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Das Affects

David Callicott — Wed, 28 Jan 2009 00:00:00 +0000

Krishna Das laughs at the idea that someone might consider him a guru. “A guru is a realized being, someone who knows what’s happening,” he says on the phone from his home in Rockland County. “And I don’t have a fucking clue.”

For the unfamiliar—those of you who don’t frequent yoga studios, where his albums are in heavy rotation—Krishna Das is arguably the Western world’s most popular singer of kirtan, a call-and-response form of chantsinging usually accompanied by instruments such as the harmonium. And while kirtan (a Sanskrit word meaning “to repeat”) is a Hindu tradition born on the Indian subcontinent many centuries ago, Krishna Das (nee Jeffrey Kagel) was born to Jewish parents at Lenox Hill Hospital on the Upper East Side in 1947.

In 1968, having migrated slightly eastward from Queens to Long Island, Kagel met Richard Alpert (also known as Ram Dass), who had just returned from India after spending time there with a guru named Neem Karoli Baba, or Maharaj-ji (not to be confused with the Beatles’ Maharishi). Upon witnessing a certain peace and happiness that Ram Dass exuded, Kagel decided in 1970 to travel to India to find some of the same for himself.

After spending almost three years with Maharaj-ji and immersing himself in kirtan, Kagel was instructed by the guru—who had given him the name Krishna Das, which is Hindu for “servant of god”—to return to America in 1973. Later that year, Maharaj-ji died.

“That sent me into a real tailspin,” recalls KD, as he prefers to be called. “Because being with him, hanging out with him, was the only thing that had really worked for me. It was the thing that made me feel better than anything else in the world. And when that wasn’t available, I really had a very hard time. All my shadow stuff started coming up, and my life got very complicated and full of a lot of suffering and unhappiness. And it really took me 20 years before I could sing as a spiritual practice—where it was really meaningful to me, and not just emotional crying.”

At the end of those two decades, during the summer of ‘94, KD was invited by the owners of Jivamukti Yoga to come sing at their studio in the East Village. KD recalls that maybe eight or 10 people would show up for those first kirtans. Now when he performs—which happened about 200 times last year—he is more likely to draw a crowd of 500 to 1,000 or, in the case of a recent concert in Sao Paulo, 12,000.

This week, KD will perform in front of his largest New York audience to date when he sings at Town Hall, part of a tour supporting the live double disc, Heart Full of Soul. KD, who performs in jeans and a T-shirt or flannel instead of the flowing robes one might expect, will be backed by a band that consists of, among others, guitarist Dave Nichtern, who wrote the easy-rock Maria Muldaur classic, “Midnight at the Oasis.”

Given the secular setting, the two-hour concert could encourage the theologically averse to embrace Krishna Das’ booming, trance-inducing melodies. KD fully understands that venues like churches and yoga shalas—as well as his repertoire, the bulk of which consists of Hindu mantras and sacred hymns invoking the names of holy deities—can be a turn-off to those who avoid anything considered religious. “It’s unfortunate that somebody would deny themselves some happiness because of their issues,” he says. “But we all do that, in a million different ways everyday, so it’s not a big deal.” Still, this leaves KD too often singing only to the choir, so to speak. “Sometimes I wish I could sing in different places, like with poor kids. But there’s too much bias against what I do, naturally, from the culture.

And it’s a little bit too weird.” “Once I went to sing in a prison in Virginia,” he continues. “There were a couple a hundred guys there, and it was all fine until I sang ‘Hare Krishna.’Then they all looked at each other and said, ‘Oh, that’s what this is.’ And that was it. I lost half the room right there.”

KD isn’t on a mission to convert anyone. He doesn’t consider himself a Hindu, or subscribe to any particular religion for that matter. “There’s no reason to be anything other than a good human being. Anything else causes problems.”

“There’s only one Divine thing,” he says. “And that’s love, the love that lives within each person, that part of each one of us that is the same.That’s Divine.That’s God. And the practice of chanting like this is to come into contact with that place in yourself.To find that love, that peace inside.”

