New York Music Daily

No New Abnormal

Tag: link wray

Wryly Expert, Wildly Catchy Retro 60s Psychedelia From Lucille Furs

Lucille Furs is not an obscure French actress, nor a store on West 30th Street in Manhattan selling unfashionable outerwear made from dead animals. Lucille Furs are a spot-on retro 60s psychedelic band with more of a Beatles influence than most. Their album Another Land is streaming at Bandcamp.

Unsurprisingly, the first instrument you hear in the title track, which opens the album, is Patrick Tsotsos’ slithery, trebly bass, playing a shivery, McCartneyesque, Come Together-ish riff.  Brendan Peleo-Lazar’s drums straighten the rhythm out, the spare, catchy minor-key reverb guitars of frontman Trevor Pritchett and Nick Dehmlow kick in along with Constantine Hastalis’ starry keys, and suddenly it’s 1967 again: the band really nail those vintage sonics. Here as elsewhere, the songs’ lyrics are gnomic and fantastical; it’s seldom clear what they’re about beyond a life of the mind, all synapses running at peak voltage.

With its trippy narrative and elegantly vaudevillian piano, Leave It As You Found It has a Penny Lane feel. First Do No Harm pulses along with that soaring, melismatic bass, awash in gorgeous layers of jangling, chiming twelve-string guitar and keening Farfisa. Paint Euphrosyne Blue could be one of the bluesier, vampier numbers from the White Album, at least until that noisy breakdown and wry early 70s-style twin guitar solo.

Sooner Than Later has a sparsely jangling, brooding 60s British psych-folk tune and a mellotron (or a good digital facsimile) back in the mix. The band build All Flowers Before Her around a familiar, insistent Link Wray riff, jaggedly reverbtoned textures panning the speakers. They straighten out of a hovering organ intro in Eventually. “You are back in that place where you smoke, in your room, and not once or twice…we’re glad to have you back!” Pritchett announces.

In Madredexilliados, the group blend tropical bursts from the keys, a clanging Secret Agent Man guitar riff and hints of surf from the drums. Sparkling with that twelve-string guitar, the album’s funniest and arguably most anthemic song is Karaoke Trials, something you definitely want to be saved from!

Opening with a Beatlesque descending progression and continuing with deliciously icy analog chorus-box guitar, it’s not clear what Pritchett misses most about The 34th Floor: the girl there, or the party. After that, the band revisit an uneasily steady Laurel Canyon jangle and more of those looming bass hammer-ons with Transmitting From the Blind Guard.

The album’s most expansive track, Almond Bees is the missing link between Abbey Road Beatles and the Byrds. The twelve-strings ring more brightly than anywhere else here on the final cut, No Word in English, a catchy country song at heart. If you’re a fan of nouveau psychedelic bands from the Jigsaw Seen, to the Chemistry Set and the Allah-Las, set the controls for the heart of this album..

Cinematic Instrumentals and Surfy Dance Tunes From Retro Instrumentalists the TarantinosNYC

The TarantinosNYC are one of New York’s most entertainingly cinematic bands. With a name like that, it would be pretty pathetic if they weren’t. In the spirit of the Ramones, all four Tarantinos – lead guitarist Paulie, bassist Tricia, keyboardist Louie and drummer Tony – are a rock family. They started out back in the late zeros playing Quentin Tarantino film music, then began writing originals. Their latest album, simply titled III is streaming at youtube; they’re headlining the monthly surf rock show at Otto’s tonight. March 7 at around midnight.

It’s a good lineup, starting at 9 with the deliciously creepy, Balkan-tinged Plato Zorba, then Link Wray cover band the Wraycyclers and at 11 Atomic Mosquitos spinoff Killers From Space. For anyone shuddering at the prospect at spending a Saturday night in the East Village, consider that these surf shows tend to draw an older and less Instagram-obsessed crowd, compared to the shrieking frat/sorority clusterfuck at the surrounding watering holes.

The band open the new album with a cover of Link Wray’s The Shadow Knows which with the organ is more elegantly enveloping than it is Frankenstein-ish – although that jaggedly tremolo-picked guitar bridge is spot-on. You’re Gonna Lose That Curl, the first of the originals, is an upbeat early 60s-style go-go surf tune with roller-rink organ and Wipeout drums.

With a luscious blend of twelve-string guitars and keys, their instrumental version of the Grass Roots’ Midnight Confessions – from the Jackie Brown soundtrack – blows away the original. After that, (Please Don’t) Dead End follows a familiar series of progressions, like a slicker take on classic-era Ventures.

