Author's Posts

Participate in an Experiment this Friday

A.k. Gold — Mon, 03 Dec 2001 23:00:00 -0600

ìIs the bandís name a Guided by Voices reference?î

ìNooooo!î guitarist Keith Murray, drummer Michael Tapper, and bassist Chris Cain, collectively known as We Are Scientists, reply in an adamant unison. Seems theyíve been asked this one before. Chris goes on to explain that the band name actually arose from a conversation that the Brooklyn-based trio had with an employee of U-Haul upon returning a rented trailer. ìAs he checked us in, he asked if we were brothers cause we all kind of look alike and weíre built alike. When we said no, he asked us if we were scientists.î Itís hard to tell if anything that drops from the mouths of these three indie smart-asses can be taken as truth, but they claim that the U-Haul employeeís inquiry was enough to catalyze them into forming a band.

Just this past summer, the U-Hauls were rented once again and We Are Scientists packed up and undertook a transcontinental relocation. Hailing from California, the threesome decided to make Brooklyn their home, facetiously claiming that California could no longer handle music as amazing as their own. Lately, theyíve spent their days working and their nights recording a forthcoming record that will be released on Williamsburg, Brooklynís Devious Semantics label.

However, getting the band to describe their sound is quite the task. When asked to describe their music, We Are Scientists flee from the question like little kids trying to avoid bad-tasting medicine. After some pursuit, Tapper offered up the names of a couple of drummers who aim for a similar sound. His list included Weezerís Pat Wilson, The Get Up Kidsí Ryan Pope and Pavementís Steve West before he rigidly proclaimed ìbut not the guy from Blink-182!î Once the drug was swallowed, Murray responded, ìI think you just listed all the bands that we decided not to mention.î The secretís out, and though they are a bit defensive about the comparisons, We Are Scientists lean toward infectious power pop. The tracks available for download on the bandís website (www.wearescientists.com) confirm any and all suspicions with songs like ìThe Super Anytime Double-X Mysteryî and ìEasykill,î which aptly mix solid rhythm work, catchy guitar hooks, and well-delivered harmonies.

Over the last couple of months We Are Scientists have honed their performance skills playing gigs at such New York City mainstays as Brownies, Acme Under-ground, and the Lionís Den. Known to perform in colorful jumpsuits (donít scientists wear lab coats?) the handsome trio will be bringing their sound to Morningside Heightsí very own West End for a Friday night rock ëní roll extravaganza. In addition to their own performance, the band plays host to an evening that will serve as a record release show for label mates Smite and feature performances by Tone and Telegraph and The Tuesday Suits. Additionally, other possible aspects of the night could include a literary reading and a short film screening. Tapper said that people should come out on Friday night because ìthe band is really all about having fun,î and the show should be just that. Murray jokingly added that ìAll students with proof of Colombian citizenshipî will receive a discount on admission to the eveningís events.

The Tuesday Suits, Tone and Telegraph, We Are Scientists, and Smite

Friday, December 7, 2001

9 p.m.

The West End

Haunting Pop for the Broken-Hearted

A.k. Gold — Mon, 01 Oct 2001 23:00:00 -0500

Saddle Creek Records has made a name for itself over the last couple of years through its release of a broad range of musicians and bands from the label's hometown of Omaha, Neb. With Now It's Overhead's self-titled debut record, the label offers its first full-length release from a non-Nebraska band. However, what the label has lost in geographic proximity, it has more than made up for in haunting pop songsmanship.

Featuring singer/songwriter /multi-instrumentalist Andy Lemaster (most notably a contributor and engineer on many of Bright Eyes' recordings), multi-instrumentalist Orenda Fink and keyboardist Maria Taylor (both of the brooding, ethereal Azure Ray), and drummer Clay Leverett, Now It's Overhead's debut effort traces the erratic rise and fall of a romantic relationship atop arrangements that vary between sparse ballads, slow-tempoed rockers, layered pop songs, and even a dark dance track.

Opening with a baroque-like keyboard progression and a rat-a-tat-tat drum beat, the first track, "Blackout Curtain," aptly introduces Now It's Overhead's simple but engaging instrumental work. Exploring the transitions between night and day as well as confusion and coherence, the story culminates in the harmonized chorus, hopefully pleading "Don't ever go away from here and I will never go away."

