New York Music Daily

No New Abnormal

Month: June, 2016

A Fun Early Evening Central Park Show By Dark French Rockers La Femme

On one hand, you see a band as good as dark French new wave/surf rockers La Femme open a show in broad daylight, to a relatively small crowd, and you think to yourself, damn, these guys should be headlining. Then self-interest takes over and you remember that the last time you were at Central Park Summerstage, the crowd was even smaller because of the monsoon that night. Yesterday evening, there was a similarly ominous cumulo-nimbus sky looming overhead, but as it turned out, no big cloudburst. Still, it was reassuring to be able to catch this interesting, individualistic, kinetic six-piece group – guitar, bass, drums, and as many as four keyboards – before any deluge could have developed.

The band romped through the opening number over a catchy four-chord hook, frontman Marlon Magnée’s sepulchrally tremoloing funeral organ – the group’s signature sound – front and center. Clémence Quélenneche, the lone femme in the band, sang on that one with an airy Jane Birkin delivery. Magnée took over the mic on the next number, a mashup of motorik krautrock, new wave and French hip-hop. After that they could have sung “Tu as les yeux verts, tu as les yeux verts,” over and over as they nicked a very popular New Order hit, but weren’t quite that obvious.

Then they brought the lights down low to a Lynchian glimmer over a hauntingly catchy Karla Rose-style desert rock hook, swooshy and sweeping keyboard textures mingling behind the steady minor-key strums of Strat player Sacha Got as Magnée traced the grim decline of some kind of relationship in rapidfire rap cadences. It was surreal to watch bassist Sam Lefevre put down his four-string and switch to keys even though an oldschool disco bassline was the central hook of the echoey new wave surf tune, Sur La Planche, the band hitting a trick ending with a splash of cymbals and then diving right back into it. They closed with a long, hypnotic, drony organ number that was a dead ringer for an early track from the Black Angels‘ catalog – and just as catchy. The crowd screamed for an encore but didn’t get one.

There were a couple of other French acts on the bill, psychedelic funk dude General Elektriks and southwestern gothic-tinged guitarist Yael Naimwho’s won all sorts of awards lately, but the safe call, at least with a laptop slung over the shoulder, was to head straight for the train. La Femme are staying in town a little longer to make a video or two, and promise to be back in the fall.

Svetlana and the Delancey Five Bring Their Cosmopolitan Speakeasy Swing to Midtown

For the past four years, Svetlana and the Delancey Five have been recreating a magical, cosmopolitan world that time forgot with their Monday night residency at swanky Norfolk Street speakeasy the Back Room. Singer/bandleader Svetlana Shmulyian has fearsome chops, but she uses them very subtly, and her band follows suit. In a demimonde full of cookie-cutter swing jazz bands, she stands out with an approach that on one hand is completely trad yet is also completely individualistic, a sophisticated, globally-inspired take on a revered American sound. And it’s as romantic as you could possibly want: lots of couples make it a date with this band. She and the group have a show coming up this Friday, June 24, with two sets at 7:30 and 9:30 PM featuring special guest trombonist Wycliffe Gordon at Lucille’s, adjacent to B.B. King’s on 42nd St. Advance tix are $20 and still available as of today.

Last night, the band were on top of their game, everybody seeming to be in a goodnaturedly conspiratorial mood. Trumpeter Mike Sailors’ rat-a-tat solo against tenor saxophonist Michael Hashin’s more balmy lines on a deeply bluesy take of It Don’t Mean a Thing If It Ain’t Got That Swing set the tone immediately. The bandleader then joined them, decked out in a simple but striking black evening dress, heels and a big pearl necklace. Midway through the set, she left the band by themselves to play a blues while she made the rounds of the room, schmoozing and catching up with a circle of admirers that numbers as many women as men. It was as if this was 1952 and she was the mob moll in charge of the joint, teasing and toying with the shady dudes who made the secluded spot a favorite place for their own conspiracies, reputedly for many decades.

Shmulyian’s delivery is charmingly precise: there’s a distinctive Russian erudition and craftsmanship to how she constructs a phrase. While you can tell that she’s immersed herself in Ella Fitzgerald, and Billie Holiday, and Sarah Vaughan, she doesn’t sound much like any of them. Shmulyian’s voice is extraordinarily mutable; she can be misty on one number, and then disarmingly direct and crystalline as she was on her first one, a vividly uneasy swing through But Not For Me. She saved her vibrato for the very lowest and highest notes she’d hit all night, with a Powerglide fluidity, and made it look effortless.

