Tag: 285 Kent

LIVE REVIEW: Yonatan Gat, PC Worship @ Mercury Lounge

gal lazer

For all of the venues we’ve lost in the past couple of years: Death By Audio, Glasslands and 285 Kent to name just a few, I sometimes find myself creeping back into Manhattan in search of a cozy room. The Mercury Lounge is one of those spots that, despite its address in the oft-maligned Lower East Side, has yet to fail me as a concert hall. Where else can you see acts as disparate as Nathaniel Rateliff and Ty Segall? Where else is there an intimately sized space with a soundman who actually knows what the hell he’s doing? Where else would Yonatan Gat be able to order half the crowd to mount the stage while the rest of us encircle him and his band on the floor?

I went into Friday night not quite knowing what to expect, an outlook I’ve always believed yields the best results. I had never seen Monotonix in their heyday, but of course was well aware of the legacy…and the riotous, hedonistic, often-flammable sets they played. Would the night end in sirens? Fisticuffs? Human sacrifice? None such luck for the sadists, but I can say us music lovers were well pleased as Yonatan Gat and Co. delivered the best live performance I’ve seen this year.

Warming the crowd for Gat was local band PC Worship, who I’ve been hearing good things about for a while now. Their set was somber and hard-hitting, with more complexity than you see from most openers. Right off the bat I catch sight of drummer Shannon Sigley, who I can’t help but liken to a young Sandy West. Aside from being ace behind the kit, Sigley is no doubt the charismatic core of the band-with a kind of sex appeal that isn’t tawdry, just plain badass. What can I say? I love a lady drummer!

Vocalist Justin Frye manages to be the technical bandleader while giving his fellow musicians enough breathing room, which makes all the more sense when you learn that many PC Worship members were once New School jazz majors. The length and the freedom of their songs speak to that fact-at one point I split for the restroom mid-track, only to return to the same song, still droning.

PC Worship is a difficult band to genre-baste. Their music is far too texturally interesting to sum-up in one word. There’s punk, jazz, shoegaze, grunge, kraut rock, space rock, jam band…space jam? Whatever you want to call them, you have to hand it to a band who’s bassist doubles as a squealing sax man, and who’s rhythm guitarist can opt for the conga while sat on a cinderblock.

I wasn’t entirely paying attention to the set up between PC Worship and Yonatan Gat, and I have my companion to thank for noticing in time that Gat’s gear was being assembled on the ground. Audience members formed a circle around the instruments and a sharp green light beamed from its nucleus. By the time Yonatan Gat, drummer Gal Lazer, and bassist Sergio Sayeg took to the…floor, there was a tangible buzz in the air.

Something I think of far too little as a music journalist is the crowd – and what an integral part of a show they are! The séance-like encircling of Gat’s band provided a panoramic view of the fans and a chance to stare into the eyes of your peers while sharing the excitement of this one moment in time.

And what excitement! We got 45 minutes of near-unpunctuated noise. Yet another genre-swapping band, the trio volleyed between psych-rock, garage, punk, surf, jazz, and just general sonic mayhem. Both Gat and Sayeg were wizzes on their respective strings, but the drummers stole my heart that evening: Gal Lazer was off the chain.

An immensely skilled percussionist, Lazer looks like Iggy Pop and drums with the thrashing insanity of Keith Moon-a sort of precise madness that you don’t see too often. His style was sexy, staccato, punk-jazz genius. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him…or his unzipped fly, the latter of which may have distracted me from the fact that his brilliant playing was emanating from a toy drum kit. He played so fast that I originally thought he was working a double bass pedal, but I don’t think those have saturated the Fischer Price My-First-Drum-Kit market quite yet.

The colorful workman’s lamps set up by each band member suddenly flicked off, leaving us all in darkness for a moment. As cheers swelled the band remained fixed. Eventually the lights slapped on again to the sound of Gat saying “thank you, very clever.” As it turns out, encores are just as exciting when the band never leaves the room in the first place.

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LIVE REVIEW: Holograms & TV Ghost

Holograms

Last year around this time everyone I knew was nervous about the world ending.  At the very least, friends of mine made Mayan Apocalypse jokes until I wished the sky would just blow up already.  But on the morning of December 21st, everything was the same as it had been the morning before.  There were no explosions.  There were no human sacrifices and no meteor and no floods and no getting sucked into a black hole.  The world went on unchanged.

