New York Music Daily

Global Music With a New York Edge

Category: southwestern gothic

Another Gorgeous, Lushly Arranged Art-Rock Album and a Bell House Show from Chuck Prophet

Chuck Prophet is one of the most exhilarating, purposeful lead guitarists in rock. He’s also a vastly underrated songwriter. Since his days in paisley underground legends Green on Red back in the 80s, he’s done everything from psychedelia to Americana to art-rock to what could be called a thinking person’s version of Tom Petty. He’s got a characteristically brilliant new album, Night Surfer – streaming at Spotify – which might be his darkest ever, and a show at the Bell House coming up this Friday, Nov 21 at around 8:30 PM. Cover is $15.

The theme that connects some if not all of the tracks here is future shock, and as Prophet makes clear, he’s not exactly comfortable with it. The opening tune, Countrified Inner-City Technological Man looks back to snide 80s Americana acts like the Del-Lords, with its soul clap beat and relentless cynicism. Wish Me Luck sways along with a warped, Bowie-esque glamrock vibe: “Look out you losers, here I come!” Prophet grins – it’s easy to imagine Edward Rogers or Ward White doing something like this.

Guilty As a Saint takes that sound back five years or so to Abbey Road (or twenty-five years forward to Spottiswoode), a rich, ornate arrangement with deliciously watery guitars from Prophet and James DePrato over the terse rhythm section of Brad Jones (who also produced) on bass, Prairie Prince on drums and lush strings by Chris Charmichael and Austin Hoke. They Don’t Know About Me and You takes that same ambience and lyrical surrealism down a few notches over Rusty Miller’s sweeping organ – until the big chorus kicks in.

Lonely Desolation opens in a blaze of guitar and insistent strings and then hits a rather droll new wave chamber pop pulse – it’s just thisfar from that cheesy Cure hit to avoid cute overkill. Likewise, Laughing on the Inside beefs up its new wave core to anthemic proportions, as Spacehog might have done it but with better, more organic production values. “When they turned on the hose, it felt like a drop in the ocean,” Prophet winks conspiratorially.

If I Was a Baby alludes to Dylan’s Isis, with a cool blend of rustic Americana and art-rock grandeur. Ford Econoline has a guitar-fueled drive that’s part Dream Syndicate, part the Church from around the same time. Prophet follows Felony Glamour, a sardonically amusing, Stonesy tale about a drama queen with Tell Me Anything (Turn to Gold), a lush blend of Byrds jangle and paisley underground menace. Truth Will Out (Ballad of Melissa and Remy) reaches for epic Dylan narrative but ends up closer to Amanda Palmer snark. The album winds up on an aptly surreal note with Love Is the Only Thing, part Orbison noir, growling Hound Dog Taylor blues and stadium rock.  “Bring your x-ray vision from the bedroom to the kitchen,” Prophet demands. It’s here that he finally bares his fangs – ironically, over some of the album’s prettiest music. Not a single substandard cut here – one of 2014′s best from a guy who’s been elite for a long time.

Brilliant, Sometimes Haunting Lapsteel Player Brings His Genre-Smashing Instrumentals to Freddy’s

To New York audiences, lapsteel virtuoso Raphael McGregor might be best known as a key ingredient in Brain Cloud, Dennis Lichtman’s western swing band. Before that, McGregor served as the source of the vintage country flavor in Nation Beat‘s driving mashup of Brazilian maracatu and Americana sounds. But he’s also a first-rate, eclectic composer and bandleader in his own right. In addiiton to his more-or-less weekly Monday 7 PM Barbes residency with Brain Cloud, he has a monthly residency at Freddy’s, where he’ll be on Nov 20 at 8 PM.

His most recent show at Barbes leading a band was a quartet gig with with Larry Eagle on drums, Jim Whitney on bass and Rob Hecht on violin. They opened with a moody oldschool noir soul vamp and quickly built it into a brooding rainy-day theme over Eagle’s tense shuffle beat. Hecht took his time and then went spiraling and sailing upwards. Why is it that blues riffs inevitably sound so cool when played by strings? McGregor had a hard act to follow so he walked the line between Lynchian atmosphere and an express-track scurry, then handed off to Whitney who picked up his bow and took the song all the way into the shadows.

