Backup singing for Tris McCall?: One Track Mike ponders my tongue-twisters.
Some of you have made it plain to me that you consider me overly effusive in my praise for local acts, especially those of people I know personally. This disregards the fact that I've chosen to get to know many of you because I respect what you do onstage and on record, but who's counting? Other people have made it clear they just like it when I'm mean; they think it's funny, and appreciate the mode where I slam everything from Wim Winders to Yo-Yo Ma. That's fun to do, sure, and I'm working on a special War With Everybody edition of the Tris McCall Pop Music Abstract that'll be plenty venomous. But it's one thing to take shots at megastars and their implicit ideology, and another to be vicious within the indie rock subculture -- the former often feels like freedom fighting, while the latter is just plain gossipy and gratuitous. Sure, I could hammer the groups I see and dislike, but who really cares? Why expend the effort? So much of what I encounter in clubs and concert halls around NYC and New Jersey is fantastic and largely unrecognized that if I'm going to write about local music, it'll be in effort to open your eyes to groups you might not know, and to discuss overlooked dimensions of the groups that you do know.
This is all to say that if you were expecting something other than glowing reviews here today, I'm going to have to disappoint you again. There were things about Thursday's bill at the Mercury Lounge that didn't go according to plan. But none of those things are particularly interesting, and to dwell on them at any length at all just to satisfy some ambient demand for "balanced" or "objective" reporting would be to miss the point of the night, and other nights like it. There are mistakes in indie rock. This isn't Mariah Carey; people fuck up. We don't crowd into the Mercury Lounge to celebrate perfection, we do so to be part of something happening, and to be challenged and surprised by the risks taken and courage demonstrated by our peers. I'm not going to throw stones at anybody willing to take those risks. Hell, this whole proposition is risky: many of you guys are talented, and could probably make money and live comfortably by peddling your ideas and creative energy to the culture industry. That you've chosen instead to follow personal visions and throw the dice in a search for new forms is cause enough for commendation.
Speaking of new forms, here come the Forms, a sinewy, occasionally difficult, but solidly challenging four-piece from Williamsburg. I recognized their opening set on Thursday as one of the initial salvos in the oncoming Brooklyn art-rock backlash to the studied stoopidity of the garage-music revival. Incipient because the rampant commercialism of the prefab Stooges-ripoff groups will shortly reach critical mass, it'll also happen because so many indie musicians came up on Yes and Rush, and are tired of denying their roots. I have no idea if any of the Forms have a worn-out copy of Red or even Discipline, but even if they're getting these ideas secondhand from Interpol (a bunch of closet prog fans, by my reckoning), they're our latest Crimson flagbearers, and they're carrying it with experimental fervor. Featuring muscular bass lines doubled by serpentine guitar, a drummer who paced the group through weird time signatures and bizarre ambient sections, and a plaintive howl over the top, the group divided their performance into three linked sets of songs, each bleeding into the next and sharing tropes and musical ideas. The accumulated sonic vocabulary came to a dizzying culmination in a cathartic, ten minute concluding piece that managed to recap everything the group had played previously and lift the quartet into the stratosphere.
I knew nothing about Lifter Puller or Craig Finn going into the night, so I was completely unprepared for The Hold Steady. Now, this is not an explicit art-rock band, but it's undoubtably an artfully-conceived project -- something like what you'd get if you asked Randy Newman to front AC/DC, or perhaps the middle ground between The River and Cold Chisel that I always suspected was there. Finn, the frontman, spun a brilliantly-detailed web of fractured travel narratives, sex, intoxication, celebrity lookalikes, cultural memory, and a protracted obsession with Charlemagne that I still haven't figured out (I'm working on it), and spat it all over magnificent heartland rock riffs punctuated by dazzling lead guitar. Now, some wordy songwriters are prose-oriented, but the Hold Steady's lyrics are straight poetry, and some of the funniest and most pithy I've heard this side of Mishka Shubaly's: I was in stitches for half the set, and pumping my fist at the rock grandeur straight through the other half. Finn opened the conversation by rhyming Nina Simone with Neil Schon, proceeded through distorted Bible study and gleeful drug references, and ended off-mike, shouting about "killer parties", breathless like a survivor but pugnatious as a cornered heavyweight. A stunner.