> Krishna Das

Feb. 4, Town Hall, 123 W. 43rd St. (betw. Broadway & Sixth Ave.), 212-307-4100; 8, $35-$40

Krishna Das feels the love.

Choir Starter

David Callicott — Wed, 24 Sep 2008 00:00:00 +0000

Jon Langford

Sept. 17, Knitting Factory, 74 Leonard St. (betw. B’way & Church St.), 212-219-3132; 7 pm, $15.

Last Wednesday Jon Langford sat peacefully in Revere Park, in his adopted hometown of Chicago, and watched his children play. It’s safe to say that most of the soccer moms sitting near him didn’t realize that the affable, handsome, silver-haired father was actually a punk. One of the original punks, in fact. Back in the day—1977 to be exact—while at the University of Leeds, Langford formed the Mekons: a band that made a lo-fi racket sprang from the same scene that gave us Gang of Four. Over time, however, the band’s style evolved and shifted from punk into everything-but-the-kitchen-sink. Thirty years later the Mekons, Langford says, is currently “resting.” But its founder is busier than ever.

When he’s not painting folk portraits of country legends like Hank Williams and Johnny Cash, or hosting his local radio show, or contributing to NPR’s This American Life, Langford, who is considered by many to be the godfather of the Chicago underground, is still making music. When I talked to him last week, he had just returned from a West Texas tour with his Pine Valley Cosmonauts, a sort-of cover band he started in 1996 that features an ever-revolving lineup of Windy City locals. Before that Langford had been in Norway. There he had an art exhibition and played a few “noisy, guitar-heavy” festival sets with his Norwegian band. All of this after a very busy summer on the road with yet another band he founded, The Waco Brothers—an alt-country-punk outfit that embodies the genre-fusing for which Langford is known.

“And now I’ve found yet another thing to do which is almost impossible to make any money out of,” he laughs. He’s talking, in a jolly expatriated accent, about his ongoing collaboration with the Burlington Welsh Male Chorus, with which he will be playing Wednesday night at the Knitting Factory.

In addition to some Welsh traditionals and a few Tom Jones covers, Langford and the choir will perform songs from his first official solo album, 1998’s Skull Orchard.

The songs were all written in homage to South Wales, where Langford grew up. “Skull Orchard kind of fizzled rather quickly when it came out,” Langford says, “as the record company didn’t have any distribution to put it out. So I got the rights back to it and decided to revive it once I started working with the choir. All the songs are just perfect for having 50 large Welshmen doing four-part harmonies in the background.”

Wait—50 large Welshmen? “Yeah, a lot of them are merchant seamen, sailors or rugby players. They’re guys who left Wales to look for better times and ended up in Canada.” Langford, who has played with the BWMC only five times previously, scheduled this week’s gig when he saw that the choir was on tour and coming through New York. (The BWMC sings Tuesday night as part of a “400 Voices” Celtic celebration at Carnegie Hall.)

Choral societies like these, Langford says, are custom in his home country. “Basically every village in Wales has a boys’ choir. It comes from the tradition of coal miners—there wasn’t much else to do so they’d form choirs. You might think it’d sound like a brutal, noisy, football-type chant, but actually it’s really delicate. It can be very light, and very ethereal. And it’s dramatic too. I’ll be playing a song on acoustic guitar, or just singing, and they’ll come in behind me, and I don’t know, it’s pretty emotional. At least it is for me.”

After Langford plays with the chorus, he’ll come back out for a much different second set—a stripped down duo with Katherina Ex, the polyrhythmic drummer from the pioneering Dutch rockers The Ex. I ask why the chorus isn’t going on after the duo, instead of the other way around. “Well, some of these guys are in their late 70s,” Langford explains. “And we’ll want to get them on early and not go too late, you know, because they like to have a drink after they’ve played.”