McGregor began the night’s second number with a mournful solo lapsteel intro that moved slowly toward C&W and then shifted uneasily into moody swing. It was like a more animated take on the Friends of Dean Martinez doing oldtime string band music. After that, they put a swinging southwestern gothic spin on a Django Reinhardt tune.

They also did a couple of straight-up western swing numbers, a brisk trainwhistle romp and a fetching version of Waltz Across Texas With You: much as they were a lot of fun, McGregor was pleasantly surprised to find that the crowd was more interested in hearing his originals. They opened their second set with a piece that began as an Indian-inflected one-chord jam that morphed into a bluesy duel between violin and bass, followed by a Frisellian pastoral interlude and then back to trip-hop Indian funk – all that in under ten minutes. All this is just a small sampling of what McGregor could pull off at Freddy’s.

The Wytches Burn Their Way Through New York

It’s a good week to see dark rock bands from out of town. Umpteen acts may reach for a menacing vibe, but British trio the Wytches actually nail theirs. The punk-inspired, dead-end desperation in frontman/guitarist Kristian Bell’s voice is so raw that it at least sounds like the real thing. And their narratives are all the more believable for being free of any kind of goth/ghoul cliche. They’ve got a savagely brilliant new album, Annabel Dream Reader – streaming at Spotify - and a clusterfuck of CMJ shows coming up. If assaultively doomy punk, horror surf or Lynchian sounds in general are your thing, you’ve got six chances to see this band in the next few days. Tomorrow, Oct 22 they’ll be at Glasslands at 9; on Oct 23 at Rough Trade at 3 in the afternoon and then at Baby’s All Right at 11 at night. They return to Baby’s All Right at one in the afternoon on Oct 24, then they’ll be at that free show at the Knitting Factory at four the same day (beware because the rsvp means you’ll get spammed). But you won’t have to get spammed in order to catch them when they return to Rough Trade at 7 on Oct 25.

The album’s opening track, Digsaw builds out of a squalling intro to an horror surf-tinged verse and then a screaming chorus over bassist Daniel Rumsey’s growling, trebly lines: you can hear some Jesus & Mary Chain, and Stranglers, and maybe Coffin Daggers, but more stripped-down than any of those acts.Wide at Midnight follows a creepy, Lynchian wammy-bar sway dripping with reverb; then the band makes horror surf out of a familiar Ventures theme.

Gravedweller is the best song here, a macabre zombie scenario with a reverb-tank menace that brings to mind Wooden Indian Burial Ground. Fragile Male for Sale blends the wet, poisonous reverb-tank echo with darkly distorted 60s psych riffage, while Burn out the Bruise has a snidely echoing sway until its desperate, screaming chorus kicks in.

“She shines a light from side to side, in my eyes it reflects from the corner,” frontman/guitarist Kristian Bell intones as the growly Transylvanian gothic anthem Wire Frame Mattress gets underway – and then the band makes surf rock out of it. Beehive Queen hits a slashingly sarcastic, slightly skronk-infused spaghetti western gallop, then they bring it down with Weights and Ties, a slow waltz with a little vintage PiL cached in its amped-up wee-hours Lynchian ambience.

The disarmingly catchy Part Time Model paints a disquieting tableau of what might be a S&M brothel – or the set of a snuff film, punctuated by the occasional muted gunshot burst from Bell’s reverb tank. The album’s longest track, Summer Again, another waltz, is all the more crushing for offering a hint of hope.

Robe for Juda builds a catchy garage rock tune out of a wicked chromatic riff and then hits an explosive, metalish crescendo. Crying Clown blends Orbison noir with an unhinged, doomed tableau straight out of the Doctors of Madness catalog. The album ends with a brief folk noir ballad simply titled Track 13. In a year that’s seen amazing albums by Karla Moheno and Marissa Nadler, and with Big Lazy‘s haunting new one still not out yet, this might be the best of them all. Miss these guys at your peril.

