by Andrew Spaulding

DAY 3
   I woke up this morning an orchestra of bodily fluids.  In my dream last night I found myself listening to Brian Eno and Paul Reubens doing a duet on a record player attached to my pantaloons like a walkman.  I was also simultaneously roller-blading, which I haven't done since it became illegal in the late nineties for being the most uncool thing to do on the planet.  You may draw what you will from this dream of mine for I have, clearly, already overdrawn my mind. 

    Day three went exactly as planned which, for me, is like shooting an apple off a head from three miles away with a can of cheese whiz.  Splat.  Eat your heart out William S. Burroughs.  I gathered up the G train and the F train in one arm and ended down the street from The Delancey to see Tigercity. A paltry crowd was waiting for me and a bartender that looked like he'd rather be at a Juliana Theory show.


Tigercity is a straight up disco band drawing not from the typical pool of post-punk or new-wave like most bands play these days.  Rather, they seem to draw much from Quincy Jones' production of Thriller or some such eighties-disco pop.  They know what they're doing with the synthesizer, and the lead singer's falsetto surpassed even America's favorite castrati: Justin Timberlake.  My only issue was that Tigercity just needs to let some of the blues blood come out to show them.  They had the tendency to sound like they were reading from sheet music.  If you're not messing up a little on the chords then you're not playing difficult enough chords, or you're not drunk enough.  Either way, loosen those ties a bit guys and let the groove flow, you've got some good material.

    Next on the list were Benzos at Gramercy up at E23rd street.  It was like jumping from a jacuzzi into a cold pool.  Tigercity is to boozin' and groovin' as The Benzos are to smoking a shit ton of weed and talking about Calibi-Yau manifolds.  The Benzos, live at least, are about lots of reverb and feedback and soaring vocals, like Coldplay at their best moments (yes, Coldplay has best moments you snarky monkey).  Suffice to say, the lighting guy for Gramercy was having a fucking field day.  I enjoyed them, yet I seemed to be surrounded by people doing the hipster-smugpuss, which is something I will never understand. 

    The Cake Shop and Cardboard Records show was next.  The lineup was mostly Brooklyn bands fished from the depths of Bushwick by the Parts & Labor peeps, who run the label.  Now, let me just say that DIY Brooklyn bands are my bread and butter.  So, all in all, this show added up to about four breads and four butters. 

    Flying was the first band.  They were cute.  and I don't mean that in a derogatory older-sister's-hot-friend-who-you-think-you-could-totally-get-with calling you cute I mean cute like The Splendiferous Zeppelin Escapades of Filliam H. Muffman cute.  Kitschy almost.  A four piece with capricious, idiosyncratic song structures that seem built out of the bits and pieces of old tape recorders, flip-flops and finger-paint.  Very much like Architecture in Helsinki except Flying gets twice the mileage with three fewer people.  I couldn't stop myself from smiling while watching them. 

    Shooting Spires played next, BJ's new solo project.  He had dissected R2D2 and hooked the little bugger up to a million bajillion pedals tacked to a board.  Parts & Labor's explosive noise-punk-symphony aesthetic was in attendance minus the flurrying drum or guitar parts.  Most of the beats were done with a looping pedal and a single tiny keyboard and were methodical, thoughtful beats, but BJ certainly didn't lose any of the discordant drones.  It seems that there was quite a bit lost in translation from the studio, where one BJ could be seven BJs.  Regardless, the set was fucking brilliant, which is a testament to how fucking brilliant Shooting Spire's new album coming out in late October is going to be.  Seriously, best album of the year potential.


Later in the evening after two other Cardboard records bands (Big Bear who fucking ripped, and Gowns which sounded like Cukoo Cukoo off the new Animal Collective album turned into a band) High Places went on.  Calypso/dub beats mixed with ambient noise and very very pretty almost childlike melodies.  This duo could stand a few more bolts and screws holding their rattling sounds together which doesn't mean they're bad.  Quite the contrary, they were absolutely fantastic and are playing something that I know I would like to hear, but they seem a bit unsure in their construction of melodies.  Drop it like its hot, High Places. 

    Of course, the final band was Pterodactyl.  To say that we here at The Deli are fanboys of Pterodactyl is putting it lightly:  Paolo foams at the mouth every time they are mentioned.  Pterodactyl's shows always remind me of the energy and fun that Q and Not U always put into their shows in their heyday.  Unfortunately, Vice records busted in with their uber-tight Urban Outfitter jeans and faux-vintage sunglasses and told Pterodactyl to get off the stage (Vice was doing something or other at The Cake Shop after the Cardboard showcase).  Not to be outdone, Pterodactyl's final song of the evening was a thrumming heartbeat coarsing through the crowd.  It was glorious.

