Dan Deacon at Bowery Ballroom
(Credit: Ryan Muir)
Is Dan Deacon a cult? The fervor with which his fans worship at his musical altar (actually a table with a bunch of electronic gear) suggests it is. I half expect one day he'll hand out bottles of day-glo “Gatorade" along with the lyric sheets and they'll die of happy hipster ecstasy after a performance of the singalong "Wham City." The spectacle of a Dan Deacon show is something to behold, even though you can't see much more than a flashing green skull on a pole and bunch of people waving their arms around and grinning in the general direction of a pudgy, balding guy in coke-bottle glasses flailing around—Deacon doesn't do stages. He likes to be among the people, and the people, they like to be among him. His relentlessly upbeat, loopy electro-noise-pop is strangely infectious, especially when you realize everyone around him is freaking out like their asses are on fire. This is one cult I'm ready to join—I even bought a fluorescent yellow T-shirt. Why would I do that?
The first thing Deerhunter lead singer Bradford Cox said upon hitting the stage: "It's really tough to play after Dan Deacon. We asked not to." Good call, but they needn't have worried. Their echo-y, droney experimental rock was so good I kept thinking about dragging my tired ass home and instead feeling compelled to stay. Recalling elements of My Bloody Valentine, Sonic Youth, and Pulp, the extended jams tested the bounds of sanity without being dissonant. Cox, a tall, bony redhead with an angular bowl-ish haircut, entertained the crowd with hilariously bratty repartee. Clearly wasted and admittedly so, he whined about the band taking too long, invited bathroom-goers to empty their bladders into his half-full water bottle, and wavered back on forth on whether to smoke an illegal cigarette. Hey, it's CMJ: Smoke 'em if ya got 'em! —Catherine Hopkinson
Serj Tankian / Irving Plaza; Care Bears on Fire / Club Midway
And the claws come out…At the Care Bears on Fire show at Club Midway, my friend Carla started talkin’ smack halfway through the tween trio’s energetic, Pixies-lite set. “I could play guitar better than that at their age, and I did metal,” she grumbled, staring at CBoF frontgirl Sophie Kasakov. “If I had a time machine, I guess I’d go back and form a band with other 12 year olds and get rich, too.” At this point, I pointed out if I owned a time machine, I’d go back in time and kill Hitler. But, you know, everyone’s got priorities.
I won’t rip into too many of the bands I saw throughout the next five venues and three hours…oh, who am I kidding? BM Linx at the Delancey (hey, guys, I loved the Cult, too –past tense. P.S. why does your guy guitarist dress like Molly Ringwald from “Pretty in Pink?”), Hot IQs at Midway (slightly dated alt-rock…saved by a smokin’ drummer), Your Black Star at Arlene’s (brutal, sludge-y take on post-punk…wait, I liked this!), Moros Eros at Bowery Poetry Club (you made me miss The Forecast because your screamo take on Hot Hot Heat was taking too long to drive people away)…things were looking grim.
Fortunately, a little bit of System of a Down always helps. The new Serj Tankian solo album sounds suspiciously like a long-lost SOAD record, and that’s a good thing. Live at Irving Plaza, the playful frontman added a little Willy Wonka flavor to his band’s twisted metal ramblings…kudos for all wearing suits and top hats, gentlemen! Tankian’s music-should-be-fucking-free-dude speech was nice (in a stoner way), as was the band’s spirited cover of “Holiday in Cambodia.” In the end, our jovial host left the stage with a poignant piano ballad. A class act, that guy. —Kirk Miller
Fool’s Gold showcase: Kid Sister, the Cool Kids, Kid Cudi, A-Trak, Nick Catchdubs / Hiro Ballroom
For the most part, low-budget projections (not Daft Punk’s quarter-million dollar light show) are pretty lame. Staring at a Windows 95 screensaver during sets really doesn’t do anything for me…mushroom fun aside. Attention Irving Plaza…get rid of your Windows 95 screensaver! Fools Gold, the new label from DJs A-Trak and Nick Catchdubs, knows how to take the budge projection to a higher level (Wednesday’s show featured shots of Michael Jordan game-winning three pointers, 80’s-era subway breaking, low rider competitions, a Chicago Bulls eight-bit logo, all blended together a pulsing to the beat). The duo also knows a thing or two about producing aggressive, A.D.D. raps songs, kicked out by their emerging (and Midwest-leaning) roster.
Kid Cudi opened with a set a jams clearly influenced by Catchdubs deep, oft-sparse studio techniques (more RZA than Timb). The Cleveland/East New York duo closed with their meditative “lonely stoner” anthem “Day and Night.” The Cool Kids wear their jones for ’88 on their sleeves (and feet, head and hooks). “Pump up the Volume” takes the obvious vocal sample and loops it over a hypnotic beat. In concert, the track was loooong and maybe a little boring. “Black Mags” is the jam that brought me to the show and held up just right. Kid Sister, flashing her new bottle blonde look and baby-doll dimples, held the audience for her entire 30 minutes on the stage. With A-Trak backing on vocals (unfortunately no Kanye in the house), the Chicago rapper ripped off “Pro Nails” and “Control,” the later causing the ladies in the front row to lose it. Note to the girl who stayed on stage for the rest of the performance (to Sister’s displeasure). You’ze an ass! —Matt Rodbard
Dovecote Records showcase: The Late Greats, Tim Williams, Bad Veins, Mason Proper / Fat Baby
There was a palpable air of niceness at the Dovecote Records showcase, from the genteel badge-checker to the polite crowd to the even more-polite artists. Dovecote’s British pals The Late Greats were finishing when I arrived; they sounded not unlike Art Brut meeting the Pixies, except with “Hey, thanks!” and “Cheers!” between songs.
