New York Music Daily

Global Music With a New York Edge

Tag: indie rock

Hard-Hitting, Edgy, Tuneful Postrock Band Sunwatchers Opens for Smog’s Bill Callahan in South Williamsburg

Sunwatchers play hard-charging, psychedelic postrock instrumentals with Middle Eastern, Balkan and occasional African touches. Their sound blends the searing guitar and electric phin of Jim McHugh with Jeff Tobias’ atmospheric, resonant alto sax over the driving rhythm section of bassist Peter Kerlin and drummer Jason Robira. They’ve got a new, self-titled full-length album (sort of streaming online if you connect the dots – follow the individual links below) out from Thee Oh Sees’ John Dwyer’s Castle Face label, and they’re opening a kind of weird twinbill at Baby’s All Right starting the night of June 26, which happens to be sold out. As of today the two following shows, at 9 PM on the 27th and 28th, with Smog’s Bill Callahan headlining, are not. Cover is $25. On one hand, as loud, and catchy, and adrenalizing as these guys can be, putting Callahan – Mr. Mist – on after them is anticlimactic. On the other hand, it’s good to see a deserving band get to play to a captive audience. ***UPDATE – all three nights are sold out.

The suite – much of which has been released previously on cassette a couple of years ago – opens with Herd of Creeps, a pounding series of variations on a wickedly catchy minor-key hook, sax and guitar blasting together as a toxic swirl builds in the background over a punk stomp. It reminds of the kind of long, ska-flavored jams Tuatara would take back around the turn of the century. They vary it with more complex guitar on the second track, For Sonny (a Rollins dedication? It isn’t as far as out as the jazz sax icon could go with it) and then hit a hardcore drive as the guitar buzzes and oscillates and the sax swirls on track three, White Woman.

Eusubius moves toward the looseness of free jazz, but Robira’s decisive, spacious hits hold it together as the guitar flutters and bursts into flame and the sax does the same, but more warmly and low-key. It’s like an electric wacko jazz take on circular, spiky yet balmy West African kora music. The band goes back to the original theme for the most epic cut, Ape Phases, sort of a cross between the insistent aggression the album opens with, and the more varied second part. They finally hit a peak in a machete-thicket of tremolo-picked guitar and frenetically melismatic sax.

Moroner shifts from a (relatively, for these guys) easygoing, ultraviolet-lit Velvets/Black Angels style jam toward more haphazardly intense territory. Likewise, the final cut, Moonchanges rises out of spiky blues guitar phrasing over atmospherics, to a steady, surprisingly four-on-the-floor drive with amiable sax/guitar interplay.There are some good special guests here – Dave Harrington on guitar and keys, Hubble’s Ben Greenberg on guitar, Cory Bracken on vibraphone, Dave Kadden on keys and Jonah Rapino on fiddle, but it’s not apparent where any of these guys are exactly within the squall. Bite the bullet, go to the Baby’s All Right show and find out for yourself.

Have You Hugged a Casket Girl Today?

If you’ve been to a Casket Girls show on their current tour, you have. Or at least you should have: hugs should be reciprocal, right? Last night at the Mercury, toward the end of their set, sisters Elsa and Phaedra Greene came down off the stage as the bass and drums buzzed and thumped behind them and one by one, gave every single person in the audience a hug. Not a halfhearted, let’s-get-this-over-with hug, but a long, blissed-out, forceful one, making good on Elsa’s gnomic comment as she took the stage that the show would be about “the intentionality of peace and love.” Not what you might expect from a band who work the mystery angle for all it’s worth. .

Hanging in the back and watching it all happen didn’t make any difference. Phaedra saved her last embrace for a black-clad guy who’d just given her band’s new album The Night Machines a glowing review – who knew? She certainly didn’t. Karma isn’t always a bitch. That seems to be the band’s ultimate message.

Before then, the group had run through a hypnotically oscillating, irresistibly catchy, ominously swirling mix of material that draws equally on ghoulish video game themes, film scores and vintage new wave, with more than a hint of hip-hop. Beneath his black fabric mask, polymath keyboardist Ryan Graveface sweated and worked an endlessly shifting series of organ and synth textures. What was most impressive was how much of the album he was able to recreate live: there was stuff in the can, and in Elsa’s guitar pedals, but not a lot. Her guitar chops were unexpectedly impressive, shifting her own textures from a steady clang to a furious roar on the night’s final number. Phaedra swooped and dove up and down the frets of her bass with a kinetic grace – she really likes to slide up to a note, a touch that enhances the songs’ distant menace.