Rather than scatting, Shmulyian keeps her improvisations within the lyrics, matching her interpretation to their mood, as she did with the coy melismas of the jauntily shuffling bounce after that. Likewise, she reached for the rafters with some blissful leaps to the top of the scale and then hung on for dear life throughout a pretty sizzling, uptempo take of Blue Skies over pianist Ben Paterson’s gritty, clenched-teeth phrasing underpinned by bassist Scott Ritchie (whose credits reputedly include Lady Gag) and Freddy Cole drummer Conerway Henry III. The low-key ballad after that gave the dancers a chance to get cozy with a slow drag, but also gave Shmulyian a launching pad to show off her forceful, poignant low register. Then she closed the set with an triumphantly smoky take of Exactly Like You that put KD Lang’s to shame.

And that was just the first set. The band are doing a couple of sets on Friday, so you can expect a more expansive look at the colorful personalities of everybody involved. And you can dance if you feel like it.

Mary Fahl Brings Her Individualistic Art-Rock Update on British Folk to Chelsea

Songwriter Mary Fahl made a mark as the leader of one of the first wave of chamber pop bands, the October Project, back in the 90s. She has the resonant, rich voice of a chorister, a pensive, direct mezzo-soprano that reminds of Amanda Thorpe. In keeping with her roots in the British folk tradition, she has a thing for medieval archetypes and imagery: her songs can be very vivid. Her most recent studio album, Love & Gravity blends Britfolk, chamber pop and art-rock – and it’s hard to find online. Fahl’s youtube channel has a handful of tracks, and her webpage has a player that streams various material from throughout her career (including her imaginative, electrifying version of Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon), although a full album stream for this one is sadly AWOL. She’s got a New York show coming up at 7 PM at the Rubin Museum of Art; adv tix are $25.

The album opens dramatically with Exiles (The Ghosts of Midwinter), a big ornate escape anthem, part 70s Britfolk, part art-rock with a nod in the direction of mystics like Carol Lipnik. The second track, How Much Love follows a slow, stately, resonant tangent, Fahl’s narrator longing to find some sort of clarity. Gravity (Move Mountains, Turn Rivers) is a Celtic love song to a wounded warrior whose Herculean powers have taken a beating.

Everyting’s Gonna Be All Right is a hard-driving folk-rock anthem, told from an stronomer’s point of view., the calm of space in contrast to turmoil on the earthly front. Fahl’s take of Joni Mitchell’s Both Sides Now falls between the sparseness of the original and the blithe chamber pop of the Judy Collins hit.

Fahl builds Siren into a vast, echoey Lipnik-style panorama, complete with grim nautical imagery. Like Johnny Loved June is a dead ringer for early Richard & Linda Thompson, while Cottonwood, a slow guitar-and-harmonium waltz, draws on older folk traditions. Fahl goes back to echoey atmospherics with her version of the traditional Celtic ballad Dawning of the Day and then closes the album with the slow, spare. gentle Meant to Be. The pristine sonics in the museum’s basement auditorium are ideally suited to a singer of Fahl’s nuance and power.

The Momenta Quartet Illuminate Per Norgard’s Haunting, Pensive String Works

Per Norgard is iconic in his native Denmark, and deserves a global audience. The lucky crowd at Victor Borge Hall at Scandinavia House on Park Avenue Friday night got to witness the Momenta Quartet turn in a purposefully flickering, often sepulchral, genuinely transcendent performance of string quartets, a suite of miniatures and a chilling violin/cello duet.

Norgard’s music is minimalist in the sense that everything counts for something, and that his melodies tend to be spare and follow a careful, meticulous path. But there’s a great deal going on, much of it rhythmic: constantly shifting meters, persistent wave motion and all sorts of oceanic and water imagery, unsurprising for someone from an archipelago nation. An unease on the brink of terror often lurks in the background, or in the distance. On the rare occasion that it takes centerstage – as in the coda of the duo suite Tjampuan, inspired by Balinese mysticism and waterways and performed with a hushed intensity by violinist Alex Shiozaki and cellist Michael Haas – the result can be spine-tingling, whichever way you want to imagine that.