Possibly the most startling track on the release is the dark, sparse, and danceable "6th Grade Roller." Andy Lemaster's songs, throughout the record, rely on the notion that lyrics don't have to be fluid poetry because appropriate fragments can convey meaning just as well. And nowhere is that more apparent than on this eerie, drum machine and syncopated sample-induced track. As the song's tension and power increases, Lemaster's malleable syllabic emphases makes the seemingly nonsensical chorus, "Fly around a ring. I fly around a ring," sound like a ritualistic chant that should be performed by naked witches circling around a fire.

Continuing on a similar mildly primal bent, "What a Subtle Look" begins with a Lemaster's vocals backed only by the thumping of Leverett's hollow bass drum. As the story continues, simple piano chords fall in place and expanding and retracting samples subtly add to the mix. Finally, a muted choir of angels cries as the protagonist reflects on the fast rise and brutal fall of his relationship: "With a subtle look we would communicate. Now all the words we saved return to curse your name."

The only trying aspect is the seeming redundancy of song structures that follow a pattern of slowly building in dynamics, tension, and instrumental layering until culminating at the end of each track. Despite this, the eponymous album's nine songs prove to be sonically unusual and hauntingly engaging, even as they explore the brutal loss and ire attached to the demise of most romantic relationships.

Now It's Overhead

2001, Saddle Creek

A Love Letter to Rock 'n Roll

A.k. Gold — Mon, 17 Sep 2001 23:00:00 -0500

All the leaves will burn and autumn fires then return.

All the fires we burn, all will return.

Music is my savior and I was maimed by rock and roll.

--Jeff Tweedy [Wilco, "Sunken Treasure"]

There are few things to which I react with my gut. I've long been conditioned to logic and rhetoric, hypotheses and experimentation, and rationale over emotion. It's dangerous to never feel; it makes you dead inside. This last week, seeing the most stunning and monstrous events that have occurred in my entire lifetime, I have been reacting with my gut a lot. I've watched the destruction of landmarks and the recollection of human life like virtually everyone in the country, from the distanced perspective of television. And every once in a while, an image, a sentence, a look of despair emerged from the glass screen and tears, in turn, would well in my eyes.

I thought, for a bit, that my experience would have been the same had I been in Phoenix or Chicago or San Francisco. But it wouldn't have. There wouldn't be sulfur stench wafting uptown or police escorting caravans of construction equipment down Broadway below my window. And I wouldn't have known so many people whose lives were altered in such monumental ways.

For the last year or so, I have been singing the praises of rock 'n' roll like it was some deity sent down from the heavens to deliver me. Every week, I commit my reflections to paper in a futile attempt to convey an inkling of the power it has had on my life. Some people turn to religion, some to philosophy, I turn to rock 'n' roll.

However, for the last week, I've been floating in a sea of nebulous emotions--numbness, anger, sadness, guilt, disorientation, and confusion. Virtually all of us have been, to varying degrees. When these feelings got the better of me, I took comfort in records. I needed something to react to on a purely emotional level that wasn't about terrorism or tragedy, Wolf Blitzer or Peter Jennings. The anguish-drenched, angular confessions of Cursive, the poetic rambling and hearty instrumentation of Wilco, the dark and ethereal pop of Now It's Overhead, and the sparse, cutting guitars and literary lyrics of Kid Dakota all fit the bill. These sounds are visceral, cathartic, celebratory, and hopeful.

Not everyone feels as passionately about music as I do. But, hopefully, all people have something that they react to purely on feeling, something they turn to when the world, or their own world, is too scary and sad. Being apathetic is dangerous, but being swallowed up by your emotions leads to interminable anxiety, frustration, anger, and depression. Everyone needs their antidote, a reminder of why life is amazing when one is asking and re-asking the existential question, "What's the point?"

For me, the point is the sounds of rock 'n' roll, emerging from a speaker in my room, destroying my hearing through my headphones, or cutting through space in a rock club. Guitars sounding nothing like people, conveying every emotion and making it one thousand times more forceful or more subtle than in real life. Rock 'n' roll makes my heart pound and my feet tap and my body twist and my head bob. It reminds me that I exist, that I feel, and that at the base of it all, everyone hopes to be reminded of the same.

