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Au revoir, Magnetic Field Goes Cube, Magnetic Field, Friday 22 February 2008 There's something very fitting about composing a eulogy to a defunct Brooklyn rock club at 31,000 feet on the way back from Miami. Florida's largest city is not really a rock n’ roll paradise, not even home to the sort of neutered cartoonish, Velvet Revolver variety that thrives in strip clubs. The predominant voices are Latin music and hip-hop, and it boasts the sort of sleek atmosphere in which I'm not even sure the Killers could survive.
But you knew what you'd get: hard driving, immaculately-played rock music. They may have had a lounge pop bent for all I knew, but the venue's tag-line - "A rock n' roll cocktail lounge" - gave you the basic idea. This was scuzz music with a very thin respectable sheen. Club Midway without the indifferent staff, difficult location and really amazingly persistent smell of grease. But it had, after all the bands moved on, a very good ear for music. I hate to depersonalise the booker, but I would never claim to be a regular, and the google is verboten on the plane right now. I caught the Brought Low with Federale in support there a few years back, and I'm still convinced that one of those bands (the smart money is on the undercard) will make it big-ish. The best illustration of this is Goes Cube, the last band I saw there. You may have heard of Goes Cube, a highly touted Brooklyn noise rock band that has been in serious contention for about three years now. I'll use the following fragmentary recollections of their gig a few weeks back to illustrate a few points about the band, but first I'd note the singer's fulsome tribute to the owners during one of his last numbers that evening. Harking back to a period before they felt the embrace of Gothamist, and no doubt a few other more credible taste-makers, he thanked the owners for taking a chance on them. The sentiment is not unusual, since every booker gets one of the those moments every few months. But few venues were as generous, and few had a following the way Magnetic Fields did. It had, after I drifted into a sedentary lifestyle, one of the few venue websites I'd make a point of visiting, as opposed to being driven there by a band recommendation. I like to think that it was to my late 20s as Brownies was to the first half. The night I popped down there was I think a Friday, and the scene of one of the only proper dumpings of snow Brooklyn got all year. I'd had to wait around at home for the cable guy, and had I been at the office that day I may have ended up at Genghis Tron's record release party at the Knitting factory (it's metal with electronic tinges, but not Fear Factory - I promise). But Goes Cube have been the nearly men of my musical life for a few months now - an avoided Union Hall gig here, an inability to follow the comings and goings of their EPs there. This evening, though, I could jump on the B63 and be there in 15 minutes, sure in the knowledge that the snow would keep souls from further afield away. I was right. I walked in right as the band were coming on stage. They played for roughly 45 minutes, a tightly-coiled and disciplined wall of noise. Goes Cube's songs all have numbers rather than titles, though they lack neither emotional content nor memorable hooks. Which makes them pretty easy to write down (I didn't), and pretty difficult to remember (I didn't either, though I'd hazard song 68 was pretty good). I remember the singer recalling the name of the number of a Cobble Hill sushi restaurant called Cube 63 (oh to hell with it, I did the google to check the name when I got home, so you can now assume that this is no longer an unmediated and raw spontaneous document, an On The Road of ill-informed music criticism if you will), and saying that when he got to the Goes Cube song of the same number he'd celebrate with an act of violence that it seems senseless to forewarn the establishment of. Goes Cube is not Wire, though I fear for their survival in a post-iTunes age. There's a review of an old Helmet album I still remember, even though it wasn't very positive. It was generally dismissive of a late period album, Aftermath, I think. It described their previous album, Betty, as one of the most disciplined albums the critic had ever heard. It even described the album has having been to boot camp. You don't hear the word applied to music much, if only because the most disciplined musicians around are either James Brown's band or the frightening singer-dancers that started life on the Mickey Mouse show. Rock n' roll is meant to be a bit sloppy, and if I had my way musicians that could read music would be banished to North Korea permanently, rather than sent there briefly as empty gestures of musical diplomacy. But Goes Cube are the first band I've heard in a while to which I'd apply the word, and pretty much the only one to which I'd apply it admiringly. The first quiet-loud band that didn't bore me witless since the first ones, the Pixies (in reformation, I'm much too young to remember the first iteration), the first emo-sounding band where I wanted to hear the lyrics. If, like me, you doubted the wisdom of the direction that Cave In took on "Antenna", Goes Cube make the call sound perfectly reasonable. Goes Cube are warm, terrifying, grinding, tuneful, sludgy, stoner-friendly smart kids who don't look the part. Against Me! shorn