Lila Downs Brings Her Intense, Relevant South-of-the-Border Sounds to Town This Weekend

Fiery, perennially relevant Mexican folk-rock songwriter Lila Downs has a new album out, Raiz – streaming at Spotify- and a show at the Allen Room at Jazz at Lincoln Center at 7 PM tonight, Oct 10 and tomorrow night, Oct 11. At this point, the only real way you’re going to get into either of them might be with $10 “hot seats” and student rush tickets which might be available: hit the box office an hour before showtime and find out what’s left.

An artist with a devoted cult following in this country, Downs’ embrace of her Mexican roots has made her one of the most popular stadium concert draws south of the border. Interestingly, she doesn’t play a lot of New York shows: Summerstage, a Bronx theatre, El Museo del Barrio and a City Winery gig that sold out in seconds have been pretty much it in recent years. Kind of surprising for one of the world’s elite singers and songwriters.

Since the new album – sort of the equivalent of the Dolly Parton/Emmylou Harris/Linda Ronstadt trio albums for the Spanish-speaking diaspora – is a collaboration with flamenco chanteuse Niña Pastori and Argentine folk-pop singer Soledad Pastorutti, it’s a good bet that her live show is going to draw just as heavily on her album before that, 2011′s eerily carnivalesque Pecados y Milgaros (also streaming at Spotify). As Downs typically does, she mixes covers with originals. Downs’ songs on that one include the phantasmagorically scampering drinking song Mezcalito; Zapata Se Queda, a similarly somber reggae tune; La Reyna Del Inframundo, a metaphorically bristling narcocorrida; a wary, stately ranchera/cumbia mashup, Pecadora (with Illya Kuryaki and the Valderramas); and Solamente un Dia, a hazily psychedelic bachata number. The covers drawn on sources as diverse as Marco Antonio Solis ( a raptly waltzing take of Tu Carcel) and Cuco Sánchez (a meticulous, almost comically retro version of Fallaste Corazón) and other folkloric material. Downs delivers all this in her signature, disarmingly direct, insistent, slightly gritty alto.

In retrospect, the ambitious scope of Pecados y Milgaros foreshadows what Downs (and her label guys) may have been thinking where she could go with the new album. Frankly, Pastorutti comes across as out of her element alongside the two heavy hitters – and Downs ends up being the star here, almost despite herself. And the production, though lush with tasteful orchestration, is slicker and more digital than Downs’ usual organic sound. Again, Downs’ originals here are particularly tasty (pun intended): the bubbly Cumbia Del Mole, the even more psychedelic cumbia Agua De Rosas, the jazzily nocturnal Tierra de la Luz and a harder-rocking albeit less successful reprise of Zapata Se Queda. Pastori more than holds up her own throughout the more continental material. Kudos – and schadenfreude – to those who had the foresight and the funds to get tickets to this weekend’s shows when they went onsale.

Bombay Rickey Put Out a Hauntingly Twangy, Exhilarating Debut Album

Brooklyn band Bombay Rickey‘s new album Cinefonia – streaming at Bandcamp - has got to be the best debut release of 2014, hands down. With twangy guitars, hypnotic grooves and frontwoman/accordionist Kamala Sankaram’s shattering five-octave vocals, the band blends surf music, psychedelic cumbias, Bollywood and southwestern gothic into a lusciously tuneful, darkly bristling mix. Bollywood is usually the root source lurking somewhere in each of the album’s ten surprise-packed, shapeshifting songs, but cumbia, spaghetti western soundtracks, and the Ventures in their border-rock moments are more-or-less constant reference points as well. Imagine a more south Asian-influenced Chicha Libre fronted by one of the most exhilarating voices in any style of music, a picture that becomes clearer considering that Sankaram got the inspiration for this project the night she teamed up with Chicha Libre for one-off Yma Sumac cover show. Bombay Rickey are venturing north from their Barbes home base to play a Manhattan album release show on Sept 8 at 8 PM at Joe’s Pub; advance tix are $12, which is the closest thing to a bargain as you’ll ever get at this shi-shi venue.