If you’re ever in the mood to fantasize about where humanity might be if gravity had reversed, causing catastrophic disasters, shortages of resources, and mass rioting, and you need some kind of soundtrack to compliment it, you could certainly do worse than TV Ghost or Holograms.  Both bands played 285 Kent last Friday and the mood was calamitous to say the least.

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Holograms
Holograms prefer to play in the dark behind a veil of fog and wall of synths

Holograms hail from Stockholm, an area of the globe closely linked to black metal and kidnapping.  In December they only get six hours of daylight.  In terms of culture and architecture and progressive politics though, it’s probably far less bleak than living Lafayette, Indiana – the birthplace of TV Ghost, and of Axl Rose.  Both bands released highly-regarded records this year – Holograms’ sophomore effort Forever is an unflagging deluge of melodic Scandinavian post-punk, and Disconnect promises to be the dark gem that will finally put enigmatic no-wavers TV Ghost on the map after two stellar but mostly underrated albums.  They’re on tour together throughout December and one can only imagine the conversations they have (or don’t have in favor of morosely staring off into space), but if their albums are any indication then disillusionment, synths and slasher flicks are topics that probably come up frequently.

On stage it’s interesting to note the way each band’s approach to live performance skews Scandinavian vs. Midwestern.  TV Ghost frontman Tim Gick swivels and stumbles like a drunken Frankenstein, climbing speakers one second and crawling through the crowd the next, black curls trembling on his forehead, his voice somewhere between haunted croon and hollow moan, Adam’s apple looking like it’s about to burst through the pale skin at his throat.  He’s fascinating to watch, at once unabashed and seemingly wounded, his bandmates plugging away with intense focus, as if there is no maniac writhing between them and the audience.

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TV Ghost
TV Ghost creeping out 285 Kent

Gick’s gothic antics come off distinctly American next to Holograms’ minimalist approach.  The band was mostly obscured by fog machine and strobes (and by the synths that took front and center stage).  But somewhere in the haze, past the tumultuous mosh pit, Andreas Lagerström’s monolithic howl rang out, ominous and urgent.  It’s the constantly undulating synths that permeate each track and pierce the somber moodiness of the band’s shows.  I saw Holograms last fall on the tour that famously broke them before sending them back to Europe destitute and both times I was astounded by the sheer energy Holograms project and inspire, regardless of the weightiness of their work.  On their Facebook page, the band implores followers for floors to sleep on, on “Ättestupa” Lagerström wails “I’m so tired”.  Maybe that’s true, but you also get the sense that Holograms are plodding ceaselessly onward toward some indefinable future, and will continue to do so until the fire so frequently mentioned on Forever consumes the Earth and each of its inhabitants.

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LIVE REVIEW: Shannon & the Clams

Shannon and the Clams at 285 Kent

“It’s so awesome that you guys know the words!” gushed Shannon Shaw.  “I used to sing at open mic nights and now you guys are singing my songs.”  Her voice broke a little, just for a moment.  But by the time she launched into her next number, it was back to its full bellow, and the crowd went crazy.

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Shannon and the Clams at 285 Kent
Shannon & The Clams at 285 Kent

Shaw is the Shannon, of course, in Shannon & the Clams, who played Saturday at 285 Kent.  It was the second of the Oakland-based trio’s NYC area shows over the weekend, having played Friday at Mercury Lounge as well.  The band is the perfect example of what can happen when musicians are earnest in their kitsch instead of embracing it for irony’s sake.  The Clams live in their gimmicks so fully that it informs their performances and ignites their fans.

On Sunday, the band appeared onstage smeared in glitter.  Guitarist Cody Blanchard (who also provides vocals) had pomaded his hair into a curlycue that flopped in the center of his forehead; later Shaw would tease him for sweating so much that the curl came out.  Both Shaw and Blanchard wore matching red-and-white-striped button ups.  Blanchard completed his look with a coordinating bow-tie, Shaw with a jumper and her signature bleached-blonde bob.  And the music followed form; drummer Ian Amberson, seemingly  dosed on about 7,000 5-hour energy shots, kept time to the band’s rolicking collection of surf-rock anthems, lovelorn garage numbers, and doo-wop throwbacks.

