Health/Dan Deacon/Aa/Black Pus/Knyfe Hyts/Crime Novels @ Market Hotel (Harket Motel? Why? Why does ohmyrockness.com have it listed as Harket Motel? I don't understand; is this some new thing they're trying to do? Is it pretaining to legality? WTFTW, M(H)arket H(M)otel. Wtf.) I have several things to say about this show, none of which will be drawn out or elaborate because, yes friends, I'm 19 years old and I have a goddamn paper to write. For school. The beaureaucracy wins again. This is in list form, to keep things concise and simple.
1. Dan Deacon, you are an asshole. You think you're so fucking great and awesome and talented with your stupid machines and red glasses. You're not. You're just a fat man who pushes buttons. You create fun, not music. And yes, you bastard, I had fun. As much as I hate to admit it, I had A LOT of fun during your set. But, sir, you are, in plainest english, a DOUCHE. BAG. People warned me, too. But I refused to listen. I said, "No, I'm sure he's not. I'm sure he's a fine fellow. I'm sure he's great. Probably a really nice guy and all."
But they were right, Dan Deacon, they were all right. You are an asshole. All you did during your set was complain about the people who were so excited to see you. All you kept saying was how you had to do this, or how it was so hot, or how we were suffocating you, et cetera and so on. Because you're not making any money from playing that show, right? You're not selling any merch, right? Right, Dan Deacon? That's what I thought. All I have to say is one thing to you: go to hell. Take your stupid red glasses with you. You fucking fat waste. You weren't even the headliner.
2. Health and Black Pus are officially the greatest things to happen to the Brooklyn music scene. Even if Health is from LA. Whatever, we'll adopt you. They played the best sets I've heard in a long, long time (except for the These Are Powers set at Silent Barn, but that's a whole other can of worms. Good worms, not bad. Glow worms). Everyone should check out their myspaces. I mean it.
3. There was a strange, older man at the show who I helped direct home on the J train. He took fabulous pictures and for some reason, I really want to know his life story. I think I shall stalk his myspace now.
4. To the kid in the Red Sox shirt who tried to stick his hand down my pants (and molested one of my biffles during the Health set), I hope you get caught in a seven alarm fire and your face is melted off by toxic chemicals. And then you turn into the joker. And then I turn into Batman and kill you.
NO. Really. I don't have a paper to do. Nope. Lies, falsity, illusion.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Friday, February 29, 2008
The National at NYU...
...was well worth it.
Smoothly run and with just the right amount of people population NYU's E&L's auditorium, the National (with openers Phosphorescent and Maps and Atlases) turned out quite a successful show on Thursday night. With their week of performances sold out, NYU's show was perfect for the less meticulous of fans who don't happen to check ohmyrockness every day for sold out concerts. And though the show was open to non NYU students, those who fall into that category may have been reluctant to attend the concert for fear of the preponderance of youngsters (which is an irrational and, essentially, arrogant fear), or simply because they didn't believe that a gig held in a college auditorium could live up to their expectations (also irrational, as it turned out, but perhaps more legitimate).
Both Phosphorescent and Maps and Atlases gave the crowd (the pleasingly large crowd, with one bumping just enough shoulders to make it feel like a real concert, but not enough for it to be obnoxious) a good setting for the headliner, and a hell of a performance, in and of itself. The general consensus was that Maps and Atlases was a surprise winning performance, with their quirky, offbeat sounding ditties making even the most stonefaced of adolescents bob their heads.
Their sound wasn't the obvious choice as opener for the National, but juxtaposed with what Phosphorescent presented, it proved to be a good spark to set fire to the rest of the night's performances. Phosphorescent was the perfect segeway between the odd pop sound of Maps and Atlases and the more subdued, melancholic sound of the National. It was clear, however, that they were a bit more experimental than most traditional National fans would have liked. The most obnoxious (or perhaps intoxicated) of concertgoers decided they would like to shout insults at the stage, as if that would help bring the National out faster, and the least just decided to leave (which, as it were, was an extremely idiotic move on their part).