There’s also a mathematical precision that sometimes brings to mind Steve Reich, but with vastly less playfulness and more foreboding. The awestruck terror of Messiaen’s most dramatic works also figures into the picture, if from a somewhat greater distance, as it did during the surreallistic time-warp of Norgard’s String Quartet No. 10. A contrast between calm if not exactly cheery harvest imagery, seemingly loaded with subtext, and a contemplation of time out of mind, it offered violist Stephanie Griffin a rare opportunity – at this concert at least – to vent, if only guardedly. There was no lack of cruel irony in how vexing such a concept can be to mere mortals, and Norgard seized on that.

His String Quartet No.3 – Three Miniatures, dating from 1959, juxtaposed brief, swinging, occasionally carnivalesque allusions with a dirge theme. Likewise, Playground, the suite of brief, flitting pieces, brought to mind a more mathematical, modernist take on Bartok’s Mikrokosmos etudes. The Quartet got to bring the most dynamism to the String Quartet No. 8- Night Descending Like Smoke, a World War I-themed piece based on a Norgard chamber opera, offering an offhandedly savage look at karmic payback to warmongers and their sympathizers. It’s characteristic of the relevance of Norgard’s repertoire, which really ought to be performed with this kind of meticulous attention far more often in this city.

One such performance to look forward to will be on July 29 at 8 PM when pianist Jacob Rhodebeck plays Norgard works at Mise-En Place, 678 Hart. St. in Bushwick. The other is by the Momenta Quartet June 23, with a delicious homemade vegetarian dinner at 6, show at 8 featuring Norgard’s String Quartet No. 3, Henri Dutilleux’s Ainsi La Nuit and Beethoven’s String Quartet, Op. 135 on the fourth floor of 67 Metropolitan Ave. (Wythe/Kent) in Williamsburg. Sugg. don. is $20, BYOB, sharable food/drink are highly encouraged!

Darkly Glimmering Psychedelic Garage Rock Brilliance from the Mystery Lights

For the past few years, the Mystery Lights have built a devoted cult following for their shadowy, psychedelic garage rock. What differentiates them from every other bump-bump-BUMP-bump-bump, HEY band out there? They’ve got the trebly, reverbtoned vintage Vox amp sound down cold. Frontman/guitarist Mike Brandon delivers the requisite gruff, vintage soul-inspired vocals. But their songs are longer, and full of all kinds of interesting textures and touches you don’t usually find in bands who can ape everything on the original Nuggets compilation. What this band plays is a very old sound – yet they make it fresh and new and an awful lot of fun. They’re playing the album release show on June 24 at midnight at the Mercury; general admission is ten bucks. Then they’re off on US tour with fellow dark garage-psych band Night Beats.

Their debut full-length album isn’t out yet, so it’s not streaming at the group’s Bandcamp page, although fortuitously it will be available on vinyl. They go up the scale with a catchy four-chord progression to introduce the first song, Follow Me Home – with its creepy chromatic series of chords, Kevin Harris’ funereal organ and deft use of backward masking, it’s a cool update on classic 13th Floor Elevators. Drummer Noah Kohll’s flickering pulse underpins the lingering ultraviolet menace of L.A. Solano’s guitar as the band slowly makes their way through the ominous Flowers In My Hair, Demons In My Head, part Country Joe & the Fish, part late 60s Pretty Things, maybe.

Too Many Girls is funny, and pretty straight-up, in a Lyres/Fleshtones vein. Without Me is even catchier, a study in contrast between Alex Amini’s growling, melodically climbing bass and Solano’s mosquito lead lines. The stampeding Melt has a brooding flamenco tune at the center. The album’s best and darkest track, Candlelight, pairs moody minor-key organ against Brandon’s melancholy chromatic guitar lines – and then they take off on a breathless doublespeed sprint down the runway.

21 & Counting has an easygoing, swaying second-generation feel, like Rhode Island cult favorites Plan 9. Too Tough to Bear is the most trad, blues-based, Electric Music for rhe Mind and Body-type dirge here. Before My Own works the fuzztone sonics the band first made a name for themselves with. The album winds up with the uneasily swinging What Happens When You Turn the Devil Down, building to a machete thicket of guitar savagery.

On one hand, a lot of this is party music, but it’s just as enjoyable as late-night bedroom-floor or pass-out-on-the-couch music. Spin this record for a crowd of people who think garage rock is all cliches, and you’ll change a lot of minds.

