Save Tonic | Now Playing

Tonic’s been delving in a vital musical trove for the past seven years (we’ll
glean the aural bonanza the venue’s responsible for in a moment), and the time’s now ripe to help
in turn. Massive financial setbacks, from upped rent and tripled insurance, to robbery and a plumbing
collapse, have Tonic on the verge of eviction.

Musicians are by necessity resourceful, and necessity’s of course
the mother of invention, so the venue’s embarked on a benefit series to work their way out of the morass.
It’s the listening public’s opportunity to enjoy—and pitch in to keep downtown’s crucial
contemporary musical lab dishing up the sonic goods.

This week’s benefit dates include Hurray, Doveman and Stars Like Fleas
in an early set Friday, with Miho Hatori of Cibo Matto and Smokey Hormel early Saturday, followed
by Billy Martin of Medeski Martin and Wood and Mark Ribot. Heavy-hitters continue weighing in later
in the month: Yoko Ono celebrates her 72nd birthday with Sean Lennon on Saturday, Feb. 18, then Lennon
pairs with Vincent Gallo on Feb. 24. Sex Mob—who’ve played Tonic since it opened in 1998—roll
in on Feb. 26. Things have to happen now, so peel back the earflaps and the billfolds for as much of
a good thing as possible.

“It’s been amazing, the amount of support we’ve received from musicians
and audiences,” Melissa Caruso Scott said on the phone. She opened Tonic with her husband John Scott,
initially as an entertainment venue with a comedy night. Tonic hit its mostly musical stride “in
about three months—or maybe two,” Scott said. “We’ve always tried to provide a space where
musicians were comfortable trying out new ideas, and where established musicians could present
new projects.”

That they’ve succeeded at both is no surprise. John Zorn elected early
on to make Tonic his preferred venue; it soon became one of the wonders of the music world. Choice
gigs this week include Roberto Rodriguez from Los Cubanos Postizos with his Septeto on Tuesday;
Monday saw clarinetist Anthony Burr and cellist Charles Curtis playing works by Alvin Lucier.
Just a smattering from Tonic’s past smorgasbord yields Marc Ribot doing supersonic guitar layers
last year with his trio, and with bassist Henry Grimes in Ribot’s band Spiritual Unity, while Petr
Kotik stretched the instrumental envelope with SEM’s percussion ensemble in May. Klezmer brunches;
Zorn’s multifarious month-long 50th birthday in ’03 (electric Masada, the String Trio, duets
with Milford Graves—and that’s just a start).

There was legendary bassist Peter Kowald, legendary guitarist Derek
Bailey, drummer Han Bennink and pianist Misha Mengelberg’s Instant Composer’s Pool; Medeski
Martin and Wood’s live recording; Min Xiao-Fen playing pipa with ex-Beefheart guitarist Gary
Lucas; Marilyn Crispell’s solo piano followed by Uri Caine doing the same. Dave Douglas, Elliott
Sharp, Charles Gayle, Wadada Leo Smith with Anthony Braxton one night and with Ikue Mori another,
with Mori aboard for a gig with Kim Gordon, DJ Olive and Jim O’Rourke. Lee Ranaldo with Tonic mainstay
Alan Licht…the list is as diverse as it is amazing, with Tonic’s potentiometer remaining
on redline.

In a phone conversation, Anton Fier, one of downtown music’s crucial
drummers, recalled his first visit to Tonic, during a difficult hiatus after Fier had broken up
his band, the Golden Palominos. Drummer Joey Baron played a solo gig that Fier felt wouldn’t have
happened anywhere else in New York—and which vitalized him to return to playing music.

“In terms of results and of feeling, there’s nothing else like Tonic
in New York,” said Fier, who now both gigs and works there. “The sound people really know the space
and they really make it work. And when musicians are treated with respect, they feel really grateful.
That’s why everyone wants to help, because they are aware of that. This is a very special place.”

Tonic, 107 Norfolk St. (betw. Delancey & Rivington), 212-358-7501.

—Alan Lockwood

Pistolera

Tues., Feb. 15

Pistolera started shortly after frontwoman Sandra Velasquez’s previous
group, Caramelize, broke up. The singer/guitarist headed back to her native San Diego to regroup,
write some new songs and form this new project with her cousin Ani Cordero (of the band Cordero) on
drums and bassist Pablo Martin (of the Beeps). The band’s songs, mostly sung in Spanish, mix down-home
Mexican norteño rhythms like cumbias, rancheras, and bandas with rootsy indie rock.

Pianos, 158 Ludlow St. (betw. Stanton & Rivington Sts.), 212-505-3733; 10:30,
$8.

—Monika Fabian

Mos Def

Weds. & Thurs., Feb. 9 & 10

The mighty Mos Def lights up 42nd St. this week at B.B. King Blues Club,
the choice venue for hiphop. Finally in town to support his latest, The New Danger—and
not with some big band extravanganza or a small jazz quartet—this evening should prove interesting
for the purists. Criticized by some for the heavy Black Jack Johnson lean of the album, Mos proves
unconcerned, mixing together the various sonic elements swimming around in his head so effectively,
it’s hard to stay disappointed. The man laps most MCs effortlessly, with strong lyrics that could
never be compared to the fluff on the radio airwaves. You must give the man credit for bringing the
funk to those who’d never nod their head to a guitar riff. Also, the club gets respect for putting
this man on for two nights, followed by Kool Keith on Friday.

B.B. King Blues Club, 237 W. 42nd St. (betw. 7th & 8th Aves.), 212-997-4144; 11,
$45.

—Steven Psyllos

Gym Class | Thurs., Feb. 10

Music critics are always on the lookout for the next great white hope.
Like parasites, they attached themselves to the folky Conor Oberst last week, who has a sour voice
and can’t really write a catchy tune. Everyone was yearning for him, though, because he has a neat
haircut. The kind that makes the Tisch girls’ hearts flutter.

Poetry and emotional contemplation are all well and good…at
rehab or in Lifetime movies, but, please, keep it out of the rawk. This week, three fine young fellows
of most rocking origin will be laying the sonic smack down at Lit. Gym Class, a trio climbing up through
the electro-punk gutter, recently inked a deal with My Best Friend Records out of Germany, a subsidiary
of the techno-induced Traum. With a hard-on for Can’s Tago Mago, Lil’ Jon’s Crunk Juice and DFA production,
the band has cultivated a loyal following among the indie set.

What separates these three from the other navelgazers and mopers is
the group’s stage presence. Lead singer and guitarist Dylan Maiden, with his Beatles frop cut and
haunting eyes, pops around the stage like a man grasping for his last breath of punk solitude. With
no bass player, they keep the dark groove rolling with noisy, sci-fi synth lines by Jay Guillermo
and heavy garbage-can-pounding percussion from native Lawng Eylander Jesse Serwer.

With its electronic warbling, Gym Class’ music seems ripe for reinterpretation.
With the help of producer DASO, the band’s gothic screams could actually become dance-floor hooks.

Lit, 93 2nd Ave. (betw. 5th & 6th Sts.), 212-777-7987; 10, $5.

—Dan Martino

Pierrot Lunaire | Sun., Feb. 13

Dawn Upshaw takes on the eerie lilts, the lurid flits and thrusts of Arnold
Schoenberg’s song cycle Pierrot Lunaire, in a program with James Levine and the Met Chamber
Ensemble. As intimately disruptive a blast as modern music’s made, Schoenberg came up with Pierrot in 1912, laying the cornerstone for much of 20th-century serial music while radically reinventing
European bel canto and appalling contemporaries.

Weirdly organic and musically unhinged, Pierrot‘s daring
flaunt and his subsequent work make Schoenberg a provocative ticket to this day (his great, unfinished
opera Moses und Aron sported a nude orgy scene for its 1990 New York premiere by City Opera,
filling houses and scoring media buzz). He picked a vocal foil for remarkable atonal rigor (and
compositional insistence on tone row repetitions) with style he termed Sprechstimme,
which has Pierrot‘s soprano imitating a reciter—or is that a reciter imitating
a soprano? Either way, the 21 songs give fantastical results: Belgian poet Albert Giraud’s storyline
has the famed commedia dell’arte character in a rather ghastly night quest for love, to music that
slashes and haunts among eight instruments from piccolo and bass clarinet to cello and piano.

Upshaw finishes her two-year Perspective series at Carnegie in April,
in a recital with pianist Richard Goode. With major stage power in Mozart operas, she’s won the latitude
to do what she likes—and she clearly thrives on challenges. In splendid voice last month
in Zankel Hall, Upshaw sang contemporary music’s great song cycle, Gyorgy Kurtag’s Kafka Fragments.
Whether drilling at a wickedly brief song repeating “Nein!” or drawing Kurtag’s more somber pieces
into resonant, protracted conclusions, Upshaw’s impassioned feeling had a terrific ally in Geoff
Nuttall, whose charged violin was her sole accompaniment, excepting Peter Sellar’s odd, housewife
staging.

Along with Pierrot, Levine’s programmed chamber pieces are
as compact as they are arch. Schoenberg described his Five Orchestral Pieces to composer
Richard Strauss as “absolutely unsymphonic,” then scaled them down to the version for 11 instruments
that Levine and his choice Ensemble will play. Elliott Carter’s “Luimen” from 1997 balances
harp, mandolin and guitar with vibe, trumpet and trombone. “Piccola musica notturna” was written
in the early 1960s for eight musicians by Luigi Dallapiccola, the Italian composer who got kick-started
on from conservatory models like Mozart and Wagner when he heard—that’s right, Pierrot
Lunaire.

Zankel Hall at Carnegie Hall, 881 7th Ave. (57th St.), 212-247-7800; 5, $48-$64.

—Alan Lockwood

Alexi Delano & George Rontiris

Sat., Feb. 12

DJs Alexi Delano (Poker Flat) and George Rontiris (H-Productions)
will be spinning some slippery, seductive beats this Saturday, headlining the launch of a new weekly
at a newish venue on Ave. B, Climax. Traveling the arc between organic house and precision tech-house,
you know Alexi Delano from his skilled production as ADNY, featured on such fine labels as Wave,
Turbo and Corner Shots; you know G-tech from the rhymes he spits over the illest boom-bips as well
as the choice DJ residencies he’s held around town. This ain’t the first time these cats collaborated,
nor will it be the last, but trust me, there’s no finer line-up this weekend. This is the premium blend.

Climax, 14 Ave. B (betw. Houston & 2nd Sts.), 212-260-7100; 10, free.