The National's performance was trance inducing. And watching from above, that's exactly what the crowd looked like... glassy-eyed, immersed, transfixed wholly on the performance. They scarcely moved, but it was not out of boredom, or some sort of high brow study. They were gaping, and very, very into what was going on, drawn like moths to the flame the National set on stage. The National was moving. A certain sadness dripped from every chord and every lyric, and it created something so personal for every individual watching. It was almost anticipatory, as if everyone was hanging on, waiting for some cataclysmic moment in the unbelievable restraint that the National exercises in their music, to no avail. The end of the set was a beautiful frustration, a need for more while knowing that was all you'd get.
Smoothly run and with just the right amount of people population NYU's E&L's auditorium, the National (with openers Phosphorescent and Maps and Atlases) turned out quite a successful show on Thursday night. With their week of performances sold out, NYU's show was perfect for the less meticulous of fans who don't happen to check ohmyrockness every day for sold out concerts. And though the show was open to non NYU students, those who fall into that category may have been reluctant to attend the concert for fear of the preponderance of youngsters (which is an irrational and, essentially, arrogant fear), or simply because they didn't believe that a gig held in a college auditorium could live up to their expectations (also irrational, as it turned out, but perhaps more legitimate).
Both Phosphorescent and Maps and Atlases gave the crowd (the pleasingly large crowd, with one bumping just enough shoulders to make it feel like a real concert, but not enough for it to be obnoxious) a good setting for the headliner, and a hell of a performance, in and of itself. The general consensus was that Maps and Atlases was a surprise winning performance, with their quirky, offbeat sounding ditties making even the most stonefaced of adolescents bob their heads.
Their sound wasn't the obvious choice as opener for the National, but juxtaposed with what Phosphorescent presented, it proved to be a good spark to set fire to the rest of the night's performances. Phosphorescent was the perfect segeway between the odd pop sound of Maps and Atlases and the more subdued, melancholic sound of the National. It was clear, however, that they were a bit more experimental than most traditional National fans would have liked. The most obnoxious (or perhaps intoxicated) of concertgoers decided they would like to shout insults at the stage, as if that would help bring the National out faster, and the least just decided to leave (which, as it were, was an extremely idiotic move on their part).
The National's performance was trance inducing. And watching from above, that's exactly what the crowd looked like... glassy-eyed, immersed, transfixed wholly on the performance. They scarcely moved, but it was not out of boredom, or some sort of high brow study. They were gaping, and very, very into what was going on, drawn like moths to the flame the National set on stage. The National was moving. A certain sadness dripped from every chord and every lyric, and it created something so personal for every individual watching. It was almost anticipatory, as if everyone was hanging on, waiting for some cataclysmic moment in the unbelievable restraint that the National exercises in their music, to no avail. The end of the set was a beautiful frustration, a need for more while knowing that was all you'd get.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
These Links are for You, Tom.
Brooklyn Academy of Music is a swankier place than I'm used to. Even if all they have are plastic chairs and tables. Chairs alone are somewhat bewildering to me, at a show. Needless to say, I didn't sit in them. I sat indian-style on the floor. It felt more... right.
The crowd was older, too, and mostly everyone had a drink (and legitimately, too; it was fairly obvious looking about the room that I and my friends were the youngest people there) in their hands. I was slightly put off. Nonetheless, I was approaching the night with an open mind. After all, a show is a show is a show, whether you're surrounded by angry, hormonal, slightly deranged college aged kids at a punk gig in some unfinished, unheated basement, or you're sitting at a table on the top floor of the Brooklyn Academy of Music with a cup of wine and a will to survive the flood of thirtysomething hipsters that impose on you the indescribably disconcerting urge to wear thick-rimmed glasses and slouch dramatically.
Not to mention it was free.
And which bands brought out this crowd? White Rabbits headlined, and Miss Fairchild and Effi Briest opened. I'd heard vaguely of White Rabbits beforehand but I was clueless (as I usually am, about everything) about the bulk of their work and hadn't even heard of the two openers. I can't say I expected the two openers to sound anything like they did but at least one half of it, as it were, turned out well. Very well, in fact.