Lizzie & the Makers Bring Their Incandescent Psychedelic Blues and Soul Back to the West Village

Lizzie & the Makers are one of one of New York’s most distinctive, exhilarating bands. They jam, but they keep their solos short and spot-on, usually two or maybe three bars at the most. Their inspirations are classic Chicago blues and southern soul, but they also have a psychedelic side: they’re closer to Robert Cray – with a charismatic woman out in front of the band – or Led Zep than, say, Amy Winehouse. Intense frontwoman Lizzie Edwards might not only be the best blue-eyed soul singer in New York: she might be the best blue-eyed soul singer anywhere. She and her dynamic band make a return trip to the West Village on June 23 at 10:30 PM at the Bitter End. Cover is $10.

Their last gig there was a firestorm of smart, incisive playing and fearless, impassioned songs. They wasted no time in taking the energy to redline with the hard blues of Fight Song: Edwards’ smoldering chorus mantra was “I’m ready,” bolstered by the harmonies of Erica Smith and Sarah Wise, guitarist Greg McMullen adding a searing, shivery solo over John Deley’s similarly simmering organ.

Edwards led the band into the explosively slinky 3.5 with her signature, meticulously turbocharged alto vocals, part satin, part siren; it’s hard to think of any other singer with such a ferociously potent low register who can sound so pillowy and warmly enveloping as she goes up the scale. McMullen traded a couple of tantalizing bars with Stratocaster player James Winwood over the nonchalantly swaying groove of bassist Brett Bass and drummer Phil Cimino.

The three women built a whole darkly ecstatic gospel church worth of harmony in Free,. a defiantly swaying, altered boogie, Winwood’s wry sense of humor front and center as he put the bite on his bluesmetal licks. Deley’s organ and McMullen’s classic Muscle Shoals riffs fueled It’s Not Me, It’s You as Edwards channeled blue-flame cynicism: the way Deley voiced what would otherwise have been a blues harp solo was cool, and surreal to the extreme.

The band hit a jackhammer shuffle groove with Hopeless, Edwards and her choir reaching peaks that bands like Heart only dream of, the vengeance in Edwards’ “can you turn me away?” arguably the high point of the set. She brought a high-voltage psychedelic edge to Bonnie Raitt’s Real Man and then brought the lights down for the swaying, explosively crescendoing Lonely Soul and its searing blend of roadhouse rock and restless early 70s Zep.

The group channelled a surreally echoing angst, Abbey Road Beatles slipping unexpectedly into soul with Sleep It Off, then hit a defiant peak with Blue Moon as McMullen hit his wah pedal and screamed behind Edwards’ wounded wail. They wound up the set with the furious, fearless shuffle The Bear, a launching pad for Winwood’s most concise, purist playing.

Edwards, being one of New York’s most in-demand singers, gets around a lot. Besides this band, she leads a similarly adrenalizing gospel group, Lizzie & the Sinners, where she also sings alongside Smith and Wise. She was one of the highlights of the 50th anniversary of Dylan’s Blonde on Blonde fest at Hifi Bar earlier this month, where she raised the roof with a scorching take of Pledging My Time. And she was front and center on several numbers at this past week’s Squeeze cover night there, where C.P. Roth, Tom Shad and Dave Foster’s all-star band played the British new wave band’s classic Argybargy and East Side Story albums pretty much note-for-note, all the way through, no small achievement.

Wild, Crazy, Deep Danceable Sounds at Last Night’s Borscht Ball in Bushwick

The dancing crowd at last night’s second annual Borscht Ball at Paperbox in Bushwick got to watch singer Svetlana Shmulyian – who has a gig with her bittersweetly torchy, cosmopolitan swing jazz band the Delancey Five coming up at Lucille’s on June 24 at 8 – sing coyly quirky old Soviet pop songs from the 60s in her native tongue, with a knowing happy-hour gleam in her eye.

They got to hear klezmer firebrand Daniel Kahn – who’s got a gig tonight at Joe’s Pub at 9:30 – unveil an obscure old Russian tune he’d never played before, which he’d just translated on the way down from Utica with fellow singer Psoy Korolenko. The gist of it was, “If the devil won’t take me, how about your bed.” Kahn had matched his English rhyme scheme to the original, quite a feat.