Arts Brief: Lips Flick

David Callicott — Wed, 24 Sep 2008 00:00:00 +0000

The guys from the Flaming Lips are spending this week in Cassadaga, New York, dealing with some last-minute technical changes to the soundtrack of their new movie, Christmas on Mars. Wayne Coyne, the fabulous frontman of Oklahoma’s most psychedelic band, took time to talk about the sci-fi fantasy, which opened at the KGB Bar cinema last week.

“The idea for the movie started in the mid-90s,” says Coyne, director and co-star of the film. “And then we spent over seven years collecting locations and costumes and actors and sounds and music.” After filming began, the Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots album was released, and the movie was “interrupted by success.”

The grainy black-and-white film is set during an actual Christmas on the red planet, and Lips drummer Steven Drozd stars as Major Syrtis, one of a handful of earthlings colonizing Mars. During what seems to be an ongoing psychotic episode, the major watches a fellow earthling dressed as Santa kill himself in between hallucinations of bloody newborns and astronauts with giant female genitalia for faces.

“We always knew that when we made it we’d be diving off into Salvador Dali-David Lynch-Jim Jarmusch land,” says Coyne. “We’re just gonna make a fucking weird movie.”

Christmas on Mars, which will screen at select theaters before going to DVD in November, will likely appeal to serious Flaming Lips fans, sci-fi geeks and consumers of LSD. But the person Coyne mostly made the movie for was himself.

“You really do have to make your art to save yourself,” explains Coyne. “And that’s pretentious bullshit to say, but in the end, I know that I’m just doing it because I like it. I want other people to like it too, don’t get me wrong. I hope people see it and say ‘Hey, that was cool. What’s for dinner?’”

Deliverance Redux

David Callicott — Wed, 17 Sep 2008 00:00:00 +0000

GROWING UP IN Tennessee and spending most of my adult life in Colorado, I’m used to seeing bearded men in overalls playing fiddles and banjos. In Memphis, these were my neighbors. And in the Rocky Mountains, gangs of such guys roamed the campgrounds at bluegrass festivals. In the big city, however, people who fit this description— like the members of O’Death—are less common.When I see them, though, I gravitate toward them, thinking maybe I’ve found some long lost friends. But when I spoke to O’Death, I discovered that none of them were from Colorado, and only one—drummer David Rogers-Berry—hailed from the South land.The other four are Empire State natives.

With Rogers-Berry being the only scallywag in a band of Yankees, what exactly in spires the redneck-tow-truck-driver style, this tattered-and-tattooed look of cheap denim and poor genes? The answer is their musical roots. “We initially appropriated old-time music,” explains Rogers-Berry, “and then applied our punk aesthetic to it.” As I speak with Rogers-Berry, I realize how intelligent, well spoken and thoughtful he is. I admit, I’m surprised. I’ve seen the boys on stage, mostly shirtless with bellies jig gling, and—no offense guys—thoughtful and well spoken isn’t exactly what comes across.

For the next hour, the 26-year-old drummer details the band’s past, present and planned-on future.The boys hooked up while going to school at SUNY Purchase, where they were part of an exceptionally musical student body that included Dan Deacon, Langhorne Slim and some girl named Regina Spektor.

After graduation, the quintet continued honing its chops in small bars around the city, self-releasing a couple of albums.

Then, last year, Head Home, the second of its two DIY albums, got picked up for do mestic and international distribution. Crit ics buzzed, and the band suddenly found itself in high demand.The boys started playing to bigger crowds in the city’s better venues; last month, more than 4,000 people showed up at Pier 54 to watch the band play under a hot setting sun. “It was the biggest show of our career by far,” Rogers- Berry says. Now O’Death is trotting the globe, and booked through next April. In fact, Rogers- Berry is talking to me during a two-day lay over in between a European tour (the band’s fourth) and “the strangest gig ever” on a barge in the Bermuda Triangle.

Next week New Yorkers will be able to catch O’Death on local waters when it headlines a “Rocks Off” cruise down the odoriferous East River. Banjos and hillbillies—sounds like Deliverance redux, set in an urban jungle with Swedish-designed faux waterfalls and a large French statue. (Though I hope there will be no bows and arrows, and any pig squealing sex will be consensual.)