Miss Fairchild was like the band your parents would have listened to, except... better. Reminiscent of Motown soul, these white boy funkadelics took everything good about soul and made it their own (and added a jazz flute, to boot). There's something dynamic and ever so smooth about this trio. The frontman, who goes by Daddy Wrall (ha!), was clearly the cherry atop the smooth, funky sundae. Everything he did was riddled with cool, whether it was a shake of his scrawny, orange bellbottom clad hips, or a high warble of his rich tenor. He was impeccable, casual, and generally infused with all sorts of awesome. He would have, of course, been less sorts of cool had it not been for the other two members of the band, their synergy and interaction and plain and simple FUN together being completely undeniable as you watched.
And yes, my mom loved them.
But, as it were, not even the sheer fun of Miss Fairchild's performance could save the second opener, Effi Briest. Now, I can understand low-key music. You can't always listen to upbeat bands; there is a time and a place for everything. Effi Briest was trying to make mellower music than Miss Fairchild. That's all well and good. My issue with them is that they did it poorly. Underwhelming is the only word I can even think of to describe this ensemble's performance. And I was expecting something more, really; as soon as they began setting up, everyone in the venue got to their feet in anticipation (people had previously been sitting on the floor and at tables through the whole of Miss Fairchild, with the exception of me and my friends, who were dancing like sad, rhythm-lacking white kids). I expected something head-bobbing, moshpit-forming, or at least a good beat to dance to. The fact that all the people standing looked like they'd all gotten to BAM on the G train from Bushwick should have been a clue, because instead of something catchy and revelrous, what I encountered was, as a friend of mine put it, "nothing but songs made of intros to songs." Nothing seemed to flesh out. It was monotonous, slightly grating, and definitely boring. And though I don't support idiocy, the bunch of brash Long Islanders next to me might have had the right idea when they started shouting out curses and calling for White Rabbits to get onstage.
And White Rabbits didn't disappoint. As I watched them perform, unfamiliar with their sound and most of their stuff, I was left with no words to describe them. Now, as I listen again, I realize why. White Rabbits evoke an odd feeling with their music, reminiscent of many things and nothing at the same time. With their brash vocals layered over thick, nostalgic piano and catchily repetitive guitar, White Rabbits paint a tableau that crosses something between hot summer nights and 19th century style saloons. They are dichotomous, angry and restrained, juvenile and sophisticated. If they were a person, fictitious or otherwise, they would be Doogie Howser, MD - awkward, teenage, and smart as hell (not to mention deliciously vintage in that late 80's/early 90's not-so-vintage way). And their presence onstage is something else, and just as oxymoronic as their songs. Never ostentatious but extremely entertaining, White Rabbits had to do very little to keep the audience enthralled and (in certain cases) dancing like drunk kids in a French discothèque. When they performed, they had a certain clumsy, puppeted look about them, all loose limbs and bobbing heads, while their music remained tight and well-orchestrated, right down to the three-part vocal harmonies, which remained perfectly pitched and spot on throughout the entire thing, through noise and cheering and thrashing instruments and the likes (as a former choirgirl, I appreciated this the most). Overall White Rabbits' performance (and their music, as a whole) was interesting, unique, layered with all sorts of awesome imagery, and just... good. Seriously.
The crowd was older, too, and mostly everyone had a drink (and legitimately, too; it was fairly obvious looking about the room that I and my friends were the youngest people there) in their hands. I was slightly put off. Nonetheless, I was approaching the night with an open mind. After all, a show is a show is a show, whether you're surrounded by angry, hormonal, slightly deranged college aged kids at a punk gig in some unfinished, unheated basement, or you're sitting at a table on the top floor of the Brooklyn Academy of Music with a cup of wine and a will to survive the flood of thirtysomething hipsters that impose on you the indescribably disconcerting urge to wear thick-rimmed glasses and slouch dramatically.
Not to mention it was free.
And which bands brought out this crowd? White Rabbits headlined, and Miss Fairchild and Effi Briest opened. I'd heard vaguely of White Rabbits beforehand but I was clueless (as I usually am, about everything) about the bulk of their work and hadn't even heard of the two openers. I can't say I expected the two openers to sound anything like they did but at least one half of it, as it were, turned out well. Very well, in fact.