of the cheese (wheels coming off the metaphor truck? HELL YEAH). The Helmet comparisons look rather apt, though the thin, genial, shirted, bearded musicians hardly look like they'd play Amphetamine Reptile's deserted warehouse party. They're on a major label, of sorts, and none too repentant about it. They played some encores, as if to thank the audience for coming out, though I secretly reckon they came from no further away than myself. Thanked the venue, pimped the EPs, and then I strolled out onto the street, where the B63 was waiting obediently. I don't think there's a crisis or anything like that threatening mid-level rock venues in New York City, though. Lazy people in nice neighbourhoods like myself don't deserve to have primo rock music a brisk stroll away. But one of the huge attractions of New York's music is the plethora of venues with questionable ears for musical trends that force artists to confront audiences on the audience's terms. Union Hall's booker has done an awesome job, and the bloggers love its offerings. But there's a wonderful longevity that places like Magnetic Fields teach bands, even if it didn't practice it itself. I'll miss it. ================== No gigs this month, but we have liked very much the new Hot Chip album, Made In the Dark, and think that the new Nine Inch Nails instrumental album represents compelling value at its price point. Obviously. Magnetic Field is open on Atlantic Avenue between Henry and Hicks till March 30, and its final week is marked by several blow-out concerts, including the Brought Low on the 29th. http://www.magneticbrooklyn.com/ Gari N. Cop blogs not much at gumbyfresh.com |
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Lima Charlie – It’s So Easy To Be Creepy CD Review by Janene Otten
This four-piece rock band has professed influences from the band Ween to the great Jimi Hendrix. That should set you up for It’s So Easy To Be Creepy. From the tropical island sounds on the opener “Banana Boat” to the more loungy “Super Size My Love”, Lima Charlie maintain an almost fastidious humor with both whimsy melodies and tongue-in-cheek lyrics. Pete (vocals, guitar), Jim (vocals, keyboards, guitar), Dave (bass, backing vocals) and Tom (drums, backing vocals) obviously enjoy this charade they play out, taking clues from each other from verse to chorus and back again. It works very much in the way a novelist creates continuity as a plot thickens. There is a trick to making the listener think it knows what’s going to happen next and then tosses a monkey-wrench into the thing to keep him or her on the edge, waiting for another shoe to drop. Just when I got pretty comfy with the jam session, the Phishyness of the vibe, these guys slink into “Creepy” and it makes me want to shut the blinds and hide under a bed. The keyboard sounds that Jim inserts, at just the right time, are jarring in the way Norman Bates is jarring. There’s a disturbing alter ego lurking so beware! It strikes out in the form of a mad guitar solo that takes us all the way from the mouth of madness and into an ocean of serious “Infinite Doldrums”. The tasteful banjo swarms lazily around the tinkling piano. And the simply voiced vocal harmonies add some sweetness that is not present much anywhere else. Kudos to whoever decided to pair these two together on the CD. An interesting thing to note is that Lima Charlie are certainly on a soapbox but it’s the flamboyancy that successfully overrides the haranguing. The finest moment of cheekiness is when Jim tells us convincingly that he’s going to “Super Size” his love “and that’s a guarantee”. He demonstrates falsetto vocals that sound oddly like Prince met Beck and they decided to hijack Barry White’s cache of unique, sexy stylings. There are a few, and that equals three, kids, of tracks that I would deem throwaways except I think that they tie the whole crazy heap together. Those are the songs that feel lifted from Trey Anastasio and company but it’s clear that Lima Charlie do not want to be pigeonholed. If they can harness that little bit of frat boy energy, they will graduate into the PhD program of seminal artists whose music you simply must own. It’s So Easy To Be Creepy has staying power. It has character. And it has talented musicians. Anyone who appreciates intelligent rock music will no doubt garner praise on Lima Charlie. Lima Charlie is: Pete Van Leeuwen , Jim O’Mahony, Dave Morrison and Tom Ash Upcoming shows in the NY area: 5/1 at the Parkside Lounge, 317 E. Houston, 10pm 5/3 at the Seaside Tavern, 891 Cove Rd, Stamford, CT, 9pm Music Journalist General Warning: Not for the general pop music-loving public. Some tastes may be acquired. |
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Queens Albums You Should Own Or At Least Understand
by Gari N. Corp I'd promised you an in-depth look at an album inspired by, nay drenched in, Queens. I didn't have the time. Instead, here is a personal list that highlights, in no particular order, save the first, second, and last choices, the borough's contribution to musical history. Queens has had a couple of strokes of luck, as far as music fans are concerned. First, in the 1920s it was not very segregated, which meant that Jazz' aristocracy took up residence there. Thus, Count Basie, Charlie Parker, John Coltrane, Ella Fitzgerald and Cannonball Adderley, to name but a handful, ended up buying mansions in various corners of the place.
