once remarked "it's a hard conversation to have" in regards to the tragedy of September 11th and some of the natural questions of patriotism the event raised. Did it make Kweli less of a patriot to note the struggle of people across the world who seem to hate us? Could we all be more closely tied, even in tragedy and misunderstanding? And more importantly, could both those emotions co-exist? Defending and criticizing ones own? Patriotism without the bullshit? Being a part of something without being a party to its garbage?

So this brings us somewhere close to Studio B in Greenpoint on Saturday night at 10pm.

It's the second half of the After The Jump Festival and we're about to find out just how relevant all these bloggers are. See, this is a blog music festival. Or a music blog festival. In the spirit of Hot Freaks, the wildly successful SXSW blogger fest, the New York blog cats decided they could throw their own party. They all have sizable readership. They all consider themselves taste-makers of one variety or another. And they have been publicizing the shit out of this show.

So where is everyone? Why is Studio B the one place the hipsters wouldn't be caught dead tonight? Why can a reading by a horrible performance artist in an horrible art-space pack a room and yet 10-15 bloggers, all tapping their considerable Blogspot, Wordpress resources (not to mention write-ups in the New York Times), can't seem to get 100 people in the door?

The line-up ain't great. The Virgins kick off the night and look either bored or unimpressed by the turnout. Their lack of energy and general "fuck 'em if they want us to care" attitude goes over like a racial slur on a quiet Bed-Stuy afternoon. If sounding like The Strokes and dropping the final consonants off words is enough to make New York stand-up and pay attention, we may be worse off then we thought. It's shocking and more than played out. Casablancas wouldn't be caught dead on stage with a band like you and there still exists a huge difference between "too cool to care" and caring about looking cool.

But the bloggers love it. There are at least 15 people with cameras forcing their flashes in faces at caddy-corner angles to give the illusion of movement and dynamism. This event won't sell out and people will remember it as being poorly attended but apparently that doesn't mean we shouldn't document it to death. If a tree falls in a forest and no one hears it, did it make a sound? If enough people take pictures of something that no one really cared about, does that make it important?

No. It doesn't. It doesn't matter the event was for charity. It doesn't matter if this was a great banding together of writers. Because when you test your relevance, you can be proven to be irrelevant. And these people couldn't pull a crowd. They put their strongest-draw (Ra Ra Riot) during the day and left themselves with an indefensible night-time bill. No amount of pictures and blog posts fix that.

So, this is a hard conversation to have. Look at this website. Better or worse, right now, we are a blog. In the future, we will mistakenly be called a blog. Without wanting to be a part of this, we are a part of this. We even know and respect some of these people. Are we just as irrelevant without the proof of an empty showcase? Could be.

So bloggers, After The Jumpers, no penalty for trying but now you know where you stand. We all do. People just might not give as much of a shit as we all thought. So swallow that or spit it out. 'Cause like Kweli says in the first line of "The Proud," "stand tall/or don't stand at all."

And that's where we stand.

Live Review: Manchester Orchestra at The Knitting Factory [8.16.07]

It is hot and there is smoke rising off the stage, swirling in the lights and then, presumably, attaching itself to the upper reaches of the Knitting Factory. There is no visible explanation for the smoke nor does anyone seem overly concerned by its appearance. We are either actively ignoring the old adage, "where there's smoke, there's fire" or we figure if something was really wrong, we'd probably be dead by now. Either way, it adds an unmistakable sense of foreboding or anticipation, something approaching a dangerous potential energy. But we're not scared. We're interested. Where there's smoke, there's fire? Prove it.

Manchester Orchestra take the stage in silence. The crowd refuses to return the favor, erupting for the headliner they have been waiting patiently to see. Lead singer, Andy Hull steps to the mic and finger-picks his guitar with the deliberateness of a 15-year old searching through racks of CDs for his favorite one. The rest of the band, the other four members, are impassive, instruments lain down or at sides with a manner that simply says, "not. yet."