Miss Fairchild was like the band your parents would have listened to, except... better. Reminiscent of Motown soul, these white boy funkadelics took everything good about soul and made it their own (and added a jazz flute, to boot). There's something dynamic and ever so smooth about this trio. The frontman, who goes by Daddy Wrall (ha!), was clearly the cherry atop the smooth, funky sundae. Everything he did was riddled with cool, whether it was a shake of his scrawny, orange bellbottom clad hips, or a high warble of his rich tenor. He was impeccable, casual, and generally infused with all sorts of awesome. He would have, of course, been less sorts of cool had it not been for the other two members of the band, their synergy and interaction and plain and simple FUN together being completely undeniable as you watched.
And yes, my mom loved them.
But, as it were, not even the sheer fun of Miss Fairchild's performance could save the second opener, Effi Briest. Now, I can understand low-key music. You can't always listen to upbeat bands; there is a time and a place for everything. Effi Briest was trying to make mellower music than Miss Fairchild. That's all well and good. My issue with them is that they did it poorly. Underwhelming is the only word I can even think of to describe this ensemble's performance. And I was expecting something more, really; as soon as they began setting up, everyone in the venue got to their feet in anticipation (people had previously been sitting on the floor and at tables through the whole of Miss Fairchild, with the exception of me and my friends, who were dancing like sad, rhythm-lacking white kids). I expected something head-bobbing, moshpit-forming, or at least a good beat to dance to. The fact that all the people standing looked like they'd all gotten to BAM on the G train from Bushwick should have been a clue, because instead of something catchy and revelrous, what I encountered was, as a friend of mine put it, "nothing but songs made of intros to songs." Nothing seemed to flesh out. It was monotonous, slightly grating, and definitely boring. And though I don't support idiocy, the bunch of brash Long Islanders next to me might have had the right idea when they started shouting out curses and calling for White Rabbits to get onstage.
And White Rabbits didn't disappoint. As I watched them perform, unfamiliar with their sound and most of their stuff, I was left with no words to describe them. Now, as I listen again, I realize why. White Rabbits evoke an odd feeling with their music, reminiscent of many things and nothing at the same time. With their brash vocals layered over thick, nostalgic piano and catchily repetitive guitar, White Rabbits paint a tableau that crosses something between hot summer nights and 19th century style saloons. They are dichotomous, angry and restrained, juvenile and sophisticated. If they were a person, fictitious or otherwise, they would be Doogie Howser, MD - awkward, teenage, and smart as hell (not to mention deliciously vintage in that late 80's/early 90's not-so-vintage way). And their presence onstage is something else, and just as oxymoronic as their songs. Never ostentatious but extremely entertaining, White Rabbits had to do very little to keep the audience enthralled and (in certain cases) dancing like drunk kids in a French discothèque. When they performed, they had a certain clumsy, puppeted look about them, all loose limbs and bobbing heads, while their music remained tight and well-orchestrated, right down to the three-part vocal harmonies, which remained perfectly pitched and spot on throughout the entire thing, through noise and cheering and thrashing instruments and the likes (as a former choirgirl, I appreciated this the most). Overall White Rabbits' performance (and their music, as a whole) was interesting, unique, layered with all sorts of awesome imagery, and just... good. Seriously.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Market Hotel, Can I Get a Room for the Night?
First and foremost, I'm in love with Market Hotel.
As a venue, it's probably the best thing since sliced bread, if sliced bread were the last good venue (which I can't even think of, really). Another Todd P creation (I think) to join the likes of Silent Barn and Death By Audio in the underground Brooklyn music scene, it takes everything about those two places we love (the space of the first and the more convenient location of the second because, okay, even though it's off the JMZ line, it's a hell of a lot less of a trek than to Silent Barn) and smashes it together in some cosmic fusion of insanity and greatness. The funnel effect of the small stage/large, somewhat triangular space that fans out is fucking perfect for shows like the one I went to tonight. The scenesters were the cattle being herded to the slaughter that was, without a shadow of a fucking doubt, No Age.