They got to pogo and linedance and twirl around the room as the Klezmatics aired out a fiery, characteristically ambitious series of new songs from their long-awaited forthcoming album. They got to see a parade of some of the world’s most sought-after talent in Jewish roots music – irrepressible Litvakus clarinetist/singer Dmitri Zisl Slepvovitch and charismatic Golem bandleader Annette Ezekiel Kogan among them – beat a path on and off the stage as the music shifted from defiantly joyous, to wounded angst, to full-throttle klezmer punk.

The festival’s raison d’etre is to provide a snapshot of the many different flavors of klezmer punk from around the world. If you think that’s a little esoteric, consider that there are hundreds of bands who would have fit this bill. If the Klezmatics weren’t the first, they opened the floodgates and have since inspired more than a generation of musicians. Playing their thirtieth anniversary show, they drew on sounds as disparate as Romanian, Turkish, Ukrainian and Catalan folk traditions while adding their signature firepower and jazz sophistication. Trumpeter Frank London played his usual, alternately crystalline and ferociously elephantine trumpet with his right hand while doing catchy arpeggios and comping chords on organ with his left. Matt Darriau ripped through careening postbop jazz on tenor sax and spun off spirals on clarinet over the stampeding, sometimes vaudevillian pulse of drummer Richie Barshay and bassist Paul Morrissett while frontman/accordionist Lorin Sklamberg sang in Yiddish, Russian and English. At the end of their sizzling opening set, he told the crowd that they’d be back, and by the end they pretty much all were, joining the members of Opa in careening versions of well-loved classics like Limonchiki and Bei Mir Bist Du Shein.

Brooklyn supergroup Svetlana and the Eastern Blokhedz – Shmulyian backed by bandleader Wade Ripka on guitar, his Greek Judas bandmates Quince Marcum on horn and vocals and Nick Cudahy on bass, Isaak Mills on guitar, sax and glockenspiel, Choban Elektrik‘s Jordan Shapiro and Las Rubias Del Norte‘s Allyssa Lamb on keys, and Slavic Soul Party‘s Chris Stromquist on drums – kept the dancers on their feet, opening and eventually closing with psychedelic garage pop that sounded straight out of France, 1969. Who says the Russians ever outgrew their French fixation, anyway? From there Shmulyian led them nimbly and warmly through a Russian pop counterpart to Dancin’ in the Rain, to nostalgic salutes to motherhood and romance and eventually a Soviet equivalent of “Celebrate good times, c’mon!” True to form, their deadpan version of the Ventures’ Cold War instrumental classic Spudnik was irresistibly funny in context.

Making their U.S. debut, eclectic Russian band  Opa headlined and offered an unstoppably kinetic take on many of the directions klezmer continues to expand into. With tenor saxophone, trumpet, trombone, guitar, bass and drums going full force, they opened with a catchy old Russian riff that they built into straight-ahead oldschool disco. From there the band romped back and forth through time, vocally and instrumentally, flavored with acidic no wave guitar, Talking Heads funk and maybe a little Gang of Four. As the special guests made their way to the stage until there wasn’t much room left up there, the group took a detour into the tropics with some rocksteady, a couple of snaky klezmer cumbia mashups, a bit of Balkan reggae, hints of salsa and then a rousing return to the classics at the end of four nonstop hours of music. By then most of the oldsters – an impressive number, considering how deep in the ‘Shweck the venue is – had gone home, leaving the floor to the kids, many of them couples, who’d spent pretty much the entire time on their feet. By then it was as if the music itself had taken on a personality of its own, overjoyed to be brought back from death’s door in the nick of time.

Wheeler Walker Jr. Brings His Sick Spinal Tap C&W to the Mercury

Don’t listen to Wheeler Walker Jr’‘s latest album Redneck Shit – streaming at Spotify – in public, unless you’re cool with people giving you weird looks. Which they will when you suddenly bust out laughing in a crowded subway car, or at work when the office is really quiet except for your hee-hawing…or maybe when your boss fires you on the spot for playing it over the PA. Walker might be the filthiest songwriter out there. Forget Weezy, forget Fitty, forget anything that exists in hip-hop: Walker’s country shenanigans put all those guys to shame. David Allan Coe, by comparison, is a mild-mannered wimp with a meh sense of humor. Sometimes Walker’s so over-the-top that it makes you wonder if he might actually be serious…or just hell-bent on offending everyone within earshot with his X-rated rhymes. He’s bringing those crazy songs to the Mercury at 10:30 PM on June 22; general admission is $15.