Hull begins to reveal himself and his voice, expressive and ranging, pulling notes and emotional turns of phrase out of the corners of his mouth. He turns from the mic as his sings, either afraid to truly unleash himself on us or like many great artists, able to convey deep agony in the pursuit of brilliance. He finishes the first song, solo, and the band readies themselves to step in like good friends during an escalating bar fight.

And then there's fire - Manchester Orchestra rips through the second song and the crowd presses against the front of the stage. Some unfortunate moshing breaks out and when the song is over, Hull mumbles something about "cooling it with the dancing." The moshing stops but the show only sucks more momentum. The crowd shouts lyrics at the band and Hull shouts them back with equal vigor. If you didn't know better, it would seem like a bad argument where everyone ends up repeating the same lines. But it's not an argument at all - only the outlines of a building pathos.

The set moves on and as with his opening song, Hull proves himself unafraid of playing solo material while his band watches in silence. These are some of the night's most chilling and riveting moments. Hull, alone at the front of the stage, steam and smoke willowing around him, sweat dripping out of his beard like the evolution of snow melt.

The night comes to a head in one singular moment. During "Where Have You Been," Hull reaches an unmistakable explosion, screaming "God, where exactly have you been?" The, "exactly" is an ad-lib, not in the original lyrics, but it takes a pointed question and turns into a heart-breaking plea for divinity. And it may not simply be a question of God. Hull may be asking us about our whereabouts. Where have we been? Where have you been?

So we answer. Tonight, we've been right here. Tonight, if there's smoke, there is definitely fire. And tonight, we're going to burn this fucking place to the ground.

[photos by Sean O'Kane]

Live Review: US Air Guitar Championship [08.16.07]

My love of seven inch records has taken me in a lot of crazy directions, but none so far compare to finding a 7" from Hot Lixx Hulahan. I heard it was 2 sides of nothing but silence. When I finally found it there weren't even grooves, it was completely blank on both sides.

I heard about Air Guitar Nation, the documentary about the US competition and how for years the US wasn't even represented in the world championships in Finland.

Hot Lixx aka Craig Billmeier won in 2006 and would be back at the Filmore at Irving Plaza to defend his title.

I emailed Craig about the 7" and found out he had been in a long list of hardcore bands in san francisco including recently playing in a Guns and Roses cover band which only plays the Appetite for Destruction album called Rocket Queens.

There were so many questions...what would be left if you took out skill and instruments from the equation? The performances would be entirely about showmanship. It was so anti rock and roll in a way. Anyone could do this but could it also get to the point where it's become something else entirely? It wasn't about imitating a real guitar player, did air guitar have it's own vocabulary? Was it so unpunk that it was punk again? I had to hand it to Craig, this seven inch symbolized the entire idea of the show.

It never stopped being weird watching with a sold out crowd, air guitarist after air guitarist, manically running back and forth across the stage, throwing beer, stage diving into the crowd. It was a battle of one up-ing each other with concert stereotypes. Big Rig, one of the competing twin brothers set his arm on fire during a performance. NYC Hometown hero William Ocean, who performed like an angry Will Farrell, high fived the front row and jumping butt crushed cans of beer. Shirts were ripped off, invisible guitars were tuned and beer sprayed into the crowd.

The audience was just as insane, throwing beer cans at the judges, especially Jason Jones from the daily show who was the most accurate judge I thought, trying to stick to some kind of realistic scoring system, keeping his standards high. The performances were kept short, but at times it was a bad America's got talent and I couldn't blame the audience for creating their own entertainment. It almost turned ugly when someone threw a full can of Budweiser at Willy O, bloodying his nose, but he brushed it off for extra points with the judges. Rachel Dratch from SNL said that anyone who was willing to go that far deserved to win.