    I staggered home.

DAY 4
Alright, imagine that I am passing this article to you in a quick passing arm maneuver, slipping it into your sports coat pocket as we pass each other.  This article will be shamefully bad: the metaphors and similes poorly conceived, the progression of events all jumbled and confusing.  Your interest will wane about halfway through it, but don't worry, it's going to be short for I only saw four NYC bands yesterday. Let us begin on my fourth day of CMJ.  

    I arrived at the Knitting factory in TriBeCa AKA Gotham City.  It was raining, there were countless kids who looked cooler than me standing outside smoking cigarettes, one or two mustachio'd men and massive golem bouncers.  Most of the shows at the Knitting factory last night were noise bands or punk bands or some amalgam of the two.  The first group I was to see was Brooklyn based Shellshag.

    I imagine that the thought going through Shellshag's head before each song they played was "With Gusto!"  Shellshag is distilled grunge, one guitar and one drum set, lots of power chords.  They've probably been the best band I've seen all week in terms of showmanship.  They set themselves up as the anti-mates of state, facing each other with, not loving cheese-doodle eyes, but hating Andy Capp fire chip eyes.  All of their songs whether about each other (as a couple) or about some masked shadowy bad husband and wife that are unpresent are about having fights, like all good grunge should be. 

    The second band I caught was Sightings, a noise trio.  The usage of standard rock instruments to produce such textured music is a novelty most present in the current Brooklyn scene.  As such, Sightings ended up making my ears ring with some pretty incredible sounds. They were somewhat reminiscent of early stage Black Dice and their four instrument temper tantrums.
    I made my way upstairs, attaching the empty bottles I drank around my feet like running weights.  The show was set up in all three stages stacked like pancakes and maneuvering between them was starting to get difficult because of the frequency of shows and the number of giant beards tripping me up.  but I plodded on.


Japanther pro-ceeded to take the upstairs main stage.  I pushed my way into the room which looked like a moonshine brewers convention.  Japanther has the uncanny ability to make a room full of stone-feet turn sprightly and danceful in the basslight.  I had never really noticed it before, but it was quite glaringly obvious the great influence that the Ramones has on Japanther.  Perhaps the latter band is more modernized, incorporating electronica beats into their songs, but the song structure remains the same.  The chanting vocals.  The rythmic bass.  It's tried and true but Japanther makes it entirely their own. 


Big A Little a, aka Aa are a clear indication of the direction that noise has been going in for the past ten, twenty, thirty years:  Rhythm.  Aa consists of four young men, three of whom control one drum set apiece the fourth performs the vocals (?) and the keyboard and the buttons and knobbys.  Overall the experience is exactly what one might think seeing three drums play at once might be:  a dance party where bounce is more prevalent than the indie two-step (or the hipster-smugpuss).  The band produces beats that weave in and out of each other and all the while the keyboard and vocals swoop and blare overtop. 

    Now I want to take a moment to recognize the other amazing groups at the Knitting Factory that everyone should check out that I don't need to cover because they're not NYC bands but I will because they were just mind blowing.  Ruins, a Japanese duo with one with a massive drum set and a keyboard/guitar dropped a flurry of carpet bombs, changing direction like an f-16 dodging flak (the keyboardist/guitarist wasn't there, but that didn't slow anything down).  Health, an LA band, pummeled their four person setup.  They had a hard time deciding whether they wanted my ears to bleed or if they wanted my legs to move, but the transitions between the two were seamless and sudden, like a working arm grafted onto a hip.  Make an effort to see these guys, cause they probably won't be around often.

DAY 5
If you have been keeping up with Joe and me galavanting about the city in our best duds, our tightest handshakes holstered at our sides, our favorite jokes quivered at our backs, our sharpest eyeballs and ears scrubbed crystal clean, you may have noticed our deeprooted love of music.  CMJ is the fashion week of indie rock in New York City (I guess that is metaphoric and literal at the same time).  It is a chance to see the best and brightest new bands, spit-shine them up a bit with some kind words, and put 'em on display in the window. Having that little red plastic passport from hell hanging from my neck was a dangerous thing liable to distract me into any passing pub with bubbly cartoon notes drifting out it's door and into my ears, but it was definitely worth it.  Little known to outsiders of CMJ, the pass can only be destroyed by traveling to the nearest volcano and hurling the forsaken object into the earth's fiery maw.  Otherwise it starts sleeping on the couch, drinking the last of the soy milk and complaining about not having a girlfriend.  I plan on beginning that trek as soon as possible, but for now let me expound upon the bands I saw yesterday, the final day of CMJ. 