All of that was fun, for sure.  But the transcendent moment came when one member of the audience hopped up on stage and dove off into the droves.  It gave Shaw an idea.  Before she introduced the next song she said, “If there’s anyone in the audience who’s never done a stage dive and wants to but is maybe a little afraid… can we make a safe space for them to do that?”  And the sweaty mass obliged.  The Clams launched into “I Don’t Wanna Be In A Cult No More” from 2011’s Sleep Talk, a fast-paced punk rock ditty, and the kids lined up.  And they weren’t all shirtless boys (although there were a few of those too); there were more girl divers than I can ever remember seeing at a show.  If a diver hesitated, arms from the audience would reach out and up, anticipating and encouraging the impending leap.  No one was dropped or kicked in the head.  Each person passed along in the sea of bodies looked ecstatic, aglow.  “That was awesome,” Shaw stated when the song was over.  It sounded like she was starting to get choked up again, but in the next moment she was belting out another rocking, rolling verse.  And the adoring crowds kept surfing.

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SHOW REVIEW: Sinkane, Friends, Phone Tag

There are certain nights when I wish my favorite venues in Brooklyn, all of which happen to inhabit the same square block of Williamsburg, would just band together and offer three-for-one show deals, or at least build a network of secret tunnels connecting each venue  to the next – like those elaborate ferret dens you see in pet shops, all neon yellow and orange plastic.  Thursday was a perfect example of just such a night, as my buddy Ahmed Gallab and his band Sinkane were opening for Sun Araw at Death By Audio and Brooklyn-based band Friends were over at 285 Kent.  Additionally, Annie was amped for a Chris Cohen set at Glasslands, so we did what any good AudioFemmes would do and attended all three between the two of us.

I don’t want to go into too much detail about Sinkane’s set; this blog has not seen the last of him by any means.  Frontman Ahmed Gallab is a longtime friend of mine from Ohio, where I’d see him play regularly with two of my favorite Columbus acts, Sweetheart and Pompeii This Morning.  Sinkane is the most psychedelic sonic adventure he’s ever been on, and I’ve been stoked to watch it evolve from its humble beginnings as a solo project, through a move to Brooklyn and tours with the likes of Caribou and Yeasayer, and into what it is now – a four piece as much informed by seventies funk and Afrobeat as it is by indie rock.  His jams get more and more solid every time I get a chance to see him play, helped along by a recent residency at Zebulon and soon to take the world by storm as he was just signed to DFA.  On Thursday he debuted some great new material – stay tuned for an upcoming AF feature.

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Sinkane at Death by Audio

As I mentioned, Sinkane was opening up for fellow purveyors of psychedelic sound Sun Araw, though I was only able to stay for a few of their songs.  I’ve liked a good many records that they’ve put out, but have never really gotten to see them live.  Their first few numbers were droning and dissonant; hair hung in the faces of the flanneled band members who had turned most of the stage lights out just before playing.  I’m hoping the set got better as they went on.  They were sluggishly nonchalant, as though there weren’t a room filled with folks eyeing their moves, and the songs just didn’t come across as textural or integrated as they do on the albums, and the cloud of weed hovering in the front room of DBA didn’t even help.  I’ll be giving them another chance, though, and soon.

I could have probably stuck around a bit longer, but I didn’t want to miss Friends and figured they’d play at 285 Kent around 11:30.  When I arrived at the venue, Phone Tag was finishing up an adorably bouncy set that had the crowd (and it was a decently sized crowd for an opening band on a Thursday night) going wild.  I hadn’t yet heard their self-titled 2012 LP but was definitely intrigued by the ardent fanbase, not to mention the glistening keys and synths, reverb-drenched guitar and cooing vocals reminiscent of a less grating Passion Pit.  The band is led by Gryphon Graham and comprised of some pretty attractive kids.  They could just as easily be a group of hip super-heroes as a band, but lucky for everyone at 285 they chose to play instruments instead of fight crime.  Their songs are made for rooftop dance parties and flirting in bars, ultra catchy and very fun but never totally frivolous.

All of this made them appropriate openers for Brooklyn band-of-the-moment Friends, who will soon embark on a month-long tour opening for Two Door Cinema Club.  Like Phone Tag, Friends play deceivingly simple indie pop party jams, but there’s a certain depth and skill at work that goes beyond the band’s youthful exuberance.