The three-hour voyage will offer fans a live preview of the 14 songs that make up Broken Hymns, Limbs and Skins, out on Oct. 28.The album is expectedly aggressive and brash, a continuation of the pickin’-on-punk theme, but also an expansion. Switching genres as quickly as it shifts tempos, the band segues from its tra ditional punk fusion into oom-pah-pah klezmer into tender alt-country, lurching into some abrasive heavy metal toward the end.The result is a polygamous marriage of the Violent Femmes on meth, Gogol Bordello on fatback and the bastard lovechild of a Charlie Daniels Band-Japonize Elephants-Metallica three-way.

And while polygamy might be illegal in most states, this marriage works. Broken Hymns, Limbs, and Skins is dedi cated to Rogers-Berry’s late fiancée, who died last November from an aneurysm. “We were on tour in Europe, isolated in Sweden, when we found out.We cancelled the rest of our dates and came home.” Several of the songs on the album were influenced by that time, and while grief is expressed in disturb ing lines like “Find a sacred resting place/ where the pecking hens won’t harm her eyes,” Rogers-Berry hopes the album will ac tually be a paean to the light she brought into others’ lives. “She brought so much joy and positive energy into people’s lives. Hopefully we can carry that on with our music.”

“Still,” he says, referring to the new album, “it is some dark, heavy shit.”

> O’Death

Sept 10, Skyport Pier (FDR & E. 23rd Street), 212-571-3304, 7, $20/$25.

Deliverance Redux

David Callicott — Wed, 10 Sep 2008 00:00:00 +0000

O’Death

Sept 10, Skyport Pier (FDR & E. 23rd Street), 212-571-3304, 7, $20/$25.

Growing up in Tennessee and spending most of my adult life in Colorado, I’m used to seeing bearded men in overalls playing fiddles and banjos. In Memphis, these were my neighbors. And in the Rocky Mountains, gangs of such guys roamed the campgrounds at bluegrass festivals. In the big city, however, people who fit this description—like the members of O’Death—are less common. When I see them, though, I gravitate toward them, thinking maybe I’ve found some long lost friends. But when I spoke to O’Death, I discovered that none of them were from Colorado, and only one—drummer David Rogers-Berry—hailed from the Southland. The other four are Empire State natives.

With Rogers-Berry being the only scallywag in a band of Yankees, what exactly inspires the redneck-tow-truck-driver style, this tattered-and-tattooed look of cheap denim and poor genes? The answer is their musical roots. “We initially appropriated old-time music,” explains Rogers-Berry, “and then applied our punk aesthetic to it.”

As I speak with Rogers-Berry, I realize how intelligent, well spoken and thoughtful he is. I admit, I’m surprised. I’ve seen the boys on stage, mostly shirtless with bellies jiggling, and—no offense guys—thoughtful and well spoken isn’t exactly what comes across.

For the next hour, the 26-year-old drummer details the band’s past, present and planned-on future. The boys hooked up while going to school at SUNY Purchase, where they were part of an exceptionally musical student body that included Dan Deacon, Langhorne Slim and some girl named Regina Spektor.

After graduation, the quintet continued honing its chops in small bars around the city, self-releasing a couple of albums. Then, last year, Head Home, the second of its two DIY albums, got picked up for domestic and international distribution. Critics buzzed, and the band suddenly found itself in high demand. The boys started playing to bigger crowds in the city’s better venues; last month, more than 4,000 people showed up at Pier 54 to watch the band play under a hot setting sun. “It was the biggest show of our career by far,” Rogers-Berry says.

Now O’Death is trotting the globe, and booked through next April. In fact, Rogers-Berry is talking to me during a two-day layover in between a European tour (the band’s fourth) and “the strangest gig ever” on a barge in the Bermuda Triangle.

Next week New Yorkers will be able to catch O’Death on local waters when it headlines a “Rocks Off” cruise down the odoriferous East River. Banjos and hillbillies—sounds like Deliverance redux, set in an urban jungle with Swedish-designed faux waterfalls and a large French statue. (Though I hope there will be no bows and arrows, and any pig-squealing sex will be consensual.)