Pursuing the Rock

A.k. Gold — Mon, 27 Aug 2001 23:00:00 -0500

One of the great things about New York City is that it is often less expensive to catch a great rock 'n' roll show than to go to the movies. If you have an interest, be it newfound or long held, in the world of underground or independent rock 'n' roll, New York City is your Mecca. During my three years at Columbia, I've explored and experienced the scene in all sorts of settings. And from this accumulated knowledge, I offer my insights into some of the best (or more appropriately, some of my favorite) places to catch live rock 'n' roll shows.

Bowery Ballroom (6 Delancey Street; tickets $10-$35; 16, 18, or 21-and-over shows; www.boweryballroom.com) A pretty large venue that books independent bands that aren't up-and-coming any longer, but haven't reached super-duper rock stardom or crossover success. However, the Bowery plays host to many a fine live show and many a yuppie-type patron. The sound is good, the sight lines are decent, but the top-notch bookings are what makes the venue worthwhile.

Brownies (169 Ave. A; tickets $7-$12; 16, 18, or 21 and over shows; www.browniesnyc.com) Probably my favorite club in all of New York City, Brownies plays host to a diverse array of rock and punk bands while specializing in music that can blow out your eardrums. Sunday nights are often 16+ shows and the presence of the younger set infuses the place with a high-energy atmosphere. The sound is pretty good, the space is tiny and oddly shaped, and the bar serves a solid array of beers. Really, though, it is the "I love rock 'n' roll" feel and the loyal customers that make Brownies awesome.

CBGB Omfug (315 Bowery; tickets $6-$12; 16 to enter, 21 to drink; www.cbgb.com) Not just a rock club, but also an institution. Anyone who has explored a bit of rock 'n' roll history knows about the great punk shows that took place at CBGB's during the '70s and '80s. Today, the place still offers up the dirty rock aesthetic. If you're looking for sanitary and spotless move along, but if you are searching for the sweat and blood that is the basis of rock 'n' roll, look no further. The space is long and relatively narrow with a bar on one side and tables in the back, making it hard to see sometimes. The rock history decor (stickers, old posters, and notes from bands cover the walls) is an adequate distraction if the music isn't.

Irving Plaza (17 Irving Place; tickets $15-$35; 16 to enter, 21 to drink; www.irvingplaza.com) Nestled in NYU territory, this club tends to draw a hipster type crowd for whom I do not harbor a fondness. However, the sometimes pricey shows often feature great acts, and every once in a while NYU's programming board will host a cheap show ($5-$7) featuring up-and-coming indie acts. (Last year, the bill featured Britt Daniel of Spoon, Bright Eyes, and Cat Power.)

Knitting Factory (74 Leonard Street; tickets $7-$15, all shows are all ages; www.knittingfactory.com) Not just a rock club, the Knitting Factory is a great place to catch jazz, avant garde, hip hop, folk, and so much more. It has multiple performance spaces, and I know from experience that the main stage has great sound and good sight lines. The crowds are often older than the college set, but it's a pleasant atmosphere with a good beer selection, CDs from the Knitting Factory's labels available for purchase, and earplugs for sale right at the bar. And if you get the chance, Lou Reed usually plays a couple of nights in spring, which is the quintessential New York City rock 'n' roll experience.

Mercury Lounge (217 East Houston; tickets $8-$20, 21+ unless noted otherwise; www.mercuryloungenyc.com) The little sister of the Bowery Ballroom, this intimate performance space hosts both local and national artists who generally offer up acoustic or mellower full band sets. The sound is great and there isn't a bad place to stand or sit in the small house. Most shows are twelve dollars or less. And seeing as there is no backstage area, it always affords a great opportunity to introduce yourself to a band after they finish their set.

Weekend Preview: The Brownies and Sound and Fury Serve up The Faint

A.k. Gold — Tue, 05 Jun 2001 23:00:00 -0500

One of the many funny things about indie rock listeners is that despite how much its proponents claim that they feel the music deeply, when you see a bunch of indie kids at a show their movements seldom amount to more than shifting from one hip to the other in order to avoid a foot cramp. The notion of dancing, of kinetic undertakings beyond toe tapping and head nodding, seems utterly absurd.

Granted, when you are catching some sullen singer songwriter, dancing like a maniac does seem inappropriate, but I can recall numerous times in the last six months where I've wanted to invoke the hallowed cry of Gordon Gano and scream "Dance Motherfucker Dance!" But, there was no need to call upon the Violent Femmes' frontman's most provocative proclamation because The Faint's new brand of Depeche Mode and Cure-inspired new wave mixed with angular modernity and a pinch of punk rock intensity took care of it all on its own.

