New York Music Daily

Global Music With a New York Edge

Category: pop music

Jeanne Marie Boes Channels the Soul of a Troubled Time in New York

“I can’t take it anymore,” Jeanne Marie Boes intoned, hushed and low, standing resolutely behind her electric piano a couple of Fridays ago at the American Folk Art Museum. “All that’s left are roses underfoot.” She wasn’t talking politics: her big theme is heartbreak. And she takes it to the mountaintop, to forbidding heights, Wuthering, Wuthering, Wuthering Heights! Heathcliff, you bastard!

Yet much as Boes can bring the Kate Bush drama, and belt with anyone alive, she has incredible nuance, especially for somebody with such a big voice. As she moved effortlessly if vigorously between blue-eyed soul, brassy cabaret tones, saloon jazz and majestic art-rock, her mic technique wa a dead giveaway, from a close whisper to a distant wail. She may look like a typical sophomore on her way to, say, a Juilliard rehearsal room, but she’s been doing this a long time, starting as a pre-teen singing sensation in her native Queens. And her parents were cool, and encouraged her, and fifteen years down the line, she’s one of the most magnetic singers in town and a strong pianist as well. That song is the title track to her fantastic latest ep Holdin’ My Heart, streaming at her Bandcamp page. She’s probably doing that number along with plenty of others from a pretty deep catalog at LIC Bar on Nov 30 at 7 PM, where she’s opening for a drummer who used to play for Billy Joel and whose leadfoot thump has been sampled on a million hip-hop joints over the years.

“Look me in the eye, all I see is black,” was Boes’ opening line in the luridly desperate Strangers, which she took all the way up to an unexpectedly amusing trick ending. “Every time I fall in love, I fall hard,” she admitted as she opened The One, the ep’s darkly chromatic, suspensefully pulsing first track, part noir cabaret, part oldschool 60s soul, part towering Alan Parsons Project symphonic rock ballad.

Yet as much as she loves minor keys – there’s Chopin, and Tschaikovsky, and Rachmaninoff lurking behind her fingers – and as much raw pain as there is in her tales of abandonment and loss, she doesn’t come across as a sad person at all. In between songs, she smiled and chatted with the crowd, unselfconscious and down to earth, hardly the diva you might expect after hearing her reach for the rafters and hold on for dear life. And that sense of humor came across in a couple of coy soul ballads that wouldn’t have been out of place in, say, the Bettye Swan songbook. Fun fact: onstage, Boes always rocks a hat. Has she ever been seen without one? Go to the show in Queens and find out.

Boes is typical of the acts that impresario Lara Ewen – a first-rate songstress herself – books for the free Friday evening series at the Folk Art Museum, arguably Manhattan’s best remaining listening room. The next show there is Dec 2 starting at 5:30 PM with the rousingly rustic guy-girl harmonies of the Piedmont Bluz duo.

Leonard Cohen Moves to the Tower of Song

Thanks for the songs, Mr. Cohen.

Who by fire?…
Who in her lonely slip, who by barbiturate,
Who in these realms of love, who by something blunt,
And who by avalanche, who by powder,
Who for his greed, who for his hunger,
And who shall I say is calling?

Iconic, visionary songwriter, prophet of destruction and renewal, and avatar of hope Leonard Cohen made it to 82 before that sacred heart gave out, a day before the election. In lieu of an obituary, here’s the original review of Cohen’s show on June 14, 1993 at the old Felt Forum under Madison Square Garden, reprinted from New York Music Daily’s archive of New York City concert reviews dating back to 1989:

An enjoyable show from the legendary, self-appointed prophet of doom. His nondescript soft-rock band could have been backing anyone from Patricia Kaas to Neil Diamond, but was rescued from Lite FM territory by an excellent electric violinist who doubled on keyboards. Cohen switched between acoustic guitar (he plays impressively well, with a distinctly Mediterranean flavor) and electric piano.They did Bird on a Wire early, fleshed out by the band: since Cohen’s voice is shot, he has two excellent female singers to fill out the vocals. They did Ain’t No Cure for Love shortly afterward, as well as the highlight of the night, a somewhat tired yet still haunting Everybody Knows. The new apocalypse anthem The Future was excellent, as well as Democracy in America, which went over very well with the surprisingly young crowd. Cohen’s music-box electric piano on Tower of Song (sung syncopated, to powerful effect) was as macabre as could be expected. Closing Time was the first of the encores, a rousing, even danceable rendition. All in all, a slightly spooky trip through a universe of decay, despair and sex. No wonder he’s so popular again.