—Steven Psyllos

PLUG Independent Music Awards

Weds., Feb. 9

Tonight’s PLUG Independent Music Awards will laud acts that “often
won’t get the recognition we hope & fight to give them.” To that end, they’ve pitted Ted Leo +
Pharmacists, the Libertines and TV on the Radio (among others) against each other for “Indie Rock
Album of the Year.” You know—bands that never get recognition. Tom “Never Heard of Him” Waits
will no doubt kick Nick “whatshisname” Cave’s ass if he snatches “Male Artist of the Year,” and just
imagine the scandal if Death Cab for Cutie takes “Live Act of the Year”—instead of that often-unrecognized
Interpol. Far be it from me to not support a production that strives to “celebrate the artists who
live and flourish in the margins,” but holy fuck. Tonight, spend $20 plus drinks to find out which
publicists stuffed the PLUG website’s ballot box, or maybe head down to Tonic, a truly independent
club that could really use your money.

Webster Hall, 125 E. 11th St. (betw. 3rd & 4th Aves.), 212-353-1600; 8, $20.

—Jeff Koyen

Henry Threadgill’s Zooid | Weds. & Thurs., Feb. 9 & 10

Like Ornette Coleman, Chicago-born avant garde jazz composer Henry
Threadgill—an early proponent of that town’s Association for the Advancement of Creative
Musicians—was birthed into the blues. It informs everything he does, whether it’s the wicked
post-Bop, free jazz and roaring ragtime that pours forth from clearly enunciated notes whether
on clarinet or alto saxophone. It fuels the circus-marching atmosphere of his latter-day compositions
and the odd instrumental configurations applied to his bands, electric or acoustic.

But where Coleman is frenetic and incendiary with his blue rage, Threadgill
is pragmatic, mannered and insular—a blue man. Dryer of humor and sound, Threadgill takes
in the blues and sprays—not spits—his torpor. Perhaps it’s shown through best on
band recordings like the ones he made under his Zooid ensemble’s moniker. His first all-acoustic
band since the Sextet, and his first band since X-75 leaning so heavily on string arrangements,
Zooid (which is an organic cell whose independent movement forms its own colony) popped up in 2001
for Threadgill’s Pi label CD, Up Popped the Two Lips. Finding its mix of tripping timbres,
lengthy harmodelics and boldly colored textures in a blend of Middle Eastern folk, flamenco, cheery
chamber jazz and merry classical composition, Threadgill and company (including acoustic guitarist
Liberty Ellman, oud-ist Tarik Benbrahim and cellist Dana Leong) knock the voodoo off its ass with
a truly inspirational, original sound.

Knitting Factory, 74 Leonard St. (betw. B’way & Church St.), 212-219-3006; 8 & 10, $20.

—A.D. Amorosi

Dan Hicks & The Hot Licks | Weds., Feb. 9

We shouldn’t still be talking about Dan Hicks. Talking about Dan Hicks
should be akin to cracking wise about R. Crumb or Kinky Friedman or Maria Muldaur or Tom Waits when
he was still stuck in Tin Pan Alley and not sounding as if he’d been banging on one. But the loopy, hot-jazz-jiving
Hicks is, as he should be, an ongoing story, someone of whom “the continuing legend of” is a worthwhile
story.

From his young roots in the psychedelic 60s to his mustachioed elder-statesman
present, Hicks is the gruff king of the wry, wiry jazz-country sound with equal doses, sonically
and lyrically, of cowboy and playboy about him and his acoustic swing outfit, the Hot Licks (of whom
violinist/mandolinist Sid Page is the only remaining original member). Hicks could make your
heart ache with paranoid love songs like “I Scare Myself” or make you giggle with “How Can I Miss You
When You Won’t Go Away?” You were never quite sure which cheek his tongue was in.

Taking time off—a decade or so—didn’t make Hicks less
persnickety. Or make him take himself more seriously, as has Dylan. Instead, his most recent studio
recording, Beatin’ the Heat, is just as weird and hotwired as his past recordings with fiddler
Page picking up the rear. Only now, there’s a winsome, elegant loneliness to the proceedings that’ll
surely bring a tear to your eye. Make sure you get there early. Mos Def takes the stage at 11 for his
own showcase.

B.B. King Blues Club, 237 W. 42nd St. (betw. 7th & 8th Aves.), 212-997-4144; 7:30,
$27, $25 adv.

—A.D. Amorosi

Mike Doughty

Tues., Feb. 15

I sure wasn’t the first person to describe Soul Coughing’s music as being
perfect for fucking. And I wasn’t the only person disappointed by their break-up. But since going
solo, front man Mike Doughty (and former New York Press contributor) has hardly stopped
singing soulful, sensual songs. More important, though, his career seems far removed from the
usual concerns about chart numbers and sales. How many successful singer-songwriters
grant permission to tape their live performances, just so long as the equipment doesn’t “obstruct
the view…of fellow concertgoers” and the recordings not be sold for any profit? Doughty
was the first successful musician I knew personally to support file-sharing, and he still
grants amnesty to downloaders (“Please don’t feel guilty…donate generously to [Musicians
Industry Program])”. Tonight, expect a full house and lotsa swooning.

Warsaw, 261 Driggs Ave. (betw. Eckford & Leonard Sts.), Bklyn, 718-387-0505;
9, $26.

—Jeff Koyen

New York Flamenco Festival 2005

Through WEDS., Feb. 23

This year’s flamenco festival pairs up maestros and maestras who demonstrate
and appreciate the elegance and richness of the dance. Although the dance leg is mostly over, this
week’s musical and cultural events are some of the festival’s best.

Over at Carnegie Hall, Mayte Martin will blend classical music and jazz
elements into this Catalonian sound on Friday night. On Saturday, the musical meeting of Enrique
Morente’s canto and Tomatito’s intricate traditional guitar work will undoubtedly be an unforgettable
time.

In tandem, the Instituto Cervantes hosts a series of lectures and films
on flamenco. Guitarist Jose Maria Gallardo del Rey gives a free bilingual talk and demonstration
on Friday. Finally, in tribute to Spanish filmmaker Carlos Saura, the institution will be playing
most of his flamenco-themed movies every Wednesday night, all month long.

Carnegie Hall, 57th St. (7th Ave.), 212-247-7800; call for times and ticket prices.
Instituto Cervantes, 211-215 E. 49th St. (betw. 2nd & 3rd Aves.), 212-308-7720; call for times
and ticket prices.

—Monika Fabian

Marco Benevento & Leslie Helpert | Mon. Feb. 14

Brooklyn’s Projectile Arts collective presents an intimate and relaxed
evening of inspired musical collaboration tonight with pianist Marco Benevento and singer-songwriter
Leslie Helpert, who currently enjoys going by the moniker “Serpentfly.” Separately, these two
have been drawing critical acclaim in the realms of exploratory jazz and folk music, Benevento
for his incendiary live performances with drummer Joe Russo and Phish’s Mike Gordon and Helpert
for her carefully crafted songs and nuanced vocal inflections; together they’ll focus their creativity
on fresh interpretations of classic love songs and ballads from across the musical spectrum.

This is the first on-stage meeting of two young, energetically linked
artists working in radically different styles, so tonight promises a high degree of novelty. Think
of it as two iPods meeting in the night: Before you know it, Billie Holiday is singing Dylan’s “Don’t
Think Twice” backed by Brad Meldhau and a chorus of wood-nymphs, the strange and beautiful sophistication
transporting you entirely.

The Lucky Cat is one of Williamsburg’s coziest little spots—it
was made for nights like this—and its candlelit ambience should have your love meters going
off the deep end. Tonight’s show also benefits the ongoing work of Projectile Arts—a community
of filmmakers and artists dedicated to cross-cultural communication through creative expression—so
you can feel extra warm and do-goodery.

The Lucky Cat, 245 Grand St. (betw. Driggs Ave. & Roebling St.), Williamsburg,
718-782-0437, 8, $10 sugg. don.

—Alan Lockwood

Neko Case & the Sadies | Sun. & Mon., Feb. 13 & 14

Playing together for two nights, Neko Case and the Sadies will give you
a fine example of all that was right with the Americana/country rock scene of the late 60s and early
70s. With Neko Case, it’s hard to ignore a voice that’s big enough to have been born out of the Grand
Ole Opry, yet still carries all the sawdust grit of any old Nashville honky-tonk. She’s doing only
a handful of shows in select cities with the Sadies (so consider yourself lucky) in support of her
new live album on Anti Records, The Tigers Have Spoken—featuring a fine collection
of covers including “Soulful Shade of Blue” by one of Neko’s childhood idols, Buffy Saint Marie,
as well as Loretta Lynn’s statement of gender double standards, “Rated X.” The small dose of Neko
originals she cowrote with longtime friends the Sadies, who superbly back her on these performances.
What makes this live record stand out is the fact that what you hear on the LP is the same thing the audience
was treated to at the intimate shows where it was recorded; there are no overdubs here.

Coming from that same headspace, the Sadies’ country ‘n’ western freight
train rolls through with a hazy psychedelic surf vibe and dreamy layered harmonies not heard since
Gram Parsons cast his spell over Chris Hillman and the rest of the Byrds during their Sweetheart
of the Rodeo days. The Sadies consist of brothers Dallas and Travis Good, both on vocals and
guitars, along with Sean Dean on bass and drummer Mike Belitsky. These mainstays on the Canadian
country and indie-rock scene will be treating us to songs off their fifth full-length release Favorite
Colors out on Yep Roc, which really shows how they have come full circle as songwriters. It’s
a fine sampling of heartfelt songs with a little help from such famous friends as Robyn Hitchcock,
who sings lead vocals on “Why Would Anybody Live Here,” and Blue Rodeo’s Greg Keelor, as well as members
from Calexico.

Bowery Ballroom, 6 Delancey St. (betw. Bowery & Chrystie St.), 212-533-2111;
8, $20, $18 adv.

—Jimmy Ansourian

Sage Francis | Weds., Feb. 9

Rather than be your run-of-the-mill, relaxed-fit-poet MC with a degree
in sociology from CalState and an approach to hiphop more about pulling dorm girls than aggressively
attacking the beat, Sage Francis is an anomaly. Rather than swallow the daisy chain of command that
is Def product, Francis sounds like comic novelty Napoleon XIV nervously attacking the awkward
non-niceties of growing up and looking for truth, no matter how bicameral, schizophrenic or plain
pained it can be.

Outraged, outrageous and funny, this white-boy slam-battle captain
(he won the 1999 Superbowl Battle, the 2000 Scribble Jam and is a top-ranking slam-poetry contestant)
makes, with the help of the equally incendiary musical backing of Anticon Inc., a self-referential
manifesto of loves and hates. If his first CD, Personal Journals, focused on establishing
that brutish but painstakingly detailed lyrical vision, his second CD, A Healthy Distrust,
finds the baritone rapper attacking the minutiae of the minutiae. “I’ll pull the wool over their
vision, pull the pin and push it in ‘em/using women as pin cushion—a super villain/with some
war paint and jokes done in poor taste,” he spiels across “The Buzz Kill.”

Unlike another more famous white rapper who uses misogyny as a tool,
Francis genuinely rattles the cages, placing cyclical savagery in an ugly context rather than
letting us guess how much he really likes it.