The Faint's last release, 2000's Blank-Wave Arcade (Saddle Creek) was an album of catchy, overwhelmingly danceable songs about lust, sex, and of course, dancing. And their forthcoming album, Danse Macabre (out August 20th on Saddle Creek) expects to be more of the same. The Faint, however, is really known as an astounding and outstanding live act. They, without fail, attempt to extinguish all the house lights and play under just strobe and red lights that are part of their stage gear. And all the members of The Faint, adorned in black, dance to the funky, angular grooves of their own sonic creations. But, it is lead singer Todd Baechle, often made up with excessive amounts of dark eyeliner, who proves to be the most compelling as he flails about like a maniac in need of a straight jacket.

Brownies and Sound and Fury present The Faint for two nights this weekend. Saturday, June 9th is a 21 and older show with openers The Ex Models and Interpol, while Sunday, June 10th is a 16 and over show where the band will be joined by 90 Day Men, Outhud, and Radio 4.

Bring your dancing shoes and some water to the show, because if you're not ready to dance to the manic sounds of the Faint, you should not bother going.

The Cat's Meow: Tigerstyle Offers Up Two EP's

A.k. Gold — Tue, 24 Apr 2001 23:00:00 -0500

I have long held the belief that EPs and LPs are completely misnamed. For those who are unaware, "EP" stands for extended play and usually features four or five songs, while a full-length record is called an "LP," or long play. Now, maybe this is only in my head, but it seems to me that anything called extended should be longer than something that is merely long. Despite any effort I may make, I think my attempts to switch the terms of "EP" and "LP" will amount to little more than a hopeless and frustrating campaign.

Fortunately, I can take some solace in two new EPs from Tigerstyle Records. Unlike earlier recordings by The Mercury Program, All the Suits Began to Fall Off is an entirely instrumental recording. And the Florida band makes fantastic use of this vocal-less jaunt to craft jazz-infused math rock. On "There are Thousands Sleeping in Peace," the pretty and repetitious guitar work creates a growing feeling of immediacy that ultimately manifests itself in a series of guitar rock crescendos that take the place of choruses. In a similar vein, the vibraphone work on "Marianas" evokes the feeling of a cityscape, moving at double speed and filmed from above. The tension between the instrument's reverberating prettiness and the stringent rhythmic backdrop makes the song all the more effective. The final track, "A Delicate Answer," opens with the minimalist repetition of a guitar phrase against a quiet backdrop similar to the sounds that emerge from the rim of a wineglass. Eventually, though, the accompaniment blooms into a full-blown soundscape that ends the EP on a comparatively more relaxed jaunt through sound expansion and retraction.

In complete contrast to the Mercury Program's instrumentally lush, sans vocal EP, K. and Low's Those Girls is a vocal-heavy and instrumentally sparse affair. K. (Karla Schickele of Ida) opens the EP with "Regular Girl," a quiet pop song that is deceptively rocking mainly due to Schickele's vocal delivery and Cynthia Nelson's lead guitar work. Sandwiched in the middle of Those Girls are two songs from Duluth, Minnesota's Low. "Those Girls" is standard Low fair, bringing together the simple three-chord bass line, and downbeat drumming musicianship with husband-wife duo Alan Sparhawk and Mimi Parker's angelically harmonized vocals. Low's other contribution "Venus (Time Stereo dub version)" is a less vocal effect-induced and more sauntering version of the same track that appeared on their 2000 album, One More Reason to Forget.

The final track is K.'s cover of Flashpaper's "Were We to Dance." The song is loosely held together by the piano downbeat, as violin and banjo lines slowly and arrhythmically zigzag across the surface of the song. In truth, I have heard the track at least ten times and I still can't decide if it works. Despite their sonic contrasts, All the Suits Began to Fall Off and Those Girls are both enjoyable EPs. But, if you only have the means or inclination to buy one, I personally prefer the angular and broad songs of the Mercury Program over the more harmony-driven, less driving songs of K. and Low.