I will spare you guys and acknowledge that my relationship to Palomar is too compromised to speak objectively about their show; I mean, I was onstage for it. But being a participant-observer has its advantages, even if it's tough on the old journalistic integrity: playing these songs only deepens my appreciation of them, and reinforces my understanding of the intelligence and craft that goes into their construction. I also come away with renewed admiration for the group's musicianship. When I first started listening to Palomar (more than three years ago now), I was immediately struck by how each instrumentalist had a unique and identifiable voice, and I was reminded of the Police. The songs have gotten more complex since then, and have required a broader sonic palette, but the group has risen to every challenge and continued to present their ideas economically and with impeccable arrangement architecture. I added some filigree on Thursday night, but the artistry has always been in the blueprint.
I spent the day at the Hub City headquarters of "One Track" Mike Flannery, who generously offered to record a song of mine for an upcoming collection of tracks. Actually, he did more than that -- he played guitar, bass, and provided a much better beat than anything I would have come up with while monkeying around with my drum machine.
Little T & One-Track Mike had the recent experience of spending a season crafting a full-length they were proud of -- only to have it greeted by their record label with an uncomprehending rejection. Whether the follow-up to Fome Is Dape will ever see daylight is an open question, but Flannery and Tim Sullivan aren't sitting on their hands. They've retitled the act Homeschool, and will be playing a showcase at Arlene Grocery on May 10.
As for me, all my frantic studio activity has left me sitting atop a nice surplus of unrelelased material, much of which will start surfacing this summer. We've already decided on a mid-July release date for the ten-song album of Jersey songs recorded by J Braun at Melody Lanes. Right now, I'm worrying about getting the mixes right, and finding an appropriate cover image. Beyond that, I've got ten tracks nearly complete (including the one I did with Mike Flannery today) and another four I'm ready to record at Apesauce with my core group. None of these are Jersey-specific; as a matter of fact, they're all songs about my experiences playing music in Williamsburg. Expect a concept album about Brooklyn to follow the release of the Melody Lanes material.
The session with One Track Mike went so well -- and so smoothly -- that we discussed the possibility of making a short record of laid-back, groovy (but this is Tris McCall here, so rest assured they'll be wordy) summertime pop tracks. Mike, if you've got the time and inclination, I certainly have the backlog.
I'm going to be a piano accompanyist next Monday at Playwrights Horizons. I've come a long way in four years -- I can remember barely being able to bang out the major chords in "Mad About Us", or fumbling my way through one-finger-Johnny Casio parts for Denver Zest. Now, there are actual people asking me to play solo piano for them, and what's more, these people are not (necessarily) insane.
That said, this only qualifies as a triumph if I don't screw it up. I'm going to be playing four songs for Sander Hicks's new play Sarcoxie & Sealove, and they seem pretty integral to the plot. The potential for royal disaster lurks behind every chord change. I spent much of the day at the New Dramatists building in Midtown, a place I'd always meant to make an excuse to visit anyway. Sander is a member of New Dramatists, and I was pleased to find his excellent play The Breaking Light -- the piece that turned me on to his writing in the first place -- sitting on a shelf in the central chamber with his other writing.
I'm notorious for never wanting to join up with any institution I didn't create myself, but New Dramatists has always held a lure for me. I feel it even more now that I've visited their building. Practice with Sander and the young woman who's singing the lead role turned out to be in a black box theatre space that reminded me of my previous life. And though I spent most of the two hour practice absorbing Sander's songs, I couldn't help but feel the pull of the surroundings. Rock or no rock, I'm dusting off some of my old scripts.
Playing with Palomar is always gratifying, but it's also never less than anxiety-producing. I love these songs so much that I worry that my editorial intrusion is going to choke their spirit. Of course Palomar songs are much sturdier craft than that -- I could probably make siren noises with my MS2000 over them and they'd still hold up. Hmm, well, maybe not that.