Bowery Ballroom, 6 Delancey St. (betw. Bowery & Chrystie St.), 212-533-2111;
8, $15.

—A.D. Amorosi

Ravi Coltrane Quartet

Thurs. & Fri., Jan. 27 & Jan. 28

Being the son of one of the most influential musicians of the twentieth
century must wear down Ravi Coltrane. Critics indulge in silly comparisons, and listeners expect
a certain sound from the instrument he shares with his father. But anyone who has experienced a night
with this man on the bandstand knows that Ravi is a young artist walking his own path, engulfing listeners
in the sound of his warm brass. This week Coltrane plays twice, Thursday at Zebulon Café in Brooklyn with his trio; Friday at Tonic with a quartet.

Zebulon, 258 Wythe Ave. (betw. 3rd St. & Metropolitan Ave.), Bklyn, 718-218-6939;
8; free.

Tonic, 107 Norfolk St. (betw. Delancey & Rivington Sts.), 212-358-7501; 8 & 10; $15,
$12 adv. & one drink min.

—Steven Psyllos

Vijay Iyer | Thurs., Jan. 27

Vijay Iyer premiers a new improv piece commissioned
by and performed with string quartet Ethel, then loads the bill of this “Zoom: Composers Close Up”
series concert at Merkin Hall with his self-taught, much-lauded percussive/melodic approach
to jazz piano, in both trio and solo settings.

Iyer’s accelerated out beyond the curve since returning to New York
in ’98, after making a lot of music in the Bay Area and getting a Ph.D. at U.C. Berkeley. His two recent
releases reaped critical acclaim: the quartet record Blood Sutra (Artists House) Broke
the top 10 in JazzTimes’ critics poll, and In What Language? (Pi. Recordings, with hip hop
poet Mike Ladd, an ensemble of musicians, and an international airport setting) garnered 4 1/2
stars from Downbeat, and Album of the Year from UK’s Jazzwise mag.

Live, Iyer’s a study in well-situated ease and concentrated intensity.
At a busy Tonic benefit at last year, he opened with his band then swept over that venue’s weary piano
as if he were in the Bosendorfer showroom, weaving intricate melodic textures with a driving sense
of rhythm (that group’s release, Reimagining, is out in spring, first of a multi-release
deal with Savoy Jazz).

The Ethel commission, “Mutations,” bridges musical friendships,
and two distinct schools of improvisation. “I’ve known Ethel since they formed,” Iyer said on the
phone. “We were both on a Steve Coleman record, then I kept bumping into [violinist] Todd Reynolds,
who moves in a lot of different musical worlds.” With the Merkin date set, Ethel’s Foundation for
the Arts got funding, and Iyer set out to mix things up. “When new music people approach improvisation,
they often neglect the history of improv in the U.S., jazz being a central thread in that. I wanted
to connect what they do to the structured freedom of jazz. Much of what you hear won’t sound a lot like
jazz—whatever that may mean—but it’s based on real time decision-making, not chance
operations. I encourage formal decision-making based on what’s going on onstage—which
is a lot like life.”

Merkin Concert Hall, 129 W. 67th St. (betw. B’way & Amsterdam Ave.), 212-501-3330;
8, $25.

—Alan Lockwood

JASON MORAN | WEDs.-Sun., JAN. 26-30

Pianist Jason Moran eats his young.
Check out the first tune, “Gangsterism on the Rise,” from his new Blue Note label CD, Same Mother.
It runs from floral and Guaraldi-esque to urgent and pungently Monk (a little Thelonious and a little
Meredith), always in off-time with the militarism of drummer Nasheet Waits. His theatrically
hammered rhythms, his rapid yet thoughtful runs—he swallows you whole. That’s no surprise
to Moran fans. Since arriving in Brooklyn from Houston, Moran (along with The Bandwagon, his unit
featuring Waits and bassist Tarus Mateen) has proved himself a unique, unctuous musical entity,
playing tough and tender behind the likes of saxophonists like Steve Coleman, Greg Osby, and vocalist
Cassandra Wilson.

The lumpy, gutsy roadhouse rhythms of Same Mother are reportedly
inspired by the lost art of foot-stomping Mississippi prison songs. Mother is a cranky
blues record—with wild dancing blues from the heart-leaping “Jump Up”—as well as
a tinkling, twinkling jazz record (witness the starry eyed tickle of “G Suit Saltation” and the
elegiac twitchiness of “Field of the Dead” But Mother‘s improv flights of fancy and its
dirt-ball elegance transform what could be staid into something tart.

Jazz Standard, 116 E. 27th St. (betw. Park & Lexington Aves.); 212-576-2232, 7:30,
9:30, 11:30 (Fri.-Sat. only), $20 (Weds.-Thurs.), $25 (Fri.-Sat.).

—A.D. Amorosi

Bobby Bare Jr. | Fri., Jan. 28

There’s a messiness to Bobby Bare Jr.’s most
recent album From the End of Your Leash that is both unsettling and addictive. The songs
are sloppy, but in their unconformity lies brilliance. They are byproducts of an upbringing drenched
in country music. Yet Bobby Bare Jr. remains a bit of an iconoclast in his native Nashville, his latest
output displaying neither the twang of his father nor the raucousness of his previous efforts.
He’s settled on something in between, a maudlin hybrid of schlock (“Valentine”) and roots (“Your
Favorite Hat”).

Bobby Bare Jr. is a gifted songwriter, with a Townes van Zandt storytelling
voice and a Paul Westerberg stage presence. But his greatest contribution may be his sense of humor,
something lacking in most Americana music (Bottle Rockets notwithstanding). Lyrics are anything
but conventional: “If you talk any faster with food in your teeth/I swear to god I’m gonna call the
police.”

Despite his outcast role in country music circles, Bare Jr. says he doesn’t
disdain his hometown and even backhandedly sings its praises in “Visit Me in Music City.” Yet it’s
hard to believe that this is the same five-year-old kid once nominated for a Grammy back in 1974 for
a touching father-son tune written by Shel Silverstein. Of course, back then Michael Jackson was
singing about the alphabet.

With the Stands, Sarah Lee Guthrie & Johnny Irion and Hula.

Mercury Lounge, 217 E. Houston St. (betw. Ludlow & Essex Sts.), 212-260-4700;
8:30, $10.

—Lionel Beehner

Death from Above 1979 and Man Man | Thurs., Jan. 27

Just off the vicious
Vice label tour with noise-brethren Vietnam and Panthers, the duo that is Death From Above 1979—holy,
hollering Sebastien Grainger, bummer bassist Jesse Keeler—seems like the driven-hard,
still-syrupy sex machine to which their album title, You’re a Woman, I’m a Machine, creepily
alludes. It’s the squalid noise of Suicide with Journey-size hooks. Moistboyz mixed with The
Matrix. Their feed-backing bass lines and squelch-o-phonic synths gurgle and cough seductively—yes,
hacking in the right way at the right time has its own brand of allure—as if in league with that
other Death From Above, the DFA danz-production team. But the girth and grunge of their ability
to rock hard (check “Blood on Our Hands”) is beyond boogie, beyond primal. DFA1979 take that seductive
surge to frantic new heights on the way-surly bump-and-grind anthem “Pull Out” as well as “Sexy
Results”: 2004′s best come-on track.

Opening for DFA1979 is Man Man, the Philadelphian crew whose The
Man in a Blue Turban with a Face features freakish rhythms and airless Ukranian-like melodies.
But their caba-rawk is closer to Zappa’s Mothers of Invention records—the orchestral melee
of Lumpy Gravy, the tumbling drums of Absolutely Free, the curled guitars of Weasels
Ate My Flesh—than anything currently found in the bars of the East Village. There is
vintage violence afoot, with subtone saxo-moans and unmerry marimbas, speaking-in-tongues
sing-songy vocals and garbled guitars all burping out a sloppy yet beautiful noise. And Man Man
manages to bring out the tenderoni in you on the gorgeous ballad, “Gold Teeth.” Now that I think of
it, Man Man’s kinda sexy too. (And yes: they often come with a live strip show starring dancing gyrating
gorillas.)

Mercury Lounge, 217 E. Houston St. (betw. Ludlow & Essex Sts.), 212-260-4700;
8:30, $12.

—A.D.

THE BREAKUP SOCIETY | Sat., Jan. 29

There aren’t many lost albums of the
’90s, but few summed up the doomed decade like I Am Curious (George) by The Frampton Brothers.
It was a power-pop masterpiece that captured the futility of trying to find power in pop culture.
In that same spirit, Ed Masley and Sean Lally kept the band going through lesser efforts before retiring
the act with 1999′s File Under F for Failure. Just when he should be settling into middle-age
as the rock critic for the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, Masley now reemerges as The Breakup
Society with James At 35. The supposed rock opera has Masley’s reedy voice looking back
on a lifetime of miserable romance via defiant garage rock. It’s no hit record, but Masley’s getting
more attention now than he ever did with the Framptons—which is why he’s back on the road,
including this week’s 8:45 slot at The Continental.

A lot of people won’t notice that James At 35 is a rock opera.

Yeah, I didn’t want to make it sound like Tommy, where there was
a cast of characters. I wanted to just show the progression of someone fumbling their way through
a series of bad relationships. “Robin Zander” suggested this reflective thing, and then the next
song I wrote was about the first girl I ever had a crush on. That’s how the songs came together. It’s
really loose, not tightly scripted. There was no blueprint, or no sense of a resolution—other
than wanting the album to end on a note of total despair.

You’ve still got a good eye for the absurdity of living up to rock
‘n’ roll, though.

I’d feel weird addressing those themes without some sense of humor.
I do worry about coming too close to being a novelty act. That might have been a problem with the Frampton
Brothers. We were big fans of the Young Fresh Fellows, and it just seemed like a time when that kind
of music might break through. I think I pulled it back enough on this one. There’s such sadness and
disappointment in so much of the record. If it was played straight, it would be too depressing.

It’s still strange that you’ve made this record, since I
Am Curious (George) was so insightful about romance and maturity.

You’re saying that I should’ve avoided those pitfalls? [Laughs]
I see what you’re saying. It’s like that’s now my place in the whole messed-up scheme of things. But
not every song is autobiographical. Sometimes I draw on other people’s relationships. “Corn Palace”
is about the break-up of the Frampton Brothers, but I wrote it as a relationship song. We played together
for 12 years. I remember us being out on tour, and I could tell it was falling apart. So I wrote that
song as this wistful wish that we could all go back to how it felt on our first ridiculous tour, when
we could be laughing and enjoying a place called Corn Palace.

The Continental, 25 3rd Ave. (betw. St. Marks Pl. & 9th St.), 212-529-6924; 8:45,
$5.

