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By Simon Howell - A Listening Ear - 02/21/2008

It's not often you spot a triple bill in which you're well acquainted with all three groups. In this case, I'd heard two albums apiece by the opening acts, and the headliner was one of my all-time favorite bands. On my way to the venue, I thought about how odd the bill was and when I got there, it turned out I was right -- it was like attending three separate, entirely unconnected events.

First, "anti"-folk singer -- and handsomer fellow than I'd imagined -- Jeffrey Lewis took the stage, armed only with his sticker-laden acoustic guitar and a keyboard. Lewis charmed the crowd early with an a cappella ode to Ramen noodle soup (apparently I should be keeping an eye out for the blue Ichibans). From there, his set consisted of the simple, confessional and funny songs he's known for, albeit interspersed with a pair of tracks from his Crass covers album -- one of which, "Gasman Cometh," was as grim as the rest of the set was goofy. The highlight of the set surely consisted of the song/performance piece, "Creeping Brain," which featured Lewis singing and flipping a storybook depicting the song's epic tale of a giant brain run amok (only to develop into a saintly martyr for human salvation), accompanied solely by himself on a tape recorder, playing guitar and singing backup vocals. I was a little disappointed that we didn't get a rendition of "Chelsea Hotel Oral Sex Song," particularly as he was performing in Leonard Cohen's hometown, but he was easily forgiven.

Athens' Times New Viking sped through about a dozen songs in what couldn't have been more than twenty minutes, blasting through their energetic songs with trademark efficiency. As I was observing them I discovered the appropriate name for their style: trad-indie. Their hooky, deliberately crude songs -- complete with lo-fi production values as an aesthetic decision -- betray their basic purpose as somewhat of a nostalgia act for people who need more songs that sound like their favorite bands' earliest, crudest releases. Their aesthetic is seemingly meant to evoke the old rockist idiom that the best bands are writing the best songs in garages and recording them with the crappiest equipment. I don't really mean this in a negative way -- some of their songs are fantastic, particularly "Devo and Wine" (the evening's set opener) and a good portion of their new album, Rip It Off. It's just a little strange to see a talented group so clearly and willfully setting strict boundaries on their sound. They've released three slender full-lengths now, and while there has been some improved songcraft, their forcefully regressive live show made their intentions clear. They've certainly got stage presence and energy, but something about their approach sets me at a bit of a distance.

(It should also be mentioned that drummer/vocalist, Adam Elliot, committed the second act of microphone imbibing I've witnessed in as many months. The first was at Clockcleaner's deafening New Year's show. Is this some sort of emerging trend I've been missing out on, or have overeager vocalists always been doing this sort of thing?)

The last time the Super Furries came to town, they were still on a major label, touring in support of their most divisive LP to date, Love Kraft. The album represented their most indulgent period; it featured massive orchestral arrangements, choirs, massive choruses and songs that routinely stretched well beyond five minutes. Predictably, the show I saw in support of it was a little heavy on the portentous numbers from that album, albeit still interspersed with a few of the spiky pop tunes of their past. This time around, it's a different story altogether. They're touring in support of Hey Venus!, their most concise, pop-minded album since their 1996 debut, Fuzzy Logic. Now signed to Rough Trade after their contract with Epic expired, the band members were stripped of the more extravagant aspects of their old live shows -- no laser suits (although they did have matching outfits emblazoned with Keiichi Tanami's artwork), no projectors and no golf karts. The only multimedia indulgence this time around was a widget on their website that allowed fans to vote for which songs out of a shortlist they most wanted to hear performed.

The five-piece was distilled to the most basic aspects of its sound without many of the synth embellishments of the Love Kraft era -- this was a guitar-dominated affair. The awkward exception was opener, "Slow Life," whose programmed beat and orchestral elements the band played on top of, rather than attempting to recreate. It was a bit like they were doing a karaoke set of their own track, and bandleader Gruff Rhys' laconic vocal work on the song didn't help. The rest of the set's first block was overly dominated by the group's fastest, shortest pop songs -- "Do or Die," "Rings Around the World," "Golden Retriever," "Neo-Consumer," and an unfortunate new version of classic single, "Northern Lites," which did away with the original's bizarrely appealing combination of sprightly horns and steel drums in favor of a steamrolled electric guitar arrangement.