Sankaram’s voice could shatter a black hole, never mind glass. Much as she’s built a very versatile career (everybody from Philip Glass, to free jazz icon Anthony Braxton, to opera companies, keep her busy), this band seems to be a defiant attempt to resist all attempts at being pigeonholed. Then again, defiance is a familiar trait with her: when she’s not fronting other groups, she’s writing and performing her own politically transgressive operas.

Guitarist/keyboardist Drew Fleming is a connoisseur of 60s surf and psychedelic sounds. Saxophonist/clarinetist Jeff Hudgins has a fondness for Mediterranean and Balkan tonalities; bassist Gil Smuskowitz shifts effortlessly between idioms, as do drummer Sam Merrick, percussionists Timothy Quigley and Brian Adler. The album opens with a Sumac tune, Taki Rari – it sounds like Los Mirlos‘ surf-cumbia classic Sonido Amazonico going down the Ganges. The interchange of accordion, strings, a sizzling sax solo and Sankaram’s electrifying shriek at the end are a visceral thrill, and do justice to the woman who sang it first.

Bombay 5-0, by Sankaram, transcends an awkward venture into takadimi drum language, Hudgins’ uneasy sax setting the stage for a big, dramatic, arioso vocal crescendo. Promontory Summit, a Fleming tune, explores dusky, hallucinatory desert rock vistas, bookended by balmy jazz-tinged ambience. The version of the Bollywood classic Dum Maro Dum (meaning “take another toke”) here is a lot more subtle and creepily suspenseful than either the boisterous, horn-fueled original or the many covers other bands have done over the years.

Pondicherry Surf Goddess, by Hudgins, starts out as an ambling shout-out to the Ventures, then winds its way through blistering newshchool Romany funk and art-rock. Another Hudgins tune, the somewhat menacing El Final Del Pachanga evokes Peruvian psychedelic legends Los Destellos, Hudgins’ sax intertwining with Sankaram’s supersonic vocal flights, Fleming following with a deliciously spiraling surf guitar solo.

Fleming sings the Johnny Horton-ish Coyote in the Land of the Dead, which sounds suspiciously like a parody. Likewise, Sankaram’s similarly deadpan rhumba-ish arrangement of a popular Mozart theme, which might have taken its cue from Chicha Libre covering Wagner. The high point among many on this album is a Sankaram composition, Pilgram, her wickedly precise, loopy accordion winding through a misterioso, lingering, surfy stroll with ominous bass and alto sax solos, the latter building to a spine-tingling coda. The album winds up with another darkly cinematic Sankaram number, Toco’s Last Stand, blending Balkan-flavored sax, dancing accordion and terse surf guitar underneath the singer’s unearthly wail. It’s a teens counterpart to the Ventures’ classic Besame Mucho Twist. This might not just be the best debut album of the year: it might be the best album of 2014, period.

The Clear Plastic Masks Return to Brooklyn With a Killer New Album

Nashville-based soul-punk band the Clear Plastic Masks have a wryly tuneful, guitarishly slashing new album, Being There – streaming here – and a couple of shows at the Music Hall of Williamsburg at 9 PM on Sept 10 and 11. They’re opening for the similar White Denim; it’s a bill where the opener is bound to upstage the headliner. General admission is $20; there’s also a 9/12 show but it’s sold out. It’s a homecoming of sorts from CPM, who first came together in Brooklyn before heading south.

The two bands share influences – classic 60s soul, garage rock and psychedelia –  but CPM do all those styles consistently better. White Denim is one of those bands that will hit one out of the park once in awhile and as a result can be frustrating while you wait for them to pull it together: maybe they should take a listen to their tourmates’ latest release. In the spirit of 60s vinyl singles, CPM like short songs: most of everything here clocks in at around three minutes.