A Whale of a New York Debut by Stunningly Individualistic Korean Art-Folk Band Coreyah

Last night at Flushing Town Hall, psychedelic Korean art-folk band Coreyah were three elegantly shapeshifting rainy-day songs into their New York debut when Halee Jeong launched into an ominous, misterioso,, tone-warping intro on her geomungo lute – a large, low-register instrument played with a stick – with an unhinged savagery. Overtones and wildly bent notes flew from the strings, to the point that it looked like she was going to break the thing. Was this a sign of things to come? Absolutely. By the end of about an hour onstage, people were dancing in the aisles and calling the band back for an encore with a series of standing ovations.

Bands whose sound is defined by epic grandeur tend to be on the serious side, and Coreyah have plenty of gravitas. But they’re also hilarious. Early in the set, multi-flutist Dong-Kun Kim opened a song with a coyly spaced birdsong riff, echoed on the song’s playful chorus with chirpy charm and matching hand signals by frontwoman Ashin Kweon. Later on, multi-percussionist Cho-Rong Kim switched places with drummer Kyungyi and machinegunned through an endlessly droll series of woodblock hits balanced on the low end by a relentless “whoomp whoomp” as the flute player led the group through the call-and-response of a completely over-the-top rap. And throughout the show, Kyungyi’s deadpan sense of humor kept the audience chuckling. Essentially, his message was “If you don’t like what you hear, just chill: we’ll eventually get to something that’s up your alley. We have mad flavors.” He wasn’t kidding.

They followed that crazy rap with the night’s gentlest song, guitarist Samgheum Park bringing to mind a similarly polystylistic Asian-born player, Rez Abbasi, with a pensively exploratory blend of judicious jangle, jazz erudition and unleashed skronk. The band’s sound would have been even more epic had he been given an amp, rather than running through his stompboxes, directly into the PA.

Kweon is a force of nature, a sometimes terrifyingly brilliant singer. She majored in pansori as an undergraduate, but the concert’s program notes made more than clear that she refuses to be identified by any one style of music. She induced plenty of goosebumps with her shivery melismatics on the set’s dramatic closing ballad, but she also aired out her mighty low register on a broodingly vampy, propulsive, distantly Arabic-tinged anthem, shades of Grace Slick. And while she sang exclusively in Korean, Kweon transcends the limits of language. The plaintiveness and anguish she channeled, reaching to the stratospheric heights of what seemed like a four-octava range during the night’s darkest and most intensely crescendoing anthem, was impossible to turn away from. But her wistfulness early in the set, as well as her wry good cheer as the night went on, came across just as evocatively.

Beyond the musicians’ sizzling chops, what’s most inteesting about this band is how subtly they weave classic Korean folk themes into a rock framework. The use of geomungo instead of bass resulted in more interplay and tradeoffs that most rock bands have between bassist and guitarists. And the twin-percussion team seamlessly blended rhythms as diverse as bossa nova and qawwali into the mix. They ended the night with a big singalong anthem: it helps if you speak Korean, because that way you get all of their jokes, but this indelibly New York, multicultural crowd found themselves drawn into the music all the same.

Fun fact: depending on how you transliterate it, Coreyah is Korean for either “inheritance” or “whale.” The group consider that mighty, endangered cetacean to be their spirit animal.

Flushing Town Hall is sort of the Joe’s Pub of Queens…but infinitely better. Tickets are cheaper, there’s no annoying drink minimum and booking is even more adventurous. This Sunday there’s a Diwali festival with Indian music and dance to celebrate the holiday; the next cnncert with global reach cheduled here after that is dazzlingly eclectic string quartet Brooklyn Rider on Dec 2 at 7:30 PM; tix are $25/$15 stud/srs.