The three-hour voyage will offer fans a live preview of the 14 songs that make up Broken Hymns, Limbs and Skins, out on Oct. 28. The album is expectedly aggressive and brash, a continuation of the pickin’-on-punk theme, but also an expansion. Switching genres as quickly as it shifts tempos, the band segues from its traditional punk fusion into oom-pah-pah klezmer into tender alt-country, lurching into some abrasive heavy metal toward the end. The result is a polygamous marriage of the Violent Femmes on meth, Gogol Bordello on fatback and the bastard lovechild of a Charlie Daniels Band-Japonize Elephants-Metallica three-way. And while polygamy might be illegal in most states, this marriage works.

Broken Hymns, Limbs, and Skins is dedicated to Rogers-Berry’s late fiancée, who died last November from an aneurysm. “We were on tour in Europe, isolated in Sweden, when we found out. We cancelled the rest of our dates and came home.” Several of the songs on the album were influenced by that time, and while grief is expressed in disturbing lines like “Find a sacred resting place/ where the pecking hens won’t harm her eyes,” Rogers-Berry hopes the album will actually be a paean to the light she brought into others’ lives. “She brought so much joy and positive energy into people’s lives. Hopefully we can carry that on with our music.”

“Still,” he says, referring to the new album, “it is some dark, heavy shit.”

Comedy: It’s All Fun and Games

David Callicott — Wed, 20 Aug 2008 00:00:00 +0000

Stepping in dog shit on the way to clubs. Putting your self-esteem in the hands of a drunken stranger. These are a couple of the funnier answers I got when I asked some comics from around town what the hardest thing about performing stand-up in the city is. Nate Bargatze, however, was uncharacteristically straight with me.

“The toughest thing about being a New York City comedian,” said Bargatze, “is the competition.” The local joker, who you may have seen on Comedy Central’s Live at Gotham wasn’t whining; he was just telling like it is. “The comedians here are the some of the best in the world.”

Well, if the city’s comics are indeed so hysterical, then why not pit them against each other and award the funniest with a gold medal or something. Josh Filipowski, another local comic, thought that was a good idea—so good that a few months ago he began organizing the 2008 Comedy Olympics.

The idea of a stand-up competition isn’t exactly new. There was the smaller scale Olympiad that Filipowski put on four years ago, an Improv Comedy Olympics in 1998 and many similar competitions before and since. But these Games are different. Instead of individuals going up against each other for a solo shot at the podium—as is usually the case—this is a team contest.

Twelve teams, each comprising four comedians, are vying for a win in four different events, each held at a separate venue. The teams assign one of their members to one of the events: One-Liner, Heckler/Crowd-Handling, Storytelling and the Tight Five. At the conclusion of the fourth event, judges will tally all points and one team will be deemed the world champions.

“My squad is definitely going to take the gold,” claimed Rob O’Reilly, captain of the unfortunately named Mighty Ducks. Indeed, the Ducks may be odds-on favorites, boasting ringers Reese Waters and O’Reilly, who took first and second place, respectively, at the Filipowski-produced March Comedy Madness tournament this year.

But since teams can change their line-ups at any time, an upset is always possible. Besides, the final outcome will depend on many unforeseen variables—judges’ preferences, mood of the audience and, of course, rampant doping. While most of the team captains wouldn’t go on record about the influence of banned substances in competition, Jackie Monahan of team Doris Yeltsin admitted to smoking pot in the past. Out of an apple. If this kind of fruit abuse is common, fans can’t help but wonder where the future of comedy is headed.

The Comedy Olympics opening ceremony at the Eastville Comedy Club coincided with another Olympics’ opening ceremony last Friday night. But the jokes didn’t start flying until Aug. 12, when the self-explanatory One-Liner competition took place at New York Comedy Club.