—J.R. Taylor

HAROLD ARLEN CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION | Weds.-Sun., Jan. 26-30

As one
of the architects of Tin Pan Alley’s row of opulent homes, American composer Harold Arlen will be
best remembered for the lachrymose soundtrack to The Wizard of Oz, its score and songs legendary
beyond any obsession with Judy Garland. And that’s okay. I need to cry once a year with a couple of
“tra la las” under my belt. But as a Jewish son of a cantor with a love of early jazz, gospel and ragtime,
Arlen’s deep sense of traditional Southern music and the plantation songs of African America gave
rise to his best, most ardently felt music. From forlorn weather anthems like “Come Rain or Come
Shine” and “Stormy Weather” to churchy shouters like “Get Happy” and delirious laments like “I
Gotta Right to Sing the Blues,” Arlen owned Afrocentric song. Pretty fly for a white guy.

To celebrate what would have been his hundredth birthday, a taut college
of musical knowledge—pianist Eric Reed, bassist Peter Washington, drummer Kenny Washington,
saxophonist Harry Allen, trumpeter Jeremy Pelt—sways and swoons behind a grouping of contemporary
jazz’s most Arlenesque crooners. While some of the sonic essayers like Ann Hampton Callaway and
Paula West might be a bit too cabaret-do-mi-so for these darkest of Arlen’s lamentations, no one
could walk through the dusk of Arlen’s tender, fragile tunes (“One More for the Road,” “It’s Only
a Paper Moon”) like singers Grady Tate and Andy Bey. Tate may be too upbeat to tackle the lovelorn
tatters of matters of the heart like “Night after Night.” But sometimes his snappiness cracks,
and you get a cheerlessness more colorful than most rainbows.

Bey, the child jazz prodigy and Horace Silver stalwart whose latter-day
recordings have proven to be a second coming of sorts, is nothing short of America’s finest living
interpreter of sad, slow song—whether his own or those of a master like Arlen. Bey could sing
“If I Only Had a Brain” the whole night and I’d be pleased.

Blue Note, 131 W. 3rd St. (betw. 6th Ave. & McDougal St.), 212-475-8592; 8 & 10:30, $15-$25.

—A.D. Amorosi

Sonny Landreth & the Goners w/ the Campbell Brothers | Tues., Feb. 1

While steel guitar has always been a relatively arcane art form compared to standard electric
guitar, the “sacred steel” style of the Campbell Brothers was almost totally obscured from public
view until just 10 years ago. Since then, the Brothers have drawn considerable attention, winning
over secular and spiritual fans across blues, folk, jamband, jazz and gospel lines with high-profile
festival and symphony space appearances (Bonnaroo, Playboy Jazz) and collaborations (Steve
Gadd, John Medeski). Besides the double steel-guitar attack of Darick and Chuck Campbell, one
of the first things that hits you about the Campbells’ sound is its fiery electric blues element
verging on rock. Honoring sacred steel’s traditions, the Brothers’ blend of styles was a crossover
waiting to happen; Chuck Campbell, for instance, actually plays with various effects and wah-wah.

The Campbell Brothers are the sons of a Keith Dominion bishop, and have
been accompanying church services for 30 years. Rounded out by electric guitarist and third brother
Phillip Campbell, his son Carlton on drums, and the booming gospel vocals of Katie Jackson and cousin
Denise Brown, the band proves how the soaring quality of steel guitar serves the otherwordly aspirations
of gospel music, presenting a fresh angle that bolsters the mystique the instrument. Fittingly,
electric-slide guitarist Sonny Landreth, most widely known for his longtime affiliation with
John Hiatt, but also renowned for his solo work, appears with his fellow Hiatt cohorts the Goners.
World music slide specialist Bob Brozman opens.

B.B. King Blues Club, 237 W. 42nd St. (betw. 7th & 8th Aves.), 212-997-4144; 8, $25,
$20 adv.

—Saby Reyes-Kulkarni

Legends of the Blues: Blues Express | Fri., Jan. 28

Barely a year after
Martin Scorsese nearly killed off the blues with his soft-focused mini-series, Lincoln Center,
of all folks, is looking to buy back the gutbucketness PBS left behind with a histrionic reverie
of blues masters and blasters. Think of this night as if box sets from Chess, Malaco and Alligator
were exploding into oncoming traffic. Veterans from Chicago to Detroit, from the Delta to the urban
jungle, play hard, fast and furious—united for one solid evening of overheated history.
It would be enough that members of Howlin’ Wolf’s most legendary band (pianist Henry Gray, saxophonist
Eddie Shaw, bassist Bob Stroger) and Muddy Waters’ finest configuration (harp wizard James Cotton,
drummer Willie “Big Eyes” Smith, pianist Pinetop Perkins) were there (David “Honeyboy” Edwards
and Robert Lockwood Jr., too). But Little Milton adds an eminence to the evening, makes it homey
and right.

Subtle, spine-tingling guitarist and equally emotive vocalist, Milton
has caressed the shoulder of soul and the rump of R&B during his long career, starting as far
back as the 50s. But his Bobby “Blue” vocal style has never been Bland. While my personal fave is “Grits
Ain’t Groceries” (as well as his Stax material from the funky 70s), his supple bluster has made the
civilly disobedient “We’re Gonna Make It” and the raunchy “Who’s Cheating Who?” familiar hits.

Then there’s Buddy Guy, still touring under the aegis of his most recent
Silvertone label acoustic CD, 2003′s Blues Singer. You can run down the list of clichés
that fit his sound: “incendiary,” “harrowing,” “risky,” “manic.” Or you can qualify Chicago’s
still-thunder-bearing guitarist and vocalist with any ferocious adjectives you like. Almost
weekly, someone tells me about their favorite Buddy Guy album. It’s always different—from
man to man, from station to station. One jazz guitarist tells me Pleading the Blues, a slow-pot-boiling
stew of nimble-fingered prowess, is Guy’s finest. A younger, hungrier guitarist swears by Stone
Crazy!, a fiery, sloppy, almost-avant blues recording whose highlight is the way-long “I
Smell a Rat.” I tend to agree with him. Older less-blue heads hold Feels Like Rain to the light.
Well, all right. Whether, he’s “drinkin’ TNT” or “smokin’ dynamite,” all Buddy Guy is good Buddy
Guy.

Avery Fisher Hall, Lincoln Center, 10 Lincoln Center Plaza (betw. 62nd & 65th Sts.
& Columbus & Amsterdam Aves.), 212-721-6500; 8, $35-$90.

—A.D. Amorosi

Tommy Stinson | Sat., Jan. 29

Believe it or not, it was almost 25 years ago
that Tommy Stinson, along with his brother Bob, put Minneapolis on the rock ‘n’ roll map with their
legendary Replacements. During those years, Tommy and Bob, along with Paul Westerberg and Chris
Mars, created some of the time’s catchiest drunken punk. Through it all, Tommy sat shotgun for the
Mat’s turbulent ride to the top, and then as drugs and booze took their toll, watched it crumble.
He replaced his own brother due to an out-of-control substance-abuse problem, only to bury him
a short time later.

Post-Replacements, Stinson stayed busy with bands Bash & Pop,
Perfect, and the reformed Guns N’ Roses. Due to GN’R's infrequent schedule and Axl Rose’s erratic
behavior (one unfinished record, and only a handful of shows in the last seven years), he’s had time
to write and create a fine solo debut, Village Gorilla Head, out now on Sanctuary. Recorded
over the last few years at head-Pixie Frank Black’s studio, Village Gorilla Head is the
result of Stinson’s journey, a songwriter’s validation. From songs like “Something’s Wrong,”
with its hints of Replacements dirty pop, or the spacey acoustic “Light of Day,” to the punk snarl
of “Couldn’t Wait,” Tommy shows his ability to set out in different directions while maintaining
a unifying pop sensibility.

Stinson wasn’t shy about calling on former band mates, namely Richard
Fortus (Psychedelic Furs), who lays down great lead guitar work and even cello, and keyboard player
Dizzy Reed, as well as Josh Freese (Perfect Circle), who lends magic on the drums.

Mercury Lounge, 217 E. Houston St. (betw. Ludlow & Essex Sts.), 212-260-4700;
11; $10.

—Jimmy Ansourian

The Hip Hop Hoodios | Fri., Jan. 29th

The Hip Hop Hoodios began as a sketch
on frontman Josh Noriega’s Cornell radio show. But as he started envisioning the product of an imagined
collaboration between hip-hop groups Beastie Boys and Cypress Hill—each of whom have members
of Jewish and Latino heritage, respectively—Noriega realized that the Latin-Jewish hip-hop
concept held more promise than a two-minute satire. So Noriega, along with musician Abraham Velez,
began experimenting with hip-hop, salsa and traditional Jewish tunes. With songs like “Kike On
The Mic” and salsa fied “Hava Na Gila,” the Hoodios have turned musical and cultural notions
about both Latinos and Jews upside-down, while remaining true to Latin Americans’ mestizo
nature. Their latest release Agua Pa’La Gente (“Water For The People”) features Jewish
and Latino musicians like Frank London of the Klezmatics and Karl Perrazo from Santana.

This Friday’s show, their first since last April, will launch Agua,
the follow-up to their debut, Raza Hoodia. Latin surf-rock outfit the Cuban Cowboys open.

Makor (Steinhardt Building), 35 W. 67th St. (betw. Central Park W. & Columbus Ave.),
212-415-500; 9, $15.

—Monika Fabian

Brazilian Gold w/ DJs Greg Caz and Sean | Sun., Feb. 6

Every Sunday, Greg Caz and Sean turn Black Betty into a sweaty Latin-American
dancehall. This weekend, extending upon their theme of choice Brazilian cuts, the two jocks heighten
the carnival with a gold party. Dancers, drinkers and revelers are asked to sport as much of the color
gold as humanly possible. Prizes will be awarded to the most gold.

Don’t worry if you don’t have any of the bling mineral in your wardrobe.
There will be plenty to look at: live go-go dancers will be shaking their ran-can-cans to live percussionists
working alongside the DJs. With dance music looking back at its past for inspiration in the future,
it would help to look at its most obvious foundation, Brazilian rhythms.

Greg Caz is one of the few DJs in the city that has a true grip on rare, new
and old Latin music that keeps las chicas moving. His passion to represent all the colors,
history, and texture of the music has cultivated a loyal following of listeners and dancers alike.
Get there early, as the roof is certainly to be set en fuego.

Black Betty, 366 Metropolitan Ave. (Havemeyer St.), Bklyn; 718-599-0243; 10; free.

—Dan Martino

Jolie Holland | Sat., Feb. 5

One gets the feeling that even at the tender age of six, Jolie Holland
had a young girl’s heart and old woman’s soul. By her early teens, she was already writing, singing
and playing music on guitar, ukelele and fiddle. It didn’t take long for her to realize that school
and home-life were not inspiring her, so when the opportunity came to hit the road, she jumped.

Still in her teens, she traveled between Austin, Texas, and New Orleans,
living a gypsy lifestyle in a traveling caravan of musicians and artists. (It’s easy to hear the
deep southern influences in her music today.) After her time with the roadshow, she helped form
the Be Good Tanyas, an all-female group with echoes of Crosby Stills and Nash. After one record,
Jolie again moved on, trying to close in on her own sound.