The set took a much-needed turn with an amazing performance of "Receptacle for the Respectable," a tripartite pop epic that made use of, among other things, a voice modulator, multiple guitar switches and carrots (famously recreating the crunching percussion on the Beach Boys' "Vege-Tables"). The song's roaring faux-metal climax even culminated in Gruff gloriously crossing guitar necks with lead guitarist, Bunf, and bassist, Guto. It was a silly moment, but their sheer conviction and ability let them pull it off with panache. Similarly successful were older tracks like "She's Got Spies," "Juxtaposed With U" (on which Gruff switched between standard and vocodered vocals with ingenuity), and the sole Welsh track of the night, terse rocker "Calimero." After a brief return to the aimless energy of the first half with upbeat, but vacuous, Hey Venus! tracks "Baby Ate My Eightball" and "Into the Night," things perked up again near the very end with a spirited rendition of early single, "The Man Don't Give a Fuck" -- performed at its original running length as opposed to the twenty-minute techno freak-out version that had graced their last few tours -- and psychedelic pop nugget, "Keep the Cosmic Trigger Happy."

After their twenty-song, ninety-minute set, the band held up signs proclaiming "Resist Phony Encores," and indeed they didn't return once they exited the stage. I was left with mixed feelings about the set. They'll always one of my very favorite bands, and have been since the release of Rings Around the World, but I sometimes wonder if they know their strengths. Their slower pop numbers are at least as satisfying as their upbeat ones, if not more so, and a better balance of both would have been appreciated. Of course, the audience voted to include "Golden Retriever" and "Northern Lites" rather than "Carbon Dating" or "Down a Different River," so I must be in the minority on this.

Tune in to A Listening Ear with Simon every Tuesday from 1pm - 2pm

By Josh Mocle - The Kids Are So-So - 02/03/2008

Normally when reviewing concerts, I discuss the bands in the order they performed. However, in the case of the Sick of It All headlining show at Le National on February 3^rd, I find it appropriate to start off with discussing the headliner and working in reverse since absolutely none of the bands on that relatively well put together tour would have existed in their current incarnation if it weren’t for Sick of It All.

As the houselights dimmed, the oversized siren bulbs set up as stage decorations turned on and the sound of air raid sirens blared out; the band took the stage with an energy and motivation that surpassed the much younger bands that had preceded them that night. While I’ve seen many “legendary” bands in my time, I somehow suspected I was in for something special this time. After all, not many bands of any genre (especially within the hardcore scene) can proudly declare that they’ve been around for twenty-two years without, as singer Lou Koller put it, “any of that reunion bullshit.” Usually, when a band has been around that long, their age begins to show (Metallica, who have been active only two years longer, is just the most obvious example of this).  However, for the first time while seeing a band full of certifiable old farts, I honestly didn’t notice. While the old adage that “punks age extremely well” may be accurate, apparently hardcore kids age a helluva lot better.

About halfway through the set, Koller declared what he saw as two major problems with being around as long as they have: too many songs to choose from and the new crowd not knowing how to dance like the old crowd and the old crowd being unable to dance like they used to. However, one problem I kept coming back to was one he failed to mention: originality. Yes, the members of the band are still indisputably at the top of their game, however, at this point there are tons of bands who are also at the top of that same game. While Sick of It All helped to define east-coast hardcore in the late ‘80s, unlike breaking up or burning out like some of the other Godfathers, they kept going even after tons of bands formed in order to recreate and expand on their style. As such, even though I had never seen THEM until that night, I still felt as if I was seeing something I had already seen before. Even the Wall of Death (which they fucking INVENTED, despite what many Aiden fans might think) came across as old hat and cliché (and if you aren’t sure what the Wall of Death is, think “Braveheart in a mosh pit” and you should get the right idea). While most of the crowd was blowing their load over hits like “Built to Last” and “Rat Pack,” I found myself getting increasingly more bored as time wore on and eventually left before the set was over. That may either be my age showing or an indication of a recurring trend of the originators becoming cliché by association. For the record, I hope it’s the former.

Madball took the stage prior to Sick of It All and to be honest, I was not expecting much. I may be in the minority (as I’ve met people who don’t even like hardcore who like Madball), but try as I might I have never been able to get into that band, and that night was no exception. Their distilled, metal-tinged hardcore is not only boring (although I will admit, their older, more legit hardcore anthems were pretty good) but the band themselves seemed to have a definite lack of energy. While it’s not uncommon for the crowd to have more energy than the band, the level in which the audience’s energy dwarfed that of the band was certifiably absurd. I suppose this says a lot about the band’s place in the history of New York Hardcore and the dedication of their fans, but a “paint by numbers” performance is still a “paint by numbers” performance, and that’s really all I could get out of it. That may just be me though.

