by Andrew Spaulding

DAY 1
Let me tell you somthing. CMJ is stressful.  Especially for an aspiring writer such as myself.  So many hands to pump, bands to see, press passes to get.  Before receiving my pass I was pointed towards three different lines, I ended up in a stall in the Women's restroom before I realized that perhaps the line I was in wasn't the correct one to get a press pass...  I quickly washed my hands, nodded to the young lady washing hers next to me and proceeded towards the "press line." I recieved my pass and found that, according to CMJ's system I was not, in fact, writing for The Deli but rather for Kevchino.com.  I imagined pasty white bloggers standing in my way at the Dragons of Zynth, Tall Firs, Effi Briest show at Union Pool that night, brandishing lead pipes and cracking their knuckles.
    "Hey.  You ain't writin' for Kevchino.com, I AM."
    A greasy, pimply red headed HTML coder with a bad pompadour behind the blogger:
    "You tell 'im Boss!"
I made my way down the street to Bowery, where I would see my first band of the week. 
   


Honestly, I had not expected to be so impressed with Quintus.  I had chosen to see them like dropping my finger somewhere on a spinning globe.  Also this:  where the fuck is the Indaba loft?  I literally had to call my girlfriend and ask her to get on a computer to help me find it. Finally I noticed an 8 by 11 printer paper sign on a door above a bored looking dude's head.  Turns out Indaba is a kind of love child between Craig's List and Garage Band and they were hosting a show in their office(?) apartment (?) extremely expensive loft on Bowery (check).  Regardless, there was a keg so I hunkered down with a red cup and watched a couple of young guys plucking away at their guitars.  It really took a minute for the music being played to register, to plinko through my brain hitting band references like pegs.  Wilco: ding. George Harrison: ding ding.  The Band: ding ding ding.  

     Quintus blew me away.  When you're swapping between tempos and time signatures as in the song "Flat Feet" or matching three part harmonies it's near impossible to sound as tight as they did.  Despite all the tightness, the music stretched and contracted like flexing a rubber-band between your index finger and thumb.  Don't be fooled by their recording on myspace.  Cleaned up and through computer speakers they have a tendency to sound like Maroon 5.  When they're on stage they germ up that aseptic studio sound and start smiling into the microphones.  Please make sure you catch these guys if you get a chance.          Immediately after Quintus took the stage I staggered downstairs to grab a cigga and realized that I was slightly tipsy thanks to the IndabaKeg's sweet nectars.  I had four more bands to go.  It was 2PM.  Rock and Roll.

    Arizona began their set in tableau.  Ben Wigler seated afloor with acoustic, Alex Hornbake above him to the left on a rickety chair, Andrew on keyboards behind Alex, Nick on stand up bass and the Drums above and behind Nick.  A fitting stance for such pristinely crafted music, all that was missing was a shaft of golden shimmering light and maybe a dove with an olive branch in its beak landing on Ben's shoulder.  Perhaps thats a bit too far, but you get the gist of how they sounded from that image.  Typically Arizona tosses in a little meandering noise, Tuesday they had only acoustic guitars so the noise took the backseat to their strong melodies and harmony arrangements.
    There were a few tuning issues, but overall the band's live set held up to their fantastic LP Welcome Back Dear Children.  Quite a feat, mind you.  The Deli may have helped these guys along with a bit of cover action, but our job is to give you some good music so we'll keep pushing them at you until they stop writing good music.  Which doesn't seem like it will be anytime soon. 

    Three hours, three more beers, a thermos of wine and an L train later I was meeting up with friends at Union Pool in Williamsburg for the Effi Briest, Dragons of Zynth, Tall Firs show. 
    "Hey!  You!  You don't write for Kevchino.com.  I DO"
    "You tell 'im Boss!" 
    "Oh Shit."
    I ducked into a photo-booth and landed on the lead singer and drummer of Telepathe.  ignoring them I peeked out the curtains searching for my assailants.  Just the lead singer of TVOTR and one of the guys from ...And You Will Know Us By The Trail of Dead who was drunk and screaming about Pitchforkmedia.com.  but just to be safe I ran into Union Pool's venue, bought another PBR and tucked myself into the crowd that was watching Tall Firs. 

    Tall Firs sounds like tall firs.  Their sound is about as aeleatoric as the sound of trees branches but somewhere in the center is the sturdy trunk.  Comprised of a drummer, two guitars and a pair of vocal pipes they can deftly move between Thurston's gloaming groan to twinkling Explosions In The Sky arpeggios. 


    Effi Briest is made up of seven ladies, four of whom move between a batallion of different instruments, the rest stick with the basic guitar, drum, bass setup.  I was quite surprised at Effi Briest's sound which differed drastically from the cyclical and churning "Mirror Rim" on their myspace.  They seemed to be headed more towards an early Animal Collective tabula-rasa-folk sound with chanting melodies and astute baselines.  Unfortunately their set was marred by the ridiculously bad sound setup.  It was almost as if the sound guy didn't even bother moving any of the sliders or knobs when they did sound check: 
    "Yeah.  Yeah.  Sounds great guys."  thumbs up.