Friends take ultra catchy jams and infuse them with beats and instrumentation so eclectic it’s hard to pin down any definitive influences.  Their live shows feature heavy, funky basslines courtesy of a new bassist known as “V” (who in a weird way looks like an avatar from Rock Band), lively synths thanks to Nikki Shapiro, and he percussive efforts of  Oliver Duncan (on a drumset) and Etienne Pierre Duguay (formerly of Real Estate) on bongos, tambourine, and anything else that will make a sound when you bash, tap, or click it.

But Friends simply would not be what it is without the incredible vocals and personality of Samatha Urbani, whose aesthetic has informed the band since its inception, when she directed videos for the band’s first and very buzzed about singles, “I’m His Girl” and “Friend Crush”.  Wearing high-waisted navy blue pants with double rows of gold buttons, a white shirt tied at the waist with gold beadwork cascading down her back and across her shoulders, Urbani was every bit the glamourous frontwoman.

Her flamboyant-meets-chic style is one thing, but her vocal chops are completely another.  She drifts back and forth easily between a higher, sweeter coo and lower, more sultry tones delivered with a dose of sass.  That much was apparent on the band’s debut LP, Manifest! released this year.  But live she’s that much more captivating, peppering her performance with coquettish yelps and squeals reminiscent of Kate Pierson from the B-52’s.  A friend of mine told me that she used to see Urbani perform regularly at karaoke and said that she completely slayed every song, which I not only believe but would have probably paid money to see that alone.

 

 

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SHOW REVIEW: Gang Gang Dance w/ Prince Rama

Okay, so I know I’ve been spending too much time at 285 Kent.  I know you’re all sick of hearing about it.  I’m thinking of getting a tattoo of a sharpie line drawn across my wrist so they won’t have to ID me anymore, maybe even the “RANDO” stamp they use on my forearm so I don’t have to pay to get in.  For all you foursquare nerds out there, check out the mayor – it’s actually me.  But none of this is my fault.  I could quit if I wanted.  It’s just that there is too much goodness going on inside those walls on a nightly basis, really.

On Sunday night, that goodness took the form of Gang Gang Dance and Prince Rama.  It was the last night of GGD’s “Tour of Williamsburg” in which they played Public Assembly on Friday (with Sun Araw), Cameo Gallery on Saturday (with New Moods), and 285 on Sunday (with Prince Rama).  All of these shows were put together by Brooklyn-based booking agency Bandshell, whose mission is to bring bigger bands to smaller, more intimate venues.  From what I can tell their venture is a new-ish one and they don’t seem to have any events coming up, but it’s a mission we can get behind and we’d like to see it succeed.

I’d been dying to see Prince Rama but had missed the seven billion opportunities I’d been given in the past.  Now I will say this: NO MORE.  No more will I show up late to shows where they are opening, no more will I skip their free or cheap shows for some other free or cheap show, no more will this band play in Brooklyn without seeing me at the foot of their stage, worshipping every move.  These ladies (and one gentleman) do it so, so right.

First, they were wearing ultra-eccentric outfits (think animal print, think sequins) and had gold glitter all over their faces and all of them (the boy too!) had pretty hair.  The driving force of the project is sisters Taraka and Nimai Larson, joined by guitarist Michael Collins.  The three met in a Hare Krishna commune in Florida and honed their psychedelic leanings in art school.  Oddity can sometimes seem affected or put on, part of a performance rather than a way of life, but for Prince Rama it’s genuine and engaging.

Taraka sang the majority of the vocals and was also in charge of the synths, but abandoned them relatively often for a little audience participation.  The audience this night included members of the Larson family; during the second-to-last number Taraka jumped off stage and danced with what I’d assume was maybe her mother, who seemed to know all the words.  Nimai stood in a circle of drums, dancing while she played, her smile so wide and constant that she kind of reminded me of the girl muppet in Dr. Teeth’s Electric Mayhem.  She was adorable and so fun to watch, but it was hard to train the eyes on any one thing.  There were cool projections mirroring their movements filtered to look like some kind of crazy acid trip, and the stage was festooned with loudly printed textiles and gauze.