My inclination is to go off to the races and fill the tracks with my usual overgrown synth filigree. More often than not, I find myself slapping my hand. Though Palomar songs are formally excellent, it's important for me to remember that my first reaction to Palomar was an emotional one. That was quickly followed by intense intellectual appreciation, mind you, but the emotional impact was first to the wire. So I've tried to choose synthesizer tones and parts that enhance and reinforce the sonic intensity. Everybody in the group has such characteristic instrumental and vocal sounds -- ones that make immediate resonance and rise and reverberate. No matter how technically proficient or fascinating my parts might be, if I'm not contributing to the collective statement, I'm in the wilderness.
With rumors of the group's disintegration swirling around the club, The Brokedowns played an electrifying set to a packed, emotional house at Maxwell's last night. If this is, indeed, the end of the combo (let's hope it isn't), they went out in a torrent of white noise, gigantic riffs, impassioned performances, and crowd delirium. The group refused to linger on Memory Lane, countenancing only one Cropduster "cover"; beyond that, it was all current material, distinguished by its Turnpike roar and the painful ambiguity of its elliptical lyrics.
Before Marc Maurizi and Tom Gerke, Lee Estes and Scott Kopitskie closed the doors for good on 66 Johnson in Hackensack, the Cropduster house parties were magnetic events: sort of a combination jam session/bacchanalia that attracted musicians from all over the tri-state area. The typical Crophouse party ended just before dawn with inspired musicians guessing their way through a set of Pixies covers, successfully negotiating instruments they'd likely as not never played before. With the Anderson Council and Instant Death (and, for that matter, Hub City alums Skyline Rodeo) on the bill and most of the hardcore Cropduster faithful numbered among the crowd, Maxwell's took on a definite Crophouse feel, and the group obliged with slightly inebriated 2AM intensity and some improptu (but oddly harrowing) Led Zeppelin thrown in for good measure.
Familiarity and warm feelings aside, the set was a journey down a dark highway. While Cropduster wore their Stones and VU influences on their sleeves, the Brokedowns follow Maurizi's lead into more personal territory; Ten Of Swords Dylanesque by direction but in execution as singular as a thumbprint. The new ferocious rockers -- "Alpha Dog Zero" and "I Just Wanna" are good examples, but there are others -- strive for a stripped-down, fist-first impact, but because of Maurizi's clever hand with chord progressions and substitutions and an ambiguous, menacing lyrical voice that is wholly his own, are artful and multifaceted in spite of themselves. Thundering with barely-contained energy, they present cold, hard surfaces; daunting, fascinating like a black amythest. Stark, evocative readings of ballads "She Only Fucks Me When She Wants To" and the hypnotic ten-minute "Don't You Want To Know Why" deepened the overarching sense of melancholy and lent a weary grandeur to a performance that was already feeling like a Hoboken version of The Last Waltz. The Brokedowns culminated with a damn-the-torpedoes read on "Damaged Soul Document" scorching enough to blast paint off of sheetrock. Yet even the fierceness of the finale couldn't prevent many audience members from choking back tears.
Somehow I doubt the story ends here. Maurizi appears wholly committed to bringing his visionary new material to audiences, and Gerke, Estes, and Kopitskie are far too talented to put their instruments down. All four complement each other far too well to permanently resist the lure of collaboration. The group members may try on new outfits and combinations, but something tells me we'll be back at Maxwell's sometime not too far in the future, cheering the guys through another mind-bending rave-up.
The Anderson Council have weathered a lineup change of their own, replacing their original brilliant-erratic drummer with a more surehanded beatkeeper. Throughout, they have remained Jersey's most reliable source for retro-bubblegum sixties pop, played with uncommon verve and a keen eye for period-specific details. Last night, the Sgt. Pepper beats 'n' bass and candyfloss vocal harmonies framed a twin guitar attack reminiscent of Big Star at their most ingratiating.
