AFI & Sick of It All @ Newport Music Hall

OK, so I'm not going to give a total rundown of this show. But I'm going to address a couple things.

First off, I went to this show because I was able to get in free. I think tickets were around $20 and sold out weeks in advance so... I've followed AFI for awhile and I was interested to see them, even after the little transemographication they've gone through. I wish I could say that I totally used to be into hardcore, but alas, I never was.

A friend of mine used to really be into Sick of It All but I had a hard time getting into it.

In fact, I'll be totally honest and the most appealing prospect about this concert going into it was the likelihood that some mall-goth would get beat up by a hardcore kid with gauges and a baseball cap.

In the minutes leading up to the AFI-mania, during Sick of it All's set (which was bordering on electrifying) I saw lots of green glowsticks flying around. Something about this seemed poignant considering the circumstances.

The highlight of the evening was when a group of what looked like four 99.7 DJ's tried to barrel down to the dancefloor, only to be stopped by a human blockade: shoulder to shoulder goth chicks, guys with eyeliner, college students. Somewhere in their brain functions (I'm guessing Natty Light was the main catalyst for the chemical process) they decided to try to push their way through a crowd of 20 odd people and instead almost knocked most of them over.

Someone took offense and confronted the College Night Cornhole cadre. Words were had. Beers flew. A brawl seriously seemed ready to break out (probably the last thing I wanted to see was a full-fledged melee, despite my general interest in the situation.)

One of them, a short stocky man wearing a backwards white baseball cap and a black hoody with the word BOSTON emblazoned on the back threw an open-handed slap on a clean cut college kid. I'm not really sure what happened next or what, but eventually one of the group of jerkholes through a sucker punch on a guy literally a foot and a half taller and scurried away.


Things actually simmered because the disturbance was gone, but in the group's wake was a general din of "did you see that guy? what dick" and such... it was like an electric circuit, how quickly word of the fight travelled around me. Obviously it was a major point of interest.


Oh, and AFI's set was OK.

Midlake - Trials of Van Occupanther

My Young Bride / Why Are Your Shoulders Like That Of A Tired Old Woman?

That’s the million-dollar question Midlake poses on the predictably titled “Old Woman”, the single from their most recent album. The song is rife with imagery of a coldly familiar landscape, juxtaposed with a warm and dry bass, the timbre of which reminds me of the good times I had with a specific setting on my friend’s circa 1975 electric organ. The bossa nova switch inexplicably created a crisp disco bass beat that I could jam to. I am forced to assume that the 70’s were a musically confusing time.

But I digress. Immediately obvious on Trials of the Van Occupanther is an earnestly Carter-era affection by means of a muted drum kit, acoustic guitar, piano, and some of the most understatedly complex harmonies this side of America. Thankfully we are spared the cheesy strings and songs about unicorns, but this homage to the music lampooned in Yacht Rock is completely without irony. Tim Smith’s rich lead vocals are tonally akin to middle instruments trombone, viola, bassoon, all of which are featured throughout the album.

Midlake’s comparisons range from the Doobie Brothers and Fleetwod Mac to Spoon, Radiohead, and the Flaming Lips, and it’s all fair game. What does this cross sampling of influences mean for music listeners? It means that Trials of the Van Occupanther is one of the more accessible albums I have heard recently, and it does so while maintain a distinctiveness that will turn heads.

This album suffers from its strengths in some ways. It has a very autumn-y feeling, but can a bit drably inoffensive, and the lack of serious guitar hooks will turn a few people off. The only other serious criticism I have is that the album is front heavy, but that’s only after a fair bit of straw grasping. But no worries. While flawed, TOVO combines everything I look for in an album: subtle musical and emotional complexity, accessibility and a unique aesthetic.

Danielson at Beachland Ballroom 7/27

Well, there are certain artists that I alternate between

a.appreciating their originality and creative contribution to society as a whole and

b.getting the living crap annoyed out of (how's that for an awkward use of the passive voice)

They Might Be Giants, Stereolab, Brian Eno, punk rock, The Aquabats, etc. No one hits the extremes for me as much as Danielson though.

My mental process goes something like "how did he develop his vocal style? that's real-- [screech] please just stop singing! i had inner ear surgery as a child, have mer...oh, interesting chord progression"... it's really quite difficult to ascertain whether I hate, or love him. And that's sort of a disconcerting feeling for anyone to have, but particularly so for someone as opinionated as I am.

And I've been trying to figure this out ever since I became aware of Sufjan Stevens circa Michigan and talked to my friends about him. They had previously only known him through affiliation with the Br. Danielson AKA Daniel Smith. It's been a weary road.