The opening track, In Case You Forgot winds haphazardly through an oldschool 60s soul tune, Matt Menold and Andrew Katz’s guitars bending and tremolopicking as the rhythm section – bassist Eddy DuQuesne and drummer Charlie Garmendia – veers all over the place, bringing to mind mid-80s post-Velvets bands like That Petrol Emotion. The second track, Outcast looks back to what the mid-60s Stones did with Bobby Womack, a period-perfect take on what enthusiastically ambitious British hippies could springboard from a vintage Memphis soul tune. The coy Baby Come On veers back and forth between a shimmery, summery soul ballad and anguished clusters of guitar: it brings to mind two late 90s/early zeros New York bands with an aptitude for classic soul, White Hassle and Douce Gimlet.

Pegasus in Glue wraps dancing Syd Barrett-influenced fuzztone garage psych around a woozy interlude kicked off with a droll Hendrix quote. The slowly swaying Aliens is a grimly funny number set to a slow, catchy gospel-rock tune: the creepy ending caps off the storyline perfectly. A parable about the lure and dangers of religion, maybe?

So Real kicks off as a stomping fuzztone strut, then the band makes half-baked Link Wray out of it, then picks it up again: again, Katz’s tongue-in-cheek, surrealist lyrics and deadpan cat-ate-the-canary vocals draw comparisons to White Hassle’s Marcellus Hall. Interestingly, the album’s best and darkest song, Dos Cobras turns out to be an instrumental, a mashup of Steve Wynn southwestern gothic, organ surf and the early Zombies.

Hungry Cup, a piano-and-vocal ballad, is the album’s weirdest moment, told from the point of view of a girl about to throw up her hands and give up on a guy who can’t pull his act together. It might be a very thinly veiled broadside directed at posers new to Notbrooklyn (i.e. gentrified white areas of formerly ethnically and economically diverse Brooklyn), a mashup of late 60s Stones, Vanilla Fudge and lo-fi swamp-rockers like Knoxville Girls. The album winds up with a couple of slow 6/8 numbers: When the Nightmare Comes, which sounds like the Libertines taking a stab at a Hendrix-style take on soul music, and Working Girl, which could be a shout-out to whores in general, to girls on the train during rush hour, or both. That’s one of this band’s strongest suits: you never really know where they’re coming from, and they have a lot of fun keeping you guessing.

Catchy, Hard-Edged, Surrealistic Metal Cumbia and Skaragga from the Butcher Knives

It would be easy to write the Butcher Knives off as Gogol Bordello wannabes. But they’re not. Their debut album, Misery – streaming here – puts them on the same carnivalesque, ska and punk-influenced latin rock turf as Outernational, with more digital production values but also more minor-key Balkan menace. They’re playing the Mercury at around midnight on July 26; cover is $10.

15 Minutes sets disco bass over a muted hardcore beat, with a catchy minor-key hook, a surreal lyric about driving through burning neighborhoods and a brief but tasty tremolo-picked Nikko Matiz guitar solo. “You have to run, you have to hide, can you imagine what that feels like?” frontman Nacho Segura demands on American Dream, a galloping highway rock theme juxtaposed with ska-punk. Butcher Knives Unite is the band’s signature song, a briskly bouncy cumbia shout-out to immigrants feeling the pinch.

Could Be the End starts out by nicking the intro from Elvis Costello’s Watching the Detectives and morphs into steady brisk spaghetti western rock, with a cool, offcenter Ethan Cohen banjo solo out. Drunken Down mixes eerie southwestern gothic tinges into scampering circus rock: the blend of Matiz’s guitar and Tal Galfsky’s organ textures is just plain gorgeous. The album’s title track is a rapidfire metal cumbia tune with a sarcastically marching edge and another brief, bizarre banjo outro.