The fun and games will continue on Aug. 14 at the Lower East Side’s Laugh Lounge, with what will most likely be the most spontaneous of the Olympics’ events: Heckler/ Crowd Handling. Here performers can choose to merely work the crowd, a sort of reverse heckling; but hopefully the crowd will step up and antagonize the comedian, prompting them to really show off their improvisational skills. If the room gets too quiet, Filipowski said one table in the audience will be the official hecklers. “And if that doesn’t work,” he said, “teams can heckle each other.”

The third battle, Storytelling, will take place on Aug. 19. Comedians will be allotted five to 10 minutes to tell as many as three stories in the uptown environs of Broadway Comedy Club. Then comes the grand finale, on Aug. 21, at the venerable Caroline’s, where each team will put forth their funniest member to deliver their “Tight 5,” or best five minutes of material.

After the judges have made their final marks, there will be an award ceremony. But who are the judges? Filipowski has selected an American (Tasha A. Harris), a Russian (Nikolai Solonski), a Jewish (Craig Selinger) and a gay judge (Guillermo Castillo). In addition, audience applause will help determine winners.

When asked if the ethnicity or sexual orientation of the judges might influence their selections of jokes, competitors had differing views. Little Ethnic Girls team member Helen Hong asked, “They’re letting gays and Jews into this thing?”

Dave Lester, a member of Tickle Five Soul, was a cooler customer. “If comedians worried about that,” he said, “we’d be extinct.”

NYC Comedy Olympics, through Aug. 21

www.like2laugh.com

We Still Love Rock and Roll: Wilco Delivers The Goods To Brooklyn

David Callicott — Thu, 14 Aug 2008 11:08:20 +0000

What a great week of music—much of it outdoors, with unseasonably mild weather to make it that much better. The two-man storm-of-sound Black Keys flooded McCarren Pool last Thursday; Radiohead and a bunch of amazing-in-their-own-right-but-superfluous-in-the-moment openers pleased the masses at All Points West (which I missed, but with good reason); that bright Conor Oberst and his new Mystic Valley Band were pretty dang good at the Bowery Tuesday night and, bringing it full circle, Wilco put the icing on the cake at McCarren last night.

Word apparently got out that their set would start at 7 pm sharp, because it looked like nearly every one of the 3000 or so people who showed up had the same idea—“I’ll get there at 6:55”—which meant twenty-plus minute waits at the gate. Which was probably the reason the set didn’t actually get under way till closer to 8.

Jeff Tweedy’s band of Windy City slicksters, looking dapper as ever, opened up with “Via Chicago,” coaxing that cataclysmic ruckus they do so well, then braking on a dime into you-could-hear-a-pin-drop silence they do so well too, then returning to Brobdingnagian cacaphony, and then back again into a black-hole vacuum. It’s a tactic they’ve mastered, and no one else executes it quite as beautifully.

Wilco continued to slip seamlessly from their softer, gentler roots into their distorted proggish noise-scapes, showing off their range of ability and diversity of style. They gave equal attention to every album in their catalog including their Mermaid Avenue collaborations with Billy Bragg. I was repeatedly blown away by how they can take songs that sound so exquisitely produced on their studio recordings—such as the quasi-anthem “I Am Trying To Break Your Heart”—and pull them off in concert with the same degree of precision , exacting just as much of a visceral effect, if not more.

After fifteen songs, the sextet busted into the rave-ish extended dance mix, “Spiders (Kidsmoke).” I think that it’s safe to say that the crowd, which was dense with Wilco’s cultish devotees, would have been more than satisfied if that had been the end of things. But Wilco wasn’t done with Brooklyn just yet. They returned to the stage for an hour-long, eleven-song double encore that amounted to a surprise second set. This sequel included a lot of personal favorites—like “I’m the Man Who Loves You,” “The Late Greats,” and “Kingpin”—many of which were complemented by a trio of horns (referred to by Tweedy simply as the “Total Pros”) that had joined the band intermittently throughout the night.