This has been exacerbated by the fact that media darlings Pitchfork suddenly changed their pan-Danielson policy from sardonic jabs at his faith mixed with sardonic jabs at his unique voice to if you love him so much, why don't you just marry him? Suddenly he's elevated from reviled cult-star to hipster icon complete with a showcase at the Pitchfork Music Festival in Chicago? What gives?

I do kind of like that one song "Did I Step on your Trumpet?" though. A little more focused from a song-writing standpoint. I put it on my current mixtape for my car (in lieu of my broken iPod) and I've been enjoying it pretty well.

So when my liscence-less friend asked for a ride to Cleveland to go see him, I obliged. And also in order to satisfy my curiosity, I finally decided to see what this guy looked like. I braved flash flood warnings and four mysteriously wrecked cars on the side of I-71 to find out. And he looks like a cross between Lance Armstrong and Charlie Brown.

Well, Danielson and the Famile, replete with police uniforms and striped slacks (with the exception the dour and creepy Sister Megan) were in all their glory at the Beachland Ballroom. Danielson transformed from a mild-mannered, wine buying short polo-shirted guy that was ignored at the bar to a guitared ring-wraith and center of attention to a diverse crowd of hipsters.

They played mostly stuff off their new record, Ships, and a few things out of the catalogue. And you know what, I enjoyed the spectacle and may be able to listen to some of the recorded music with a refreshed perspective. Live music can have that healing effect.

The Walkmen - A Hundred Miles Off

The Walkmen are an indie contradiction; they are simultaneously everywhere and nowhere. Their music has been getting rave reviews with all the right people, but they are only now catching the eye of the thriving sect of underage indie kids, thanks to a late ‘05 appearance on The OC. Despite their relative anonymity, The Walkmen have that obscure joie de vivre that makes them RELEVANT.

A Hundred Miles Off is the sort of record a band releases when they are trying to shake preconceived notions about their music, but they don’t know exactly how to go about it. One way to do so is Dylan-worship. Although lead singer Hamilton Leithauser merely hinted at it on previous records, he is now a card-carrying member of the Dylan-worshipping church. His raspy, mumbling vocals on the opening cut “Louisiana” hit you in the face like a rolling stone. Perhaps sensing discomfort, the track lets the listener down easy, closing with a calypso horn and piano riff. Breezy.

“Danny’s At The Wedding” is a spacey bit of aloofness that shows when A Hundred Miles Off is at its best; it lets the rhythm wander aimlessly before presenting the melody. The more upbeat songs, while at first listen are interesting, don’t suck you in. And, The Walkmen certainly try many interesting things to reel us in. For example, “Tenley Town” is a track that allows the band to show their origins with a raw D.C. sound, complete with drum breakdowns and screaming. However, when grouped with the Maragritaville-esque conclusion to the first track, this album just seems plain jumbled.

For most new listeners, The Walkmen is a band that drips with grimy charisma that even The Strokes would kill for. However, while not a hundred miles off its mark, A Hundred Miles Off is a bit of a disappointment for the rest of us. While the record is chock-full of energy and channels a more deliberately aggressive sound, it only hints at what the ‘Men can do. Here’s to hoping their next record has a little more spit-on-mom’s-finger-polish.

PS: This review has been reposted after much trepidation. Ask me about it (the trepidation, I mean).

Casey Dienel - Wind-Up Canary

There are a lot of famous musical artists (eg, Britney Spears) who aren’t half as talented as the millions of unrecognized, brilliant musicians out there. So, in a completely fair world, a lot of these much-publicized people should be singing Karaoke at their family members’ weddings instead of selling out arenas. Anyone who thinks only talented people become famous should see Keanu Reeves try his hand at Shakespeare.

Bearing all this in mind, the 20-year old Casey Dienel recorded “Wind-Up Canary” while she was a student at the famed New England Conservatory. While most alumni of NEC transition into performing Mozart and Brahms at places like Carnegie Hall, Casey has chosen to try her hand playing jazz-laced rock music at places like The Applesauce Treehouse and the Gone Wired Café.

“Wind-Up Canary” is Deinel’s first attempt at recording, crafted with friends in an abandoned farmhouse on the outskirts of her native Boston. One of Deinel’s friends decided to send the session to tiny-but-mighty Hush Records, and the rest is history. Deinel is currently voyaging across the country, positive press sparkling in her wake.

Equal parts Cole Porter, legendary French cabaret chanteuse Edith Pilaf and The Talking Heads, Deinel’s music supports the idea of the American melting pot we all keep hearing about. Dienel is clearly at home tickling her piano keys. “When I was only four I found my lonely ivories / and we became fast friends,” she sings on “Everything”. She’s made the piano her own personal music box, cranking out whimsical melodies with subtly syncopated rhythms for emphasis. Her equally impressive and flighty vocals waft around the musical register like sheet music being blown about by a drafty open window.