I know I've made this comparison before, but I'll do it once more for emphasis: everything you need to know about the difference between Williamsburg and Jersey music can be determined by comparing the Andersons to Gene Dreamy and Gary Sincere. Both draw heavily from the same source materials -- Beatles, Hollies, Barrett-era Floyd, the trippy side of the early Who, Ogden's Nut Gone Flake, the great panoply of '67 Swinging London madness. Both feature singers who pitch their voices for maximum psychedelic impact, and both confine their circumscribed instrumental passages to traditional retro-processed guitar breaks. But where the Anderson Council come off as earnest even when they're attempting to be ironic, Gene Dreamy and Gary Sincere read as ironic even when they are clearly in earnest. While the Andersons sound formidably tight and professional even when they are trying to convey looseness, Gene Dreamy and Gary Sincere evoke looseness even when they're attempting to be tight and professional. And while the Anderson Council look like Jimmies-From-The-Block even when they attempt to strike the requisite rock star poses, Gene Dreamy and Gary Sincere appear to be striking rock star poses even when they're trying to be relaxed, regular guys.
I knew that Skyline Rodeo featured Joe and Steve from Dewey Defeated; what I didn't realize was that the charismatic Morgan Chen, recently seen in Slow Wire, was fronting the group. Chen, with his bluesman stage presence and gutsy pop-punk delivery, has been one of the most interesting, if elusive, figures in Jersey indie rock for a few years now, and it was great to see him front and center on the state's most important stage. Skyline Rodeo played a compelling rock set characteristic of New Brunswick underground music -- angular dual guitar passages, strange scales, snaky-catchy melodies, impressionistic lyrics, and middle sections of gratuitous but oh-so-gratifying electric sturm-und-drang. A new group to watch, no doubt.
Other bits of news from a long night out in Jersey:
Michael Auteri from new act Joe Famous informs me that Tom Gerke and Marc Maurizi from The Brokedowns have been recording them. Should be interesting...
Word has it that the major-label machine appears to be focusing in with laser-guided precision on Tom Brislin's Spiraling. Brislin is such an obvious talent that it's inconceivable to me that a recording company wouldn't want to take a chance with his act....
Faces in the crowd: Val Emmich, Jim Testa (fresh with new copies of Jersey Beat), Joe Centeno from the late and lamented Plug Spark Sanjay. I didn't get a chance to say hi, Joe, but if you're reading this, it was nice to see you, even if it was from across a crowded room!
I'm getting set to head out to Maxwell's for the Brokedowns/Anderson Council show, and I'm preparing myself for an experience unlike those I've had so far this month. No, not great rock (though I'm sure I'll get plenty of that), but cigarette smoke. Since Mayor Bloomberg's smoking ban took effect, I've only been out in NYC, and I've had the unusual experience of being able to breathe easily in clubs that are normally asphyxiating. It's back into the teepee tonight in Hoboken, where I'll be forced to reacclimate myself to the clouds of toxic exhaust that regularly accompany rock performance.
Now, before you rescind my libertarian credentials, let me get it on the record that I'm entirely opposed to a smoking ban, a drug ban, or any other kind of ban in which the government attempts to legislate ticky-tacky social behavior. That said, I can't pretend that the sudden subtraction of one of the most unpleasant elements of clubgoing hasn't been great for me. If I could wave my magic policy wand and erase this new law from the books, I'd do it in a heartbeat, purely on principle. But while my heart and mind stand opposed to the smoking ban, my lungs, throat and eyeballs take a different point of view.
On the endless list of Not-Rock Things about Tris McCall -- things for which I hemorrhage my few accumulated cool points -- my assorted allergies don't even take first prize. But they've driven me out of clubs on more nights than I can count. I have a terrible time handling cigarette smoke, and if I want to hang in there and catch an entire bill (as I usually do), that generally requires a few between-sets walks around the block. Basically, I'm a church girl: I don't drink, smoke, or party hearty, and when I stay out late, it's generally because I'm too wrapped up in the music to tear myself away from the stage. But on mornings-after, it frequently feels as if I've abused my body as badly as the worst coke fiend at the Continental, as I contend with my standard shortness of breath and carryover allergy attack (not to mention my smoke-saturated clothing).