Nobody Knows Me, one of two tracks featuring rapper Ephniko, also gets a lot of mileage out of that out-of-tune banjo, hitting a slow, slinky cumbia groove. Pigs is the closest thing to Gogol Bordello here, a banjo-fueled punk stomp with a chorus of “drop the gun, drop the gun.” Step on the Line mixes GB surrealism with gothic border rock fueled by a spicy blend of Melissa Elledge’s accordion, Galfsky’s swirly organ and Cohen’s frailing banjo over a pulse that’s just short of frantic. And Tell Me Why has a similar mix of southwestern gothic and punk propulsion. The band’s politics are solid: they’re not afraid to be pro-immigrant, their Spanish/English lyrics take an aptly cynical view of American “freedom,” and you can dance to everything here.

Reconstructing Jenifer Jackson

Bad Cop: Welcome to another episode. This one really is an episode.

Good Cop: And it’s all your fault.

Bad Cop: Being the B team at this blog has its rewards. We get to see a lot of good shows…

Good Cop: We get to see the best shows. What’s been happening lately is that we’ve taken on the job of covering concerts by artists who’ve gotten press here before. Considering that they’ve been designated for coverage on multiple occasions means that they’re got to be pretty good. Psychedelic Americana songwriter Jenifer Jackson is one of those artists, and she has a show coming up at the small room at the Rockwood at 8 PM on July 21. It’s a good lineup, with jazz singer Joanna Wallfisch at 9 and then noir guitar legend Jim Campilongo and his trio doing their weekly show at 10.

Bad Cop: Are we going?

Good Cop: I hope so. We saw her show at the other space here on Allen Street back in March and it was amazing, one of the best ones I’ve seen this year.

Bad Cop: I’ll second that.

Good Cop: And this doofus [motions toward Bad Cop] lost the recording. Which means that in order to explain what she sounds like onstage, we basically have to reconstruct what happened several months ago, and to be honest, I can’t remember a lot of it. If I’m correct, this was the show where Jenifer announced that she had a new name for her band: the Denim Bridge. As she explained it, that phrase popped up randomly in conversation, one of those “wow, great band name” moments, and she grabbed it. And I think it makes sense: this is an Americana band, a lot of Jenifer’s songs are about people connecting – or not connecting – and there’s another level of connectivity here, between this group, which is based in Austin, and the core of musicians who made up her New York band who usually join her when she comes back to town.

Bad Cop: I don’t like the name. Too dadrock. The ninth album by Piscataway Watershed: Denim Bridge!

Good Cop: You’re not supposed to like it. But you did like this show, which is unusual because you’re such a grump. And now you’ve made me a grump because I’m grasping at straws to remember what happened. As I remember, it was a really cold night, but there were a lot of people there. I don’t want to drop names, but there were at least a half a dozen of the best rock songwriters in town in the room.

Bad Cop: Like who?

Good Cop: I’m not going to say. I don’t want to come across as a starfucker. Let’s just say that Jenifer Jackson is revered by her peers. A songwriter’s songwriter, you could say.

Bad Cop: What I remember is having to hit the bathroom beforehand, and there being a grand total of one bathroom for two rooms here – and having to compete with women for it.

Good Cop [speechless- shakes her head slowly, back and forth]

Bad Cop: That and Kullen Fuchs. He’s the lead guy in the band, basically. He was playing vibraphone. When’s the last time you saw a country band with a vibraphone? And he was fast and furious and amazing. And then he’d switch to accordion, and then trumpet. Sometimes in the same song.

Good Cop: Matt Kanelos played piano. I had no idea that he was so good at honkytonk. He channeled Floyd Cramer.

Bad Cop: Do you think that people in general have any idea of who Floyd Cramer was?

Good Cop: Country people all know. At least people who like classic country music. Which is one side of this band: they did a couple of honkytonk-flavored numbers, but the vibraphone gave them a fresh, new sound.