Tredici Bacci Air-Kiss a Classic Italian Cinematic Sound

Among the innumerable great bands to emerge from the Barbes scene in Brooklyn, nobody’s riding more of a wave of popularity right now than Tredici Bacci. As Chicha Libre did with Peruvian psychedelic cumbias from the 60s and 70s, and Les Sans Culottes have done with 60s French ye-ye pop, Tredici Bacci play their own inimitable, original songs inspired by Italian film music from forty and fifty years ago. Their debut full-length album, Amore Per Tutti, isn’t officially out yet and consequently not yet streaming at their Bandcamp page. They’re playing the album release show on Nov 12 at the Park Church Co-op, 129 Russell St. just off Nassau Ave. in Greenpoint at 8 PM. Cover is $15; it’s an all-ages show. The closest train is the G to Nassau Ave.

The album’s opening track, Columbo sets the stage, a skittishly strutting Bacharach-ish theme with horns, frontman Simon Hanes’ reverb guitar over keening roller-rink organ..The women in the group supply jaunty vocalese as it winds out. Likwewise, Ca C’est Cantare (some of the titles here are all over the map linguistically) is a dead ringer for 60s Bacharach bossa, spiced with blippy trumpet, balmy sax and strings, and more ba-ba vocals.

Modern Man rises from spare accordion and wordless vocals to a stern, hefty theme straight out of the Gato Loco songbook…then guest crooner Ryan Power follows a blithely waltzing tangent that sounds suspiciously like the kind of satire that Avi Fox-Rosen has so much fun with. The inevitable Morricone spaghetti western theme, Avante, is a great approximation: trebly bass, twangy guitar and the requisite mariachi trumpet over a galloping beat. The only giveaway that it actually isn’t Morricone is the vocals: instead, it could pass for Bombay Rickey minus that band’s swinging groove.

Swedish Tease turns out to be about as Nordic as a meatball hero, an almost frantic, scampering romp lit up with bluesy organ, surf drums, mosquito guitar and a wryly noisy interlude midway through. Ruth Garbus‘ airily dancing, unpretentiously jazz-inflected vocals match the joyously tricky metrics of Slusher. Elysian Fields frontwoman Jennifer Charles lends her blue velvet allure to Drowned, which alternates between bloodcurdling Lynchian tremolo-guitar sonics and a contrastingly lighthearted bossa tune.

Give Him the Gun features JG Thirlwell (who has a characteristically ambitious, lavish new album of his own just out) on vocals, an update on 70s Nino Rota disco. Souvenir de Beaucoup d’Amor is an unlikely successful mashup of Dark Side-era Pink Floyd, tarantella pop and oldschool organ soul – un peu bizarro, nyet? Vincenzo Vasi supplies lounge-lizard vocals to Nessun Dorma, a swaying chamber pop remake of an old operatic theme. Otherwise, the only real miss among the otherwise infinitely clever eleven tracks here is Vendetta Del Toro, a decent Morricone impression ruined by stupefyingly lame, off-key vocals. They’re so bad that it raises the question of who might have been serviced to get such an embarrassing effort – or, more accurately, lack of effort – in the can.

Sam Kogon Releases One of the Year’s Catchiest Purist Psychedelic Pop Records

Over the past couple of years, Sam Kogon has earned a well-deserved reputation as one of the most consistently interesting, original psychedelic pop tunesmiths in New York. After a well-received debut full-length, he’s finally released his second album, Psychic Tears, streaming at Bandcamp. He’s playing the album release show tonight at Baby’s All Right at 10 PM; cover is $10.

Most of these tracks are very short, less than three minutes. The hooks flash by so fast that you barely have time to savor one before Kogon throws another at you: his songs are that catchy. Stylistically, he draws on a half a century worth of classic and obscure psychedelia and baroque pop. Jeff Lynne is the closest comparison, which is the highest praise imaginable for someone writing this kind of music. The album opens with a wry minitature, part Ventures, part late-period ELO, part XTC in their satirical Dukes of Stratosphere disguise, trebly bass climbing over a lattice of vintage keyboard patches.

Work It Out comes across as a surreal mashup of Abbey Road Beatles, Ward White and early 70s Lennon; the lush chorus-box guitar adds new wave mystique. By contrast, I’m Letting Go is a dead ringer for Wizzard-era Roy Wood, right down to the boogie guitar and the vocal echo.