As someone who's never bothered to take as much as a drag from a cigarette, it's always been a mystery to me why people smoke. Unlike drinking, which has a quantifiable, if nefarious, effect on those who do it, cigarette smoking neither alters states nor heightens the intensity of experiences. Smokers I know discuss the nicotine buzz, but hell, you get a buzz from eating a Twinkie. Well, maybe I do. But you take my point here -- the risks and inconveniences of addiction appear to massively outweigh the rewards.
The party line now circulating is that the ban will severely hurt NYC rock clubs' ability to stay solvent. Now, I'm going to strenuously oppose anything -- from police crackdowns to Osama Bin Laden -- that hurts the bottom lines of my favorite rock clubs, but in this case, I don't understand the argument. People go to bars to drink, not to smoke. If Carrie Nation were elected mayor (hey, it's no more ridiculous than Mike Bloomberg), and there was suddenly an alcohol ban in effect, that would radically upend city nightlife. Smoking prohibitions in restaurants and theaters haven't stopped people from eating or seeing their lousy plays and movies; why would it follow that a ban would keep New Yorkers from going to the bar and getting crocked? I recognize that smoking and drinking go hand in hand in the popular imaginary of partying New Yorkers, but there was a time not so long ago when smoking and eating or smoking and theatregoing were considered every bit as intertwined.
But wait a second, this is presuming that everybody who goes to a rock bar is there to drink and party. And of course that isn't true; a substantial percentage of people at rock clubs are actually there for the rock. I think we have to, at the very least, consider the possibility that people who ordinarily don't go out because of their distaste for secondhand smoke will now be more inclined to check out a rock performance than they were a month ago. I think we need to further consider that by accidentally converting rock clubs into a more pleasant place to hang out, audience members will be more likely to make a night of it -- settle in, catch an entire bill, rather than fleeing in discomfort once their eyes begin to burn.
I'm aware of the ambient argument that the smoking ban is emasculating; that it takes away some of the sex-drugs-danger element of club culture. To this, I can only throw up my hands in frustration. Anybody who believes that inhaling toxic fumes through little white tubes has anything to do with making exciting music or creating a vibrant and edgy scene is in hopeless thrall to Benson & Hedges and the Marlboro Man, and probably needs a good, hard deprogramming. A well-ventilated rock club will not as a matter of course be overrun by Bible-dancing goody-goodies. It may well attract interesting artists and writers who'd rather hang out at a place of aesthetic ferment than at some crappy cafe, but who simply can't abide the fumes.
I want to reiterate for everybody that if I was given a petition advocating the immediate overturn of the smoking ban, I'd sign it in a second. If I was asked to make a succinct public statement on the ordinance, I'd probably say something to the effect of "Mr. Bloomberg, don't come into our clubs and our concert halls and tell us how to live." My deep suspicion is that the smoke-free NYC rock club is a temporary phenomenon: that it's probably unenforceable, and that after a brief period of high-profile crackdown, we'll slowly return to normal as the city government and the NYPD loses interest. But just between us, let's stop and notice the difference, and ask ourselves whether this temporary truce in the ongoing war against our lungs might actually be beneficial to local rock culture.
Outraged smokers, you may fire when ready.
Let's do a quick round-up of a few of this week's shows, including a paragraph heralding those excellent performances that bracketed my bran muffin of a set at Pete's Candy Store on Friday...