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Musically, Prince Rama’s sound is designed to put you in a party trance of sorts; there’s plenty of chanting and call-and-response but it’s backed up by an acute understanding of what makes a song worth dancing to.  I’ve been to plenty of psych shows that devolve into sort of boring drone, and this is the exact opposite.  To prove that, the sisters leapt off stage during the last number and performed an incredible dance routine on the floor to close out the show; this included flips, hand motions, dramatic facial expression, and probably went on for over six minutes.  Since they’d arrived late and hadn’t been able to start the show on time, yet the venue wouldn’t allow them to hold up Gang Gang Dance’s scheduled performance, the dance number ended up being a significant portion of time in their set overall.  But it was absolutely enchanting.  I cannot wait to see them again.

Gang Gang Dance play a similar brew of exotic psych, but there are way more people in the band and have a much heavier ratio of males to females – there are four dudes to the one lady, Lizzi Bougatsos.  At this particular show there was also a strange shaman-type dude in the band; he mostly hid behind the amps but he’d peer around them with some weird antique binocular-type gadget, or hit an adjacent cymbal with a piece of rope tied to his wrist.  At one point he did move to the front of the stage to hold a drum head so Lizzi could bang on it, but that was as present as he ever seemed.

I’m getting a bit ahead of myself though.  Before the show even started, Bougatsos appeared onstage in a baseball cap and a homemade hijab, asking the house DJ to stop playing MIA.  Despite Gang Gang Dance’s obvious affinity for world beats, exotic instrumentation, and Middle-Eastern influenced sonic tinges, Bougatsos proudly identified herself as a Long Island girl, glorious accent and all.  When she sings, though, it sounds like she’s coming from some other planet.  She also plays a floor tom and a smaller set of drums.  The synth guy sometimes played drums too, and then there was actual drummer.  Together, they caused quite a lovely racket, the band spooling out their off-center dance tunes into sprawling psychic meditations.  They tackled favorites like “Mindkilla” “Adult Goth” “Egyptian” and “Vacuums”, interspersed with new songs like “Lazy Eye”, which prompted Bougatsos to keep a lyric sheet on hand, though she ended up not needing it.  In addition to building kaleidoscopic jams out of their regular material, the band also debuted some expansive instrumental tracks.  The only song notably missing from the set was “House Jam”, but in such a long and tight set its omission was not exactly tragic.

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It’s been over a year since Eye Contact was released, and it’s exciting to see the band develop new material, though if the time that passed between their most recent release and 2008’s Saint Dymphna is any indication it will be a while longer before we see a new full length.  If this trio of performances is any indication, Gang Gang Dance are far from exhausting the font from which their reputations as experimental wunderkinds flow.

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SHOW REVIEW: Mount Eerie w/ La Big Vic

There’s really no entity that compares to the genius of Phil Elverum.  He’s like a mythical creature or enlightened being from another planet.  He’s been actively making music and art for nearly fifteen years under a variety of monikers, with common threads and motifs connecting each project to the next.  His soft, cooing voice sounds bashful but the words they convey are anything but; together they form a cohesive aesthetic whether the tunes are performed as a black metal band or as stripped down acoustic melodies.  I’ve been amazed and inspired by his work for most of my adult life, finally getting to see him play live (in a glorious cathedral no less!) during Northside fest in the summer of 2011.

I saw him again a few months later at le poisson rouge.  The opener both times was Nicholas Krgovich, who put out a 7″ on Phil’s record label P.W. Elverum & Sun.  This is significant because he also accompanied Phil, playing keys and synths and adding backing vocals.  The set for both shows spanned a lot of Mount Eerie material (and there really is so, so much of it) but from show to show was pretty similar.  They were both moving in their own way, although far from my dream set, or what I’d imagined a Mount Eerie set might be like after countless repeated listens to their infamous triple LP recorded live in Copenhagen.

For Saturday night’s show, Brooklyn-based electronic indie pop outfit La Big Vic warmed up the crowd with bouncy set, each beat measured against swirling synths and vocals.  Their smartly crafted dream pop is sort of like waking up from a dream you just had where you were lying on the beach sunbathing but the sky was all shifting neon colors instead of the standard blue.  The majority of the crowd paid rapt attention to the attractive trio, with Toshio Masuda casually looping guitars, Emilie Friedllander bowing a violin or cooing into the microphone, and Peter Pearson manning the keys.

During the set, Phil Elverum and his bandmates could be seen milling about the crowd – putting finishing touches on set-up, selling records, and chit-chatting with fans.  This highlights one of the best aspects of Elverum’s live performances and work in general; despite the emotional depth to his work and its esoteric facets, he is really just  normal guy.  He doesn’t take himself too seriously, preferring to interact with the crowd, making jokes at his own expense.  The band had a little trouble with initial set-up, blowing two amps and lacking connections for some of the instruments, during which Phil took it upon himself to introduce the new material as well as his four touring bandmates, all on loan from their various bands and side-projects.