This band is a lot of fun to watch. Decked out in more-or-less matching black dresses and shades, the sisters didn’t waste any time switching out their instruments for big black magic markers and blank canvases. Drawing furiously and singing without missing a note, by the four-minute mark, they each had either a self-portrait, or a sister portrait – they look so much alike, it was hard to tell. When the song was over, a couple of people in the crowd got to take home a signed piece of original Casket Girl art. A little later, the duo put down their instruments again for some playful choreography: a parody of Miley Cyrus and the like, or just some goofy relief from the songs’ underlying darkness?

The band – augmented by the hard-hitting rhythm of guitarist Chloe Pinnock – wound up the set with a resounding take of Tears of a Clown – the most politically relevant original on the new record – and then a more punk-oriented older number. Then the crowd scurried to the merch booth in the front to buy vinyl.

A Look Back at Last Year’s Vocal Summit With Amanda Thorpe and Her Siren Friends

More about that Amanda Thorpe show coming up on June 13 at 8 PM at Hifi Bar. She’s playing in the intimate space in the back, where the Britfolk and chamber pop songwriter – the closest thing to Linda Thompson that this generation has produced – will be joined by guitarists Don Piper and her longtime Bedsit Poets bandmate Edward Rogers.

Mary Lee Kortes was one of three other women who joined Thorpe late last year onstage at the Treehouse at 2A for a summit meeting of four of the most haunting voices in all of rock. It was one of the half-dozen most spellbinding shows of the year: vocally speaking, no other performance all year came close. The quartet of Thorpe, Kortes, Lianne Smith and Debby Schwartz each played guitar, singing in the round, trading songs, joining voices as duos and trios and once or twice in four-part harmony: pure, unaffected, spine-tingling intensity.

Thorpe has an ambered delivery that can be either coyly fun or woundedly resigned in the low registers, but when she cuts loose and soars way up, that’s when the firepower really kicks in. Likewise, Smith channels hushed nunace as much as poignancy, has a spun-steel upper register and has never written better than she’s doing now. With her metalcutter crystalline tone and ability to effortlessly leap octaves, Kortes is probably one of the half-dozen best singers in the world, never mind the rock world. Schwartz, the former Aquanettas frontwoman, might have the most distinctive voice of all four singers,  both plaintive and atmospheric with a tinge of grit. She and Smith – who also draws on rockabilly, Americana and psychedelia – share an indie rock background. Kortes draws on all sorts of Americana, and like Thorpe is equally adept at jazz.

Smith had her Strat with the reverb turned up as she usually does. A typically allusive new number parsed the understated ache and longing from eyes that are “bright, bright, bright” in circumstances that are hardly “right, right, right” – chilling, especially in contrast to the power she unleashed on the chorus. A spare, skeletal, southern soul-tinged new song gave her a platform for the kind of simmering vengeance that Dusty Springfield would have killed for.

Schwartz aired out the sardonic, understatedly brooding Dreaming New York City in the Middle of LA and also the evening’s high point among many, a viscerally  spine-tinglingtake of the otherwise enigmatic, minor-key anthem Hills of Violent Green. Kortes’s high points were the wickedly catchy, darkly chromatic, soaring Vegas noir-tinged Learn from What I Dream and the jaunty, uneasily defiant oldtimey swing tune Big Times, along with a swinging, embittered, coiled-cobra new song that might have been the evening’s single best number.

Joining voices with Treehouse impresario and guitar monster Tom Clark, Thorpe elevated a sad Everly Brothers song far above early 60s folk-revival stuff, to the level of something from the Skooshny catalog, maybe. She channeled the most nuance of anyone, especially in a handful of shadowy, noir-tinged reinventions of Great American Songbook jazz-pop from the Yip Harburg catalog, which she memorably recorded in 2014. A longtime staple of the Lower East Side scene back when it was about art far more than commerce, she rarely makes it back to town these days: if you missed her the first time around, now’s your chance not to miss out again.

The Casket Girls Bring Their Creepily Detached Twin Peaks Atmospherics to the Mercury Lounge

Disregard anything you may have heard from the Casket Girls prior to this year. Don’t dismiss sisters Phaedra and Elsa Greene’s collaboration with Ryan Graveface as a novelty act or a couple of Southern dilettantes faking their way through phony noir and even phonier wannabe-Beyonce corporate pop crap. Go out to the Mercury this Sunday, June 12 where they’re playing at 11 PM for $10 in advance. You’ll be enveloped in eerily surreal, swirling ambience and disembodied voices singing ominously fragmentary lyrics inescapably grounded in the here and now. Their strange, enigmatic yet unselfconsciously relevant new album The Night Machines – streaming at Bandcamp– will convince you. This is the real Twin Peaks – the band, not the tv show – Julee Cruise for the teens.