The Mercury Program, All the Suits Began to Fall Off, 2001, Tigerstyle

K/Low, Those Girls Split EP, 2001, Tigerstyle

The Facts of Life: Sex, Drugs, and Rock 'n' Roll

A.k. Gold — Tue, 24 Apr 2001 23:00:00 -0500

Songwriter, multi-instrumentalist, and sometime singer Luke Haines has made a career out of writing albums that explore a single theme. His rock band, the Auteurs, offered up guitar-driven tales of murder on 1996's After Murder Park while the angular beats of Baader Meinhof's 1997 self-titled album followed the bizarre arch of terrorism. By 1998, Haines had abandoned these two bands and joined up with writer, instrumentalist, and British absinthe dealer John Moore to form Black Box Recorder. The two men took to writing lyrics from the female perspective and found their voice in Sarah Nixey, whose deceptively angelic delivery of cruel lyrics and double entendres is alarming in its calmness.

After taking suburban disenchantment to task on their debut album, 1998's England Made Me, Black Box Recorder turned its atmospheric, laid-back, late night New-York-City-lounge-meets-London-disco sound to the topic of sex. The product, The Facts of Life, merges the themes of driving and sex so seamlessly that it becomes a wonder that anyone could have thought of the two concepts as separate.

The album's opening track "The Art of Driving," begins with a spoken exchange between a male and female character. As Sarah Nixey says, "You've got the hang of steering / now try stepping on the breaks" over computerized drum beats and ambient sound effects, it becomes overwhelmingly clear that no lyric can be taken solely at face value on this album.

"French Rock 'n' Roll" sounds like a lost Pulp track with echoing guitar strums and decidedly laid-back drum beats giving way to glockenspiel and harpsichord moments over guitar feedback. While "The Facts of Life" sounds like a top-40 bubble gum girl group track from a parallel universe, Nixey's voice switches between a speak-sing during the verses into a molasses chorus which includes an astoundingly sexually charged delivery of the seemingly innocent lyric: "walk me home from school / I'll let you hold my hand."

As with some of Luke Haines' other albums, The Facts of Life only comes up short when the premeditated vocal and instrumental craft come across as unemotional and calculated. On "May Queen," the sparse, repetitious arrangement and blunt delivery of disturbing lyrics like, "write my name in blood upon your shirt," would sound unnerving if Nixey and the lazy instrumental work did not sound so bored. Nevertheless, these missteps are few and far between. Overall, Black Box Recorder has crafted another set of provoking and engaging vignettes that should be listened to on a Saturday night in a swanky bar with red velvet couches and royal blue light fixtures.

Black Box Recorder, The Facts of Life, 2001, Jetset

Proving Robert Christgau Wrong

A.k. Gold — Mon, 16 Apr 2001 23:00:00 -0500

As I trudged out the door of work at 7 p.m., a co-worker inquired about my plans for the evening. With a grimace, I said that I was heading to a Crooked Fingers concert. On any other night a show would have thrilled me, but April 13th had been endless, I was tired, and Robert Christgau (the dean of rock criticism, whom I respect greatly) had indicated that Crooked Fingers is "sometimes harrowing, sometimes boring" in his preview in the Village Voice. I was in no mood for a crapshoot.

An hour later, I walked down the steps of the Village Underground into its thoroughly not-conducive-to-performance performance space. Omaha's May Day Pigeon, made up of singer/guitarist Ted Stevens (of Lullaby for the Working Class and Cursive) and drummer/guitarist Patrick Oaks sat in chairs on the stage. Stevens' fantastic voice conveyed barrels of emotion in a sensitive blend of vocal forcefulness and near whispers even though the sparsely filled audience was unfamiliar with the songs. Stevens and Oaks played a fine set of quiet rock music that sounded like a substantially stripped down version of the folk/orchestral arrangements of Lullaby for the Working Class.

May Day Pigeon's quiet set flowed nicely into Azure Ray's lulling, ethereal guitar, sample, keyboard, and voice arrangements. Drawing mainly from its debut self-titled album (Warm, 2000), vocalists/guitarists Orenda Fink and Maria Taylor blended their pure voices to paint sauntering soundscapes of desire and loss. "Sleep" emerged as a standout in the band's set because of its poppy immediacy in the live setting.

Despite pleasant first two bands, I remained weary until the arrival of Crooked Fingers. Maybe lead singer/songwriter/guitarist and sometime banjo player Eric Bachmann (Archers of Loaf) read Robert Christgau's not-so-kind words and wanted to prove him wrong. Probably not, but the band's performance was nothing short of extraordinary.

For the first time all night, the audience stood as the three members of Crooked Fingers filled the cramped stage. By the second song, we had been captured in a web of music so intense and fantastic that there was no chance of breaking free without express permission.