I was really excited to see him play with a fuller band, especially because the additional vocals sounded particularly heartbreaking.  There was also a fake campfire on stage, which added a bit of kitsch but also a bit of setting, and setting is what the new Mount Eerie material is all about.  In his introductory speech, he’d mentioned that the evening’s setlist was composed of songs taken from each of his two newest records, Clear Moon and Ocean Roar.

These albums were recorded simultaneously in Elverum’s new studio, The Unknown, while he took a year off from touring, and he divided the material into separate records afterward.  He has stated that the records are truly meditations on his hometown in Washington state and what it meant for him to be in that one place, day after day, walking from his home to his recording studio and back and then spending quiet evenings reading about Anacortes history.  They represent two sides of the same coin; Clear Moon is as succinct and glistening as its name might suggest, in exactly the same way that Ocean Roar is murky and embattled, its dense layers rolling over tumultuously over and over one another.  In a live setting, the juxtaposition of the material highlighted the breadth and beauty of the sonic divide.  Moving from quieter, dreamier movements into towering walls of drone, Elverum knitted these conjoined twins back together to stunning affect.

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Why You Should Always Go To A “Secret” Show

Last minute, some friends and I decided to grab tickets to Ariel Pink’s Webster Hall show.  TEEN was opening and I hadn’t seen Ariel Pink in roughly two years, the last time being at Irving Plaza when I was going through some major melodrama that kind of ruined the whole thing for me.  So despite the hefty ticket price and less than ideal venue, I logged on to Ticketmaster, rolled my eyes at the ‘service’ surcharges, and was just about to click on “Submit Order” when I heard a familiar gchat ding.  My roommate was informing me that Holy Other had announced a secret show at 285 Kent via a Twitter message that had already disappeared.  All that remained was the following cryptic tweet from the venue:

Todd P’s reply tweets seemed to confirm that it would all go down after Ariel Pink finished the Webster show.  Holy Other was opening for Amon Tobin at Hammerstein, so that also seemed to make sense.  285’s facebook dangled a 3am set time like a carrot on a stick.  The matter was discussed with friends; it simply made more sense to skip Webster on the chance that Ariel would play later, cheaper, and in a rad venue instead of a lame one.

My brain was buzzing while I excitedly coordinated a new game plan for the evening.  Sure, I’d been excited to see TEEN, but had no doubt they’d play a CMJ showcase somewhere.  Holy Other was a more than suitable consolation prize.  And I was curious about R. Stevie Moore’s set as well.  But something about the prospect of seeing Ariel Pink at 285 seemed so epic, even though it was nothing if not the scaled-back nature of this alternative venue that made it that much more appealing.  There was something else at work here – the rumors, the hush, the knowing wink (or in this case, knowing retweets).  The magic of the ‘secret’ show.

What is it that makes a secret show feel so magical?  By its nature, even indulging the rumors means you are part of a club that is “in-the-know” and from there you have two options: play the part of the cool skeptic, or go all in on the chance that whatever happens might be spectacular.  It’s not like buying a ticket for a bill announced well in advance; while the anticipation might be just as acute there is the added glamour of uncertainty.  The venue could be jam-packed!  The ensuing show could be mayhem!  It might not even happen until the wee morning hours!  There could be insane special guests!  Suddenly, I was starring in a saga that had yet to unfold, knowing that if any one of these grandiose scenarios came to fruition, there were major bragging rights to be had.

After all, it was only about a month ago that Pictureplane and Grimes infamously took over 285, aided by surprise appearances from araabMuzik and A$AP Rocky.  I had been at that show; I got tickets before they sold out without thinking about the fact that I was supposed to work that evening, but it ended up taking place much later than expected so I just went afterward.  I’d had some friends in town that weekend so by the Sunday evening on which the show took place, I was exhausted, ready to keel over.  I was quite enjoying Arca’s DJ set but also feeling impatient and super-annoyed by the underaged seapunks populating the crowd.  Pictureplane didn’t go on until after midnight, as though enacting some backwards Cinderella clause.  I was simply too worn out to stick around for Grimes and her gaggle of buzzy artists, but the next day I admittedly kicked myself for not sticking it out a little longer.  A very well-known ‘journalist’ infamous for his over-use of superlatives tweeted: “Seems clear @285Kent will one day be regarded as a legendary NY scene.  Easily the wildest + most creative I’ve witnessed in my 5 years here.”