The woodcut on the album cover depicts a suitjacketed wolf surrounded by hands – a pair of them uplifted in prayer, a couple others all bandaged up, another couple of prosthetic ones and one in a trap. But look closely and you’ll see that they’re all part of a noose descending toward the wolf’s head. It perfectly capsulizes what the music is about. The opening track, 24 hours (an original, not the manic-depressed Joy Division classic) sets the stage, banks of keening lo-fi synths mingling over what will quickly become an omnipresent, muted ka-chunk beat. The stream-of-consciousness lyrics channel a similarly inescapable gloom.

Track two, Tears of a Clown (they like to nick classic titles, don’t they?) packs repeated references to the prison-industrial complex into its icy, fuzzily cinematic sweep, an anthem for millions of disenfranchised Bernie Sanders supporters. Sixteen Forever (as in “only the dead stay sixteen forever”) takes on more of a hip-hop feel, as the video game synths shift through the sonic frame. Beyond a… blends the womens’ otherworldly Slavic-style close harmonies over a late 70s/early 80s drum machine shuffle.

True Believers is a proto new wave take on a familiar Richard Hell theme – and also maybe a thinly veiled slap at Ted Cruz-era religious bigotry. Walk the Water is an artfully assaultive clinic in getting a synth to sound like a screaming electric guitar: “Truth is virtually virginal,” the duo echo cynically. Nightlife sounds suspiciously like an even more cynical spoof of chillwave.

Mermaid is bittersweet, and sort of this album’s Octopus’ Garden – except that Ringo is a better singer than anybody in this band. Virginia Beach quickly turns into the bizarre missing link between Julee Cruise and the Ramones. The Week Is Coming On is an even catchier hybrid of triphoppy teens synth-pop and vintage new wave, and it’s surprisingly optimistic. “Triangulate, my love, we are the night machines,” one of the sisters’ voices wafts, affectless and pillowy-flat over twinkling nocturnal cascades on the album’s Cure-influenced concluding title cut. It raises more questions than its answers, an apt way to end this charmingly unsettling bunch of songs.

Flowers Bring Their Stellar-Voiced Rainy-Day Jangle and Clang to Two New York Shows

The last time this blog caught Flowers onstage, it was at one of those predictable, tantalizingly brief CMJ early afternoon gigs at Cake Shop in October of 2014. The British trio distinguish themselves with singalong melodies, late 80s Manchester after-the-rain guitars and frontwoman Rachel Kenedy’s pure, unadorned, almost crushingly direct chorister’s voice. She’s impossible to turn away from: you can get absolutely lost in her vocal flights, much in the same vein as another extraordinary British-born singer, Amanda Thorpe, who’s making a whirlwind trip through New York this month, with a stop at Hifi Bar on June 13 at 8 PM where she’s joined by fellow guitarists Steven Butler and Don Piper. Flowers are playing a couple of shows of their own on June 11: at 2 PM, they’re at Rough Trade for free, and if you can’t get away during the day and have a sawbuck to spare, you can catch them back at Cake Shop at around 10 that night.

Last time around, Kenedy’s voice lept and dove with an unselfconscious grace and a lock on perfect pitch while drummer Jordan Hockley and guitarist Sam Ayres kept close behind: the tunes in this band start with the voice and then the instruments fill in the blanks. They opened with Here with You, making their way methodically from plaintive jangle to buzzy guitar-and-drums lo-fi indie clang. From there, they followed a syncopated sway, their frontwoman moving counterintuitively back toward a summery, hazy delivery even while the music picked up. Hockley set down a jaunty shuffle groove for the soaring number after that, Ayres chopping at his chords with exacto-knife precision.

They hit an almost trip-hop groove afterward, then pounced through their most anthemic number of the afternoon, worked their way into an unexpectedly successful, funky drive and then gave Kenedy a platform for her most spectacular leaps and bounds of the evening. They closed with a stark, skeletal number, Kenedy playing bass. It’ll be interesting to see what other directions the band has branched out into since then.