The group put a surreal latin soul spin on a sentimental old Beach Boys ballad and follow that with Shaken Not Stirred, a mashup of Balkanized Ventures and crime jazz that weirdly works much better than you’d think (this band do that kind of thing A LOT). They wrap up the record with the moody Vegas noir ballad Holding You in My Mind, with an aptly enigmatic vocal by guest Elena Barakhovski. If you like your surf sounds on the diverse and surprising side, you should also check out their fantastic 2015 release Surfin’ the Silver Screen.

Twin Guns Bring Their Searing Noir Intensity to a Revered, Repurposed East Village Spot

Are Twin Guns the best straight-up rock band in New York right now? They could be. Since the early zeros, the trio of guitarist Andrea Sicco, former Cramps drummer Jungle Jim and bassist Kristin Fayne-Mulroy have put out three volcanic, creepy, reverb-oozing albums that blend punk, garage rock, horror surf and spaghetti western sounds. Their latest one, Imaginary World – streaming at Bandcamp – continues in the more ornate, menacingly psychedelic direction of their previous release The Last Picture Show. Their next gig is tomorrow night, June 14 at 9:30 PM at Coney Island Baby, the former Brownies and Hifi Bar space. Cover is $12.

The new album begins with the title cut, Sicco’s menacingly reverberating layers of guitar over steady, uneasy tom-toms and cymbal splashes, the bass a looming presence deep in the mix. As the surreal tableau builds, Sicco adds roaring, pulsing and keening slide guitar textures, a one-man psychedelic punk guitar army.

100 Teenage Years follows a furtively vampy Laurel Canyon psych-folk tangent in the same vein as the Allah-Las. Cannibal Soul is a twisted waltz, Fayne-Mulroy supplying hypnotic fuzztone growl beneath Sicco’s slowly uncoiling, macabre layers of chromatics, a sonic black velvet cake. Then the trio mash up doom metal and horror surf in Dark Is Rising, funeral organ tremoloing over a crushing Bo Diddley beat.

Complete with a peppy horn section, Portrait in Black could be the darkest faux bossa Burt Bacharach ever wrote – or Tredici Bacci in especially mean, sarcastic mode. The band revisit their more straight-ahead vintage garage rock roots with the shuffling Sad Sad Sunday, then move forward thirty years to the hypnotically riff-driven Blueberry Sugar, which sounds like the Brian Jonestown Massacre playing Motown.

Sociopath is a straight-up zombie strut, Sicco artfully adding layers around the skeleton. The lush, bleak dirge House on the Hill brings unexpected plaintiveness and gravitas to the playlist, followed by the album’s most ep[ic track, Endless Dream, rising from 60s riff-rock to BJM spacerock to melancholy psych-folk and a final sampede out.

There are also three bonus tracks. My Baby, awash in a toxic exhaust of white noise, drifts from punk R&B toward the outer galaxies. Sick Theater might be the album’s best and creepiest track, a macabre, funereal, organ-infused waltz. The final song is Late at Night, an evilly twinkling, hypnotic way to wrap up one of the most unselfconsciously fun and intense albums in recent memory.

Heaters Bring Their Envelopingly Tuneful Psychedelia to South Williamsburg

Heaters‘ new album Baptistina – soon to be streaming at Bandcamp, and available on both green and black vinyl – further cements their reputation as one of the world’s most consistently excellent dark retro psychedelic bands. What’s most impressive about them is that a close listen reveals how seldom they change chords. They can vamp out on one for minutes on end and it never gets boring because there are so many interesting things going on, texturally and melodically: repeaterbox echoes flitting through the mist, shifting sheets of feedback and jagged twelve-string guitar incisions in contrast with an enveloping quality that seems to draw on Indian classical music as much as it does classic 60s psychedelia. The trio – guitarist Nolan Krebs, guitarist/bassist Andrew Tamlyn and drummer Joshua Korf – also shift tempos on a dime, making things all the more strange and compelling. They’re playing the album release show at Baby’s All Right on August 5 at 10 PM; cover is $10.

The obvious influence is the 13th Floor Elevators, but there’s also a little early Country Joe & the Fish as well as Brian Jonestown Massacre in the mix as well as a whole slew of other influences. The sonics are period-perfect: guitars awash in reverb with a clanging, slightly tinny vintage Vox amp attack, trebly melodic bass hanging back with the drums. The opening track, Centennial, begins with a Byrdsy jangle and ends with White Light/White Heat guitar freakout .The lushly crescendoing Ara Pacis puts Syd Barrett on a Magical Mystery Tour bus, while the expansive soundscape Orbis brings to mind early Nektar.