"Devil's Train" (from Bring on the Snakes, Warm, 2001) ensnared the entire crowd with a chugging snare beat and up-tempo, stand-up bass line. Over top of the rocking rhythm section, Bachmann poured the smile on his face into the delivery of each cutting lyric and every plucked guitar note. The music came to life in a way that no recording could ever hope to capture.

The fantastic energy continued with songs like "Rotting Strip" when Bachmann's voice altered between a smooth alto like Semisonic's Dan Wilson and the gravely baritone of Tom Waits. The thumping snare- drum rolls gave the song a Civil War battle cry feel that added to the immediacy and intensity. They performed the finest David Bowie cover I have heard since Nirvana tried its hand at "The Man Who Sold the World."

And then, one of the most amazing events I have ever seen occurred. The three men of Crooked Fingers descended, with instruments in tow, from the platform of the stage into the middle of the crowd. Eric Bachmann was literally a foot-and-a-half away from me as his non-amplified, throaty voice sung atop of a banjo and stand-up bass.

As the band performed in a small circle surrounded by the audience, its songs sounded more like they belonged on the porch of a West Virginia coal miner's town in the 1930s than in a New York City rock club. And that is the ultimate testament to the honesty and intimacy that Crooked Fingers created, even as they morphed Prince's "When You Were Mine" into an odd concoction of the fire-and-brimstone revivalism of Jonathan Edwards and Johnny Rotten.

As I sit before my computer at 2 a.m. in an attempt to convey some of the show's greatness (before I forget it), I can honestly write that I have never been so impressed with a band's ability to turn songs that sound good on a recording into a truly spectacular stage performance. I only wish that Robert Christgau could have shared the experience.

All Hail the Coming of Kim's

A.k. Gold — Mon, 02 Apr 2001 23:00:00 -0500

Upon entering an amazing record store, one can be transported to a different world. I'm not referring to the cookie-cutter retail chains like Tower and Warehouse Music. I am talking about real record stores where the walls are plastered with posters that may sport the logos of bands and labels that no one has heard of; where the bins are filled with CDs released by record labels called SpinArt and Merge and Saddle Creek instead of Columbia, Virgin, and Warner Brothers; and where the staff knows more (or at least acts like they do) than virtually any customer could ever hope to know about music.

Growing up outside of Chicago, I was fortunate enough to have Dr. Wax. It remains an amazing little store filled with vinyl, an epic "underground" CD section, and stacks of zines and free arts papers by the door.

I've had heated discussions with the Dr. Wax staff about everyone from Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan to Calexico. I've stapled posters upon the store's hallowed walls to advertise upcoming shows and in turn I have taken some of the band promo posters home and hung them with pride on my bedroom walls. Dr. Wax was an oasis for me growing up, an island populated by other folks with far too large record collections and plenty of obsessively considered opinions about music.

When I came to New York City for college, the thing I was most thrilled about was the music scene. Bootleg tapes of Jeff Buckley's New Year's Eve show at the Mercury Lounge, stories about Matador Records' home office (the label that altered my life with albums from Liz Phair and Pavement and Belle & Sebastian), and tales of Lou Reed living in the East Village contributed to a mythology that wafted across the terrain of Ohio and Indiana until it settled in my upstairs bedroom in Illinois.

If Dr. Wax had served as an oasis from football games, pep rallies, and keg parties, then New York City and its music scene was essentially my Mecca--a city filled with little record stores, bookstores, cafes and lots and lots of rock clubs. What did I know of Starbucks and Barnes & Noble's plot to take over Manhattan? But the corporate takeover has not squashed my rock 'n' roll Mecca of New York City, even if I still have to trek all the way downtown to places like Brownies, Sound and Fury, the Mercury Lounge, and Kim's to realize it.

But now, a little piece of Mecca is finally coming uptown! And this all leads back to why I am translating these words from fleeting ecstatic thoughts to binary code. On Thursday night, I had the odd pleasure of exploring the half-finished retail space that will be Kim's Mediapolis (2900 Broadway at 113th St.). With a crowd that mixed the indie rock hipsters of CMJ Music Marathon event with a Sunday barbecue for a Korean church, the scene most certainly was unusual. As the avant-guard jazz saxophone performance gave way to a troupe of Korean drummers, the group came to life. The crowd began to intermingle with the drummers in an excited hand-clapping, knee-bending dance as Mr. Kim himself joined hands with friends and strangers in a joyous jig to christen the new branch of his fantastic independent media/real record store empire.