But the duo wasn't without help. Their openers were so stellar, providing the audience just the right amount of tension and build-up before the whole damn night was blown wide open. High Places is a sick duo that sounds as if they dragged their beats straight out of the jungle, bound and gagged and complete with all the bells and whistles (quite literally, and it was a bit sad when one fell apart in the middle of a song, but beat maker and primary bells-and-whistles user Robert Barber kept on like a trooper with JUST ONE BELL!). But they're a favorite; everyone was prepared for their spot-on tribal beats (which, by the way, are complemented crazy well by singer Mary Pearson's high, ringing peal of a voice, which, in any other situation might be a bit plain, but work perfectly against the colorful jungle sounds).
The surprise tonight was Rings. Or maybe it was just that I was surprised. I'd never seen them live before, and only vaguely heard of them. But there was something about an all-female trio onstage sharing singing duties and haunting harmonies over sounds that were hollow and overflowing with emotion all at the same time. They truly operated as a unit. As I watched them perform, I didn't see three members; I saw Rings, an amoeba, morphing and convoluted and changing right in front of me, in the middle of songs, at the end of songs, at the beginnings, whatever. They were FLUID. Not to mention their sound is stunning in its simplicity and then it's building of layers upon layers upon layers, peppered with just the right subtle changes to make your jaw slacken as you stand there, in a very "what the fuck is going on" sort of manner. Then it all ends, decomposing like a body, just as quickly as it was all put together, and it's as if you just lived a life in that song; born, existed, died. These ladies are something special, that's for certain, drawing a sound that draws upon Gang Gang Dance and the likes, but is comprised of something completely different (and maybe even a bit more moving) at the same time. They're going to own the scene in a matter of months.
No Age was... well, they were No Age. Mind blowing, body moving, trance inducing, and (lest we forget) fucking LOUD. I would write more about this, but my ears are still ringing two hours later and my body is covered in bruises and I'm still (unsuccessfully) trying to forget the near rape I experienced (before I yanked and twisted his balls, of course; best trick in the book, girls). Oh right, and I have to live real life come the morrow, right? Shit.
I smell. I need a bath. Go see Rings. Go visit their myspace. Now. While I nurse myself back to health.
As a venue, it's probably the best thing since sliced bread, if sliced bread were the last good venue (which I can't even think of, really). Another Todd P creation (I think) to join the likes of Silent Barn and Death By Audio in the underground Brooklyn music scene, it takes everything about those two places we love (the space of the first and the more convenient location of the second because, okay, even though it's off the JMZ line, it's a hell of a lot less of a trek than to Silent Barn) and smashes it together in some cosmic fusion of insanity and greatness. The funnel effect of the small stage/large, somewhat triangular space that fans out is fucking perfect for shows like the one I went to tonight. The scenesters were the cattle being herded to the slaughter that was, without a shadow of a fucking doubt, No Age.
But the duo wasn't without help. Their openers were so stellar, providing the audience just the right amount of tension and build-up before the whole damn night was blown wide open. High Places is a sick duo that sounds as if they dragged their beats straight out of the jungle, bound and gagged and complete with all the bells and whistles (quite literally, and it was a bit sad when one fell apart in the middle of a song, but beat maker and primary bells-and-whistles user Robert Barber kept on like a trooper with JUST ONE BELL!). But they're a favorite; everyone was prepared for their spot-on tribal beats (which, by the way, are complemented crazy well by singer Mary Pearson's high, ringing peal of a voice, which, in any other situation might be a bit plain, but work perfectly against the colorful jungle sounds).
The surprise tonight was Rings. Or maybe it was just that I was surprised. I'd never seen them live before, and only vaguely heard of them. But there was something about an all-female trio onstage sharing singing duties and haunting harmonies over sounds that were hollow and overflowing with emotion all at the same time. They truly operated as a unit. As I watched them perform, I didn't see three members; I saw Rings, an amoeba, morphing and convoluted and changing right in front of me, in the middle of songs, at the end of songs, at the beginnings, whatever. They were FLUID. Not to mention their sound is stunning in its simplicity and then it's building of layers upon layers upon layers, peppered with just the right subtle changes to make your jaw slacken as you stand there, in a very "what the fuck is going on" sort of manner. Then it all ends, decomposing like a body, just as quickly as it was all put together, and it's as if you just lived a life in that song; born, existed, died. These ladies are something special, that's for certain, drawing a sound that draws upon Gang Gang Dance and the likes, but is comprised of something completely different (and maybe even a bit more moving) at the same time. They're going to own the scene in a matter of months.