The uneasily keening, swaying, minor-key Don’t Know Now brings to mind the Allah-Las in a particularly buoyant moment. I Was Always Talking, a duet with airy-voiced chanteuse Frankie Cosmos, has a noisy guitar backdrop behind its easygoing retro soul sway, soaring toward Jeff Lynne territory as Kogon builds it. The album’s longest track, Something’s Wrong has hints of jazz within its lush, elegant orchestration: it would be a standout ballad on ELO’s Discovery album.

I Could Kick Myself takes a scampering detour into new wave, followed by Tonetta, awash in clever echo phrases, chiming guitars and bubbly electric piano. Lincoln Lincoln has tricky symcopation and starlit Omnichord synth, then builds to stomping, anthemic propoortions.

My Love It Burns is an exercise in easygoing Double Fantasy-era Lennon pop, while The Way to Talk to Boys edges toward Chad and Jeremy style early Merseybeat territory. The brief, vampy final cut, I’ll Be There has the feel of a Double Fantasy outtake. Maybe if we get lucky Jeff Lynne will pull another ELO tour together like he did earlier this fall and Kogon can open for them. Now THAT’s a bucket-list show!

Lorraine Leckie and Her Demons Open for Americana Rock Legends the Long Ryders at Bowery Ballroom

One of the year’s most highly anticipated twinbills is this coming Nov 10 at 9 PM, when eclectic songwriter Lorraine Leckie and Her smoldering Demons open for the Long Ryders, who pretty much invented Americana rock back in the 80s. They haven’t played New York in this century, or for that matter, toured the US in almost thirty years. Their four-cd career retrospective, Final Wild Songs – which includes a stampeding live set recorded in Europe – is just out this year. This concert features the classic late 80s Long Ryders lineup of Sid Griffin on guitar and vocals, Stephen McCarthy on guitar, Tom Stevens on bass and Greg Sowders on drums. $20 advance tix are still available as of today.

Leckie’s most recent fullscale New York show was a rare smalll-club gig back in June at Pangea, a momentary homecoming sandwiched between European and US tours. As much as this was more low-key than she typically is on a big stage, the set was no less fiery for being somewhat quieter and a lot more intimate. She and a scaled-down version of the Demons – Hugh Pool on lead guitar and Tim Kuhl on cajon and percussion – opened with a hushed, seethingly waltizng take of Little Miss X, a sarcastic portrait of a bimbo du jour. From there the band made their way through a stripped-down version of the T Rex-ish Rainbow and then the rousing anthem Paint the Towns, Pool’s tersely resonant lines channeling 60s Memphis soul.

Kuhl pushed the sardonic nocturne Happy City along with a trip-hop groove, Leckie switching from Telecaster to piano. “When I go, I leave a scar,” she intoned with an understated, gleeful menace in Come A-Dancing, then gave an airy vocalese intro to a wickedly catchy, slinky, minor-key new number, Shake Off the Devil, Kuhl again supplying a clickety-clack trip-hop rhythm.

Leckie is hard to categorize – one minute she’s wailing through Neil Young-style electric Americana rock, the next she’s using all sorts of strange guitar tunings and playing enigmatically minimalist art-rock. She put the spotlight on that side of her vast repertoire with the propulsively brisk Man Who Walks in the Rain, the acidic, hypnotic waltz Dangerous Friends, and Climb Ya Like a Mountain, a shout-out to the noted mountain climber Aleister Crowley. From there the band shifted gears with another new number, the anthemic vintage 70s Lou Reed-ish Under the Vampire Moon.

The high point of the night, volume and intensity-wise, was another open-tuned guitar number, It Ain’t the Blues, Leckie airing out her powerful low register with the aching “It ain’t the blues, it’s only YOUUUUUU!” chorus. She closed with a couple of snarkly macabre, carnivalesque piano tunes. And electrifying guest singer Carol Lipnik – whose popular 7 PM Sunday evening residency at Pangea is now in its second year – contributed plaintive takes of two Leckie tunes. The highlight was Bliss, with its poignantly misty portrait of an old couple gone irrepairably off the rails, reinvented as an a-cappella showstopper where which Liphik accompanied herself on spoons. She’d brought them from home, she explained after the show, wanting to make sure that she had cutlery in hand that she could play in the same key as the song’s melody.