Bad Cop: You wouldn’t expect it to work but it did. Most of the songs, as I remember, were from the new album, TX Sunrise. My favorite was White Medicine Cloud, which is one of those hypnotic, quiet numbers that Jenifer writes so well. This one’s kind of epic, at least the way they played it. And it’s got an antiwar, why-can’t-we-all-just-get-along message that actually isn’t mawkish or trite. It was rather touching, actually.

Good Cop: One of my favorites was Your Sad Teardrops. A honkytonk kiss-off anthem with some really cool slip-key piano.

Bad Cop: Another really good one was All Around. Big, sweeping, angst-fueled anthem. An uneasy, windswept seaside tableau. Blog Boss said that this one sounded like Steve Wynn, which I think is right on the money. And if memory serves, this was the show where Jenifer broke out a bunch of the southwestern gothic stuff: On My Mind, and Picture of May, an awesome, creepy bolero.

Good Cop: Speaking of creepy boleros, she encored with Mercury the Sun and Moon, that minor-key psychedelic noir Vegas song from her first album that was such a big hit with her fans.

Bad Cop: I have a recording of that song from the show.

Good Cop: If that’s all you’ve got, let’s hear it! [Bad Cop hits the play button]. Well, that’s a vibraphone, but this isn’t Jenifer Jackson.

Bad Cop: You’re right, that’s Tuatara [hits fast-forward]. OK, here it is…

Good Cop: You cut off the beginning.

Bad Cop: Guess so. Too bad I lost everything else. This would have been a great show to listen back to.

Good Cop: Any shortcomings on our part you can blame on HIM [smacks Bad Cop in the stomach; Bad Cop doubles over in pain]. Hmmm…piano and vibes. Glittery gorgeousness. And all those scampering drum fills: do you remember who the drummer was?

Bad Cop [gulping]: Greg Wieczorek. Guy’s a genius.

Good Cop: I should have figured that out for myself. He has a very distinctive style. Omigod, the way Jenifer’s voice just went up with a harmony on the chorus, against the melody line – and then she does it again, That’s what I love about this band: they never play anything the same way twice.

Bad Cop: That’s the jazz thing. Jenifer’s dad is a famous jazz disc jockey, at least to the extent that a jazz dj can be famous.

Good Cop: They did an album together. And it’s really good.

Bad Cop: So are we going to this show on Monday?

Good Cop: I’m gonna bug the boss about it!

Gord Downie & the Sadies Conquering the Bowery

[Thanks to Bowery Ballroom’s smart, energetic house manager, Amanda, who took the extra effort to make sure that this review happened]

Canadian crooner Gord Downie told the crowd at Bowery Ballroom last night that his show with the Sadies was their second gig “with lights and a soundcheck,” but the chemistry and energy was through the roof. Airing out most of the songs on their brilliant new album, Gord Downie, the Sadies & the Conquering Sun, they veered from surreal, sunburnt southwestern gothic rock, to hypnotic psychedelia, to the richly jangly, Americana-tinged rock that the Sadies have honed to a knife’s edge over more than a decade.

Has there ever been another rock brother combo as spectacularly true to their name as guitarists Travis and Dallas Good? Ray and Dave Davies, maybe, in a completely different idiom. Travis played deliciously clanging, ringing lines – and a sizzling electrified bluegrass solo toward the end of Los Angeles Times, a swaying Highway 61 revisitation. Dallas played slinky paisley underground leads, searingly high, sustained, reverb-drenched ambience and the occasional descent into frenetic, low-register roar on a couple of Telecasters. Their bassist stuck with a simple, muscular, low pulse in an attempt to cut through the mix over drummer Mike Belitsky’s artful shuffles and counterintuitive rolls across the toms, nonchalantly reasserting himself as one of the half-dozen best drummers in rock. He’s Keith Moon without the wrestlemania persona and more swing.