Much as this is a collection of sex jokes, it’s also a spot-on spoof of lots of familiar country themes. It opens with the title track, a twisted parody of southern pride anthems. The guy in this one gets his kicks exposing himself at Walmart, making scat videos of his mom and puts stuff where you might not expect it…just to see if it fits. Beer Weed Cooches is as hilariously plausible as the album’s first song song is absurd. See, the guy hanging with some random girl at some random southen roadhouse is really high, getting drunker with each beer, unable to decide whether or not to watch the crappy honkytonk cover band or hang outside and gleefully anticipate a happy ending. Realistically, he’s probably so toasted he won’t get that far.

Family Tree finds new ways to start family drama – the guy in this one is really all-purpose. Can’t Fuck You Off My Mind puts an X-rated spin on a hallowed C&W trope. Fuck You Bitch does double duty as a sendup of selfie culture and also fluffy mid-70s Nashvillle pop ballads. Drop ‘Em Out explores mammary fixations, while Eatin’ Pussy, Kickin’ Ass is a poke at boogie rock from George Thorogood to ZZ Top. The rest of the album parodies stick-together-no-matter-what anthems, meat-and-potatoes highway rock, funky Litttle Feat-style jamrock and redneck metal bands.

Throughout the album, the group behind Wheeler competently and amusingly rehashes one cliche after another, with inspired lead guitar and pedal steel. On one level, this is the sonic equivalent of artificially flavored blue soda or or deep-fried Oreos, stuff you’d only ingest in front of your friends so you could shock them. Lots of people will call it tasteless, and gross, and juvenile. Which it is, no question about it – but it’s also really funny.

Edward Rogers Brings His Epic, Witheringly Relevant Britrock Masterpiece to Murray Hill

Quietly and methodically, Birmingham-born, New York-based songwriter/crooner Edward Rogers has established himself as a major force in retro Britrock tunesmithing. Over his four previosu albums, he’s earned comparisons to Roy Wood, Jeff Lynne, Bowie, Kevin Ayers (whose work he saluted with his previous album, Kaye) and – this isn’t an overstatement – Ray Davies. Rogers’ latest album, Glass Marbles – streaming at Spotify –  is a bitter, doomed, epic nineteen-track masterpiece: it’s his Sandinista, or Blonde on Blonde, or Here Come the Miracles. He and his brilliant band -whose core includes James Mastro on lead guitar, Don Piper on rhythm, Konrad Meissner on drums and Sal Maida on bass – to a killer twinbill with Marty Willson-Piper – the Richard Thompson of the twelve-string guitar – at the Cutting Room on June 21 at 7 PM. Advance tix are $20.

Rogers has an acute political awareness, whether casting a cold eye on how gentrification has devastated his beloved East Village, or here. The catchy World of Mystery opens the album, bringing to mind the Byrds version of Dylan’s My Back Pages. It’s an upbeat tune but it’s far from a happy song, the eyes of a clairvoyant “Now resigned and forced to be blind…the art of seeing is now dead, no more futures, no more futures can be read.”

Rogers revisits that theme on the toweringly crescendoing Denmark Street Forgotten, building out of spare, uneasily lingering guitars over mutedly ominous tom-tom syncopation:

You say it’s history
Please hear my plea
Not another robbers’ block for you and me

Welcome to My Monday Morning paints a vivid, grey-sky folk-rock portrait of working-class drudgery – and then picks up with a bounce as the weekend approaches. The Letter has an echoey, surreal blend of early 70s Bowie and vaudevillian Sergeant Pepper pop. The understatedly savage Jumbo Sale is one of those echoey, atmospherically psychedelic mood pieces Rogers is so adept at.

The entire band, especially the rhythm section, do a spot-on Stones impersonation throughout Bright Star, which could be a long-lost outtake from, say, the Black and Blue sessions. My Lady Blue – a droll Harry Chapin reference? – builds a pensive Hunkiy Dory Bowie-esque feel, just guitars and vocals, looking back bittersweetly on a late-night barroom hookup that predictably ended pretty much where it started. The glarmock/psychedelic stomp Olde House on the Hill is another bitter reminiscence: “The garden’s been replaced by thorns from hell,” Rogers rails.

The band goes back to pensively purposeful folk-rock for Broken Wishes on Display, then returns with a vengeance to withering social commentary with Blckpool Nights, a hauntingly vivid minor-key portrait of seedy resort-town dissolution and anomie. He and the band absolutely slayed with this last year at Rough Trade and did the same at Hifi Bar a couple of weeks ago.