Bearded bard Tim Williams was next with tracks from his impressive second album, “When Work Is Done.” The couple to my left sang along to the haunting “Out There” (quietly, so as not to drown out the hushed parts). Though Tim and his songs are gentle, the man’s a true performer—he knew exactly how to deliver a vocal, how to keep his band humming. “If you could turn the guitar down, I’d love you forever,” he told the soundman, and I think he meant it.
Bad Veins apologized for starting fifteen minutes late (pshaw!). The Cincinnati duo had lots of equipment to organize, including singer Ben Davis’s telephone mic and customized bullhorn. There was also “Irene,” a reel-to-reel player that provided backing tracks and mixes. Turned out drummer Sebastien Schultz had some catchy tricks up his sleeve, and Davis was born to holler into gadgets. Far from being aggressive, though, the results were smart and infectious, with the added bonus of Irene’s quirky input (horns, string sections – the girl does it all).
New York audiences like to stand still. CMJ’s no exception. At least the ever-energetic Mason Proper’s jittery, crashing pop songs got people moving a little; bespectacled singer Jonathan Visger set the example by flinging himself around the stage, one sneaker on, one sneaker off. Why? No idea. What’s in keyboardist Matt Thomson’s suitcase full of wires and knobs? No clue. Stop asking questions and dance, why don’t you?
Halfway through their set, Visger paused to thank everyone “for being here, when there are so many other shows you could be seeing.” Minding his manners, an audience member shouted back: “No problem!” —Mary Phillips-Sandy
Care Bears on Fire, Holler, Wild Rose!, Hot IQs / Club Midway
Flounced by tables filled to the brim with Organic Entertainment trinkets, the showcase for Jeff Kilgour’s boutique publicity group Tijuana Gift Shop proved to be an insurmountable success. Kilgour and Organic Entertainment know the way to a freelance writing schmuck’s heart, and that’s through carefully shrink-wrapped copies of Filter Magazine and Pure Hemp rolling papers.
Kidcore punksqueaks Care Bears on Fire glinted like the ill-fittingly spandex jeans wearing love children of Joan Jett and Richard Hell. On the first few songs, lead Care Bear Sophie Kasakov growled like a "Horses"-copping pubescent banshee. Pity that the songs themselves were masked by the perpetual buzz of crackling feedback, which drowned the a-yi-yis of Kasakov in a sea of murk. By the time the Donnas Jr. teen angst of Care Bears on Fire standout, “Everybody Else” rolled around, the tweens were back to coasting on their pure, raw talent.
Meanwhile, Hot IQs descended into the 6 p.m. timeslot with a striking familiarity. The Denver-based trio, with a penchant for anthemic hooks and sweeping Arcade Fire bombast, sniffed through precarious tongue twisters (rhyming pretentious and contentious at one point) with the ease of indie-pop Sondheims.
After Hot IQs wrapped their set, the buzzed-about Holler, Wild Rose! stormed through a well-bred cavalcade of gospel-enthused breadwinners with chaspel-esque downbeat handclaps and the lead singer’s nasally come-to-Jaysus drawl. And these boys are from Jersey? —Joey Hood
Bruce Springsteen / MSG (Not CMJ, but still pretty damn awesome)
As a Jersey girl, I'm supposed to like Springsteen. And as a Jersey girl growing up in the "Born in the USA" Reagan era, I wasn't interested. Now that I'm in my 30s, with teenage rebellion well behind me, I've had an awakening: Bruce Springsteen really is boss. Having successfully avoided stadium shows for most of my life, I wasn't that psyched for a Jumbotron experience, but such trifling concerns faded away when the house lights went down. "Is there anybody alive out there?" asked a disembodied voice, before Bruce and his buds in the E Street Band hit the stage and launched into the vital first single, "Radio Nowhere," from their 15th album, “Magic.” I wanted a thousand guitars, I wanted pounding drums. Wwell I got 'em. For two hours! (A nice, excited uberfan in the crush to enter the Garden had promised me a three-hour set, but hey, I'll take it.)
Bruce and co. sailed from hit to hit with nary a break, mixing new insta-classics with old faves while Bruce busted out the rock moves left, right and center (and on Jumbotron, of course). I wanted to be Patty Scialfa with her fiery red mane, cool blue dress and totally rock 'n' roll husband (with great hair himself), especially when they pulled that sexy microphone-sharing move. But mostly I was just impressed by Springsteen and found myself wishing I'll be that awesome when I'm over 50. Almost as appealing as his arena-perfect rockers are his rock-solid ideals: A show highlight came with the inspiring intro to the standout “Magic” track "Living in the Future," with Bruce listing a few of the things that are great about America (cheeseburgers, the Jersey Shore, the Constitution, New York City) before pointing out a few other things that aren't so great (rendition, illegal wiretapping, etc.) and are actually "attacks on who we are, our very selves." But he still believes in the promised land, as the old song goes. I don't imagine I'll be heading back to MSG anytime soon (did you realize people wave cell phones instead of lighters now?), but for my money ($111, but who's counting?), Bruce was worth it. —Catherine Hopkinson