Elephant Turner pounces along on a tricky fuzz bass riff, sinuous guitar interweave overhead. Garden Eater sets a nimbly scampering bassline over a steady, swirly stomp and then floats off into spacerock. Another catchy fuzztone bassline fuels Dali, which then sinks in a morass of trippy waves. Then the band picks things up again with Mango, referencing both the Kinks as well as early 70s proto-metal.

The resonant spacerock ambience returns as the band sets the controls for the heart of the sun in Voyager. The album winds up with the teasingly loopy instrumental Turkish Gold and then the catchy, propulsively tumbling Seafoam, Del Shannon on brown acid, winidng up with the longest, most searing guitar solo here. This is music for people who won’t settle for merely being stoned: it’s a soundtrack for getting high as a kite.

Their excellent, somewhat more kinetic previous album Holy Water Pool is also streaming at Bandcamp, for the most part. Kamikaze, a slowly simmering, echo-drenched minor-key neo-Elevators number, opens it, bass rising as the chorus winds up, twelve-string guitar piercing the reverb cloud. There’s also the loping and then frantic spaghetti western blues of Master Splinter; the careenng Highway 61 vamp Sanctuary Blues; Propane, with its spiky/drony neo-Velvets sway and artfully menacing rhythmic shifts. the jangly, catchy Hawaiian Holiday and its playful tv theme references; the uneasy Bakersfield twang-influenced Detonator Eyes; Bad Beat, a mashup of early Pretty Things, Brian Jonestown Massacre and Radio Birdman; the starlit stoner soul of Gum Drop; Honey, a Blues Magoos/Count Five hybrid; Cap Gun, which very cleverly nicks the chords from a new wave-era cheeseball hit; and Dune Ripper, part BJM, part Byrds. The band takes their time with each of these, although they don’t go on nearly as long as that previous sentence.

Jones Beach Bring Some Cool, Reverb-Drenched Surf Sounds to Bushwick

Jake Jones is a one-man surf band, at least on record. He’s sort of the Elliott Smith of surf, not in the sense that he’s ripping off Badfinger or George Harrison (or Elliott Smith, for that matter), but because he plays all the instruments himself, in this case just guitar multitracks and drums. His surf rock project, coyly titled Jones Beach, has a couple of eps up for free download at Bandcamp that you should grab if surf music is your thing. Jones Beach – presumably with at least one other person in the group at this point – also have a Bushwick show coming up on December 13 at around 9 in the back room at Pine Box Rock Shop, 12 Grattan St. just a couple of blocks from the Morgan Ave. L train.

The longer of the two ep’s is The Craze, and it’s pretty consistent all the way through. Jones likes the upbeat, major-key side of surf. The production is on the tinny, trebly side, which kind of makes sense since there’s no bass, just guitars and drums, and Jones has the reverb tank set to stun. His songwriting is distinctive and original: while he likes the classics, particularly the Ventures, it’s hard to think of anybody who’s writing this kind of stuff these days. Jones keeps it simple: he’s got a classic pop sensibility, likes to play on the beat and favors a clean, uncluttered guitar tone. The strongest tracks are Burn Out, a strutting, staccato Ventures-style two-chord space-surf vamp; Revenge, which unlike what the title would imply, isn’t horror surf or even minor-key but instead has hints of Orbison pop; Poison, with echoes of loping desert rock; and Fun Fun Fun, the most Link Wray-influenced track here, with some neat call-and-response between a couple of the guitar tracks.

The Lonely Boy ep has just three song: the title cut, Lemon Drop and the JB Shuffle. The first gets a really psychedelic echo effect going, with what sounds like a repeaterbox on the rhythm track: it’s the coolest song of all the Bandcamp tunes. The other two tracks surf up oldschool soul vamps. That back room at Pine Box is closed off from the rest of the bar, and the big meat-market scene that you have to muscle through to get back there tends to be oblivious to the fact that the place has music at all. But this band will probably draw an awful lot of people back there once the crowd hears what’s going on.