Craig went near the end of the pack and scored high enough to make it to the finals. That's when they randomly picked 'Get your hands off my woman' from The Darkness which the finalists got to listen to once and then perform. This is when it really got insane, with costume changes, fire, and twice as much beer. Craig ended his set by climbing to the top of the PA's and breaking a bottle over his head. The crowd went nuts, this is what they wanted, fog machines, lazers and stuff breaking.

But it was the crowd favorite William Ocean and his legions of fans with life size cutouts and who threw water whenever his name was announced, that were too much for just one man. William outscored his competition and took home an air trophy (an empty plexiglass box) and tickets to the World finals in Finland...that's more than I can say for my hours of practice air guitaring Living on a Prayer in the basement when I was 12.

Live Review: The Wombats @ The Annex (NYC) [8.15.07]

(photo courtesy of www.clickmusic.com)

It's pretty obvious The Wombats have absolutely no idea where they are or who they're dealing with. The band emerges from behind the curtain and steps, not to their instruments but instead, to the front of the stage where they gather in a tight horse-shoe formation around the main vocal mic. In a scene more reminiscent of an idyllic college campus, the trio begins to "ooo" and "ahhh" their way through an a cappella intro. What is this? Freshman Orientation?

They're singing lyrics, referring to their name, that say: "songs about boys/about girls/ and marsupials." No one can tell if this is really happening or if we've been secretly transported to a surreal hybrid of children's television and the adolescent emotion of Dawson's Creek. The crowd, previously excited, now has a look of trepidation - if not straight fear. These kids are one of the most buzzed about bands in the U.K. and in their first New York show, they're pulling this? But no one is running for the exits either. There is something earnest in the air and it's not to be missed. Even in a dark, bottle-necked bar on the Lower East Side there might, just might, be room for this level of optimism.

The Wombats are the band that other throw-back, 60s influenced "ooooo" and "ahhh," dripping-background-vocal bands would kill to be. Rooney would kill to be this band. Employing the best elements of twitchy British post-punk (think a more melodic Futureheads) and the richest dimensions of a band that has three members who can spit harmony, The Wombats are, musically speaking, way ahead of their peers.

And then there are the songs. Ripping through recent single "Kill The Director" with it's infectious secondary chorus, "this is no/Bridget Jones" and upcoming single, "Let's Dance To Joy Division," the band gets this somewhat suspicious crowd dancing and clapping and even call-and-responsing, "hell yeah." Tell me, please, when the last time you saw a Lower East Side crowd agree to shout "hell yeah" about anything except for Marlboro Reds, PBRs, and Irony?

So, The Wombats slowly get the crowd to buy in. They're young and they don't care what we think. In fact, with protracted on stage banter about things like soy beans, they could just as easily be performing to an empty room. This is really them - not who they want us to think they are.

They close with the predictable, yet entirely satisfying, "Moving To New York" and then return to the stage and encore with "Backfire At The Disco," a song loosely about striking-out at a nightclub. Now, it's likely lead singer, Matt Murphey is talking about a woman and not a live show because nothing backfired at The Annex on Wednesday night. After a dangerous opening, a bouncy band with an undeniable sound won out - even making three-part a cappella intros look cool. And that, my friends, ain't no Freshman Orientation. It's a Ph.D in charm.

Live Review: Badly Drawn Boy @ Virgin Headquarters, New York [8.14.07]

I'd love to say I have an amazing set of pictures to show you from Badly Drawn Boy's acoustic set on the roof here at Virgin Records but I don't. Suffice it to say that the scene was picturesque with the sun sinking below and between Manhattan's maze of buildings, casting a warm orange glow on everyone and everything.

Badly Drawn Boy took the stage around 6.45 after the Virgin/EMI/Blue Note/Capitol/Astralworks staff had finished slamming fish and chips and free Bass Ale. The fare, a part of the "Born in the U.K." theme of the evening, was solid and most importantly of all, free. Who says record labels are sinking in a sea of illegal-file sharing, music blogs, and album leaks? At least for tonight, we seemed to snap back to 1999 when 'NSYNC was selling 2.4 million albums a week and free fish and chips would be expensed to the "fuck it, who cares, I'm rich bitch" account.