Prior to Madball, Death Before Dishonor delivered what no other band that night could: the worst set of the night. The only difference is I was expecting better. Perhaps I was confusing them for another band, perhaps I really wanted to support my Boston brethren, but for whatever reason I really wanted to like them but it just wasn’t happening. It isn’t very often that a band’s attitude ruins their performance, but that’s definitely how it went down. While jocks have been associated with hardcore since, well, forever, somehow on an entire hardcore tour only one band was full of obvious asshole jocks who considered themselves the end all and be all of the entire genre. Thankfully though, the audience wasn’t having it. For those of you familiar with the infamous Brian Posehn track “Metal by Numbers,” this was almost certainly the band he was talking about.

Which brings us to Wisdom in Chains, the first band who performed that night and the only one to earn my admiration, respect and, probably most importantly, my 20 bucks (which got me two thirds of their catalogue. Pretty damn good if I do say so). Ironically, despite singer Mad Joe Black’s constant vocal admiration of the headliners (apparently they were the first band he ever saw), they were the one band on the tour who sounded the least like Sick of It All. Their live performance (and, as I later found out, their recorded output as well) mixed Hardcore and Oi styles flawlessly and they seemed to be drawing from an endless pool of energy throughout their set (which was far too short). It was only toward the end of their set when I may have discovered why and how they do what they do when Black dedicated a song to his two children and declared that everything he did, he did for them. While I could go on about this, I’ll conclude by saying it’s nice to see musicians doing it for more than just the beer and the girls.

Josh Mocle is a DJ, “journalist” and occasional spelunker. He thinks if you REALLY loved this concert, you should probably listen to BridgetheGap with the ineffable Jackie Hall. If not, you should listen to The Kids Are So-So with him and the mysterious Stabby Abby every Tuesday from 2-4 in the PM only on CJLO.

By Simon Howell - A Listening Ear - 02/08/2008

"You'll have to keep walking, friend." 

Where am I? Why have I arrived at 9:10 pm, ten minutes after "doors open," only to discover Dean & Britta already onstage, about three songs into their set? Most importantly -- "friend"? Can I get a good, old-fashioned "move, asshole!" or, better yet, indifferent silence, as is customary at every other gig I've ever attended in this fine city, as I make my way through the crowd? Something is amiss.

As I look out on the small mass of seated spectators, with their brows furrowed, necks strained, wine glasses half-full and a few dozen palms firmly applied to chins (with more surely on the way) as if in deep consideration of the concert in progress, I begin to realize that this will not be a typical gig. No, this is the last weekend before that most accursed of holidays, wherein we commemorate a beheaded Christian martyr by either overspending on our significant others or, if we have none, praying for death. Tonight I am surrounded by the former lot -- more specifically, middle-aged, upper-middle class couples for whom this is Serious Stuff. This is going to be a classy evening enjoyed by quiet, serious folks with money. There is a pretty severe handicap against me deriving any enjoyment this evening. 

As I said, despite my obsessively early arrival, things are already underway. Dean & Britta are well into their set of dreamy, shoegaze-inflected duet pop by the time I awkwardly squeeze my way into a seat, feeling very much like a lower-caste citizen. Speaking of Valentine's Day, Dean & Britta (both formerly of shoegaze/slowcore pioneers Luna) make for a handsome pair -- Dean Wareham's all-guitar heroics and Lou Reed grit, going nicely with Britta Phillips' airy croon. Much as I appreciate the smooth songwriting and seamless vocal blending of the two, they don’t really leave much of an impression until the second-to-last song of their set, a cover of recently departed Lee Hazlewood's "You Turned My Head Around," in which Phillips cuts loose with a huge, belting chorus straight out of a Dusty Springfield record. It's a moment strong enough to make me buck up, get accustomed to my staid surroundings, and do my best to enjoy myself.