Secondly, it has sometimes, um, been a less than exciting place to grow up, which seems to have imprinted itself on the soul of Burt Bacharach and Perry Como. But then it inspired the Ramones, whose palpable desire to leave the borough and become rent boys and glue sniffers led them to take up residence in the toilet of CBGBs until Seymour Stein rescued them. Then, finally, we have the projects, most notable the Queensbridge houses, which can be glimpsed from the N train as you emerge into Long Island City, and brought us Mobb Deep and Nas. LL Cool J and 50 Cent came from points further east. Finally, one Arlo Guthrie, folkie and son of Woody, listed his residence as Howard Beach when he was picked up on a charge of littering in Stockbridge, Massachusetts. He turned the experience of this and subsequent events into legendary protest song "Alice's Restaurant" Top ten Queens albums: 1) Run DMC - "Raising Hell" 2) Ramones - "Ramones" 3) Mobb Deep - "The Infamous" 4) Nas - "Illmatic" 5) Simon & Garfunkel - "Wednesday Morning 3. A.M." 6) LL Cool J - "Radio" 7) Kiss - "Kiss" 8) Cannonball Adderley - "Somethin' Else" 9) Fountains of Wayne - "Utopia Parkway" 10) 50 Cent - "Get Rich Or Die Tryin'" If you end up reading this in time, I’d recommend taking in Goes Cube at Magnetic Field on Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn. Unlike Wire’s, all of their song titles are numbers. That’s on Friday 22nd February
If he had the time, Gari N. Corp would blog at least as well as he warbles here at gumbyfresh.com |
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The Young Gods, The Officers, Undercut by Gari N. Corp University of London Union, Sunday 9 December 2007 So, this is now the music section of a Queens-centric webzine, and the change in focus is causing me some problems. It's not that I don't like Queens. I've in lived there within recent memory. The Borough boasts some extremely fine musicians, the Ramones, Nas, and Run DMC among them. What it doesn't boast, though, is a huge number of mid-sized music venues. And the G train can be very frustrating. Still, there may be room for a survey of classic Queens albums, and by summer I may try and sample some of the turbo-folk weekends at the Bohemian Beer Garden. And it's not like I went to any gigs anywhere in NYC in the last month or so. Instead, you get some vague recollections of a show I caught in my mother country the other day. I was ambling around Sister Ray on Berwick Street in London the other day, killing time and trying, with the pound standing at two dollars, to avoid buying anything at all costs. Those of you who have never been to London but have an interest in pedestrian Mancunian Lad-rock will be able to visualize the scene with reference to the cover of Oasis' "What's The Story Morning Glory", the band's second. It's not a very interesting cover, and was once memorably trounced in a cover-off by Kiss' Destroyer, which features the band dancing on top of the bones of an entire city.