Above the Moon Transcend an Awful Sound Mix to Play a Deliciously Catchy Friday Night Show

You would think that a sound guy would relish the opportunity to mix a set by twin-guitar rockers Above the Moon, considering how catchy, and interesting, and texturally delicious their songs are. And then there’s the matter of the lustre, and puwer, and nuance of frontwoman/guitarist Kate Griffin’s exquisite voice. What did the sound guy at Leftfied do last Friday night when somebody in the crowd asked for more vocals? Did he tweak a couple of inputs, maybe, lower the drums or the guitars a tad? Nope.

He took her vocals out of the mix. Just when you think you’ve seen it all, right? At least you’ll be able to hear her when the band plays an extremely rare acoustic set at 9:30 PM tomorrow night, May 25 at the Bitter End, where the Aquarian – sort of the across-the-Hudson counterpart to the Village Voice – has been staging nights of bands fron their home state. Cover is $10.

Last Friday, only in the quietest moments was that spun-crystal voice audible, and then only through the stage monitors. So for all intents and purposes, the band played an instrumental set. Although Griffin’s vocals are probably what everybody in the crowd came to hear, to the band’s credit, they held their own as an instrumental unit, testament to how memorable their tunesemithing is. The subtle upper-midrange distinctions between Griffin’s Telecaster – which she often ran through what sounded like an old analog chorus pedal for an expecially tasty, deep-space jangle – and lead guitarist James Harrison’s Strat, which he played using a wah for all sorts of subtle and dramatic oscillations – were front and center throughout the show. Bassist Shawn Murphy played bitingly tuneful, catchy lines high up the fretboard, Peter Hook style, often serving as a second lead guitar. Powerhouse drummer John Gramuglia built drama when he wasn’t swinging the midtempo stuff by the tail, or providing a punchy postpunk pulse.

Some of the material followed what would become a famiiar and very effective pattern, a tensely enigmatic verse into a big, clanging, triumphant payoff on the chorus. A couple of other numbers took that idea and flipped the script. On one hand, there were echoes of the jaggedly minimalistic insistence of 90s bands like Versus, and the occasional oblique swipe from Harrison back toward  vintage Sonic Youth or Shellac. On the other hand, there was always a hummable tune somewhere, whether in the big buildup to a chorus, or the melancholy twang of the midtempo number toward the end of the set that proved to be the night’s high point. On one hand, taking Griffin out of the mix was criminal, like hitting the mute during a Prince guitar solo. On the other, Above the Moon turned into a great instrumental band – for one show and one show only, let’s hope.

Holly Miranda Brings Her Twin Peaks Pop to a Rare Small Club Residency at Hell Phone in Bushwick

Holly Miranda is one of the most distinctive and consistently interesting singers around. The former Jealous Girlfriends frontwoman’s nuanced vocals are sort of a cross between Marissa Nadler at her most energetic, and Karla Rose in a pensive moment. Tunewise, Miranda is just as much an individualist: she can sing gospel with anybody, is drawn to vintage soul music but also has a thing for the 80s (and probably current bands that look back to that decade). She doesn’t waste notes, but she also likes artsy arrangements. Her most recent, self-titled album is streaming at Spotify. While her most recent New York shows have been at Bowery Ballroom, she’s playing a rare, intimate residency on Thursdays beginning April 28 through May 26 at around 9 at Hell Phone, the swanky, charmingly retro boite at 247 Varet St. in Bushwick. Cover is $10, or $15 which includes a download of her upcoming album. The place is steps away from the Morgan Ave. L stop.

In the meantime, we have the self-titled album to enjoy. The opening track, Mark My Words follows a steady upward trajectory into syncopated new wave, built around a dreamy chiming guitar riff matched by  Miranda’s gentle, considered vocals. Drony baritone sax mingling with distorted guitar adds an ominous undercurrent to the slow oldschool soul ballad Everlasting, which rises to a mighty, searing, guitar-fueled peak.

Whatever You Want brings to mind Amanda Palmer‘s poppiest solo work, as well as 80s groups like the Joboxers, who mashed up Motown with new wave. Come On is even poppier, with hints of hip-hop amid the glistening, enveloping sonics and fluttery dreampop guitars. Pelican Rapids is the great missing Twin Peaks soundtrack ballad, right down to the oscillating, overcast, warptone analog synth having loopy fun with the tv show’s title theme.