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Grimes DJs 285 Kent. Photographed by Erez Avissar, photo courtesy of Pitchfork.

And it is kind of true.  If there’s a venue in Brooklyn that’s really taking the reins as far as booking avant-garde artists and quirky parties, it’s 285.  While it’s no doubt benefited from its proximity to neighborhood DIY stalwarts Glasslands and Death By Audio, it has also had to set itself apart from these institutions.  It does so by catering to subcultures so specific to an ever-fleeting moment that, while the general populous tries to come up with a searing punchline to describe it, the nature of the ‘scene’ has already morphed into something else as explosive and as vibrant.  As with any scene there are downsides and caveats, but boredom isn’t in the vocabulary.

So when a place like this announces a secret anything, be there with bells on.  These aren’t just stories to tell your grandkids, these are stories that will make your relatives believe you are starting to go senile, because what you’ve described seems so fantastical.  No, you’ll insist: these are things that happened.  To me.  And they will either commit you to a geriatric care facility right then and there, or their shining eyes will widen and they will beg you to regale them with more tales from your debaucherous twenties.  You’ll play them a Grimes record, they will make strange faces.

Last Friday wasn’t quite so legendary as I’d hoped it would be, but Holy Other played an absolutely killer set.  His features were totally obscured by fog-machine sputter and pitch black lighting save for a mesmerizing laser projector cutting through the darkness.  Now, don’t go thinking I’m some stoner who could spend hours in Spencer gifts staring goggle-eyed at lava lamps and blacklight posters, but this laser thing was incredible.  It had a presence, like you could reach out and touch it, and it made geometric shapes and waves in myriad colors.  When I was living in Ohio, we had a regular karaoke spot and the DJ, Dave Castro, was the main reason behind our repeat attendance.  From time to time he’d have contests and give away this DVD he’d made for cats.  It was literally called Cat DVD and it was looped footage of goldfish swimming around or birds hopping through a forest or… that’s right, lasers.  The idea was that when you had to leave your cat at home alone, you could put on the DVD and then instead of napping the whole day away it would watch and be stimulated.  It was also really good for backgrounds at parties – much better than a lava lamp and much less likely to short out and cause a fatal blaze.  Watching Holy Other and his magical laser box was like getting sucked into Cat DVD in the best way I can describe.  When I talked about the show with friends afterward, the laser was the focus of conversation.  We wondered where we could get one, then decided that you had to know a wizard or a unicorn who could hook you up with it.

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Holy Other’s latest album Held makes good on all the promises of his early demos, singles and EPs.  Right at home on label Triangle Records, Holy Other is often associated with witch house, but he’s a front runner and a creator within that genre, not an imitator or piggy-backer.  He invented the sound that would define that movement, in all its sinister glory – skeletal beats marred by thumping bass, syrupy samples, seemingly random bleeps which emerge after repeated listens into blissful sonic fractals.  It’s hard not to be moved even during a subway ride with headphones over the ears or via computer speakers while you’re supposed to be casually checking email.  But with the volume up as loud as eardrums can handle, letting every pulse wash over you, the experience is truly one of holiness.

His set was plenty satisfying, but we had to know if Ariel Pink would show up so we stuck around, breathless from the experience.  What we got instead was bizarro pop Ariel Pink protege Geneva Jacuzzi, whose live performance I was surprised to learn just consists of her leaping barefoot around the stage in questionable attire while she howls over iPod tracks.  Since it was by that time close to 3AM if not well past it, and because grilled cheese from Normaan’s Kil was calling my name ever so faintly, my friend and I reluctantly left.  The reluctance was mostly mine and mostly only a byproduct of that uncertainty still reverberating through my psyche – what if Ariel Pink did show and I missed it?

While we waited for our cheeses (Solona + Vernice for LIFE!) I checked twitter for any news, mostly to no avail.  Finally someone posted an Instagram of a blurry, nearly obscured R. Stevie Moore backed by a band which may or may not have been Bodyguard and may or may not have included Ariel Pink, but there was no definitive account of who was actually onstage.  The person who posted the picture said they stayed at the venue until six in the morning.

