New York Music Daily

Global Music With a New York Edge

Tag: downward dogs

Sunday Salon 8: New Blood, Old Blood, Bloodbath?

Not quite. The final Sunday Salon of the year at Zirzamin featured both usual and unusual suspects. It was good to have Joe Yoga, frontman of the ferocious, southwestern gothic-tinged Downward Dogs join in and play a couple of songs, the first a fiery minor-key number that screamed out for a band behind him, the second somewhat more subdued. Carol Lipnik also contributed a couple of considerably quieter songs that were just as passionate in their enveloping, hypnotic lushness. Playing guitar, she kept time with an Indian ankle bracelet she’d picked up in Jackson Heights. And from a spectator’s perspective, maybe the most interesting moment of the evening happened off to the side, when those two artists joined in a spontaneous duet on the old Jefferson Airplane psych-folk song Coming Back to Me. Neither Carol Lipnik nor Joe Yoga sound anything like the Airplane; just to see that both of them knew the song was cool.

The rest of the salon was fueled by passion and booze. Lorraine Leckie sat on a table facing the crowd and channeled lurid menace, making the need for a mic redundant. LJ Murphy put on his thousand-yard stare, completely locked into showtime mode for the surreal nocturne Waiting by the Lamppost and the big crowd-pleaser Barbed Wire Playpen, a tale of Wall Street dungeons and dungeonesses. John Hodel represented for the oldschool barroom contingent with tales of sordidness and not a little menace. Homeboy Steve Antonakos then followed with a solid hour of solo acoustic songs ranging from gypsy rock – based on a Georges Brassens lick nicked from his old pal Joe Flood – to the surreal bluegrass ballad Baptized in Rain, to the wryly gorgeous janglerock hit I Don’t Miss Summer. Before his set, torchy Americana chanteuse Drina Seay joined him for a couple of catchy, sophisticated countrypolitan tunes. While Antonakos didn’t take any of the sizzling solos that he’s known for, as a member of psychedelic rockers Love Camp 7 or Greek rembetiko surf band the Byzan-Tones, he’d break up the songs with subtle changes in the chord voicings, or run a half a bar of a bluesy riff, or fingerpick delicate filigrees in the slower tunes. It was a clinic in purposeful, impactful playing. Antonakos returns to the featured slot here at 7 PM on Feb 3.

Every Sunday at 5 PM, New York Music Daily presents the Sunday Salon at Zirzamin, where some of New York’s edgiest songwriters and musicians trade songs and cross-pollinate in the old Zinc Bar space at Houston and LaGuardia. There’s never a cover charge; the club has cheap beer, good Tex-Mex food, and the public is welcome to attend. Participation is by invitation only. The featured set at 7 PM this Sunday, Jan 6 is by Canadian gothic rocker/chanteuse Lorraine Leckie.

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Old Favorites and New Ones

Last night was all about discovery, and rediscovery. The first was five-piece rock band the Downward Dogs, who ripped through a smart, diverse, energetically jangly set of southwestern-tinged rock at the National Underground. Fronted by an animated guitarist who goes by the name Joe Yoga, the band puts a unique spin on Giant Sand style desert rock via an excellent two-piece horn section (tenor sax and trumpet) with some neat, terse charts by the sax player. Backed by an imaginative, tight drummer and a nimble bassist whose tensely rising, trebly lines enhanced the suspenseful ups and downs of the songs, Yoga led the band through a mix of big swaying anthems and quieter, more brooding material. Every single song in the set was good. The lyrics were intriguing. This being the National Underground, it wasn’t easy to hear them: between the dodgy sound mix and the noisy yuppie puppy crowd who’d come in from Long Island to see the whimpering wimps who played beforehand, it wasn’t easy to hear anything, particularly the pensive, sometimes smoldering sax parts. Random, ominous images cut through the roar: the only thing left standing on 93rd St. (yikes!); someone waiting for something awful to happen; the impossibility of getting away with something, “a couple of years after the war.” A refreshing social awareness made its way to the surface: “I am revolution, and I am dead, but I never felt better,” Yoga hollered sarcastically over the dramatic whoosh of the cymbals at one point. The songs ranged from punchy, syncopated mariachi-flavored rock with swirling trumpet, a couple of warmly bouncy Wallflowers-style soul-rock tunes, a couple of pensively expansive anthems that wouldn’t be out of place in the Oxygen Ponies catalog, and a biting garage rock number to close the set on a high note.

After the Downward Dogs, Tom Clark & the High Action Boys played Lakeside. Clark is an artist in the purest sense of the word. Was he going to wait til eleven to hit the stage like most of the Friday night acts here do? No way. He went on early so he and his tight-beyond-belief four-piece band could take their time and mix a few choice covers into the mix along with some new material and familiar crowd-pleasers. Clark isn’t unknown to an international audience: among New York musicians, he’s universally respected . As one audience member remarked, astonished, he manages to play lickety-split yet soulful lead guitar and sing at the same time, and write excellent songs, with good lyrics. It was good to hear that he’s finally going back into the studio next month for a new album, because the new material is characteristically choice. A lot of the songs were upbeat highway rock tunes, but the band varied the dynamics, breaking one down unexpectedly into an almost reggae interlude. The biggest hits with the crowd were New Toothbrush on Your Sink, with its wickedly catchy Flamin Groovies vibe, and If That’s Country Music, I’d Like to Know What Country It’s From, a viciously spot-on commentary on what gets played on “country” radio these days. In between verses and choruses, Clark spun off one lightning-fast solo after another, switching effortlessly between bluegrass, staccato Buck Owens riffage, blue flame Rolling Stones vamps and incisive janglerock. Lead guitar might be a dying art – for the prissy boys of Bushwick, guitars are decor for fashion shoots – but then again, it was ten years ago when Clark was packing crowds into Manitoba’s to watch his fingers fly. The covers were great, too – Albert Hammond’s It Never Rains in Southern California, with the excellent bassist doing the original riffs note-for-note; a similarly edgy, uneasy take of Danny O’Keefe’s Goodtime Charlie’s Got the Blues and “a song Elvis Costello covered,” an understatedly intense Good Year for the Roses. Clark is upstairs at 2A this Sunday the 16th at around 8 with Lenny Kaye playing pedal steel, plus an expected cavalcade of similar NYC rock luminaries.