Hauntingly Poignant Folk Noir and Phantasmagorical Rock From Thee Shambels

Thee Shambels have been one of New York’s best bands long enough to make it hard to believe that their new album, Lonely à la Mode – streaming at Bandcamp – is their first full-length release. Just in time for Halloween too! Frontman/guitarist Neville Elder’s wickedly literate, bleakly cynical existentialist narratives have never been more acerbically poignant, and the band behind him are onfire through a mix of noir cabaret, Nashville gothic, folk noir, retro soul and a Celtic-tinged ballad or two. Pound for pound, the album is somewhat less raucous than the band’s previous output. The production is lusciously lush, Claudia Chopek a one-woman string section floating behind Melissa Elledge’s accordion, Scott Kitchen’s bass, JJ Murphy’s drums and Sarah Mischner’s soaring harmony vocals. Matthew Dennis plays guitar, Alex Mallett plays banjo and CP Roth is on keyboards.

The opening track, Will There Be Women at My Funeral? has its beleaguered narrator costing out his own funeral over a swinging, Waitsish backdrop fueled by Elledge’s elegant accordion:

Will there be women at my funeral?
Will you press your sisters to attend?
How much do you think they’ll want for their time?
How much do you think I should spend…
Smudge your lips on my dead white face, add the cost to the bill…

And it just gets better from there.

Bad Timing is a slow, reverbtoned Lynchian soul epic set in a vividly detailed, seedy circus milieu where an acrobat’s “empty trapeze swings out in the dark,” as he falls to his death, Elder questioning:

Are the things we want
The things we need?
Are the things we need
The things we want?

With its subtle Brooklyn references, it could be a standout Joe Maynard song.

Caroline is more upbeat, a mashup of Blonde on Blonde Dylan and Walk Away Renee-style baroque pop. The album’s title track is a broodingly romping, masterfully orchestrated minor-key blend of noir cabaret and moody folk rock which wouldn’t be out of place on a Kotorino album. “Let’s throw stuff in the quarry,” Elder intones gleefully in the eerily shuffling Sister, “Maybe we can catch a stray cat.”

Elder punctuates the title of When Will We Be Lovers? with ominously tolling reverb guitar as the song gets underway, then the song build to toweringly majestic, angst-fueled heights. “I’m holding on for dear life,” Elder admits, building a vividly downcast East River tableau. in his characteristically flinty delivery. The slightly more optimistic, backbeat-driven nocturne Radio Down Low (Nashville) could have been a radio hit for the Wallflowers twenty years ago, complete with twinkling piano and mandolin solos.

Elder goes back to slow, moody, classic 60s soul for the breakup ballad Letting Go. Mallett’s banjo drives the sweeping, 6/8 ballad The Girl At the Bottom of the World, a love song that makes an apt companion piece to Roy Orbison’s In Dreams. Happy Birthday Baby (Going Down) takes an unexpected turn into wryly amusing lickety-split vintage R&B; the final cut is the surrealistic instrumental La Valse des Solitaires. Count this among the dozen or so best releases of 2016 and watch this space for an album release show.

Celebrating the World’s Most Famous Suicide Song

What’s more appropriate for Halloween than the world’s most famous suicide song? The truth about Gloomy Sunday is a lot less lurid than the legend. The song’s composer, Rezso Seress, actually did commit suicide more than three decades after he wrote it in the early 1930s. It’s a sad tune, although the same could be said about thousands of other melodies from across the centuries, none of whose writers ended up killing themselves. Nor did Laszlo Javor, author of the lyrics to the first recorded version, by Pal Kalmor, in 1935. That reality didn’t stop the BBC and other radio networks from succumbing to an urban myth and banning the song until just a few years ago.

You can hear Kalmor’s wonderful dead-calm performance – complete with funeral bells and heart-wrenching strings –  on the new compilation album Hungarian Noir, streaming at Spotify. The playlist also includes the more famous and considerably subtler 1941 recording by Billie Holiday with the Teddy Wilson Orchestra along with recordings from the past few years, some of which are more Halloweenish than others.

A handful are ludicrous to the point of being funny. A breezy African pop version? How about a Brazilian rap version? There’s also a talented Cuban chanteuse whose phonetic command of English falls short of what a singer needs in order to channel much of any emotion, happy or sad, in addition to an instrumental arrangement by Cuban salsa orchestra Manolito Simonet y su Trabuco, whose icy precision speaks to the group’s professionalism more than their commitment to encouraging mass suicide.