I spent Thursday evening at the Williamsburg Publik House, which was hosting a party and four-act bill presented by a website called Beekiller. (I didn't know anything about the site, though I did check it out on Wednesday afternoon. The rock criticism is mostly meaningless press-release promo copy, but as curators, they've done a decent job: they like interesting groups.) Brad Lauretti, first on, fronts a traditional rock four-piece, and together they created a traditional rock problem: I couldn't make out a damned thing he was saying. Lauretti's songs are lyrics-intensive, and in the, er, challenging environment of the Publik House, his narratives were completely swamped by his own volume. Like thousands of other singer-songwriters, Lauretti decided to take a guitar onstage with him in spite of his decision to carry another guitar player in his group -- resulting in the word-killing treble redundancy that inevitably occurs in two-guitar bands unless one of the players is extraordinary. It was a shame, because the music travelled paths parallel to Jeff Tweedy's without ever exactly being indebted to Wilco, and the group achieved moments of quiet intensity that might have been affecting had the words been clearer. Hopefully, I will have another chance to see Lauretti perform, and in a better context.
Speaking of having to cope with a challenging context, Elizabeth Harper attempted a quiet solo electric performance in a large bustling club where people at the bar feel comfortable talking over the musicians. Despite her penchant for mild, charming self-deprecation, Harper has always radiated courage, and her willingness to take on the Publik House on its own (noisy) terms instantly won over a substantial percentage of the crowd. (Unfortunately, it didn't quiet the rest of the room, but you can't ask for everything.) She's got an sonorous, emotionally affecting upper register that can fill a concert hall of any size, but her poised, conversational and low-key delivery of verses is also crucial. Harper stuck to her guns and presented her material exactly as she would have in a more intimate setting; the result was an excellent set that must have been daunting for the performer but was never less than enjoyable and edifying for the audience members who were paying attention (most of them were).
It helps that her songs keep getting better and better. Harper has always been an unusual singer-songwriter with refreshing roots, drawing evenly from Laura Nyro-style light theatrical music and the lighter side of the Smiths and Housemartins. Throw in a dash of Antonio Carlos Jobim and some wry, ironic lyrics, and you've got a more kinetic, bigger-voiced version of Suzanne Vega circa Nine Objects Of Desire. In other words, Harper could have written "Caramel", but she probably would have included some kind of singalong chorus or release. On Thursday, Harper showcased her most Smithsy material yet, playing electric guitar with a sit-down confidence that could only have been augmented by her recent close encounters with the Johnny Marr band. The highlights were many, but a new rocker called "Trouble In The Palace" that sounded like Side One of The Queen Is Dead left the most powerful impression on me. But I'm looking forward to hearing all these songs again soon.
As I mentioned before, the Publik House is a challenge, but unlike, say, the Rock Star Bar, it's one with substantial rewards for groups willing to work for them. The word around town is that it's an impossible room, but I've now seen several acts overcome the obstacles (feedback, technical problems, poor monitors, the indifference of a large segment of the crowd clearly there for the cheap/free beer) to put on rewarding shows. Tucked as it is into the corner of a large, tin-walled room, the stage at the Publik House feels less like a rock shrine than a platform for an art exhibit, and if there's something of the Exploding Plastic Inevitable to the interior of the space, weird Williamsburg bands that are neither debauched enough for Luxx nor careerist enough for Northsix can certainly use the option. A standard spit-polished garage rock band -- the kind that now roams Brooklyn in herds -- will respond poorly to the weird acoustics and lack of proper rock mayhem, but groups like that have got plenty of places designed explicitly for them. If you're in a fundamentally experimental group, the Publik House will never overwhelm you with a tacit injunction to turn up and rock.
As a matter of fact, turning up and rocking full-out is about the worst thing you can do there, because the natural reverb in the room makes a distorted rhythm electric guitar sound like a bulldozer in St. Patrick's Cathedral. Like Moving Insects consists of an acoustic guitar, trumpet and gentle synths, a pedal steel used largely to make space noises, a cat who bows a banjo and effects the signal until it sounds like a flute section playing out of phase, three-part harmonies, and a drummer who has always favored precision and sonic creativity over power. As such, they're probably the model of a group that can do well in the Publik House -- loud enough to shut up the punters in the back, visually intriguing enough to capture the attention of the folks by the Galaga machine, intricate enough to fascinate the people standing up front, and delicate enough never to get overwhelmed by the harsh reverb and the wooden floors.