Although Wilco initially held the mantle of alt.country pioneers in their early days, last night proved that their evolution—which shifted into high gear around the turn of the millennium—has brought us one of the best rock bands alive today. And, to answer Tweedy’s question that he howled last night, “Do you still love rock and roll?” Yes. Very much.

Photos by Jonny-Leather

Pop Rocks on the River

David Callicott — Wed, 06 Aug 2008 16:12:22 +0000

Last night when my friend and I boarded the U.S.S. Half Moon at the 23rd Street Skyport Marina, we had the same thing on our mind: drowning. As we crowded onto the bow of the upper deck, where every one of the 100 or so passengers had congregated to seemingly smoke at the same time, it seemed possible that the “yacht” might very well tip over and take a dive. “At least we’ll get on the news,” I offered consolingly.

Luckily, the Half Moon proved seaworthy. And for the next three hours we defied capsizing and enjoyed our virgin Rocks Off concert cruise, which was helmed, so to speak, by three of the catchiest indie-pop bands ever to float down the sewage-stinky East River.

As we pulled away from the pier, Drug Rug took the stage. I had been wanting to see this Cambridge, Mass. quartet again ever since I caught their Bowery set at last year’s CMJ. Unfortunately, though, I mostly missed them. I had ventured below deck with Sam Champion’s Noah Chernin and Jack Dolgen, who were kindly giving away green beer cozies (or is it “coozy”) to commemorate their forthcoming album “Heavenly Bender,” due out Sept. 2. A few short minutes later, we could hear Drug Rug’s jangle, muffled by the floor that separated us, come to an abrupt stop. Which meant it was time for the boys of Sam Champion to head back upstairs.
“You gotta play with your feet spread apart, like an athletic stance, so you don’t fall down,” Dolgen told me in parting.

Prescient words, as the boat started truly rocking and rolling shortly into the Sam Champion set. It felt like we were entering the open sea, surfing the swells of the perfect storm—or maybe just the wake of a really big barge. Or maybe it was just Champion vibrations.
As the local quartet grooved, we cruised under the three bridges that separate Manhattan from Brooklyn, above the countless cement-loafered corpses, and by two of the Olafur Eliasson waterfalls. The Jehovah’s Witnesses’ Watchtower informed us in red neon that it was a mild 23 degrees Celsius—that’s 73 degrees Farenheit to you and me—the perfect temperature to mix sightseeing in with dancing to live music. You really couldn’t ask for much more.

But there was more. Sam Champion, with the help of auxiliary percussionist Joe Russo, continued to keep the ladies dancing and singing along—and the men nodding their heads with feeling—with their soon-to-be-released songs, many of which have been in their rotation for years.

And then we hit the apex of the cruise—Lady Liberty. Even the most skeptical looked up in something akin to awe at the monumental mother of our freedom. And a trio of schwilly girls made the moment even more poignant with an a cappella version of the Bangles’ “Eternal Flame.” Francis Scott Key would have been proud.

As the boat flipped a bitch, Apollo Sunshine replaced Sam Champion on the linoleum stage. The Massachusetts threesome—celebrating the release of their “Shall Noise Upon” record—lived up to their name, launching into an hour of bright and shiny power-pop that served as a sweet dessert to Sam Champion’s main course. Or was Sam Champion the appetizer, and Apollo Sunshine the entrée? What would that make Drug Rug—an amuse bouche? Doesn’t matter. It all tasted good, washed down with more red neon courtesy of Long Island City’s Pepsi-Cola just before we docked.

A Clean and Sober Justin Townes Earle Still Has That Old-Timey Feeling

David Callicott — Thu, 05 Jun 2008 17:11:01 +0000

Five years ago, when he was a crack addict, Justin Townes Earle probably associated the phrase “high and lonesome” with something different than what he does now. It was the feeling he got after hitting the pipe, then the feeling he got when the fried-brain buzz wore off. Now high and lonesome is the sound—that Hank Williams-y hollow-gutted-but-full-bodied, sad-but-joyful croon—Earle lets loose when he leans into the microphone and takes you, no matter where you are, to Nashville.