A more oblique take on Twin Peaks pop, Desert Call has an appropriately surreal, spacious, nocturnal resonance, more of that smoky sax and an especially wounded angst in Miranda’s voice: for someone whose stock in trade is enigmatic restraint, she really cuts loose here. With its twinkling, blue-neon guitars, The Only One is the most Lynchian and best song on the album.

The hypnotically waltzing Heavy Heart rises from echoes of 80s goth to a big art-rock crescendo: “You see the lights are dancing as you swallow the poison pill.” Miranda intones inscrutably. Until Now comes across as a mashup of the Twin Peaks C&W of Detroit’s Whiskey Charmers and Australian spacerock legends the Church. The album winds up with Hymnal, a launching pad for some spine-tingling, stratospheric vocal flights.

Oh yeah – in case you think Miranda’s catalog is limited to sad songs, you haven’t heard All I Want Is to Be Your Girl. It went viral when it came out, probably because she drops the f-bomb a bunch of times. Text the video to al your middle-school friends.

Above the Moon Bring Their Edgy Intensity to a Jersey City Triplebill Friday Night

This Friday, March 11 starting at 8 there’s a solid bill of three female-fronted acts at the Citizen, 332 2nd St. in Jersey City, about six blocks from the Grove St. Path station. The opening band, Pepperwine, works a sassy saloon blues vibe. Headliner Debra Devi, one of the most exhilarating and bluesily purist lead guitarists in psychedelic rock, plays a rare solo set.. In between there’s Above the Moon. who have an edgy, very 90s sound, blending noisy indie rock and propulsive powerpop in the same vein as Versus. Frontwoman/guitarist Kate Griffin has an edge in her voice that brings to mind Fontaine Toups and Ursa Minor‘s Michelle Casillas, although Above the Moon have a heavier sound, with their two guitars.

Their debut ep is up at Bandcamp as a free download. The opening track, Coat, has Griffin and lead player James Harrison’s guitars punching at each other up to the big, catchy chorus where they join forces. It’s an escape anthem of sorts: “It’s so warm I’ll leave my coat behind, for someone else to find, I won’t need it anymore,” Griffin asserts.

Bassist Shawn Murphy and drummer John Gramuglia give Easy a brisk groove that anchors it rather than letting it drift into skittish Strokes territory. Out of the Woods,with its burning, multitracked downstroke guitars and Griffin’s calmly warm vocals, is the closest thing to Versus here;  The final cut is a kiss-off number, Loving & Leaving, Griffin clear and resolute over a web of stabbing, bellicose minor-key guitar.

These songs have a sense of defiance and optimism despite it all. Blast this on your way home from work or school and feel good about yourself again. Discovering bands like Above the Moon makes all the drudge work of a music blog worth the effort.

Tim Kuhl’s St. Helena Build a Sound to Get Lost In at the Ace Hotel

Drummer Tim Kuhl‘s group St. Helena play some of the trippiest, most cinematic music of any band in New York. Current-day film composers from Angelo Badalamenti to Johann Johannsson seem to be an influence, as are minimalism, indie classical and jazz. The band are wrapping up their weekly February residency with a show at around 10 PM on February 28 in the comfortably spacious, lowlit lobby at the Ace Hotel (the old Breslin apartments building) at 20 W 29th St. just east of Broadway. There’s no cover, and there’s a laid-back bar just to the right of the elevators if you’d like a drink.

Their show this past Sunday was hypnotic, and enveloping, and absolutely entrancing in places. Kuhl is your typical elite drummer, with his fingers in a million pies – he’s also a jazz bandleader, when he’s not on tour with any number of rock bands, or playing a Manhattan residency as a member of folk noir crew Lorraine Leckie & Her Demons. This time out, Kuhl led the band from behind the kit, bolstered by Big Lazy’s Yuval Lion on syndrums, Jesske Hume on bass, Ryan Mackstaller on guitar and keys and Rick Parker on trombone, keys and mixer. There were also a couple of guest vocalists, one who did a surreallistically insistent spoken word cameo, working in tandem with the band to create a Lynchian newschool beat-jazz atmosphere.

What this band does live is what most other atmospheric acts would use electronics for – which is a big reason why they’re so interesting to watch. Midway through the set, Kuhl matched precision with raw power as he built a polar vortex of white noise with his cymbals, later employing a scrap heap worth of iron shakers for a creepy, ghostly effect. Rather than using a loop pedal, Hume took a tricky repetitive riff in 5/4 and played it slowly, over and over, with a precision to match the drums: no easy task.