Jolie Holland’s first soloÊrelease, Catalpa, was an
accident, a lo-fi recording intended only for friends. Yet there was no hiding the haunting beauty
of the music. After selling a few copies at shows, word spread quickly and the demand became so great
that Jolie was forced to start selling them on her website, where sales poured in from new fans from
across the globe. With Escondida (on Epitaph’s great off-shoot label, Anti, the same folks
who brought us Elliot Smith’s great and tragic swan song, From A Basement On A Hill) Jolie
Holland came full circle and put together one of the most moving records of 2004.

With a voice that combines shades of Billie Holiday and Anita O’Day,
Jolie continues what she started with on Catalpa. Beginning with the opening line—”Tonight
my heart is full of a sad song/my lonesome lover has taken off”—herÊwhispery, morphine-laced
vocals take us through heartbreak and loss, with ukelele and violin perfectly placed atop of lavish
piano blues. With the Akron/Family and Sean Hayes.

Mercury Lounge, 217 E. Houston St. (betw. Ludlow & Essex Sts.); 212-260-4700;
8:30; $14, $12 adv.

—Jimmy Ansourian

Arturo O’ Farrill and Riza Negra

Tues., Feb. 8

A week ago, Arturo O’ Farrill led Lincoln Center’s Afro-Latin Jazz Orchestra
in front of hundreds, but tonight you can listen to (and maybe even jam with) the pianist and his band
Riza Negra at Cornelia Street’s 60-seat lounge. One Hamilton gets you an evening with these Latin
jazz explorers before they resume their American tour. O’Farrill, son of Cuban musical great Chico
O’ Farrill and a self-named “New York mutt,” doesn’t do the “Latin-flavored” jazz thing (read:
wishy-washy compositions concealed in catchy trumpeting and Afro-Latin percussion).

Cornelia Street Café, 29 Cornelia St. (betw. Bleecker & W. 4th Sts.); 212-989-9319;
8:30; $10.

—Monika Fabian

King Missile III

Mon., Feb. 7

Most people remember the first time they heard “Detachable Penis” and
“Jesus Was Way Cool.” The local college radio jock was probably playing the Lemonheads or something,
and out of nowhere comes John S. Hall’s taunting monotone, the seminal voice of NYC’s electric poetry
movement, dropping some of the funniest shit you’d heard in a rock ‘n’ roll song since you were baby-
sat by Ween. Tonight Hall fronts the band’s third incarnation—a typically impressive line-up—and
will regale the faithful with metaphysical poesy from the new album, Royal Launch. Expect
to ponder, and ponder deeply, everything from vegetables to the occasional skull-fuck. With art-punks
God Is My Co-Pilot.

Knitting Factory, 74 Leonard St. (betw. B’way & Church St.); 212-219-3132; 7;
$10.

—Alexander Zaitchik

M.I.A. | Sat., Feb. 5

Born in London to Sri Lankan refugees, Maya Arulpragasam was a visual
artist until her album-cover work took her on tour with Elastica and Peaches. Following the tour,
she decided to set aside her spraypaint, purchase a sequencing machine and make a demo.

In February she debuts as M.I.A. with Arular on XL Recordings, the home
of Dizzee Rascal, Basement Jaxx and the White Stripes. A cursory listen might place her as just another
unclassifiable artist mixing electronica and hiphop with dashes of world music. But on second
or third listen, you’ll find yourself rewinding to catch certain lines and place the origins of
the samples.

Maya’s inspiration isn’t a hard-knocks tale of childhood in some East
End estate. The album is titled after the nickname of her father, a guerilla with the Tamil separatist
movement in Sri Lanka. Airy vocals over heavy beats describe the war she grew up around as her father
faded in and out of their nomadic life. They also describe events closer to home. While it’s nearly
impossible to understand every word, her message is obvious. On the self-titled track, she rhymes,
“You can watch tv, watch the media, President Bush doing take over… Cherokee Indian, Japanese
American, Caribbean African, Laotian lifer—who the fuck’s your president?”

Knitting Factory, 74 Leonard St. (betw. B’way & Church St.); 212-219-3132; 10:30;
sold out.

—Andrea Toochin

Sergio Mendes & Brasil 2005 | Mon.-Sat., Feb. 7-12

Like Jimmy Webb and Herb Alpert, the coolly complex Tin Pan chords and
windy harmonics of Brazilian composer/pianist Sergio Mendes define a moment in modern AM radio
pop whose likes we’ll never hear again. One where sprightly jazz met subtle sambas and Beatle-ish
pop on Broadway with a transfer readied for Harlem.

At a time when most of America was tuning out, Mendes was turning on bright
ears to a sound that seemed faddish by the 50s, bossa nova. Rather than play upon his scholastic talents
as an egghead classicist, Mendes at the dawn of the 60s took on a swinging sound, one whose samba jazz
leanings caught not only the attention of Antonio Carlos Jobim (with whom Mendes would record)
but also Cannonball Adderly.

When he stopped taking numbers for his Brasil outfit, Mendes made jazzy
solo albums, produced and composed for others (his grandest was Sarah Vaughn’s Brazilian Romance of 1987) and finally found his way back to Bahian hip-hop, reviving in him another year-bearing
band, Brasil ’05. I can’t promise they’ll be as good as ’66 or ’67—those were very good vintages—but
the wine that is Sergio is always quite good.

Blue Note, 131 W. 3rd St. (betw. MacDougal St. & 6th Ave.); 212-475-8592; 8 &10:30;
$30 & $40.

—A.D. Amorosi

Unband

Thurs., Feb. 3

Ex-members of Northampton’s infamous Unband have failed to drop dead
or disappear, as was no doubt suspected, and probably hoped for, by many. In fact, former bassist
Mike Ruffino just came out with a book, Gentlemanly Repose, which if not worthy of instant
initiation into the mainstream Western canon, at least contains instantly classic one-liners
like, “Even jail wouldn’t be so bad if you could drink beer.” Drummer Eugene Ferrari is backing up
Old Money (presumably having his underwear thrown in your face during shows is still gratis), and
frontman Matt Pierce is rolling into town tonight with trio Fistah, whose songs include “Drugs,
Drinkin’ & Drugs” (and yes, that’s all one title).

Even more noteworthy, however, is the bill’s second act, Dealbreaker,
helmed by one-time Northampton resident Jesse Gordon. Keep your tv eye on this young rock band.
They might be considered the Unband’s baby brother act. But then again, that’s what the Stooges
were to the MC5 at one point, too.

Continental, 25 3rd Ave. (betw. St. Marks Pl. & 9th St.); 212-529-6924; 9; free.

—Tanya Richardson

Karen Jacobsen

Tues., Feb. 8

Join sultry Aussie songbird Karen Jacobsen for a celebration of her
new CD, Here In My Heart. Jacobsen’s voice soars all the way through “Here in My Heart,” “Strong Woman,”
“Your Body Over Mine” and the other anthems she composed for this, her third CD, which she also produced
on her own label, Kurly Queen. If sports fans recognize Jacobsen’s voice, it’s from her distinctive
delivery of the Star Spangled Banner at Dodger Stadium, Fenway Park, Madison Square Garden and
Giants Stadium.

Come spring, Karen will be touring the U.S., as well as London and Sydney.
For this concert, she’s backed by Josh Dodes on keyboards, Richard Hammond on bass and Ethan Eubanks
on drums. Singer Jenny Bruce opens. February 8 is the Tuesday before Valentine’s Day, so expect
some prizes and surprises, and be prepared to lose your heart to Jacobsen or, at the very least, leave
Fez singing her lovely, melody-driven songs.

Fez/Time Café, 380 Lafayette St. (Great Jones St.); 212-533-7000; 7; $12.

—Jennifer Merin

The Arcade Fire | Weds., Feb. 2

The Arcade Fire is back in NYC tonight, burning like a newborn comet through
the hype. Critics have worn out their thesauruses trying to find synonyms for “Oh, my god” ever since
the Montreal indie phenoms blew up the stage at Mercury Lounge during CMJ last fall, running around
in helmets while teetering on the edge of stardom.

Equally evocative of David Bowie, the Magnetic Fields and the Talking
Heads, Arcade Fire’s music is difficult to categorize. It’s true that they put the “emotion” back
into emo, but they also blow it up. Check the power flowing through the band’s recently released
Funeral. Having come through a fog of personal and family challenges themselves, the band
pushes emotions like grief and fear to their absolute limit, transmuting emo angst into ecstatic
joy.

Lead singer and guitarist Win Butler brings a roots-oriented sensibility
from Texas, with a beautifully ragged voice that grabs the listener by the heart. Butler is complimented
by classically trained singer and multi-instrumentalist Regine Chassagne. Tonight’s show is
sold out, but you can still find tickets on Craigslist.

Irving Plaza, 17 Irving Pl. (15th St.); 212-777-6800; 8; sold out.

—Simon Cohn

Cyro Baptista & Brazilian Carnaval Universal

In the fingers, palms and elbows of Brazilian percussionist Cyro Baptista,
everything takes on the weight of his world. Nothing weary, mind you, though Baptista’s soft strokes
have found their way across the most slowly aching of works from the gloomiest of jazz chanteuses
like Cassandra Wilson and Holly Cole, as well as classicists such as opera diva Kathleen Battle
and cellist Yo Yo Ma.

Whether playing with the avant garde A-to-Z (literally, from Laurie
Anderson to John Zorn with stops at Eno in between) to his native soil’s soul-fullest, Baptista
has become dance itself. The groove is supple and alluring. His rhythm is that of a dancer—often
a really weird dancer. In accordance with Zorn’s labels, Avant and Tzadik, Baptista has released
the manic Viva Loucos (his interpretations of Brazilian classical composer Heitor Villa
Lobos) and the stranger, Beat the Donkey. Live, Beat the Donkey is a surround-sound-and-vision
blur, a freaky mix of percussionists, singers, drummers, DJs, singer and dancers. OK, not just
one form of dance and dancer, but a mix of samba, tap and Capoeira—a top-spinning martial
attack plan that’s concise and dangerous to the touch—all exotically costumed when costumed
at all. Rather than be as obvious and vile as Stomp, it is graceful and cagey.

Dizzy’s Club Coca-Cola at Jazz at Lincoln Center, Frederick P. Rose Hall, 33 W. 60th
St. (Broadway), 5th floor; 212-258-9595; Tues.-Sun., 7:30-9:30, Fri.-Sat., 11; $30, $5 drink
min.

—A.D. Amorosi

Manny Oquendo & Andy Gonzalez

Weds., Jan. 19

Copilots through 30 years at the helm of one of NYC’s most gorgeous bands,
the great timbalero Manny Oquendo and his bass man Andy Gonzalez celebrate their birthdays—and
the velvet strength of the fabled New York Sound. Tito Puente had the show sense; Oquendo sports
the chops. In the 60s, his ferocious “tipico” playing backed Eddie Palmieri’s wildly exuberant
first band, La Perfecta, and birthed salsa. For those in the know, Oquendo, Gonzalez and their trombone-packed
conjunto Libre have been making it happen ever since.