But some of the new reinterpretations of the song are very creative. Matuto contribute a moodily psychedelic, cumbia-tinged version, guitarist Clay Ross’ Lynchian, chromatic reverb guitar mingling with Rob Curto’s accordion. Accordionist Chango Spasiuk approaches the song as a vividly spare, Romany jazz-tinged instrumental. Polish art-rock songbird Kayah’s spacious trip-hop take looks back to the original with stark vocals over lushly crescendoing orchestration. And unsurprisingly, the best of the reinventions here is by Cimbalomduo, a collaboration between two of the world’s most exhilarating virtuosos of the Hungarian zither: Kálmán Balogh and Miklós Lukács. Obviously, their take isn’t about pyrotechnics but slow, brooding ripples and lingering despair.

The best new version of the song didn’t make the cut – or the album’s compilers didn’t have it on their radar. Nashville gothic songwriter Mark Sinnis recorded it on his 2010 album The Night’s Last Tomorrow, and gave New York audiences plenty of chills with it before he headed for the hills and, ultimately, to North Carolina. Speaking of which, Sinnis returns to New York State for a cd release show for his latest album, One Red Rose Among the Dying Leaves on October 30 at 6 PM at Sue’s Sunset House,  137 N Water St in Peekskill. There’s no cover; the baritone crooner and his band will be playing two long sets. The venue is just steps from the Peekskill Metro-North station, and trains will be running for a couple of hours after festivities end at 11 PM.

Gay Marshall Channels Parisian Depth and Joie de Vivre at Pangea

Chanteuse Gay Marshall‘s show last night at Pangea turned out to be as memorable and dynamic as Paris itself. It was also riotously funny – a Parisian might call it “marrant à chier.” In a little over an hour onstage, Marshall made good on her promise of a very individualistic musical tour of her adopted hometown, more imbued with knifes-edge intensity and current-day relevance than vaudevillian flair. Opening with a witheringly cynical Dave Frishberg number and closing with classic Piaf, she mined the depth and intensity of half a century’s worth of iconic and obscure chanson. She’s bringing this spectacle back to Pangea for a monthlong, weekly residency, repeating next Tuesday, Oct 25 and then consecutive Wednesdays, Nov 2 and 9 at 7 PM. Cover is $20 in this lowlit, intimate space, the scent of Mediterranean herbs wafting through the room. Most cabaret food sucks; this place is a refreshing exception to that rule.

To say that Marshall’s plushly crystalline, endlessly mutable mezzo-soprano vocals are disarmingly direct is an understatement. Being an actress, you would expect her to sing in character, yet there was zero affectation in these individuals’ angst, and longing, and devilish joe de vivre. Alternating between her own vivid English translations, and flawless French throughout each of the night’s numbers, she was joined by pianist Ian Herman, who switched seamlessly between wry barrelhouse theatrics, wistful blues, neoromantic lustre and the occasional blazing coda.

The audience was most transfixed by the darkest material. With its harrowing portrait of over-the-edge despair, tricky thematic shifts and vocal leaps and bounds, the night’s most challenging number was Stone, a roof-raiser from the obscure French musical Starmania. The night’s high point was not a whimsical love song but a harrowing triptych of Jacques Brel antiwar ballads. Taking inspiration from Marshall’s father-in-law, a World War II vet, the duo segued from the elegaic Les Grognards to the macabre tritones of La Colombe and finally the Vietnam-era Sons Of (Fils De), which reminds how the kids we send off to war have the same dreams, and nightmares, as those we don’t. Marshall was moved to the point of tears by that number, as well as when she recalled a moment busking on the banks of the Seine, where a homeless guy put money in her beret. Artifice is not a part of what she does, at least here.

Her between-song banter was priceless. She’d set up a whimsicallly minimalist building-block Paris atop the piano, using it as a springboard for wry recollections of her experiences as an American there. A vocal coach who couldn’t bear Marshall showing up in shorts with her skateboard; a Centre Pompidou exhibit exploring the meaning of nothingness (it happened; Marshall went); and the ne plus ultra vanity of people like the woman in Boris Vian’s playfully lyrical, satirical J’suis Snob.