The record revels in its intimacy, revealing its amateur tendencies via the slightly out-of-tune piano, generally low-fidelity vocals and a drum kit that sounds like it’s about to fall apart. “I want my record to sound like you’re sitting in a living room with all of your friends and the fire is crackling,” Dienel said in an interview with Northeast Performer Magazine. This is far from the sterile laboratory-like environments that most pop music is recorded in, and the result is something that’s very candid. It’s easy to imagine Deinel playing in a creaky old house to an audience of oddball music students and field mice.

As a fellow 20-year old, it’s exciting to see someone so close to my age producing something that’s so pointedly original. Especially as something that originated as “drunken dare”, “Wind-Up Canary” smacks of greatness. If Dienel can transfer her small-setting act to the big stage, and tighten up her tendency to sing about nonsense, she is a just a record deal away from being the next Norah Jones. That is, if she wants to share so-called “fame” with the Britney Spearses of the world. She has good reason to be quite confident either way.

Miranda Sound - Western Reserve

Certain types of images are conjured when one tries to picture local music.

At the very bottom rung of this figurative ladder is the quintessential local band: a bunch of shaggy late-teens to twenty-somethings playing in a dive-bar, possibly new to their instruments, possibly intoxicated. This band makes noise that is cringe-inspiring to young children and the elderly alike. They will play songs about their dead-end jobs, which eventually become their dead-end careers when the band tanks (just when they were totally about to make it).

While this stereotype originates in truth, as most stereotypes do, bands like Miranda Sound are fighting the good fight for quality music local to our fair metropolis. Western Reserve, released on Columbus label Sunken Treasure Records, is Miranda Sound’s third full-length album.

The members of Miranda Sound list among their major influences Jawbox (the legendary J. Robbins was a member) and The Dismemberment Plan (whom Robbins worked with as a producer). As fate would have it, Miranda Sound was able to enlist Robbins’ highly coveted services as a producer, engineer and guest musician on Western Reserve. According to Robert Duffy, owner of Sunken Treasure Records, Robbins agreed to work with them after hearing Engaged in Labor, Miranda Sound’s second LP.

Western Reserve thoroughly blends the band’s varied influences. From the energetic guitar driven power-pop of tracks “Jackson Milton” and “We’re Making Amends” to the offbeat, mathematical “Control” and the ethereal “Take it Where You Can Get It”, the album covers a lot of musical ground. However, it is paced and ordered so well (typical of Robbins’ projects) that the transition turns like the minute hand of a clock – so gradual that it’s barely noticeable. Robbins’ clean and able production highlights the precise rhythm of the band, fitly complementing the confidently written melodies.

The lyrics condense the struggles and insecurities experienced over a lifetime, and a Midwestern chip on the shoulder is visible at all times. This is particularly true in “The Lull of Youngstown”, which deals with making a “grand escape” from a dull and lifeless town after graduating from high school. I think anyone who grew up in Ohio can relate with that.

There are very few misses on this album, but the calculator metaphor on “Calculator for Words” is pretty lame (“multiplying adjectives and nouns you get verbs/when you finally press the equals sign”). The lyrical content as a whole is very straightforward, and it struggles a little when it strays from that.

With several songs that seem to be ready for heavy play on alternative and even mainstream radio, Western Reserve is a great achievement for the band, especially in light of the adversity they’ve had to overcome (accidents, roster changes, etc). Miranda Sound has made good use of the pressure, as Western Reserve is a polished gem of an album.

The Cinematic Underground - 4/11/06 at Neo

So I went out on a Tuesday night. I accompanied a friend to a friendly local art gallery which for one night only was home to one of the densest collection of hipsters I have ever seen -- I was absent when Clap Your Hands Say Yeah rolled into town. For the second time in the past six months, New England's The Cinematic Underground brought their veggie-powered bus to our fair city.

The smell of whitewash stung my nostrils as I noticed the white splotches on the wood grain floor. New painting. As a spectator, I was part of the display and I was art. Bunnies hung from the ceiling as a part of some sort of bunny-themed mobile (think the kind of thing that hangs over a toddler's crib -- now think of it with bunnies). There was definitely some sort of bunny exhibition going on. I love bunnies.

As I have mentioned, the irony levels in this place had reached critical mass. I saw all the tattoos, ironic Backstreet Boys shirts, tight pants, etc, that I would have expected to see at something like this if I'd had a better idea of what was going on.