Something of an expat New Brunswick supergroup featuring members of Hub City's most adventurous recent acts -- guitarist/singer Josh Marcus used to front the pop-mutated Makeout Party, trumpeter/vocalist Todd Starlin sang for the so-mystical-it's-ridiculous Wahoo Moment, and Tom Bendel briefly played drums for Central Jersey's neo-prog/trip-hop titans Prosolar Mechanics -- the members of Like Moving Insects have relocated to Philly, where their pastoral Jersey soul has been left to dissolve in the corrosive acid of Psychedelphia. The result (at least on Thursday night) was magic, and the best show I've seen all year. Both Wahoo Moment and the Makeout Party shared a weakness: a tendency to meander, and to allow laid-back dreamlike musical interludes to linger too long. Like Moving Insects remedies the problem not by conforming to standard pop song motivation, but by pushing further into the experimental ether toward edgy juxtapositions of sound. The result?, forty-five minutes of odd textures, gorgeous harmonies, unexpected hairpin turns, evocative lyricism, and enough memorable musical phrases to hold a jaded Brooklyn audience spellbound.
It helps that Starlin has a world-class voice. By world-class here I don't mean Paul Westerberg -- I mean Steve Winwood. Starlin's singing combines letter-perfect phrasing with startling emotive power. If he sounds like a forty-five year old "Storytellers" master with ten classic albums under his belt, he sings with the otherworldly elasticity of a young penitent of the spirit. Marcus is no slouch, either: a sonic dead ringer at times for Phil Judd, his slightly more familiar approach grounds Like Moving Insects in the more experimental wing of indiepop (envision Elephant 6, but cross your eyes so it becomes blurry). Thursday's set balanced the voices perfectly, and foregrounded the musical dialogue between the fractured, little-boy-lost Marcus and the engrossing Starlin to fascinating effect.
Hmm.... I said I was going to keep this brief, didn't I? Ah, well, if you're tuning in, you probably like big paragraphs, so I don't feel too bad. Okay, about Friday night's set at Pete's, the first (hopefully of several) "Tris McCall Presents" events: Dan "Sabado Domingo" Skinner was in excellent voice and perfomed several of his stark, hypnotic folk songs, including a chilling, all-too-relevant take on "Explosions". Milton's record release event was an unqualified success; he performed most of Scenes From The Interior in sequence, imbuing his narratives with the inflective mastery I've come to expect from him. Paula Carino jettisoned the reserve I associated with her from her days in Regular Einstein and tore through a set of cleverly-constructed rockers with tremendous energy and command. Think of a messier, more combative version of Aimee Mann, and you're halfway there -- the other half is enirely Carino's own.
Thanks for tuning in today -- I'll have the next schedule of weekly events available on Tuesday night, including previews of shows by Palomar, Sasha Alcott & the Possibilities (with little me on organ), The Realistics, and The Brokedowns.
I'm pleased to say that Milton made a mockery of my annoying fretting about turnout by packing the live room at Pete's from the lip of the stage to the sliding glass wall in the back. So that was successful. What wasn't anywhere near as successful: my own set. It had its charms, I guess, but without a doubt it was heavy on the "edu" and light on the "tainment", and about as fun as a geography exam. I performed "The Ballad Of Frank Vinieri", the long version of "New Jersey Department Of Public Works", the extra-long version of "Robert Menendez Basta Ya!", the eight minute (and absurdly repetitive) "American Tourist In Brooklyn", the interminable "Never Been A Party Like This", and just in case people hadn't had enough of the epics, I closed with my longest song, "First World, Third Rate". With the drum machine set much slower than my group usually plays it. With nary a line edited out. Ergh.
The audience, God bless them, was willing to work with me; they took their medicine like men. I do recognize, however, that most showgoers demand a little entertainment in their entertainment, and if I continue to play shows like Friday's, I can hardly blame people for choosing to spend their weekend evenings doing something a bit more enjoyable, like aggressive calisthenics or maybe repainting a cabinet. Whatever commitment I once had to generating excitement or theatrics up there has now been washed down the drain, andreplaced by a dry, schoolmarmish affect that probably smacks of Wesley Wyndham-Price at his most season-three insufferable. I mean, jeez, I don't even bother to hide the cheat sheets anymore. In my zeal to be sure I'm communicating, I've been guaranteeing that I don't do anything but.