They opened with a couple of deliciously ringing spaghetti western-tinged numbers, Crater, then the album’s title track, the latter with the first of Dallas Good’s keening, paint-peeling leads. A little afterward, they gave the Who’s So Sad About Us an energetic workout that recalled the Jam’s version, but more elegantly. Later on in the set they did a stinging version of the Gun Club’s Goodbye Johnny, a strikingly apt choice of cover considering the resemblance between that band and this project, and encored with a frenetic, furiously riffing, extended take of Iggy Pop’s I Got a Right, Dallas Good firing off acidic layers of Ron Asheton sustain in place of James Williamson’s proto-glam attack on the original.

But it was the originals that resonated the most. Reaching up from his ominous baritone with an unrestrained angst, Downie completely sold the crowd on Budget Shoes, a grim, metaphorically loaded narrative about two desperados making their way across a desert “valley of ghosts.” The sardonic One Good Fast Job went down into snarling swamp rock; a little later, Downie dedicated the antiwar anthem Demand Destruction to antinuclear heroine Dr. Helen Caldicott - it sounded like the Who covering the Pogues. Devil Enough morphed electric bluegrass into Blonde on Blonde clang, while I’m Free, Dissaray Me went off into lingering Brian Jonestown Massacre-style psychedelia, a vivid contrast between the two guitarists’ styles. They wound up the set by stretching out the low-key soul ballad Saved into a similarly psychedelic anthem with several playful false endings.

Watching Downie strain to talk to the audience between songs was almost comical: as fans of his long-running band the Tragically Hip know, he’s actually a very articulate guy. As a diversion, he’d swing a big yellow spotlight from the back of the stage like a yo-yo in reverse. How he managed not to burn the skin off his fingers – those things get HOT – was the mystery of the night.

Downie and the Sadies continue their American tour with stops at Lincoln Hall in Chicago on May 10 and then at the Magic Stick in Detroit on May 11. Then the Sadies are at Beachland Ballroom in Cleveland on May 17 - if you’re there and this is your thing, don’t miss them.

Hauntingly Brilliant Retro Psychedelia from the Mystic Braves

Los Angeles quintet the Mystic Braves have grown into one of the most darkly interesting retro psychedelic bands out there. Throughout their new album Desert Island – streaming at Bandcamp – the menace doesn’t relent. They’ve also got a show coming up at the Mercury on May 7 at 7 PM; general admission is $10.

The album’s opening track, Bright Blue Day Haze works around a catchy, jangly four-chord hook that brings to mind Rhode Island psychedelic legends Plan 9, its many layers of guitar mashing up surf, funk and paisley pop. Ignacio Gonzalez’s swirling organ mingles with the layers of ominous reverb guitar on There’s a Pain, Tony Malacara’s trebly bass tiptoeing over drummer Cameron Gartung’s uncluttered pulse. Coyote Blood has a swaying, lingering desert rock ambience lit up with deliciously watery Leslie speaker guitar, something akin to the 13th Floor Elevators taking a stab at a late 60s Laurel Canyon sound.

The album’s title track glides along on dark Doorsy changes, Gonzalez’s funeral parlor organ anchoring an expansive, Robbie Krieger-esque lead guitar track and frontman/guitarist Julian Ducatenzeiler’s memories of “relationships gone to shit.” Valley Rat takes an iconic surf theme and syncopates it almost beyond recognition before going in a funkier direction and then adding mariachi trumpet. By contrast, You Take the Dark Out of Me makes ominously straight-ahead rock out of a creepy border bolero, Gonzalez’s ghostly, keening organ again serving as the icing on the cake.

I Want You Back isn’t the Jackson 5 hit: instead, it’s a propulsive mariachi-rock anthem with a devious Animals quote and a long, memorably scrambling tremolo-picked guitar break. Born Without a Heart mashes up surf with a hypnotically vamping Elevators/Chocolate Watch Band groove. In the Past kicks off with an spikily macabre folk-rock intro and then works a characteristically catchy four-chord hook. The album comes full circle with Earthshake, another track that could be Plan 9 doing the Elevators. For anyone who loves the early Doors, Peanut Butter Conspiracy or Country Joe & the Fish, this is heaven. Is this best album of 2014? It’s one of them.

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