    I suppose one could obstacle my missed shows as branches, boulders and middle aged moms along the "26 mile" metaphor we're using here at The Deli.  Indeed, yesterday's last leg was riddled with stumbles and trips into the mud and I, your handsome (very handsome) correspondent/marathonee, did my best to dodge.  Alas, some shows were not to be.  I did, however, make it to see Bear Hands down in the East Village at Club Midway, and enjoy them I did.  Having been prithee to these hands of bears before, I selected to see them specifically because their music warms my heart so.  A throwback to Slanted and Enchanted Pavement with the lazy half-hook grunge alternating with Weezer circa Pinkerton.  This band is getting a lot of buzz with labels so expect to see them come out with a full length within the next few years.  Their stage presence left a little to be desired towards the beginning, but, like Quintus earlier in the week, they were so impressively tight and clearly enjoying themselves that it didn't matter much.

    The ABC lounge in the East Village was hosting Bearclaws and The Attorneys both of whom I was to see next.  Between them was a half hour slot as small as the energy shaft on the Death Star during which I intended to see Mussels play at Club Midway.  Thats fine: I used to bullseye womp rats with my T-16 back in Beggars Canyon.  Also, Midway was a block away on avenue B.
    Bearclaws is a four piece fronted by a young lady with a sultry voice.  This band sounds almost like a wormhole opened up and sucked Siouxsie and the Banshees into the present.  Thats not to say they copy that band; Bearclaws  definitely bring their own take on the indie sound and definitely have fun on stage. 

    Immediately after Bearclaws I ran to avenue B where I was to see Mussels perform at Club Midway.  Their sound is very reminiscent of the Washington DC / Dischord records sound of a few years ago meaning fast and frequent transitions with punk influences.  Think Change by The Dismemberment Plan.  These guys definitely have a good grip on what it takes to write a song with momentum and weight. 

    Running back to avenue C to catch The Attorneys.  This band sounded like a very young version of Queen with bouncy light-hearted melodies and keyboards and a deft guitar solo right where its supposed to be at the climax of the song.  It's refreshing to see a band that is honest about it's influences NOT being some obscure punk band or new-wave band or garage rock trio. 

The audience, which was apparently the business class mascara crowd from downtown flooding into the East Village and talking about their credit card bills, was actually into, nay dancing to, The Attorneys which was surprising: most times when I see a live band in a bar play to that crowd everyone just leaves. 

     A moments respite from the running back and forth alloted me the time to stroll down Houston and reflect upon the past few days. 
   But instead of reflecting I saw that Professor Murder was playing at Mercury Lounge and punched my way through the door squeezing through the crawlspace left to the entering by the bar patrons.  I had heard Professor Murder's EP and enjoyed it, but I didn't realize the aesthetic they were going for.  On the record it sounds like The Rapture's dance punk distilled to a minimalist, percussion heavy groove.  Live, however, and this may be because they were playing new stuff, Professor Murder actually gave off a kind of Dancehall for hipsters vibe.  The lead singer's chanting becomes much more prominently placed in a live setting, like moving a sofa chair from the corner into the middle of the room.  The crowd was unresponsive for the most part, which is unfortunate because the type of music Professor Murder plays necessitates crowd activity. 

    My final show of the week was a calm, cool old people show in a very literal sense.  I'd say Zebulon was packed with a number of people, whose average age was probably 37, to see Burnt Sugar.  Burnt Sugar is an improvisational jazz group very much akin to Sun Ra with, if you can believe it, a much more grab bag approach to music.  In other words Burnt Sugar has a rotating cast of musicians with pedigrees in just about every genre.  Each piece, completely made up on the spot, inevitably ends up sounding like a heinous (re: awesome) mess or a perfect funk, jazz, rock jam.  I've been lucky enough to see these guys at Joe's Pub once before (21 members on stage at that one) and they absolutely blew me away with their performance and magnitude.  This time was just as good I'd say, though their drummer seemed to be caught off guard and off beat a few times during the show, and they literally had me humming a tune they had made up on the spot for the train ride home.

    I am exhausted, I am broken and beaten.  Now imagine my friend Katy who had to go to work at nine in the morning in midtown from Queens and then immediately go to shows the same nights to cover bands. Life ain't so bad is it?  All in all, I would have to say that CMJ opened up my artery for music that had been clogged shut for me.  I can feel my heart beating regularly now, and atrophied extensions of my body returning to life.  Now all I need is to replace that money I flushed down my gullet this week.