In the end, the takeaway is this: the experience as a whole was totally worth it.  If I’d really wanted to see Ariel Pink I could’ve gone to Webster Hall, and for that matter I’m sure I’ll have another opportunity to bask in his weirdness.  In return for giving the promoters the benefit of the doubt, I was witness to an absolutely majestic Holy Other performance that I’m sure would have been nowhere near as intimate or haunting at Hammerstein.  It’s a great reminder that there is only one moment, and it’s the one you’re in.  You’re only a sucker if you stay home.

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SHOW REVIEW: Blouse w/ Cosmetics & The New Lines

nice blouse, Charlie Hilton
Looking at the line-up for Tuesdaynight’s show at 285 Kent, I wasn’t sure if I was about to see ahandful of fashionable indie bands or if I was making a shopping listfor things I needed to pick up from Bloomingdales. Blouse, check. Cosmetics, check. The New Lines, check. (Original openers Beige andMosaics were replaced last minute by Beach Fossils side projectHeavenly Beat, but could have easily fit into a department storeotherwise).
Luckily for my bank account, it was theformer. I missed Heavenly Beat although heard from a photographer Istruck up a conversation with that his set was pretty befuddling. Actually, I think the term autistic might have been used, but I feelremiss to pass judgement on an act I didn’t actually catch. I mademy way toward the stage just as New Lines were setting up.
The three members of The New Lines had this adorably quirky indie rock band circa 1995 look, like they’d be scratching their feet in the dirt all sheepish-like if they hadn’t been playing a show. Unfortunately, that’s probably what they went and did after a set besieged by technical difficulties. It seems strange to say of something “It was so loud I couldn’t hear it” but that’s the sort of effect the mixing had – it seemed like every other thing was drowning the vocals, but I couldn’t tell specifically what needed turning down. Surely one guitar, or even the keyboard, couldn’t be obliterating my ear drums. Then they asked for “less iPod” followed by “less backing track” followed by some other way of saying “we don’t have a bassist, so we need to play our songs over another part of the same song that we already recorded” and I suddenly understood. After a false start, the band stopped playing their last track halfway through a second attempt and left the stage. Even so, I wanted to hug them and tell them not to give up; I could tell that given a proper opportunity to listen to their poppy, psych-influenced songs I might fall madly in love with them. Luckily, they have a bandcamp and the only thing missing there is the trippy projections that swirled behind them as they performed.
Misty Mary on the keys
After the longest equipment change of alltime, the Cosmetics frontwoman explained “We got caught in asnowstorm on the way here.” I was not sure if she meant from thebar to the stage or what, as it had been sixty degrees (!) in NYCjust hours earlier. The songstress was lovely to behold and had anice voice, while her equally attractive male compatriot backed her up on no less than three mini-synths. The overall effect was a semi-sluggishbrand of electroclash but I think given time to develop and expand ontheir sound this could be a really fun band to see again. They havetwo seven inches out on Captured Tracks (which you can listen to at bandcamp) and it will be interesting to see if they are able to movepast their sweet tooth for Glassy Candy.
Patrick tunes his bass
Blouse took the stage just aftermidnight. Leading lady Charlie Hilton repped the band name in aflowing garment, cuffed at midwrist and layered over tan short shortsworn with sheer tights and tall black wedge booties. I don’t know ifthat is relevant to anything, but it seems when you’ve named yourband after the fanciest of shirts that it might matter just a little. According to Patrick Adams’ cool haircut it matters. Misty Mary(likely not her real name) tapping her toes clad in ripped pantyhoseindicates that it matters. Everything about drummer Paul Roper saysit matters – from the suspenders to the Elvis Costello frames,partially shaved head to the vintage tee.
What definitely matters is that Blouselived up to the hype that’s surrounded their self-titled release, out last November on Captured Tracks. The set was blissed-out and dreamy, yet retained the signature new-wave throwback sound that has garnered so much buzz for Blouse.  Ms. Hilton’s emotive crooning made me feel like the onlyperson bopping around in the cavernous, graffittied space. Her limitedbanter was sweet and humble. But for one song, the set was comprised entirely of material from the record, and the live renditions were flawless.  They closedwith heavy-hitter “Into Black” before politely ducking offstage. You can watch my video of “They Always Fly Away” below.