It's an overcompensation. Clearly I am worried about the reception of my upcoming album, and wondering how I can spin it so that it makes coherent sense to audiences. I'm having a tough time getting a handle on how to frame the presentation of these songs, and I'd better figure it out quick, because we're ninety-nine per cent complete with overdubs. The damned thing is going to be out before I know it, and if I don't have a strategy for distinguishing this record -- and if I can't get an appropriate decoder ring in the hands of my listeners -- I'm afraid I'm just going to mystify people. I've been carrying these fears onstage with me, and they have effectively disabled my showmanship.
Having diagnosed the problem, I spent the day attempting to remedy it down at Melody Lanes: adding organ and guitar to several of the songs on the album, and trying my best to engage with it as a series of interrelated statements that could cohere as If One Of These Bottles Should Happen To Fall did. I also recognized that my group's lukewarm reaction to my ideas about theatricality, choreography, and costume during the ill-fated rock suite episode had made me gunshy about high-concept presentation. Well, I'm drawing a line right there. People don't come to Tris McCall performances for mannered, middlebrow crapola -- they come for the high-wire act, the electricity and charm that I frequently generate, and the occasionally inspired silly business. I have to locate that again, and work my way back to being the performer I was when I was exciting audiences, and not just informing them.
April 3, 2003
Promoting a show, I have now found, has its own unique set of stresses, and I can hardly imagine how people like Andy Gesner do it night after night without losing their marbles. I talked to Andy on the phone today, about an unrelated issue, and he gave me a welcome pep talk, but still -- if I don't manage a decent turnout tomorrow night, I'm going to be mortified. I now consider myself beholden to the club, to Juliana Nash (who was trusting enough to give me the night to put together), and, most importantly, to the other musicians on the bill.
We got a pick in the New York Press, which ought to help a bit, and my inexpert-looking posters featuring a cartoon spaceman photocopied from a Choose Your Own Adventure book are now up all over Williamsburg Northside. I'm heading out to the Elizabeth Harper/Like Moving Insects show at the Publik House in a few hours, and I'll probably try to twist some arms on Lorimer Street. Mostly, I'm trying to obey Douglas Adams's immortal injunction not to panic, but on afternoons like this, Brooklyn feels miles too far away.
If you ever want to truly comprehend the scope of NYC entertainment options, I recommend that you try booking and promoting a show. Every performance taking place in every dive, cranny, and dark alleyway will suddenly assume a new and ominous character. If you're lucky enough to have friends in groups, and you're also lucky enough to be given a weekend show, chances are those friends are equally lucky, and they'll be playing opposite your show. Just for instance, tomorrow night:
Zach Lipez's new group Fresh Kills is doing a free show at the Williamsburg Publik House,
The Vitamen and the Monumentals are performing in DUMBO, at some sort of loft party being comprehensively promoted by Suzanne Biggan,
The Swimmies are doing a show at Uncle Joe's, and I'm pretty sure the Rosario Focus is on the bill,
The reliably popular Billionaire Boys Club (formerly Evelyn Forever for all you NYC cats) is at Maxwell's,
Girl Harbor, whose shows invariably coincide with my own, will be down the road at the BQE Lounge,
The Fever and Noba will be at Pianos, (and thus the girls from Divestar probably will be, too),
The Epoxies headline CBGB and the Starlight Mints will rock the Merc,
And so on. Friday night splits the vote. We can all sit down and pledge never to overlap, but there are only so many weekend slots available. Regrettable it is, surely, but also unavoidable. I will keep my fingers crossed that there exist enough New Yorkers who aren't also performing tomorrow night that I can fill the small back room of Pete's Candy Store, my favorite stage in NYC. I'd hate to let them down.