The show followed a dynamic arc, slowly rising and then descending. Mackstaller built toward a twinkling fanfare with his echoey, minimalist lines as Kuhl slowly rolled out of a quasi-trip-hop groove toward a shuffling march beat. From there they worked a steady, slowly strolling 10/4 rhythm colored with warmly resonant, pastoral washes from Mackstaller’s guitar and looming, distantly ominous foghorn phrases from Parker’s trombone. Once again, Kuhl shifted meters so subtly that it wasn’t noticeable til it actually happened.

They picked things up with a dreampop-tinged postrock mood piece, again alluding to trip-hop but not quite going there. Then they brought things down with a surrealistically tremoloing sci-fi waltz of sorts before picking up the pace with what seemed to be a tongue-in-cheek, rhythmically shifting take on a New Orleans second-line bounce. Clanking prison-cell sonics contrasted with ghostly stairstepping bass amid the swirl as the show went on. They closed with a broodingly wistful, Lynchian theme and then a nebulously crescendoing motorik groove. No doubt there will be just as many trance-inducing flavors flickering in the shadows here this coming weekend.

Catchy Postpunk Tunefulness and Joyous Noise in Williamsburg Last Night

Melody and noise are two sides of the same coin. Martin Bisi and his band, and Parlor Walls know that, and work that dichotomy for all it’s worth. So did Guerilla Toss guitarist Arian Shafiee, who opened a vastly enjoyable bill featuring both those acts at Aviv in Williamsburg last night. His single, long, droning, pitchblende intro – “Like an invocation,” Parlor Walls frontwoman/guitarist Alyse Lamb beamed afterward – built a warm, welcoming ambience in the lowlit space, all the more resonant for Shafiee dedicating it to David Bowie.

Bisi and his three-piece European touring band kept the ultraviolet gleam going with a set that alternated between kinetic drive and a vortex of ominous low register sonics. The secret to this band’s sound, other than Bisi’s umpteen pedals, disembodied vocal loops and occasional whoops, is Diego Ferri’s baritone guitar. Sometimes he’d play straight-up basslines but other times went into trebly Peter Hook territory, then washes and bursts of chords to match the bandleader’s swirling menace. Rather than letting any song end cold, Bisi would let a chord linger, filter through the mix and then pulled out of the chaos toward another. Toweringly anthemic post-Velvets hooks swayed and punched side by side with shimmering pools of noise, muted Syd Barrett-ish motives and creepy chromatics ramped up a notch by Genevieve Kammel Morris’ ragingly insistent viola and washes of organ. Dummer Oliver Rivera Drew negotiated the thicket with a nimble pulse and drive: oldschool punk energy, newschool psychedelic atmosphere.

Parlor Walls drummer/organist Chris Mulligan chose to keep that murky river flowing. The segue between bands was so seamless that it was almost as if it was the same group onstage, if with completely different personalities. Parlor Walls never play a set or a song the same way twice: this was. an enveloping blanket of dreampop-laced, no wave-referencing postpunk. Alto saxophonist Kate Monahty was motionless, a human statue firing off slithery Coltrane gliesandos, coyly minnmalistic rhythmic bursts and squawks and austerely shifting sheets of sound. Lamb’s vocals bent and swayed with the music; likewise, the band would let the organ and guitar siren and shimmer, Lamb firing off a jagged phrase and then swooping to her pedalboard to sculpt an edge or extend the envelope. On their latest album, Cut, the opening track is a sort of mashup of indie classical circularity and droll faux “R&B” – onstage this time, they reinvented it as skittish postpunk. Likewise, they extended the stampeding miniature The Key into a fullscale gallop across a postapocalyptic plain.

Zs drummer Greg Fox closed the night with his Guardian Alien duo project with Eartheater’s Alex Drewchin. Swaying and bending, she intoned her vocals low over a rippling electroacoustic backdrop, shaping its edges via a mixer/keyboard as Fox clustered and circled with an elegance that brought to mind Lukas Ligeti’s more kinetic adventures in indie classical music. But by the end of the relatively brief (half-hour) set, Fox was machinegunning and volleying, at one point in 15/8 time. As precise and purposeful as the drums were, the pulsing, pointillistic electronic backdrop and the vocals were uneasy and messy, a long way from contentment. It ended the night on an aptly energetic yet enigmatic and restless note.

Parlor Walls are at the Citizen, 332 2nd St, about six blocks from the Grove St. Path station in Jersey City at around 10 on January 28, then they’re back with a couple of February shows at Shea Stadium and Trans-Pecos.

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 222 other followers