The interesting thing is, though, that I had little to no expectations upon my arrival. My friend had only told me "oh, we're just going to go see some friends of mine play". I was expecting to see Shaq and the Brain Farts doing a ska cover of David Bowie or something along those lines.

A member of the CU handed me what was very much a playbill a few minutes prior to the show starting (I had missed the performance troupe Mew's opening act since I had fruitlessly ventured off in the night for something to eat. As you can see to your left, the performance had three 'scenes' and twelve total 'acts'. Especially as someone whose expectations were such a non-entity as mine were, this was something I hadn't even anticipated anticipating. Apparently, I had come to see a performance entitled Annasthesia. (for those keeping score at home, this is the title of their debut album).

Inventory of the special instruments which accompanied the normal E-Bow-toting lead guitar, bass, keys, and drums: telephone receiver, bicycle-wheel vests, trash can, goblets of water, a suitcase, an ascot, theatre lights, digital projector, and a Powerbook. Unfortunately I did not have my camera to illustrate, but these items were used in conjunction with music, dance, theatrics and lighting to create a visually stimulating experience in an intimate and bunny-filled setting. Think of the Decemeberists' as indie-rock performance Lite while The Cinematic Underground constitutes 16 oz. soy-steak.

"Writer/director" (or lead singer, for you Philistines) Nathan Johnson particularly had tons of charisma and really did a great job as presenting himself as the face of the project without distracting from artistic concept Annasthesia was striving for. His gyrating performance reminded me of the master entertainer Beck Hansen. I will abstain from making references to GWAR, but the whole package was comparable to a more avant-garde and ambient translation of the Flaming Lips. The show managed to be generally enjoyable and relatively unpretentious, probably because of the evident genuine emotion that went into it. The crowd was definitely drawn in to the experience.

I have to say I was disappointed by the recording of Annasthesia I procured. The live show had a total different mood, and it seems like the visual element could distract from any weakness the music would have, but the CU were very tight live and showed a lot of musical creativity intermixed with good old pop sensibility.

For how unique of an affair as their live show is, the CU will no doubt begin gathering some real grassroots attention. They seem to be touring in cabarets and galleries for now, but it's interesting to think of how their show would translate to theatres. If they can somehow better encapsulate the experience of their live show onto a sound recording and win over some national critics, The Cinematic Underground should have no problem selling out. Or achieving artistic nirvana atop their pile of money. Or at least getting a newer veggie-bus. Whatever.

Brief sidebar: playmaster Johnson also wrote the soundtrack for the feature film The Brick.

The Kyle Sowashes - What's Important (and What's Not) Review

Remember my Fine Dining Review? If you want, you can read that right now by clicking on 'Fine Dining Review". Did you read it? Great.

Kyle Sowash, aka Tom Foolery of Tom Foolery and the Mistakes, has ditched the pseudonym and is going out on his own in this big, scary world. It's ok though, because he's bringing some stalwart musical influences to keep him company: Pavement, Guided by Voices, Yo La Tengo, Superchunk, etc. Expect all the 'woo-woos', little guitar hooks, some not-really harmonies, catchy melodies, analog tape, 'quirky' humor, et cetera, that comes with the territory.

Let it be known: this record is a testament to what happens to college-rock musicians that hold on too long. Fine Dining, take note. Sowash has written “Being an Underemployed, Underappreciated Musician for Dummies”.

But c'est la vie, these gripes come with the territory. What's Important and What's Not is a no-holds-barred, barbed-wire old indie-rock nostalgia cagematch, and Kyle Sowash unashamedly has the chair.

The lyrics are built on a foundation of self-effacement and dry humor. In "Shadow of my Stephens" Sowash promises that "if I could put into a song the way I feel about you, (baby, yo) that would be so awesome" but "I just can't write the hits". In "In the Mail", a member of the Kyle Sowash's fan club wins "the remnants of [his] life's destruction" on Ebay.

Sure, writing songs about being an unknown loser drinking beers in parking lots isn't really glamorous, but it rings true. Between taking swipes at himself, Sowash targets white-belted hipster music critics, the scene, and life in general. More than once he comes across as being more than a little bitter, but he presents his empty plate with a smile.

The ‘he hate me’ aesthetic is artfully presented. This record, 28 minutes of enjoyable pop songs, is itself a tribute to enjoyable little pop songs of yesteryear. I can't imagine Kyle Sowash was trying to write the album of the year, nor would he think himself capable of doing so.

From upon his pedestal of obscurity, Kyle Sowash is directing his nihilistic/nostalgic message to the American people, whether they care or not.

The Kyle Sowashes - In the Mail.mp3
The Kyle Sowashes - Pitchforks.mp3