It happens just in time, because not twenty minutes later, Keren Ann emerges with only a drummer and guitarist -- surprising, since her records are so densely layered with orchestral elements. Within only a few moments of opener, "Nolita," however, my concerns are swept aside; she knows what she's doing. Ann's steady acoustic picking patterns and intoxicating vocals -- sweetly intoning "I think I'm gonna bury you" -- are complimented by her guitarist's carefully strummed, reverberated swells, making for a deeply cinematic contrast. By the time the drummer finally gets around to contributing with lush cymbal washes, we're already sold, and damn it, I now feel like part of the crowd. That's how convincing she is. 

The rest of her set coasts along on her easy charm and obvious talent. Her songs aren't always particularly distinctive -- a couple of early ballads, in particular, don't leave much of an impression -- but when she's on, like during blues-rock stomp, "It Ain't No Crime," on which she convincingly switched to a bass guitar, you're surprised the price of admission isn't twice as high. Her accompanist is clearly a session musician, a complete pro -- his whammy-heavy solo is just too perfect for him not to be. Even Ann shows few signs of human error. During that song and recent single, "Lay Your Head Down," (jauntier here than on record) she even proves to be a mean harmonica player. Thankfully, a few cracks do finally show up throughout the evening -- Ann having to take a breath during the rapid-fire verses of "Sailor and Widow," for instance, or her accompanist's surprisingly tentative backing vocals on the lovely "Not Going Anywhere." These very minor flaws go a long way towards humanizing the experience.

After her brief eleven-song set (and a single song in the encore), I head back out into the cold evening feeling as though I had just stepped into some sort of bizarre alternate universe. Had I in fact gotten a glimpse of my own future? Will I one day be a working professional of some kind, and if so, will this be my preferred form of concert-going, merely as a pseudo-romantic contrivance? Will I react against the noisy, messy music of my youth and partake only in adult-contemporary and its adherents? If that's the case, then as long as Ann keeps her silvery pipes, I have the perfect Valentine's weekend plan for my (admittedly depressing) future self.

Tune in to A Listening Ear with Simon every Tuesday from 1pm - 2pm

By Simon Howell - A Listening Ear - 01/22/2008

About four years ago, when I was still ecstatic to have moved to a city in which great music was in abundance at a seemingly endless variety of used record stores, I picked up the Shalabi Effect's self-titled debut. Why? Principally because it had a shiny cover with a nebula on it, and it was a two-disc record for eight bucks, which seemed like an unbeatable bargain. Needless to say that seventeen-year-old me was inadequately prepared to process the two hours of drone-based recordings contained inside that inviting slipcase.

To my surprise, Shalabi's newest release (his third, minus the "Effect") is an eclectic set of Middle East-inspired experimental rock music -- its impetus apparently stemming from a trip to Egypt -- which often features surprisingly straightforward compositional structures. "Jessica Simpson" stomps along to a consistent, bass-driven rhythm for its eight minutes, culminating in a surprisingly intense 70's prog guitar solo (a device that pops up again on "Honey Limbo"). The grandiose structure and instrumentation, combined with the relatively lo-fi recording style, makes for a hazy, narcotic listen. The title track is more exotic, with woozy strings revolving around a simple, hypnotic figure, overlaid by distant, distorted vocals. Other tracks, like "Eddie," incorporate found sound and film dialogue along with the rest of the heady brew. Constellation singer Elizabeth Anka Vajajick takes the reigns on the dark dirge "Billy the Kid." "End Game" is most surprising -- a four-minute, driving rock song propelled by strings and Lhasa de Sela's gritty vocal. Alien8's press release mentions her past collaborations with Tindersticks and Nick Cave, and there's definitely a shared aesthetic evident on her work here. "Billy the Kid Pt. 2" continues in the song-based vein, a ghostly ballad led by singer Katie Moore and featuring a verse-chorus structure. It's expansive in a manner reminiscent -- of all things -- of American alt-country acts like Pinetop Seven. Closer "Pitchfork" resumes the more exploratory leanings of the album's first half with meandering horn and piano lines, creepy onomatopoeic vocal snippets, and martial drumming with a distorted, jarring climax and an acoustic comedown.

Alternately alien and comforting, Shalabi and his all-star cast manage to wring out newly imagined juxtapositions and energies from the confines of their improvisations and collaborations. You may at times be confounded by the results but you certainly won't be bored. At 65 minutes, that's an accomplishment in and of itself.

Tune in to A Listening Ear with Simon every Tuesday from 1pm - 2pm