Rogers evokes the Byrds again, both lyrically and jangle-wise, in I’m Your Everyday Man, a guardedly hopeful populist anthem with some nimble neo-baroque keyboard work. The band goes further down the psychedelic rabbit hole toward Indian exotica with Fade Away, its enveloping sonics contrasting with Rogers’ starkly straightforward tale of class disciminiation. Likewise, the easygoing baroque-rock sway of Seconds Into Minutes masks a bitter account of time gloat forever.

The albums best and catchiest track is Looking for Stone Angels, a dead ringer for a 1965 Byrds twelve-string janglefest: it’s Rogers at his elegaic best: “Not sure you want to live tomorow as your hopes fade away.” The band descends into broodingly artsy, Strawbs-isn folk rock with Just Like That It Came N Went, mellotron fluttering sepulchrally behind a web of acoustic guitars while Rogers’ scarecrow imagery completes the gloomy picture

Burn n Play is the album’s most sarcastic number, a thinly veiled anti-yuppie broadside that nicks a familiar 80s yuppie cheeseball anthem. Stars in Your Eyes, with its deep-space, minimalist piano, makes a striking contrast. The album’s title track is an even more unexpected departure into apocalyptic, scattergun no wave funk, boiling with nails-down-the-blackboard guitar multitracks. The End Moments offers muted, resigned closure: “I want to go out more quitely than I came in,” Rogers intones soberly.

Behind Rogers’ uncluttered, down-to-earth, weathered vocals, the entire band channels fifty years of smart UK songcraft. Where does this fall alongside the other albums released in 2016? It’s definitely the best nineteen-track release of the year…and the century, so far.

Rising Star Singer Brianna Thomas Brings Her Purist, Soulful Jazz Approach Back to Harlem

For the past couple of months, jazz singer Brianna Thomas has had a series of engagements at Ginny’s Supper Club uptown. Her next gig there is this Saturday night, June 18 with sets at 7:30 and 9 PM; cover is $20. The secret to this place is to grab a space at the bar; otherwise, there’s a minimum if you want to sit, and it’s not cheap. During the week, the place draws a loud afterwork crowd: if it’s the same here on the weekend, Thomas is one of the few acts who could actually work an audience to the point where they’d listen, or at least holler back at her.

None other than Will Friedwald – the guy who wrote the book on jazz singing – anointed her as the best of the current crop of up-and-coming voices in jazz. Her formidable arsenal – a strong, expressive delivery, expert command of phrasing and a love for swing and the classics – is unquestionable. This blog caught her onstage most recently a couple years back at Tompkins Square Park, where she opened the Charlie Parker Jazz Festival, leading a quintet featuring similarly soulful guitarist Russell Malone.

Thomas and the rhythm section gave a joyous, cha-cha-influenced groove to All of Me to open the concert, wasting no time to launch into a jaunty stairstepping scat solo, the piano following her leaps and bounds, sax rising from low-key contrast to a bustling exuberance. That set a tone for the rest of the show, purist and packed with gospel fervor and blues grit, as in the swinging next number’s sax/bass/vocal intro, foreshadowing a coolly slipsliding bass solo midway through. “Say ‘Joy!’ Thomas entreated the crowd, and got the response she wanted. It capsulizes her appeal.

The band hit an Afro-Cuban shuffle from there, bringing a nocturne out into the daylight, Thomas leaping in on the offbeat and leaping even further from soulful melismatics to towering heights through an all-too-brief vocal solo. From there she explored airy, vampy balladry, to a hard-hitting detour into the blues, then funky soul and finally back to classic swing as the band rose and fell behind her, with alternately ebullient and pensive solos all around. The highlight of the set – and the afternoon, as it turned out – was a haunted, dynamically charged minor-key duet with Malone, an original song akin to a 21st century update on Nature Boy.

Despite her gifts as a singer, Thomas is hardly a diva, just a down-to-earth midwestern musician establishing an individual voice, finding new places to go where so many icons have gone before. From a concertgoer’s perspective, this show didn’t involve daydrinking – a hallowed Charlie Parker Festival tradition – but it did involve an awful lot of moving around, partly to stay out of the blistering sun, partly to dodge gaggles of chatty people in order to get something approximating a decent field recording. Exercise in futility: you’d do better to catch Thomas Saturday night or at a similar venue with a good sound system to fully appreciate everything she brings to the table.