It was an all-acoustic set with "the one who is poorly rendered" being supported by a nameless, dark-haired guy who finger-picked solos while Badly motored through the Barr chords. It was a warm evening, in feeling and temperature, and Poorly Sketched played all the quote "hits." Skimming through "Once Around The Block" and "Born In The U.K.," the set had a quiet dignity to it - all of which seems appropriate for a show that, ostensibly, had Badly Drawn playing directly to the company that represents him.

It would be kind of like if you worked a job making copies and your bosses liked your work so much they asked you to come make copies for free in front of all the people who own and run Kinko's. Hey, it's kind of flattering and it's kind of bullshit. Why am I here? Because they like me or because I have no choice?

Luckily, Badly Drawn Boy wasn't leading any revolution against his label. He was just entertaining a warm crowd, with tight, little acoustic songs built for a sunset rooftop on 20th and 5th. And even if only a few of us were actually "born in the U.K." it didn't seem to matter. There is something about an artist's poor rendition of a man that makes everyone feel welcome. Even the Suits.

[photo care of www.musicsnobbery.com]

Live Review: Tokyo Police Club, Ra Ra Riot, and Vampire Weekend at Middle East Boston [8.12.07]

(Tokyo Police Club w/ Ra Ra Riot)

This tour and these bands are big news in NYC. They're good everywhere but in this city they sell out months in advance. So like sneaking over the border to Canada to purchase discounted prescription drugs, some friends and I traveled to Boston for some family engagements and to catch Tokyo Police Club, Ra Ra Riot, and Vampire Weekend at what turned out to be a packed, but not entirely sold out show. Sometimes, if it matters enough, you just have to get in the car. Not to say Boston didn't bring the heat. Kids were dancing and nodding and bouncing around and clapping with an un-inhibitedness you just don't see this far down Route 95. Boston might not be half the city that New York is and might not have even 20% of the music scene but they still know how to get up, get down, and leave the bullshit at the door.

The night started with Vampire Weekend and their brand of inoffensive, afro-beat indie rock. This band can write hooks for days but they're still a little one-dimensional in certain respects. Charming on-stage demeanor and a sound that might make you think of Paul Simon playing pop-punk songs circa 1991.

After a quick set change, Ra Ra Riot took The Middle East Downstairs to a separate and entirely winning plane. Injecting some new material and some slower songs, the band's set had wonderful pace and once the sound guy figured out how to handle string players, guitars, bass, keys and vocals (round about the 3rd song), they sounded great. The band got a prolonged ovation from the crowd after dedicating "St. Peter's Day Festival" to their fallen drummer, John Pike. A whole summer of tour dates behind them, they honored their friend in the most appropriate way possible. At some point, maybe even now, the band will get tired of hearing about how they are living in the shadow of loss and, honestly, what a fucking inspiration they are. But for now, let's say this - they brought the noise in Boston and closing with "Dying Is Fine," they had the whole crowd clapping hard enough to hurt hands. People have an emotional connection with this band now and it makes everyone want to elevate one another. And hope is never, ever a bad thing.

Tokyo Police Club brought their traditional frenetic pace down a notch and still managed to get the crowd in the end. Saving the "hits" from their first record until the back end of the set allowed for some new material to sneak in the front. Great energy, good new songs, and with the backing of Saddle Creek - the sky is the limit for the four skinny boys from Canada. The highlight of the night was a closing-cover of The Rentals' "Friends of P" where the boys and girls from Ra Ra took the stage to beat drums, shake tambourines and hug the crap out of everyone.

At the end of an amazing tour, two young bands shared the lights and brought the house down with predictable ease. Now, operator. Get me the fucking President of the World. This is an emergency.

(photos by elliot grossman and his iphone)