No Age was... well, they were No Age. Mind blowing, body moving, trance inducing, and (lest we forget) fucking LOUD. I would write more about this, but my ears are still ringing two hours later and my body is covered in bruises and I'm still (unsuccessfully) trying to forget the near rape I experienced (before I yanked and twisted his balls, of course; best trick in the book, girls). Oh right, and I have to live real life come the morrow, right? Shit.
I smell. I need a bath. Go see Rings. Go visit their myspace. Now. While I nurse myself back to health.
Saturday, February 9, 2008
Live By-Proxy, or One of the Worst Ideas Known to Man
I could talk a great deal about the premise of the show I went to tonight. I could talk (or, more accurately, bitch) for days and days and days about it. But, in spite of myself, I'm going to keep this short. This might not be smart, as I am writing a blog here, and the whole purpose is to be descriptive and paint a vivid picture of how you see things, so that some lonely fuck somewhere can live vicariously through your experience and, after deciding whether you're cool or not, emulate it. I think perhaps my brevity is not only to spite myself, but the Hipsters of All Hipsters who thought this little diddy of a show up.
So. My good friend and fellow victim of higher education, Devin Moore (PhD, Edible Bubbles) enlightened me a bit about hipster philosophy today. Not because she's a hipster; because she's a hipster critic, well-versed in hipster studies (not really much to boast about, anyone who crosses the Brooklyn Bridge these days is). She talked to be about what the hipster elite consider to be high brow versus low brow. Apparently, it's a wide belief that art should be "appreciated" and not "experienced." This is high brow. Chances are if you've attended a concert in Brooklyn you have either practiced this or seen it. It's the sea of bobbing blazers, spectacled and hair all mussed about their faces because they just don't care enough (that they care so fucking much). Experiencing music is beneath them. It is plebeian. How dare you dance, how dare you enjoy yourself?!
Are we all so fucking numb nowadays? Music is nothing if not emotional. If you are not moved by music, you're the imbecile (or an emotional cripple). You're "low brow," because you clearly lack the capacity to truly understand what's being laid before you, the pure feeling and energy that makes a great piece of music. Silly rabbits. Hipsterdom is for kids.
And that's all that was on display tonight, at Uniondocs Bodega (bodega. bodega. bodega. you can't get more hipster than the fucking word "bodega." only hipsters say bodega because they think that people who are actually from Brooklyn say bodega. Well, a little information from a person shot out from her mother's womb in a Brooklyn hospital, and raised there her whole life - no one says bodega. In fact, I never heard the damn word until I started going to NYU). Pure hipster antics that did nothing but detract from everything good about a music show - all the feeling, the experiencing.
We watched two bands, People and These Are Powers play on a shitty, black and white projector screen from the room directly below us.
The opener, People, fit this type of scene exactly. All dissonant chords and what I called metamusic (like this little number, whose name I never found out, in which they began a cappella, while singing about how the lyrics to the song sucked a cappella, and informing the audience of when the guitar would start, and would it be distorted? yes! it would be! they went on to talk about time signatures and what have you, and the song predictably ended in a wave of discordant noise, as they said, "let's try 5/16!". or maybe it was 4/16. i don't really care.), they were perfect for tonights uuber hipster conceptual show.
These Are Powers is the band that inspired me to go tonight. After seeing an amazing performance at NYU in December and listening to their unbelievably addictive, dancetrance-inducing songs on their LP (Terrific Seasons), I was itching to see them again. And though I was feeling that all hope was lost for my night by 11:30, their performance made it all worthwhile. Even via a horrendous projector and even worse sound, the set had me dancing on my red floor cushion, and singer Anna Barie's feral, melodic yells over the intoxicatingly repetitive beats was enough to send me climbing up the walls and tearing shit apart. In a good way, of course. By their second song, Little Sisters of Beijing, I wanted nothing more than to start clawing at the unmoving people around me, picking them up by their collars and pushing them around a bit. Maybe then they'd smile.