When we were all tuckered out from the dancing, the traditional music gave way to San Diego's Gogogo Airheart, who jumped about on the cold concrete stage and delivered raw rock 'n' roll in the spirit of so many New York shows that came before him. As the fresh fruit, hors d'oeuvres, and cans of beer were consumed, and the music moved from jazz to traditional to rock, I grew more and more thrilled. In a neighborhood on a university campus where we have seen the increasing encroachment of Citibank, Starbucks, and Barnes & Noble, we are now fortunate to be getting a New York City institution.

Though Kim's might not stock Billboard's Top 10, it will most definitely have the albums on the top of the College Radio charts. The staff will actually get to choose the music that emanates through its speakers as opposed to some board appointed by Richard Branson. Most importantly, a little piece of that downtown music community will finally be closer at hand for kids like me who are constantly searching for (most often futilely) other Columbians with whom to discuss the latest Bonnie "Prince" Billy and Crooked Fingers CDs.

Even with empty, unfinished shelves, exposed concrete floors, and the construction workers' half finished box of donuts serving as the décor, Kim's brought together a disparate horde of people and entertained us all on Thursday night. I am anxious to see it finished, stocked, and staffed for everyone with an open mind and a curious streak to explore and enjoy.

Once Upon a Time...

A.k. Gold — Mon, 26 Mar 2001 23:00:00 -0600

Once upon a time there was a band from Brooklyn named Clem Snide. Being a band, Clem Snide made an album and released it on a little label called Tractorbeam (1998's You Were a Diamond). A corporate record company heard the album, liked it, and the band got signed to a major label.

In May of 2000, Clem Snide released their second album, Your Favorite Music, on Sire Records. But here is where the story gets rather fuzzy, my friends, because it seems as though Sire deserted the gentlemen of Clem Snide and their quirky country-inflected record soon after its release.

However, thankfully for all of you who didn't get the chance to hear this pretty little gem on its first go, SpinArt Records has re-issued Your Favorite Music for your listening pleasure.

The band's record company difficulties and eventual triumph are a fitting parallel to the sounds of Your Favorite Music. The melodies aren't revolutionary; in fact, many of the songs are strangely familiar. But they are familiar in the comforting way that simple, good rock songs are familiar, in the way in which they sound as if they could have been recorded in 1957 or 2000.

By making use of the unusual stand-up bass, cello, guitar, and drums format, Clem Snide combines compelling, sparse musicianship with unusual subject matter to form engaging and sometimes haunting tales of loneliness and aloneness.

Lead singer/guitarist/songwriter Eef Barzelay has an uncanny ability to craft stories through idiosyncratic fragments of life and the clever turn of a phrase. His nasal, affected voice wavers appropriately between matter-of-fact sing-speak, enchanting lullabies, and dynamic cries of desperation throughout the album. He humorously and poignantly captures his own self doubt with lines like: "Your beautiful African friend / Next to him I feel so white."

In addition to Barzelay's fantastic vocal delivery and unusual storytelling ability, Jason Glaser's cello and keyboard, playing along with stand-up bassist Jeff Marshall and drummer Brad Reitz's simple, often quiet, instrumental work, creates melodic lines like molasses–sweet and slow.

Barzelay's guitar work only figures prominently on a couple of the sing-along tracks on the album, like "Messiah Complex Blues," where the finger-picking and three-chord strumming serves as a setting for the proclamation, "I wouldn't die for your sins."

But, if you are only to ever hear one song by Clem Snide, I suggest that that song be "I Love Unknown," which recounts the tale of a young man who leaves the woman he loves, the job his dad secures for him, and the name he was given at birth for the allure of the unknown.

In this framework, Clem Snide tells the ultimate tale of suburban disillusion in 2 1/2 minutes of pure pop pleasure. With the final verse it is revealed that "the doctor asked him what he was afraid of / just what was he running from / and he said it's not a fear of success or of closeness / but of going through life feeling numb."

Clem Snide's second album features subtle smirk-causing humor and sparse reflection garnering moments, and through its ever-truthful stories and plain and lovely instrumental work Your Favorite Music succeeds in fulfilling the prophecy of its title.

Clem Snide, Your Favorite Music, Spinart. Re-released March 19.