But I digress. In Sister Ray, which has inexplicably moved to Selectadisc's location even as its own erstwhile home morphs into a dance music and vinyl shop, I chanced upon a listings magazine that would be roughly equivalent to the New York Press or Village Voice. Besides receiving the terrifying news that not only are Muse not defunct but they are playing some genuinely huge venues, I also noted that the Young Gods were playing that evening not five minutes' walk north of Soho. The Young Gods are difficult band to categorise, and I don't only say that because their wikipedia page is irritatingly brief. Formed in the mid-80s, the band embodies an age of electronic music that was much less obsessed with categories than it is today. Nowadays it's fashionable to divide industrial music into techno-leaning and metal-leaning camps, with a strong contingent espousing goth and emo aesthetics, for which we can essentially blame Nine Inch Nails. But the Young Gods predate that malarkey. They don't predate some of the elders of the genre, including Ministry, Einsturzende Neubauten, Skinny Puppy and KMFDM, But they've steered clear of the more apocalyptic, cheesy, and just plain leather aspects of the industrial genre. Thus when David Bowie needs to drop a fashionable reference to dignify his ill-advised foray into electronica, 1995's “Outside”, he settles on the Young Gods. Bowie denies Nine Inch Nails had anything to do with the album, despite taking them out on tour, and despite the fact that NIN's "Downward Spiral" was selling squillions that year. The Young Gods were so much more mature. All this is a tad unfair. The Swiss-based trio are hardly Brian Eno's dilettante lovechildren. Theirs is music born of samplers, occasionally ambient, but mostly in love with noise. Think of a more complex and less danceable Front 242. Their lyrics are a mixture of English, French and German, and this both helps them in distancing themselves from the goth crowd, and makes them sound ever so slightly silly. So, onto the gig. Well unfortunately between checking up on the state of availability of tickets and arriving at the University of London Union I'd taken the opportunity to get a little twisted, so my impressions are somewhat fragmentary. I remember the support acts - Undercut and The Officers - being proficient without being boring. I remember one of them playing a cover of Britney Spears' "Toxic", although this prefigured Ms. Spears' most recent Judy-Garland-on-fast-forward descent towards tragedy. I remember the crowd beefing up as showtime for the Gods approached. I remembered the ULU's beer not being as cheap as I remembered student unions' of yesteryear. For the Gods, the impression that remains is walls of noise. The fans have put together setlists*, and pronounced the show less reliant on the cream of their back catalogue than normal. That figures, since melody often took a back seat to sharp bursts of sampled noise. The Young Gods have attained their place in rock history by virtue of their early and enthusiastic use of the sampler. So we get some of the most blistering and amazing riffs delivered by Al Coment, a meek Alan Rickman look-alike perched languidly behind a keyboard. Jean-Hugues Anglade look-alike Franz Treichler mostly sings, and dances ineffectually, except for one brief moment where he straps on a guitar and the music, amazingly, gets softer. You couldn't quite dance to it, you couldn't quite mosh to it. But it was powerful, engaging stuff. The second to last song, Summer Eyes, was probably the softest moment of all, and the one that had me staggering for the exits. But, name-dropping potential aside, I couldn't help but like these charming, occasionally brutal Swiss noisemongers. Given the reputation that the Swiss are regaining as conservative and inward-looking gnomes, it's nice to know that 444 years after John Calvin departed this world, there are still troublemakers roaming the streets of Geneva. This month’s gig recommendation: High on Fire are playing Club Europa in Williamsburg on 10 February. They’re the band that inspired the formation of Mastodon. Yeah, that good. Gari N. Corp doesn’t think before he writes at gumbyfresh.com. Here’s praying the domain registration renews as planned this week |
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“Picking Daisies” – Shelly Bhushan reviewed by janene otten
The songs in this daisy chain are stranded loosely together by themes of doubt and confidence. It’s a juxtaposition that makes for fantastic ideas in music. The soulful sounds of Shelly’s voice dancing with the piano as they do on the title track mix both of those dominant lyric themes. It’s a strong track, the one that is a hit, and Shelly vocally pushes the funky beat along nicely. The harmonies mingle with an echo that is brilliance. She usually has a rhythmic sensibility in her interpretation of the arrangements that pairs well with the exceptional slapping bass but sometimes fights with the driving force of the dirty guitars as on the opener ‘Perfect Stranger’. But then fortunately the sexy muted trumpet on ‘Little Piece’ sets up this jazzy red-light number. It’s a hot song, probably my favorite on the CD. Just as things heat up in the red room, introspection takes over on ‘Birthday Suit’. The backing acoustic guitar sounds as lonely as Shelly does. I’m glad that there are strings and brass rounding out the arrangements. At times, though, they are a little too sparse. The brass tracks would benefit from a trombone or an added harmony on the bottom. Same thing goes for the violin. ‘It’s Over’ and ‘Not to Me’ are both sad, soul-aching ballads. Shelly is pouring out her heart. The piano drifts in and out in lovely patterns on both. I