The TarantinosNYC Surf the Silver Screen

The TarantinosNYC use that name to distinguish themselves from the Tarantinos, a UK band who play a diverse mix of songs from Quentin Tarantino films. The TarantinosNYC do some of that, but they also write originals. They’re best known as a surf band, but as you would hope from a group with a film fixation, they have a cinematic side. Their music is catchy, and fun, and sometimes pretty creepy, much more unpredictable and occasionally epic than what most straight-up surf outfits typically play. Between them, lead guitarist Paulie Tarantino, bassist Tricia Tarantino, keyboardist/rhythm guitarist Brian Tarantino and drummer Joey Tarantino make up one of New York’s most consistently interesting, original, entertaining bands. They have a new album, Surfin’ the Silver Screen coming out and a release show this Friday, May 15 at 11 PM at Lucille’s Bar, adjacent to B.B. King’s on 42nd St. Cover is $10.

Shindig – one of the six first-class originals here – makes a good opener: purist reverb surf guitar hitched to swirly organ, the rhythm section holding a classic Ventures beat. The organ and digital production give it a more current feel, yet also enable the band to put their own stamp on it. Bullwinkle Pt. 2 is the first cover, lowlit with Paulie’s lingering, noir, reverb-drenched tremolo-bar chords. Then they reinvent You Only Live Twice as a glittery showstopper, Brian’s organ front and center. It’s almost like ELO doing a surf song – and if you don’t think ELO could play surf music, you haven’t heard their version of a well-worn Grieg theme.

Dust-Up, another original, mashes up hints of monster surf and a Dell Shannon standard: it’s hard to imagine any band other than this one that would have come up with something this improbably successful. Their cover of Son of a Preacher Man brings to mind the Ventures’ psychedelic period – yikes! But then they get serious again with Our Man Flint/Dr. Evil, first doing an old hymn as surf, then channeling pretty much every dance rock style from the 60s in under three minutes

Quincy Jones’ Soul Bossa Nova is a bizarre hybrid of roller-rink theme, garage psychedelia, a vintage soul strut and artsy late 70s Britpop. With its vamping repeaterbox guitar and some dancing tremolo-picking from Paulie, Spanish Steps sounds like Link Wray in a hurry to get a Lee Hazlewood desert rock groove on tape. There are two versions of another instrumental, Our Man in Amsterdam, the second harder and more garage-rock oriented – it’s hard to figure where the Amsterdam connection comes in.

The theme from Django – Tarantino’s best film by a mile – gets a richly watery, jangly, psychedelic arrangement with layers of acoustic and electric guitar and keys that elevates it above the cartoonish original. Pushed along by Tricia’s dancing, period-perfect early 70s soul bassline, Lo Chiamavano King comes across as a more artsy take on what could pass for a big Roy Ayers title theme.

Elena Barakhovski contributes soaring vocalese on Korla’s Theme, an artfully nebulous, ominously crescendoing Dick Dale-style Red Sea stomp with all kinds of cool variations – it might be the album’s best song. Then they slow things down to a misterioso swing with an impressively lush cover of Shake Some Evil by 90s cult heroes Shadowy Men on a Shadowy Planet. Positraction, another original, manages to blend Booker T, 60s go-go music, surf and swing without anybody in the band stepping on anybody else. Then they do Les Baxter’s Hell’s Belles as blazing psychedelic soul. The album ends with Man from Nowhere, a rare spy-surf gem first recorded by Shadows bassist Jet Harris on the soundtrack to the obscure British film Live It Up, pairing a brooding baritone guitar hook against uneasily airy keys. Surf bands typically live for rarities, but this is an especially sweet find. For that matter, so is the whole record. While it  hasn’t hit the usual spots yet, cds are available, and there are a handful of tracks up at the band’s Soundcloud page.

Eilen Jewell: Lynch Girl With Guitar and Brilliant Band

Watching Eilen Jewell in her black dress in daylight, leading her brilliant band earlier this evening outside City Winery, was surreal. The self-described Queen of the Minor Key is best appreciated after dark under low lights. But the unlikely early hour didn’t stop her from turning the parking lot out back of the club into a noir movie set, sonically speaking at least. Jewell’s jeweled voice works the corners of dark Americana with a casual menace that’s just short of lurid: she’s always a step ahead of you, never giving in to the temptation to go over the top.

Her band was phenomenal. Guitarist Jerry Miller (not to be confused with the guy from alt-country pioneers Moby Grape) was, as he’s put it before, “Duane Eddy, Link Wray and James Burton rolled into one.” At this show he was also Otis Rush, and Steve Cropper, and Buck Owens, sometimes all of them within the span of a few bars. Miller’s twangy,  tremoloing blue-flame nonchalance made the perfect counterpart to Jewell’s aching, angst-tinged restraint. Drummer Jason Beek did the Tim O’Reagan thing on harmony vocals – the guy’s an excellent singer – while bassist Johnny Sciascia hit hard and tersely and kept the shuffles on the straight and narrow. Dark as Jewell’s music is, between songs, she was deviously charming, at one point giving a shout out to the club’s sangria. You know, the one thing that a wine bar wants to be known for.