La Maganette, 825 3rd Ave. (50th St.),212-759-5677; 8, $10.

—Alan Lockwood

Schubert’s Die Winterreise

Thurs. & Fri., Jan. 19 & 20

Baritone Florian Boesch and pianist Russell Ryan perform Franz Schubert’s
magnificent song cycle (Op. 89, D. 911) based on the poems of Wilhelm Müller with visuals by
Andreas Ratz. One of the last works for both the composer and the poet, “Die Winterreise” was panned
upon its release in 1827, yet it remained one of Schubert’s personal favorites. The cycle narrates
the end of a relationship and conveys the disappointment of a lover through the use of images of winter,
finally culminating with “Der Leiermann” (The Organ-Grinder) one of the most powerful and haunting
lieder ever written by the composer.

Austrian Cultural Forum, 11 E. 52nd St. (betw. 5th & Madison Aves.), RSVP 212-319-5300
x. 222; 8, free.

—Hector Meza

Detroit Cobras and the Sights | Thurs., Jan. 20

With all the hype surrounding Detroit bands, it’s a shame the Detroit
Cobras stand in the shadows of some of their more notable friends like the White Stripes and the Von
Bondies. In 10 years, nothing has come easy for Maribel Restrepo, guitar, and the chain-smoking,
raspy, whiskey seductress Rachel Nagy on vocals. In that time, they have had some of Detroit’s best
local talent bounce in and out of their line-up, seen record deals come and go, and let inner-band
tensions get the better of them. One might say the lack of original music in the band has held them
back. On their new release Baby (available only by import on the Rough Trade label), you’ll
actually hear a rare original song called “Hot Dog (Watch Me Eat),” which Restrepo has called “a
silly-ass song.” Either way, the Detroit Cobras have always stayed true to what they do best, which
is to dig deep into that vast musical vault of old blues and Staxx-style soul and come up with a raw,
fresh approach that a lot of their fellow Motor City rockers fail to achieve with their original
music.

Hot and cold luck continues to haunt the Cobras. They sold a respectable
20,000 copies of Baby so far in the UK, where they are the latest buzz band, and even had the
song “Cha Cha Twist” off Baby land in a Diet Coke ad. But as good as things are going abroad,
they could be better in the States, where they are lost in the shuffle of a Detroit musical scene that
they themselves helped create long before the world was introduced to Jack and Meg White, and still
remain without a U.S. record deal. Your best shot right now of getting what might be the Detroit Cobras’
best record yet is heading out to a show and buying one there.

The second half of tonight’s Detroit double-header is the Sights. You
can’t help but love the Sights’ bombastic late-60s garage-pop sensibilities laced with the Farfisa
organ, and fuzzed-tone guitar psychedelia. Rumor has it that the band will soon be releasing a long-awaited
follow-up. The Sights was started by guitarist/vocalist Eddie Baranek back in his not-so-long-ago
high school years, and after aligning themselves with the Dirtbombs, the Cobras, and the Paybacks,
have earned a reputation as a great band who’ll often steal the show from everyone else on the bill.

Maxwell’s, 1039 Washington St. (11th St.), Hoboken, 201-653-1703; 8:30, $12.

—Jimmy Ansourian

Warmer By The Stove: Eric Wright | Fri., Jan. 21

The Warmer By the Stove series for improvising and experimental musicians
opens its 12th season with a celebration of composer Eric Richards’ 70th birthday. A sample of Wright’s
works includes “The Mouth of Night” for one to 12 breathers, “Between a Rock…” for rock band
and solo lute, and “The Consent of Sound and Meaning,” scored for 10 double basses and seven trumpets,
so peal the holiday jingles and get your headset. He’s titled this program “Final Bells,” and is
joined by percussionist Alan Zimmerman and David Keck on vocals, with one of new music’s ace pianist,
Joe Kubera, at the bench (Kubera’s highly regarded for interpretations of John Cage’s piano music,
including his Lovely Music recording of Music of Changes).

Warmer by the Stove producers Thomas Buckner and Tom Hamilton span the
gamut of new music. Buckner’s baritone singing and tireless advocacy having been fundamental
on the scene for 30 years; recent apexes include a duo with Cecil Taylor, and world premieres of a
Roscoe Mitchell concert piece and Robert Ashley’s new opera, Dust. Hamilton, in addition
to his own electronic music (check out the roiling tweaks of last year’s London Fix on Muse-EEK)
has been performing and recording Ashley’s music for 15 years, and co-organized the big Sounds
Like Now festival at La Mama last autumn.

The series continues with drummer/word fount William Hooker on Jan.
22, with Sabir Mateen’s sax and violinist David Soldier of the Soldier String Quartet. Next weekend,
Belgian guitarist Guy de Bievre plays “Bending the Tonic” on Friday with a band featuring Peter
Zummo’s trombone, then saxophonists Jack Wright and Michel Doneda tie things up with “From Between”
on Saturday the 29th.

Lotus Music and Dance, 109 W. 27th St., 8th floor (betw. 6th & 7th Aves.), 212-627-1076;
$10.

—Alan Lockwood

Kermit Ruffins | Mon., Jan. 24

I adore New Orleans at its quietest. That’s when the ghosts come out and
its boggiest swamplands are at their most hauntingly elegant. That’s why I loathe the bacchanalian
vomitorium known as Mardi Gras. America is too agog for its own good. I’ve learned, too, to despise
so much of the music of that moment: the rabble, the rouse.

How then do I have such fond regard for Orleans parish native Kermit Ruffins,
the soon-40-year-old trumpeter as renowned for his audience-appreciation skills as he is his
brassy, ballsy good-time music? As well as having played the way-too-much huckleberry sound of
zydeco and the parade circuit of New Orleans, Ruffins is a student of all his city’s sounds as well
as the free spirit of improvisational jazz—the slow, holy sound of heroes like Louie Armstrong
as well as the rabidly fast stuff; the area’s hallowed church hymns; regional Indian music; brass
band blues.

A cheery man? Certainly. But this former founder of the Rebirth Brass
Band’s best solo work—compiled on a new eponymous Putumayo World Music label collection
from his Justice and Basin Street label recordings—is as often rife with teary sadness,
unhinged anger and prayerful sorrow as it is giddy.

Jazz Standard, 116 E. 27th St. (betw. Park & Lexington Aves.), 212-576-2232; 7:30
& 9:30, $15.

—A.D. Amorosi

Bonfire Madigan Shive | Tues., Jan. 25, Tues., Feb. 8, 15, 22

Critics tend to recycle the phrase “avant-pop chamber rock” when writing
about Bonfire Madigan, the San Francisco outfit of cellist/composer Madigan Shive. It’s pithy
terminology for music with deep, cello-driven rhythms that can be as irresistible as a riptide.
Veins pulsing with adrenaline and espresso, BMad knocks the floor out of a musical landscape overrun
with wan, Will Oldham-inspired alt-country.

In the early 90s, Shive’s seminal duo Tattle Tale left no punk girl unstirred.
The band roared through Riot Grrrl and the independent music scene with cello- and guitar-based
harmonies that could arc from pillowy hush to ear-splitting shriek in the span of a bar. My friend
Seanna pinched her boyfriend’s copy of the demo cassette for me in 1994; Shive’s music has been sewn
into my life ever since. Shive’s first release as Bonfire Madigan was on Kill Rock Stars; From
the Burnpile, now out of print, is an underground classic. But when Shive and KRS parted ways
after Saddle the Bridge, her career was stymied.

There are cases in which DIY and independent channels ultimately do
a disservice to both the artist and the fans, and this is one of them. During the search for a new label
to fund and manage distribution, promotion and tours, Shive’s influence has been limited in scope,
if not intensity—fans routinely drive hundreds of miles to see her play. In recent years,
she’s released a handful of recordings on her own label, MoonPuss Music. Plays for Change is the rare live album actually worth listening to, and I Bleed samples a decade of Shive’s
work, compiling songs that are out of print with newer work. But the production quality of both leaves
something to be desired, which detracts from the music itself. Whether she’s decrying poverty,
whispering a transcontinental lullaby or grieving her late mother, Shive’s songs are electrifying,
and the new ones reflect a growing sophistication that belongs on a well-produced, properly distributed
release. (Which is imminent. The esteemed Hal Willner, who’s cultivated icons such as Laurie Anderson,
Lou Reed, Allen Ginsberg and Marianne Faithfull, is producing the next Bonfire Madigan release;
complete with former Tarantel drummer Jonathan Hughes and acclaimed guitarist Shelley Doty,
it’s due out this fall.)

The Knitting Factory and Pianos both extended winter residencies to
Shive: The Knit got her for January, and Pianos has her for February. She’ll be joined by Elliott
Sharp and DC’s Garland of Hours (1/25), Diane Cluck (2/8), Rebecca Gates (2/15) and Thalia Zedek
(2/22), among others.

Jan. 25 at Knitting Factory Tap Bar, 74 Leonard St. (betw. B’way & Church St.), 212-219-3132;
7, $8.

Feb. 8, 15 & 22 at Pianos, 158 Ludlow St. (betw. Stanton & Rivington Sts.), 212-505-3733;
9:30, call for price.

Yanni

thurs.-Sat., Jan. 20-22

Yanni’s official biography confesses that he “could not read a note”
of music at the beginning of a career that “defies categorizing.” In a top-secret document obtained
by New York Press, Yanni’s publicist confides that it is only because of “overwhelming
demand” that the great New Age one will stop into town for a mere three nights. How gracious of PBS
to spare Yanni’s fund-raising abilities and share his indescribable magic with New Yorkers. Now
we’ll all know what reveille sounds like at a forced-labor camp.

Radio City Music Hall, 1260 6th Ave. (50th St.), 212-307-7171; 8, $44-$104.50.

—Aileen Gallagher

The Upwelling | Sat., Jan. 22

Normally I’d dismiss a couple of mischievous indie rockers whose band
name is a pun of a bad burger joint and whose professional credentials include more than one backslash
(illustrator/musician/artist). But White Hassle (from White Castle), an offshoot of Railroad
Jerk’s Dave Varenka and Marcellus Hall, has produced not one but two unforgettable back-to-back
albums. And it only took the group seven years to do it.

Hall’s the anti-Ryan Adams, a Minnesota native who’s hardly prolific,
but when he releases an album, he strikes gold. White Hassle’s sound draws from several genres,
an inventive mix of makeshift instruments and complex melodies.

When Hall’s not with his band mates banging tin pots together to the sound
of a banjo and his scratchy voice, he can be found all over downtown, drawing people for fun, or illustrating
for The New Yorker and other publications (including this one). Not a bad gig, but he’s not
giving up his day job, because, as Hall put it in a Slate article last year, “The music part is [only]
a job—but with negligible income.”