As someone who’s lived in both Paris and New York, Marshall absolutely nailed the connection between the two cities. Much as we may love our respective stomping grounds, we’re equally cynical about them. Which is where her insight and unselfconscious depth really took centerstage, particularly on the more lighthearted numbers. She left out the third verse of Yves Montand’s Les Grand Boulevards because that was where the guy in the song whisks a girl into an alleyway: Marshall considered this “Trump-worthy,” and the audience roared. And she brought out the underlying unease in Piaf’s Marie la Francaise, a broodingly wistful take of Charles Aznavour’s La Bohème and a new translation of Autumn Leaves, reminding that its original title is Les Feuilles Mortes.

Fun fact: Marshall casually related that she used to bike up to the top of Montmartre. For anyone who’s ever walked that hill, especially after a few drinks, just thinking about that makes you want to jump over the fence and collapse in that meadow at the top. N’est-ce pas?

Band of Skulls Entertain Hell’s Kitchen With a Surprisingly Diverse, Hard Set

It’s about 9:30 when Band of Skulls hit the stage in Hell’s Kitchen, right at the river’s edge Thursday night. Terminal 5 smells like the inside of a bong. There are lots of couples, both kids and oldsters from across the river: it’s stoner date night. There’s a healthy crowd in the house, although the turnout wouldn’t have been enough to sell out Bowery Ballroom. Getting halfway to the stage, even with a sturdy laptop case slung over the shoulder, is no problem. This audience is mellow, courteous, considerate: hostility is not a stoner value. And there’s not a single stinky, annoying Bushwick trendoid to be seen anywhere.

The four-piece band open with a song that sounds like one of those rap-rock acts from the 90s – Limp Bizkit, maybe? – if that group had actually taken the time to listen to RZA’s murky, sinister Wu-Tang productions. A cynic would say that Band of Skulls have the metal for the guys and the phony “R&B” for the girls, but that doesn’t do the band justice: they’re a whole lot more than that, as their unfailingly catchy, roughly 90-minute set proved. It’s easy to see why people like this band. They’re all solid musicians, and constant touring has made them tight as a drum.

What’s most obvious is that this crew is happiest at their heaviest, and so is the crowd. There’s a point toward the end of the show where guitarist Russell Marsden, bassist Emma Richardson and drummer Matt Hayward hit a tricky, stomping, tumbling passage straight out of The Ocean, by Led Zep. Marsden adds some over-the-edge, vintage Jimmy Page noise to his precise, slithery, Robin Trower vibrato while Richardson pounces on the changes. A muddy sound mix doesn’t do much to reveal what a nimble bassist she is, at one point flying up to the 14th fret or so while she’s singing, firing off a lick just as tricky, and not missing a beat. This is where the band’s chops are put to the test, and they pass that test flawlessly. It’s a fair bet that if they stick it out, beyond the last dying embers of what’s left of the radio-and-records era, they’ll be a hell of a metal band.

Throughout the rest of the show, they show off how eclectic they are. Early on, there’s an acid funk-tinged number that draws a straight line back to the MC5. There’s a heavy but dancey anthem that draws a line back to 80s goth. One of the numbers midway through sounds like a mashup of peak-era Oasis and, say, The Streets. Hayward proves to be a capable acoustic guitarist on the unexpectedly psych-folk ballad on which he plays both kickdrum and hi-hat simultaneously while not missing a guitar chord: neat trick. Keyboardist Milo Fitzpatrick stays out of the way but is a welcome presence when needed, whether providing twinkly psychedelic ambience or apprehensive organ, particularly during segues or suspenseful bridges. The high point of the set turns out to be a propulsive, Gemma Ray-style Euro-ghoulabilly number with a macabre metal chorus grafted on. That’s when the bullshit detector shut down and pure bliss sets in.

Lyrics don’t factor into what they do: we’re all brothers and sisters, and if you wanna find yourself, you gotta roam. Whatev. But the music so often kicks ass – and leaves you wishing they’d kick more. At the end of the show, Marsden – who has mastered the art of getting just enough feedback out of his stack of Fenders without shutting down the PA – balances high on one of the wedges, then raises his beautiful vintage Fender Jazzmaster, headstock up, balanced in his palm…and then flings it sideways into the stacks and leaves it feeding as he saunters offstage.