    Dragons of Zynth, TVOTR's wilder more noise oriented protege's, may have a tendency to sound like the aforementioned pop/shoegaze group, but there is a darker blunter edge to their sound.  Zynth is the hired muscle with bludgeoning cudgels that TV On The Radio hires to do their dirty work.  The live show, still marred by the crappy sound, was pretty brutal with guitar feedback at the loud parts and quite succinct at the quieter moments with disturbing synth lines.  Catch these guys live if you can. 

    So day one is complete and daylight in day two is waxing.  I plan on finding myself a new badge today and arriving late and sweaty and smelly to a billion different shows.  If I pump your hand today please be friendly and squeeze back. 
     We're all in this together. 
     Wish us luck. 

DAY 2
There are two incontrovertible truths that I have discovered in my time upon this earth. The first is that nobody doesn't like a sandwich. The second: everytime is a good time for chips and salsa. We live in a mish-mash of evil and decrepitude and just plain rudeness. Suharto? Evil dictator. Rude. But it is a testament to the hardness and tenderness of the human race that I am able to say this about General Suharto: he probably liked sandwiches and salsa.

 To lesser degrees there are other somewhat enjoyable things. Sex. love. Al Green. Those Sunday mornings when you roll out of bed, tussle your hair, gaze out at the new morning filled with possibilities and find that your girlfriend left a little extra for you in your crack pipe. Indeed, all of these are arguably one and the same.

 And then at the bottom rung comes work. Nobody likes work. God doesn't even like to go to work anymore. God was a genius, believe it or not. He got in and out in six days and then he took a siesta. Now I'm not claiming to be better than God or anything, but God sucks. I have to cram five days of CMJ into just five or six paragraphs? Great googly moogly I say to you sir. Fortunately I am a punctual, well-organized, functional member of society.

 I arrived late to the shows I was meant to go to yesterday because I had gotten too drunk the night before and then procrastinated my ass off with the writing of my CMJ recap for The Deli. So I missed Team Robespierre  (picture), Joan as Policewoman, and Essie Jain at the Brooklyn Vegan showcase at Pianos. I apologize guys, I'm sure the roof was sufficiently raised by each of you. In my fear of Paolo's cat o' nine tails, I began mumbling under my breath and shiftily scrambling around the lower east side hoping to catch a glimpse of a New York band that might be tucked away into my pocket for future use like a chinese fortune. Ahh. Yes. The Forms. from Brooklyn. Excellent. They will do nicely.

 I ducked into The White Rabbit, next to the sunshine theaters on Houston street. Hoping to see Reverend Billy and the Stop Shopping choir (who, though I will not be reviewing them here, must be seen and heard to be believed) Alas, they were performing at 7:30 which would interfere with my later show. I had a falafel and then went back to see The Forms perform an acoustic set at 6:00pm. Despite their lack of instrumentation  The Forms managed to give a spirited performance lush with harmonies and one loud floor tom. The band is very much reminiscent of Guillemots quiescent and more ponderous moments and I really wish I could have seen them with a full setup but they did a fine job nonetheless.


After The Forms I went out to Greenpoint to catch the Ear Farm and Serious Business Records showcase at Matchless. The Unsacred Hearts, for whom The Deli has had much love, were blowing up the stage as I walked in.  They're less of a band than they are UPS delivery-men each song a neat little 3 minute package of tight catchy riffs and shout/sung lyrics. Each song was like getting a hallmark card from your Nana but instead of there being a ten dollar bill inside it just says "Fuck you."


Following The Unsung Hearts was Kickstart (picture) who sound like the Misfits if they watched more Charles Bronson and John Holmes than Bela Lugosi flicks. The lead singer had a distinctly sleazy voice ala The Cramps, which is tough to hear on their myspace but check them live and you'll see what I mean.
 Man in Gray, also having received love from The Deli, was a decidedly frenetic show. I was surprised at the speed at which they played (I'd only heard their toned down debut LP) and the shriek at which lead singer Tina DaCosta was able to shriek at. Very much like the Gossip.
 Finally, Goes Cube got on stage with long stringy hair as well as rock and/or roll. Listening to their pummeling guitars, low bass, and punctuated snare drums sounded like repeatedly getting punched in the face with testicles...in a good way. There was more sweat flying around the stage than Dane Cook at a MENSA convention.
 Alas, I could not make it to Hull. I was called away betwixt the shows by a dear friend in need. Hull, I apologize. Believe it or not, sometimes rock and/or roll must take second banana.
 See you tomorrow dear readers. Or tonight. - Andrew Spaulding

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