Last night, Earle channeled the heroes of old-timey music and traditional country, as well as more recent heroes of garage punk, at Joe’s Pub. It was one of the smaller audiences I’ve been a part of there, which, as is often the case, made the show that much more special. Especially since it probably won’t be possible to see Earle anywhere but larger, packed venues next time he comes around.

Earle, now a clean and sober, lanky 26-year-old, looked and sounded like a Ryman veteran circa 1950, all pomaded hair and Southern drawl. He told us he’d be playing some “hillbilly music,” and he wasn’t lying. Earle and his sidekick Cory “Ain’t Right in the Head” Yountes picked-and-grinned their way through a flawless set filled with songs about the Civil War, chitlins, cheating hearts and trains.

Most of the songs were from Earle’s strong debut solo album, The Good Life (Bloodshot Records). Although you can hear a little bit of Hank, some Woody and early Willie, and a bunch of Ray Price on The Good Life, it’s all original material. Including the ballads, where you can catch a rare glimpse of another of Earle’s influences—his daddy, Steve. The familiar paternal rasp shows up momentarily in “Who Am I To Say”, and then disappears, allowing the younger Earle to remind us that his roots run deeper than his family tree.

While The Good Life is a perfect introduction to Earle’s many talents, he shines even brighter live, which isn’t always so with singer-songwriters. Last night’s set was proof that Earle is a uniquely gifted performer. He’s someone you want to watch as well as listen to. He’s someone you want to ride the rails with, from Appalachia to Bakersfield and back—which is exactly what we did last night. The last stop was an unexpected detour to Minneapolis, where we got off to a cover of The Replacements’ “Can’t Hardly Wait.” It was Earle proving one more time that what’s old can be new, again and again.

Cave Singers are a Folk Trio. But Vocalist Pete Quirk Reminds Me More of Stevie Nicks

David Callicott — Wed, 07 May 2008 17:02:42 +0000

The Cave Singers packed the house last night at the Mercury Lounge, but they didn’t necessarily rock the house. Which is fine, because they’re not really a rock band. As Matador, their label, makes it clear in the band’s press release, The Cave Singers are a "folk trio." When I first read that, it made me realize how nebulous and misleading the genre-labeling that people like me promulgate can be. Because when I got hooked on their debut, Invitation Songs, folk is not what came to mind.

What actually came to mind was how much I liked the raspy vocals of the Seattle band’s singer, Pete Quirk, which reminded me of Stevie Nicks. In fact, I actually thought Quirk was a woman the first time listened to “Helen” off the Matador Spring Sampler CD that introduced me to the band. Since then I’ve seen that one other writer likens Quirk to Fleetwood Mac’s other vocalist, Lindsay Buckingham (at least he got the sex correct). Just goes to show, you’ve got to listen to this stuff yourself.

Or go see it for yourself, which a couple of hundred of us did last night. What we saw was a dark room (appropriately cave-like) with three bearded men on stage exchanging acoustic instruments. The trio took us through a dozen or so songs, with Quirk doing all of the singing (why then, the pluralized moniker? Who cares?) and occasionally playing the melodica, that small mouth-powered keyboard-thingy that looks like a Fisher Price toy. Quirk also busted out the harmonica and tambourine, which brought to mind Dylan, another nasally folkie that Quirk’s voice can sound like.

The set seemed short, less than an hour, and featured a lot of new material. The fresh tunes were a treat, but it was the more familiar stuff, like the foot-stomping “Dancing On Our Graves” that went over best. While the show was well received by the room full of fans, overall I felt underwhelmed. Even though I expected it to be as mellow as it was, a swaying-more-than-dancing experience, something about The Cave Singers’ hypnotic appeal didn’t translate to the live show. Still, it was worth seeing them if for no other reason than I now agree that calling them a folk band is accurate, although limiting.

Towards the end of the night I felt a tinge of pride when I asked the friend I had brought to the show to close his eyes during “New Monuments” and imagine Stevie Nicks. He did so, and smiled. “I hear it,” he said. Now go hear it for yourself.