If I were a more modest sort of person, I would have felt like an ass sitting there, banging my feet and bobbing my head and wiggling my hips in place. Everyone else was still as death, so silent you could hear people pissing in the bathroom between songs. That was the performance's only downfall - a shitty concept and an even shittier audience. I'd definitely recommend seeing These Are Powers, and will definitely be attending another performance of theirs. So long as it's not by-fucking-proxy.
So. My good friend and fellow victim of higher education, Devin Moore (PhD, Edible Bubbles) enlightened me a bit about hipster philosophy today. Not because she's a hipster; because she's a hipster critic, well-versed in hipster studies (not really much to boast about, anyone who crosses the Brooklyn Bridge these days is). She talked to be about what the hipster elite consider to be high brow versus low brow. Apparently, it's a wide belief that art should be "appreciated" and not "experienced." This is high brow. Chances are if you've attended a concert in Brooklyn you have either practiced this or seen it. It's the sea of bobbing blazers, spectacled and hair all mussed about their faces because they just don't care enough (that they care so fucking much). Experiencing music is beneath them. It is plebeian. How dare you dance, how dare you enjoy yourself?!
Are we all so fucking numb nowadays? Music is nothing if not emotional. If you are not moved by music, you're the imbecile (or an emotional cripple). You're "low brow," because you clearly lack the capacity to truly understand what's being laid before you, the pure feeling and energy that makes a great piece of music. Silly rabbits. Hipsterdom is for kids.
And that's all that was on display tonight, at Uniondocs Bodega (bodega. bodega. bodega. you can't get more hipster than the fucking word "bodega." only hipsters say bodega because they think that people who are actually from Brooklyn say bodega. Well, a little information from a person shot out from her mother's womb in a Brooklyn hospital, and raised there her whole life - no one says bodega. In fact, I never heard the damn word until I started going to NYU). Pure hipster antics that did nothing but detract from everything good about a music show - all the feeling, the experiencing.
We watched two bands, People and These Are Powers play on a shitty, black and white projector screen from the room directly below us.
The opener, People, fit this type of scene exactly. All dissonant chords and what I called metamusic (like this little number, whose name I never found out, in which they began a cappella, while singing about how the lyrics to the song sucked a cappella, and informing the audience of when the guitar would start, and would it be distorted? yes! it would be! they went on to talk about time signatures and what have you, and the song predictably ended in a wave of discordant noise, as they said, "let's try 5/16!". or maybe it was 4/16. i don't really care.), they were perfect for tonights uuber hipster conceptual show.
These Are Powers is the band that inspired me to go tonight. After seeing an amazing performance at NYU in December and listening to their unbelievably addictive, dancetrance-inducing songs on their LP (Terrific Seasons), I was itching to see them again. And though I was feeling that all hope was lost for my night by 11:30, their performance made it all worthwhile. Even via a horrendous projector and even worse sound, the set had me dancing on my red floor cushion, and singer Anna Barie's feral, melodic yells over the intoxicatingly repetitive beats was enough to send me climbing up the walls and tearing shit apart. In a good way, of course. By their second song, Little Sisters of Beijing, I wanted nothing more than to start clawing at the unmoving people around me, picking them up by their collars and pushing them around a bit. Maybe then they'd smile.
If I were a more modest sort of person, I would have felt like an ass sitting there, banging my feet and bobbing my head and wiggling my hips in place. Everyone else was still as death, so silent you could hear people pissing in the bathroom between songs. That was the performance's only downfall - a shitty concept and an even shittier audience. I'd definitely recommend seeing These Are Powers, and will definitely be attending another performance of theirs. So long as it's not by-fucking-proxy.
Saturday, February 2, 2008
hot chip, or why i should have worn comfy shoes.
Ok, I'll admit, I was highly skeptical of Devlin and Darko and Hot Chip tonight, at Highline. I really was. I heard good things from some reputable sources, but essentially it's not my cup of tea. I wasn't really familiar with a great deal of Hot Chip's stuff, so I figured I'd give them a chance, at the very least.
The performance essentially blew me away. It was peculiar; I wasn't really MOVED by any of the music, per se. But I had a fucking fun time. And during the whole thing, all I kept wondering is why, WHY are these bunch of guys who I would have mocked in high school standing on a stage and dictating to me how to be cool. And why was I listening?