In over an hour onstage, they gave a clinic in just about every style of elegantly dark Americana, ending pretty much everything they played with a big crescendo from the guitars and a ka-THUMP from the drums. Let’s hope somebody had the presence of mind to record this show and put it up at archive.org, where there’s more tantalizing live stuff from her. They played up the honkytonk energy in Loretta Lynn’s Give Me a Lift and the countrypolitan sophistication of Stonewall Jackson’s That’s Why I’m Walking, gave Eric Andersen’s Dusty Boxcar Wall a dusky southwestern gothic edge and ended the night with a long, haphazardly dangerous version of Shaking All Over with Miller flatpicking his way up to a wry Gloria quote.

But the originals were the best. The band got the after-hours neon ambience going with the bluesy, noir Where They Never Saw Your Name, Miller channeling Otis Rush’s All Your Love, and segued into the equally shadowy, even catchier Sea of Tears. Jewell brought it down and let her voice tremolo out a little at the end to match Miller’s guitar on a slowy, achingly Lynchian version of her torch ballad Only One, followed by the swampy shuffle Bang Bang Bang – which casts Cupid as a psychopath – and then the apprehensively swinging High Shelf Blues, more of a lament than a drinking song.

This blog once likened the swaying oldschool country ballad Breathless to Laura Cantrell covering X, and Jewell validated that description. A haunting new song possibly titled One More Time featured Miller playing at the murky bottom of his strings, as if on a baritone guitar. Going Back to Dallas, from Jewell’s first album (which her old label refused to supply her with for this show, she told the crowd) was just as purposeful and brought back the foreboding edge – could it be a Lee Harvey Oswald reference, maybe? They followed with the slow, regretful summery sway of Boundary County, a homage to Jewell’s native Idaho, then the uneasy janglerock of Home to Me, then began the encores with the defiant If You Catch Me Stealing and then the haunting, Julia Haltigan-esque I’m Gonna Dress in Black with its St. James Infirmary vibe. Fans in Westchester county can catch Jewell tomorrow night, July 10 at the Turning Point in Piermont at around 7:30.

Dark Retro Garage and Soul Sounds from Sallie Ford & the Sound Outside

Portland, Oregon band Sallie Ford & the Sound Outside mix retro guitar influences from the 60s into a defiantly unique, high-energy sound that’s part garage rock and part oldschool soul, with a lot of Link Wray snarl as well. They’re playing a free show at Pier 84 at 44th St. and the Hudson at around 8 PM on July 11; their latest album, Untamed Beast is streaming at Soundcloud.

“Never gonna apologize for being so intense, how the hell would that make any sense?” Ford sneers on the opening track, They Told Me, over drummer Ford Tennis’ caveman stomp, bassist Tyler Tornfelt going way up and hitting hard over the lingering Link Way Rumble menace of the two guitars. On the funky, doo wop-infused Addicted, Ford slashes and tremolo-picks against lead guitarist Jeffrey Munger’s resonant, reverb-drenched lines, building to a firestorm of trumpet, backing vocals and chord-chopping. “I know where the party can be found…dancing in the living room, drinking white wine,” Ford grins over a snarling minor-key soul vamp on Party Kids. Bad Boys works agile handoffs between the two guitars over a dark minor-key soul vamp lit up by a couple of slashing Dick Dale-style slides down the scale; then Ford pushes the beat on the slow, sultry, luridly noir Shivers.

Devil takes an oldtime gospel vamp and makes a rockabilly shuffle out of it. The album’s best song, Paris takes a richly successful, tuneful turn into open-tuned acoustic country blues. Do Me Right works a slyly innuendo-packed litany of food for a hokum blues vibe over a 60s soul shuffle. Lip Boy pounds along on a boomy, Cramps-y surf groove. Munger’s savage surf playing brings Rockability to a screaming peak; the album winds up with the surprisingly laid-back, acoustic Roll Around, Ford wishing for an escape back to the 50s away from teens technology overkill.