White Hassle’s latest album, The Death of Song, is less noisy
and offbeat than their first effort but no less a masterpiece, with top-shelf tunes and smart lyrics,
making it among the best (and most underrated) indie albums of 2004. Anthems such as “I Was Sleeping,”
“2 by Sea” and “My Favorite Lie” are hard not to hum, and their cover of the Hollies’ “The Air That I
Breathe” is a keeper. I’m looking forward to White Hassle’s next batch of tunes. Too bad I’ll probably
be in my 40s by the time that happens.

With the Hold Steady, P.O.S. and the Heartless Bastards.

Mercury Lounge, 217 E. Houston St. (betw. Ludlow & Essex Sts.), 212-260-4700;
9:30, $10.

—Lionel Beehner

33Hz, Trick and The Heartstrings & Diplo | Wed. Jan. 19

Though this Joe’s show is meant to party down the start of downtown entrepreneurix Oxycottontail’s dot com, in reality it’s a celebration of all that shall be wack in wonky-funk and
funky wonk for 2005. With a silver shoe-gazer’s rockist edge to their cool purplish disco sound,
33Hz are electro-frying. Syrupy vocal harmonies rippling with blue-eyed soul, a bouncing, overly
synth-ed out dance-ambience that’d make Air and Phoenix seem more daft than punk—all this
makes for one of this city’s finest quartets. Hurry up and catch them before they get too old to matter—they’ve
been doing this for over five years. Trick and the Heartstrings—well, they’re just the cutest
boys. Finally, there’s Diplo. This Florida swamp-to-Philly-ghetto producer has created one
of the East Coast’s hottest crunk-funk bashes in Hollertronix. With his DJ buuuuudy, Low Budget,
the two spinners make audiences sweat as if they’re unleashing water from a fire hydrant.

On his own, Diplo has turned out three of latter ’04′s finest works. His
solo artist CD, Florida, is the sound of leg-humping, shadow-layered jazz-foink with
deep dirt beats with quacking keyboards. Then there’s his damn near privately released, Piracy
Funds Terrorism. Mixed and recorded by himself with M.I.A. (Maya Arulpragasam, the Sri Lanka-via-London
electro-tribal goddess), Piracy is awash in avant dancehall-tronics. By fusing bits
of her own debut CD’s best songs—the chanted robotica of “Galang,” the cannibalistic jungle
of “Amazon,” the timpani-tech of “Bucky Done Gun”—with Salt ‘N’ Pepa and Eurythmics, the
duo places her upon an immediate pedestal. Still, for all-around heat and laughter, seek out Diplo’s
dirty Braza-Miami-bass mix, Favela on Blast: Rio Baile Funk 04. His raw silken, nasty-ass
epic is filled with barking beats, rangy guitars and hook-heavy melodies. You’ll want more of this
the second you hear it.

Joe’s Pub, 425 Lafayette St. (betw. Astor Pl. & W. 4th St.), 212-539-8500; 11, $12,
$10 with flyer.

—A.D. Amorosi

La Belle Captive | Thurs.-Sat., Jan. 20-22

\Based on the texts of French writer Alain Robbe-Grillet and poems written
by women imprisoned during the Argentinean military dictatorship of the 1970s, John King’s newest
work is billed as “an experimental, electronic opera.” But La Belle Captive is operatic
less in the style of the music than in the scale of the spectacle. It’s no surprise that King directs
the work, as the visual and performance components are as carefully scored as his music. The video
work by Benton-C Bainbridge is mesmerizing, especially when coupled with Minou Maguna’s set and
lighting. Like Robbe-Grillet’s oeuvre, this opera lacks a unified plot and psychologically-based
character development; it instead relies on symbols. The opera follows the tenuous relationship
between an imprisoned actress (Analía Couceyro) and her captor, represented by the imposingly
haunting figure of a soprano centerstage (Carla Filipcoc Holm).

Images of open spaces, like city- and ocean-scapes, are contrasted
against more claustrophobic—and sometimes surprisingly intimate—locales such
as a prison cell. In its preoccupation with aural and visual perception, there is an affinity between
this piece and Kandinsky’s stage work, like Der Gelbe Klang (The Yellow Sound).
The music and text play tricks on the listener, while eyes and mirrors are recurrent images. The
action onscreen and onstage mimic each other, often blurring the line between the source and its
echo. This production, which received its world premiere at the Teatro Col—n in Buenos Aires,
will certainly please those with a penchant for visceral, if unclassifiable, experiences.

The Kitchen Center, 512 W. 19th St. (betw. 11th and 12th Aves.), 212-255-5793; 8, $15,
$12 st./s.c.

—Hector Meza

Love as Laughter

Fri., Jan. 14

Since Love as Laughter singer/guitarist Sam Jayne moved to New York,
leaving his bandmates on the West Coast, he has been fine-tuning his skills and playing out solo.
Tonight, Sam kicks things off with a few songs from his just- released debut (and hand-silk-screened!)
album, The Super Natural Sessions. Sam’s flaneur lifestyle coupled with his sarcastic
perspective of everyday mundane life makes for pleasurable lyrics, superbly illustrated on “The
Cleaning Man” and “The Captain Was Here.” The evening will culminate when Love as Laughter hits
the stage. The renowned lo-fi effort hasn’t played New York City in three years—not counting
a private CMJ performance. Swearing at Motorists open (see A.D. Amorosi’s preview, p. 38).

Knitting Factory, 74 Leonard St. (betw. B’way & Church St.), 212-219-3006; 9,
$8.

—Lisa LeeKing

Allan Holdsworth

Thurs., Jan. 13

In case you don’t know, Holdsworth was Eddie Van Halen’s favorite guitarist
for a long time; he loved his tone so much he stole it. But only the nerdiest of music lovers know of
Holdsworth’s legacy, which includes questionable jazz rock with later versions of daring prog
rock acts like the Soft Machine and Gong, a long stint in Bill Bruford’s bands and as a founding member
of the art-cheese supergroup U.K. (which eventually turned into, uh, Asia). Sometimes his guitar
playing is incredible on so many levels, but other times—especially his guitar synth work—it
sounds like muzak from the dentist’s office.

B.B. King Blues Club, 237 W. 42nd St. (betw. 7th & 8th Aves.), 212-997-4144; 8, $25.

—Christopher X. Brodeur

Curtis Eller’s American Circus | Suns., Jan. 16 & 23

“New York City’s angriest yodeling banjo player” spells out his influences:
Stephen Foster and Buster Keaton. Clearly, they are components of Curtis Eller’s vaudevillian
music, but doggone it if he hasn’t named songs after the Dixie songwriter and the deadpan comic on
his most recent CD, Taking Up Serpents Again. But there’s more to Eller’s widescreen imagination,
his epochal music. “I’m speaking in tongues unknown to men,” he sings in a raspy, rattled voice across
the slowly plucked banjo’s ruckus of the title tune.

Accompanied by haunted cooing background angels—as he is throughout
Serpents—the clarity of Eller’s handsome voice and the rancid money-changing
politics of his lyrics are obscured by the idea of his olde-timey sound. Take pause. Listen to this
record repeatedly. The shuffling soft-shoe beats and wheezy accordion of “Hide That Scar” gently
conceal the miscreant visions of his lyrics and the effortlessness of his vocals.

There’s a wretchedly elegant sarcasm and darkly burnished humor at
work within Eller’s songs. Take the delicate pleasure of hearing Al Jolson on a jukebox on “Sugar
in My Coffin”; Eller is better than he lets on. Perhaps that’s because he’s spent most of his time
playing at funerals and horse races with little more than tuba, accordion and upright bass behind
him. No matter. This is not music recorded in a vacuum. It should be heard in one, literally or figuratively.
Despite his handlebar moustache and really old-school arrangements, Curtis Eller is more modern
in his scope than a dozen glitchy laptoppers.

Living Room, 154 Ludlow St. (betw. Stanton & Rivington Sts.), 212-533-7235; 8,
$5.

—A.D. Amorosi

Shivaree | Tues., Jan. 18In 1999, San Fernando-based alt-lounge trio
Shivaree debuted with the trip-folk riddle I Oughta Give You a Shot in the Head for Making Me Live
in this Dump. Five years and numerous managerial tailspins later, Who’s Got Trouble
(just released) confirms that the group’s ambiguous sound—parts trip-hop, samba, dream
pop and Europeanized space-jazz—doesn’t encumber its intrigue.

Who’s Got Trouble carries an injured tone that’s difficult
to embrace, but live, lissome frontwoman Ambrosia Parsley sure makes you want to try. Her icy croon
is ink in the indie boy’s sketchpad—echoes of Hope Sandoval and Juliana Hatfield—and
despite their aloofness, the rest of the band can certainly cut a groove. Guitarist Duke McVinnie
and keyboardist Danny McGough set a murky backdrop of cryptic, spiraling jazz hooks that, when
combined with Parsley’s tuneful moan, leave an inverted sort of resonance.

This is polychromatic mood music that might be better received at a table,
so get there early. The mellifluous pitter-patter of Parsley’s adolescent coo will be the perfect
prelude to sleep, and though the excruciating femininity is not uncommon, this variety boasts
shadowy piano fills and syrup-slow brass accompaniments. It is a steep $15, though, so burn the
new U2 disc from a friend and enjoy the show.

Joe’s Pub, 425 Lafayette St. (betw. E. 4th St. & Astor Pl.), 212-539-8778; 7:30,
$15.

—Tim Birner

The Voluptuous Horror of Karen Black

Tues, Jan. 18

The last time I saw the Voluptuous Horror of Karen Black, their lead singer,
the bizarre Kembra Pfahler, was doing handstands naked, colored completely red, while dancers
dressed as bunnies slammed paint-filled eggs into her vagina. It was pretty good. She sang like
Shirley Temple gargling glass, over crunchy hard rock with catchy melodies, and we’ll take that
any day over the thousands of bands out there that are more boring than a mixed tape of Dave Matthews.
But the last time I saw this band was a decade ago, so maybe they’ve changed. But I doubt it.

The Jayne County Five and the She Wolves open.

B.B. King Blues Club, 237 W. 42nd St. (betw. 7th & 8th Aves.), 212-997-4144; 8, $20.

—Christopher X. Brodeur

The Consul

Thurs. & Fri., Jan. 14 & 15

The Bronx Opera inaugurates its 37th season with the revival of Gian
Carlo Menotti’s Pulitzer-winning opera The Consul. The work, originally produced in
1950, tells the story of Magda Sorel, a woman trapped behind the Iron Curtain, and her search for
freedom. In this opera, Menotti demonstrates his skill and versatility as both a composer and a
librettist; the music alternates from instances of grand symphonic quality to more subtle chamber-style
moments depending on the requirements of the dramatic situation, and the vocal lines and lyrics
possess great expressiveness without any unnecessary adornment.