The music was infectious. I've never seen so many white kids dancing in one place since everyone since the drunken dance to Usher's "Yeah" at my senior prom. And even then, they weren't ALL hipsters; you had your wankstas and your dance kids. But not at Hot Chip. No, no, no. This was an entirely different sort of dance experience. It rivalled Williamsburg for the collective amount of thick rimmed glasses and skinny grey jeans it boasted. Overall, seeing the barista that served me free trade coffee this morning shaking his hips in a VERY frenetic and somewhat pathetic fashion to electropopbeats is more than slightly disturbing.
Nonetheless, this makes me a hypocrite as I was doing the exact, same thing.
It felt like a throwback, essentially. Their shit's riddled with 80's technosounds and synthbeats. Had I closed my eyes and tried real, real hard, I might've deceived myself into thinking that Michael J. Fox had come and whisked me away in his Delorean. But the beauty of the whole thing was that there was something distinctly modern (or postmodern) about it, too. I can't quite put my finger on it yet; it may be that it was simply in the setting itself, and the people. Though the vocal performance was really of an unparalleled, unique sort. Three voices, three vocal ranges, three very different sounds. It might've been the touch that blasted the whole shebang into the 21st century. I can't be sure.
Devlin and Darko were somewhat typical, but fun, of course. And their sampling was phenomenal. It pushes them that extra step ahead, gives them something that no one else has (at least until another computer nerd with an extensive musical vocabulary comes along and takes that away from them).
Generally a pleasing show. I'm all danced and debauched out.
The performance essentially blew me away. It was peculiar; I wasn't really MOVED by any of the music, per se. But I had a fucking fun time. And during the whole thing, all I kept wondering is why, WHY are these bunch of guys who I would have mocked in high school standing on a stage and dictating to me how to be cool. And why was I listening?
The music was infectious. I've never seen so many white kids dancing in one place since everyone since the drunken dance to Usher's "Yeah" at my senior prom. And even then, they weren't ALL hipsters; you had your wankstas and your dance kids. But not at Hot Chip. No, no, no. This was an entirely different sort of dance experience. It rivalled Williamsburg for the collective amount of thick rimmed glasses and skinny grey jeans it boasted. Overall, seeing the barista that served me free trade coffee this morning shaking his hips in a VERY frenetic and somewhat pathetic fashion to electropopbeats is more than slightly disturbing.
Nonetheless, this makes me a hypocrite as I was doing the exact, same thing.
It felt like a throwback, essentially. Their shit's riddled with 80's technosounds and synthbeats. Had I closed my eyes and tried real, real hard, I might've deceived myself into thinking that Michael J. Fox had come and whisked me away in his Delorean. But the beauty of the whole thing was that there was something distinctly modern (or postmodern) about it, too. I can't quite put my finger on it yet; it may be that it was simply in the setting itself, and the people. Though the vocal performance was really of an unparalleled, unique sort. Three voices, three vocal ranges, three very different sounds. It might've been the touch that blasted the whole shebang into the 21st century. I can't be sure.
Devlin and Darko were somewhat typical, but fun, of course. And their sampling was phenomenal. It pushes them that extra step ahead, gives them something that no one else has (at least until another computer nerd with an extensive musical vocabulary comes along and takes that away from them).
Generally a pleasing show. I'm all danced and debauched out.
The Team Robespierre record release party was off the chain last night. Off the fucking chain. I woke up fifteen minutes ago with bruises all down my ribs and arms, and one bite mark. I'm pretty sure I was nearly raped when I crowdsurfed, and I don't regret a single second. They really turned their shit out, and I'm sitting triumphantly next to my computer with their CD. I'll probably write more on that when my body isn't destroyed.
Side note: The Golden Error was fucking awesome, too. I didn't hear much/didn't care for much of the other performances, but they were like, bouncing off the walls with this neverending lightshow of energy. And now I'm in mourning for a show in New York. Letdown.
Side note: The Golden Error was fucking awesome, too. I didn't hear much/didn't care for much of the other performances, but they were like, bouncing off the walls with this neverending lightshow of energy. And now I'm in mourning for a show in New York. Letdown.
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