initially love the addition of the violin and cello on ‘Not to Me’. Both Rob Moose (violin) and Martha Colby (cello) play with lovely color and style but I was disappointed that they are covered by the piano and then the brass and woodwinds at the climax. Shelly loses a bit of that rhythmic charge here and as strong and heartfelt as it wants to be, it falls a little shy of majestic. The chain attaches together full-circle in ‘The Nest’. Borrowing slightly from Bob Dylan’s cache of ‘Rainy Day Women #12 & 35’, Shelly and friends whoop it up hootenanny-style. Her ‘loves me – loves me not’ confusion withstanding, Shelly has de-flowered the innocence of love. “Picking Daisies” is a girl’s dream diary. It’s everything she needs to say to move on to the next green field. Picking Daisies is the follow up to Bhushan's 2005 EP The Shelly Show. It is produced by James Cruz. Her band includes John Celentano (drums), Ben Hoffstein (organ/piano), and Harry Cordew (bassist/backup vocals) Other musicians include Rob Moose (violin), Martha Colby (cello), Greg Glassman (trumpet), Ian Young (alto saxophone), Dimitri Moderbacher (tenor/baritone saxophone), and guitarists James Cruz, Mark Turrigiano, and Oscar Bautista. |
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Brooklyn Stoner Rock Dispatch Weedeater - "God Luck and Good Speed" by Gari N. Corp There's always been a strange undercurrent of silliness going through stoner rock. And it gets stronger the heavier the stoner rock gets. If you think it's Josh Homme's high-pitched voice that adds some levity to Queens of the Stone Age and the Eagles of Death Metal, you're only part of the way there. It gets sillier on the sonic way down. How else can one react to the fact that the two of the most prominent bands of underground stoner rock - Bongzilla and Weedeater - have such deliriously silly names? The two share, in "Dixie" Dave Collins, a bassist, and roots in early-90s progenitor Buzzov*en. I'm going to make some comparisons, now, which to the outside observer are going to sound ridiculous, if not indeed needlessly obscure. But if Kyuss are the lighter, breezier, desert-tinged pretty boys of stoner rock, then Buzzov*en were the nasty greasy delinquents. Yes, we're talking degrees here, and you'll be getting, whichever lineage you bow down to, the same high-calorie, minor chord sludge, complete with repetitive riffs and outsize bass. Weedeater, for what it's worth, come from the slightly more truculent (again, this is all, I must stress, relative) southern strain. Their latest album, "God Luck And Good Speed", branches out a little from talking endlessly about marijuana (Hah! You just thought the genre name was that way because it sounded better under the influence?), to dwell a little on being dirt poor, bad luck and born on the other side of Mason-Dixon. It's mostly below the register, heavy, turgid stuff, turgid in this instance being a compliment. Obviously. The exceptions being "Alone", a light, almost sung, belligerent banjo number, and the shortest song on the album, and "Willow", which closes out the album with an almost jazzy series of chords on an upright piano and nothing else. The above might be a sign that Weedeater want, as economically as possible, to let you know that they can play properly, were they to decide to play something other than brutal, fairly terse riff bulldozers. The CD booklet even includes little bits of notation for the band's own compositions, so you can play along at home. The other hint that Weedeater want a little respect is their choice of Steve Albini (Pixies, Nirvana, fanzines) as producer. I won't dwell on the choice too long, since even Albini seems a little cowed by Weedeater's heaviosity. I guess he brings a little spareness to the sound, but sonically it's nothing that wouldn't crop up on an Alabama Thunder Pussy album. Ah, Alabama Thunderpussy. I wondered if I'd get to the end of this review without tipping my hat to them. It was probably inevitable that the writers of "Rockin' Is Ma Business" (sample lyric: "If business is so good, why am I so f***in' broke?") would show up at some point. Alabama Thunderpussy are the adept, accessible John the Baptists to the stoner Jesus that is Weedeater. Weedeater turn down the southern pride, turn down the guitars, and in Dixie's vocals, push the singing halfway back down the larynx. The third and fourth best songs on "God..." are "Wizard Fight" and "$20 Peanut", party on account of their titles, partly on account of their brevity, and partly because their riffs are the fastest acting. So I've made Weedeater sound a little truculent (nowhere as much as The Brought Low are in person), a little silly, and a little deep-fried (the icing would be the cover of Lynyrd Skynyrd's “Gimme Back My Bullets"). But it's important, right now, to explain how efficient they are, and how that's not antithetical to good stoner rock, and how listening to "God.." will make you look askance at Dead Meadow and Queens of the Stone Age, and realise how much Gonga sound like Toploader. If the forgoing was a little heavy on the name-dropping, then it serves simply to draw the uninitiated into sludgy rock through the tradesman's entrance rather than the front door. Because if there's one thing stoner rock really doesn't need, it's class. Weedeater play Club Midway, 25 Avenue B, on Monday 5th of November, with the Brought Low as support. The 5th of November is the day that English people celebrate the defeat of popery in their realm, apropos of nothing. I guess if you're a limey and you have a stash of fireworks burning a hole in your pocket, you're excused. Gari N. Corp blogs about wizards and basis points and politics and architecture at gumbyfresh.com |