The Kaye Playhouse, Hunter College, E. 68th St. (betw. Park & Lexington Aves.),
212-772-4448; 8, $20-$35.

—Hector Meza

The Soundtrack of Our Lives | Tues., Jan. 18One hardly knows what they’re
going to get when seeing Oasis play live in the 21st century, aside from a rock-hard erection. That
said, the ripped, aging soccer hooligan who punched his six-year-old daughter in the thigh for
not standing during “Supersonic”—some might have seen that coming.

The relatively obscure Swedish opening act, on the other hand, probably
not. If anyone had, then they wouldn’t have busied themselves at the T-shirt table instead of coming
on in for the party. In front of the most meager of crowds, the Soundtrack of Our Lives were finishing
their unbilled opening set, and it was then, amidst the empty seats and violet lights, that the band
decided to shoot for the stars. The five members of Soundtrack not hampered by a drum kit were playing
their instruments, milling about the stage, performing their last song, which I remember thinking
was pretty good. Then they hit a long pause, which sounded like it might’ve been the end, but the band
was suspiciously still, and suddenly standing in a perfectly straight line—the mid-point,
their burly overcoat-clad frontman. Just when the handful of revelers was about to applaud, the
whole band caught some inexplicable, Jordan-over-Ehlo air. It was the most insane synchronized
jump-kick powerchord explosion anyone this side of Gothenburg had ever seen.

That, coupled with the facts that they are not uncommonly referred to
as T.S.O.O.L., and two of their albums are, with hilarity of dubious intent, titled, Behind
the Music and Welcome to the Infant Freebase, are really all you need to know. As far
as their sound is concerned, Noel Gallagher’s quoted as saying they made the best album in the last
six years. T.S.O.O.L. concede that Oasis have the best VH1 Behind the Music they’ve ever
seen.

Bowery Ballroom, 6 Delancey St. (betw. Bowery & Chrystie St.), 212-533-2111;
8, $15.

—Dan Migdal

Swearing at Motorists, | Fri., Jan. 14Of the energetic shows I witnessed
throughout 2004—all three of them—two of the year’s haughtiest, rangiest, screamin’est
came from Swearing at Motorists, the Dayton-turned-Philadelphian duo. Known for weary, witty
lyrics and Sebadoah-meets-Palace pop, it’s apparent that singer/guitarist Dave Doughman and
drummer Joseph Siwinski have found a sound not solely dependent on emotional, calm musicality.

Perhaps they were seeking a sound equal to the bitter bite of their most
recent recordings, 2002′s This Flag Signals Goodbye lp and Along the Incline Plane
EP. Battered romances and bitter ex-girlfriends seemed slightly at odds with their Palace-pace.
Which was cool. Doughman’s Bolan-like guitar runs made even their most convenient melodies oddly
angular. Yet, they began their dirty, funky, punky feedback trail—the one I’ve heard as
of late—with “Paul Williams,” a screeching, blunt bitch-fest. If this sharded hardness
is where S@M is heading, they’ll make for one of 2005′s coolest, most corrosive bands.

With Love as Laughter, Tigers & Monkeys and Sam Jayne (solo).

Knitting Factory, 74 Leonard St. (betw. B’way & Church St.), 212-219-3006; 9,
$8.

—A.D. Amorosi

A Tribute to A Tribe Called Quest

Mon., Jan 17

A Tribe Called Quest might not be a household name for hiphop fans growing
up on Lil Jon and 50 Cent, but during the early to mid 90s, Q-Tip, Phife and Ali Shaheed were one of rap’s
most intelligent and eclectic trios. Unfortunately, their 1998 breakup means this tribute will
be everything Tribe except the Tribe. The Tribe’s jazzy beats will be performed by the Bohemian
Chocolate Cafe’s All-Star Jazz band and the Tribe’s fun, often socially conscious rhymes will
be spit by rap legend Buckshot and Lyrist Lounge alum Wordsworth.

Joe’s Pub, 425 Lafayette St. (betw. E. 4th St. & Astor Pl.), 212-539-8778; 11, $15,
ladies free bef. 11:30.

—Richard Nurse

Brad Barr

Thurs, Jan. 13

Singer and guitarist Brad Barr takes a break from touring with the Slip
to unfold some freshly crafted solo tunes at the Knitting Factory Tap Bar. Expect a fluid exploration
of the emotional and sonic terrain left open by Dylan, Neil Young and Devendra Banhart. And maybe
a Prince cover. The Dada improv comedy troupe Meowskers opens.

Knitting Factory Tap Bar, 74 Leonard St. (betw. B’way & Church St.); 212-219-3132,
8, $10.

—Simon Cohn

Kafka Fragments

Weds. & Thurs., Jan. 12 & 13

Soprano Dawn Upshaw is a force of nature. Not only is her range as a performer—in
both dramatic and musical terms—impressive, but her repertoire and commitment to new and
rarely performed works is admirable as well. In her latest effort, she has teamed up with the equally
titanic stage director Peter Sellars and violinist Geoff Nuttall to present György Kurtág’s
Kafka Fragments. In this work, the extracts of Kafka’s diaries and letters and the highly
evocative yet simple music of the Romanian composer create an interesting exploration of human
psychology.

Carnegie Hall, 154 W. 57th St. (betw. 6th & 7th Aves.), 212-247-7800; 8:30, $38-$52.

—Hector Meza

Antibalas | Thurs., Jan. 13No longer just a huge bunch of Fela Kuti wannabes
straight outta Brooklyn, Antibalas are elegant models of devoted rhythmic enterprise—shambling
yet precise grooves that are as mathematical as they are muddled. With large helpings of James Brown/Maceo
Parker-style horn blasts to create a brass construction most holy, an Antibalas CD ably represents
one of America’s best live-stage treasures.

But their danced-around mess has often drowned out all of Antibalas’
most severe messages in regard to justice, truth and the like. Essentially, their albums were good.
Not great. As a band seeking to exploit their socio-conscious lyrics, their dedication to Kuti
and all manner of African high life and the diversity that is their sonic community, Who Is This
America, the band’s newest CD, is crucial. With slices of salsa and gritty funk to guide their
way, Antibalas find themselves with softer pockets of sound in which the singers and lyricists
can “Pay Back Africa,” point finger through “Indictment” and generally create the sort of ruckus
that would have made Fela smile.

S.O.B.’s, 204 Varick St. (Houston St.), 212-243-4940; 12, $16, $14 adv.

—A.D. Amorosi

Paul Motian | Through Sun., Jan. 16Sure, he drummed with Coleman Hawkins,
with Monk, Coltrane, Rollins, with Arlo Guthrie at Woodstock. And with that fount of canny jazz,
Lennie Tristano, and with Bill Evans and Scott LaFaro in the early 60s as part of the genre-twisting
trio that shaped the interdependent, contemporary jazz sound. But Paul Motian is still making
it happen today, at nearly age 75 and is—along with master of verve Roy Haynes—the
living embodiment of a better way.

Ever at the outer round of swing, never hitting a beat that doesn’t feel
better left to itself, Motian came through last year to great acclaim: His 20-year-old, brashly
unfettered update of the legendary Evans trio (with tenor man Joe Lovano and guitarist extraordinaire
Bill Frisell) put the Vanguard on its ear in autumn, and that was just an early set in their yearly
reunion gig. Summer had with him Lovano, piano titan Hank Jones and bassist George Mraz playing
packed houses at Iridium; by late in the year he was back at the Vanguard in young tenor Bill McHenry’s
band, piloting the music’s intriguing fresh blood on an unbounded course he’s been clearing and
mapping for six decades.

Recordings with McHenry’s new outfit and with Lovano’s big-gun lineup
join a recent catalog that stretches from Joshua Redman’s crack sax to an ’89 Montreal trio with
bass great Charlie Haden and Cuban piano whiz Gonzalo Rubalcaba. As a leader, he’s got a three-volume
homage to early jazz out as the Paul Motian on Broadway series; he brings that band to the Vanguard
for a week and, as the saying goes, you betta ask somebody. Studded with Tony Malaby and Chris Cheeks’
saxes and the guitarists Steve Cardenas and Ben Monder (Monder smolders in McHenry’s band), the
Electric Bebop Band frolics with a master: Motian plays as wide as Art Blakey, as off and out as Sonny
Murray, tickling the fancy and all the while upending it, twisting the helix swirl of being with
an irascible taste for joy.

Village Vanguard, 178 7th Ave. S. (W. 11th St.), 212-255-4037; 9 & 11, $20 w/$10
min.

—Alan Lockwood

Rez Abasi | Sat., Jan. 15Jazzman Rez Abasi’s electric guitar-playing
churns, floats, sparkles; probing lines adventure with the burl and polish of John Abercrombie,
while Abasi’s melodic scope recalls Pat Metheny in great company, and intense, impressionistic
passages brood as ferociously as Joe Morris’ out-playing. Then he picks up his sitar-guitar, and
this jazz-world accuracy gets an evocative immersion in a far broader world of tonic and harmonic
vitality. Born in Pakistan, tutored on percussion by Ustad Alla Rakha, both Abasi’s adroit soloing
and his lean, evolving tunes are generated by exceptional reach and an intent, multi-hemispheric
and very musical passion.

Abasi’s last CD, Out of Body, featured a tight rhythm section
and the paired horns of Tony Malaby and Ron Horton, garnering four stars in Downbeat and
acclaim across the gamut of jazz press. Now Abasi’s back for a gig celebrating his new Arabesque
release, Snake Charmer. Cutting loose from the trad backing, Snake Charmer finds
the guitarist pulling whorls and veils in the restless, wily company of Gary Versace’s organ and
Danny Weiss’ curt, compelling drumming. His new cohorts’ alert accompaniment slips pat channels,
laced, charged, mutable. Versace transmutes from velvet threat to fish-shack funk, spurring
moments of fairground nightmare then gallivanting with brief, Blakeian bravado. Steaming tracks
alternate with moody or tender ones, and the leader gets a fresh foil on several from Dave Liebman’s
arch soprano sax.

Downtempo numbers (“Pearl”; “Motherland”) percolate with Weiss on
tabla and Kiran Ahluwalia’s shimmered tanpura drones and lofting, wordless vocals. The driven
numbers stay spare and convincing (“Tantra”; “Blood Orange,” which Abasi wraps in splendid fettle),
and the band gets their groove on for “Kismet,” which could become a neat initiation for canny young
players looking to play both limber and hard.

Versace, Weiss and Ahluwalia join Abasi for this gig, with Mark Mommaas
taking over saxes and Naren Budhakar on tabla. With Weiss and Budhakar pulling down the rhythms,
Abasi provides his bandmates ample space, both showcasing their chops and setting up his own startling
excursions.

Joe’s Pub, 425 Lafayette St. (betw. E. 4th St. & Astor Pl.), 212-539-8778; 9, $15.

—Alan Lockwoo