Another cool thing about this album, and about this band, is that while everything they’re doing has been done before, they don’t lapse into cliche or go over the top. Ford could put  a snotty pout into her nonchalantly sweaty alto delivery and probably get away with it, and the rest of the band could recycle more well-worn licks than they do. But they don’t. Much as they’ve got the 60s sound down so cold that someone hearing them might assume that these songs were recorded 45 years ago, nobody is going to confuse this band with anybody else.

Twin Guns’ New Album: Dark Reverb Central

Twin Guns’ new album Sweet Dreams is all about the reverb: waves, and waves, and waves of it. What’s most amazing about the album is that it’s just two members, guitarist Andrea Sicco and drummer Jungle Jim (formerly of the Cramps and the Makers).  Recorded by Hugh Pool at Brooklyn’s famed Excello studios and produced by Heavy Trash’s Matt Verta-Ray, it’s a feast of menacing retro guitar sonics. In fact, there’s so much guitar, you don’t even notice that there’s no bass. Fans of vintage equipment will have a field day guessing which amps and guitars are getting a workout. And while you could pigeonhole this as garage rock or ghoulabilly, it transcends any label you could stick on it. It’s just good. Fans of loud, dark rock have a lot to enjoy here. One good band this resembles sometimes is bass-less two-guitar Pennsylvania garage/punk rockers the Brimstones.

The title track is a pounding, syncopated monster surf instrumental with hollers of pain – or something like pain – echoing in the background. It’s the great lost track from the acid trip sequence in Jack Nicholson’s The Trip. The second cut blends ghoul-garage rock with a relentlessly assaultive Radio Birdman vibe. “I always turned away from love to be with all my demons,” Sicco explains.

They follow that with a snarling fuzztone riff-rocker, then a slowish G-L-O-R-I-A vamp with reverbtoned harmonica. Never Satisfied moves ominously from echoing spaghetti western riffage, to a chromatically-charged menace, to a Psychotic Reaction verse and then gets slow and creepy again. The Creeper sounds like Morricone doing Link Wray, while Teenage Boredom, arguably the album’s best song, infuses Lynchian 60s-pop with layers and layers of guitar, tremoloing, smoldering, pulsing, filling every corner of the sonic picture like liquid pitchblende, lethal but irresistible.

Bloodline nicks the riff from Bela Lugosi’s Dead, adds an Apache drumbeat and echoes of the 13th Floor Elevators. Mystery Ride mingles screaming cowpunk and goth, with a tasty, surfy outro. Motor City – a tribute to the Ludlow Street bar, maybe? – blends Syd Barrett and X influences. The album ends with the slow, Gun Club-style dirge Wild Years, taking on a macabre bolero surf edge as its murky waves rise. As far as creating a mood and keeping it going, this is as good as it gets. An early, sonically luscious contender for best rock record of 2013. The whole thing is streaming at Twin Guns’ Bandcamp page.

New York Surf City

There’s a method to the madness of covering so many outdoor concerts here. At some point in our lifetime, all these shows will be just a memory. Sooner or later at this time in August in New York, it might not be technically impossible to put on an outdoor show, but it’ll be unrealistic to expect anyone to come out into the heat and watch it. For the moment, it’s good that we have Julie Rozar, part of the brain trust behind the snarkily entertaining Alien Surfer Babes and Witches in Bikinis, and Deb Noble of Blue Stingraye Productions, who emceed a summer storm of surf bands Saturday afternoon on the Coney Island boardwalk out in front of the Wonder Wheel. They’d actually scheduled most of these bands for a concert here last year, but then Mayor Bloomberg decided to shut down the city for the “hurricane” which of course never arrived. Was this eclectic lineup worth waiting almost a year for? Depends on your heat tolerance. Even with a gusty breeze off the ocean, Coney Island was sweltering, and the show was scheduled to go into the early evening, with Connecticut’s Commercial Interruption followed by Long Island’s Strange But Surf, psychedelic Ohio instrumentalists Purple k’niF, the retro, purist Clams, Boston horror surf maniacs Beware The Dangers Of A Ghost Scorpion and then the ASB’s headlining [excellent set of photos on Flickr].

The early part of the show was full of examples of why surf rock is so much fun, and why it’s sometimes so exasperating. Spontaneous dancing was breaking out everywhere, even during at least two versions of Surf City Here We Come (there might have been more as the afternoon went on, you never know). Both Commercial Interruption and Strange But Surf write good original songs: they don’t have to fall back on cheeseball covers like that. There’s unfortunately a bunch of those in the surf repertoire along with classics like Misirlou (Strange But Surf’s closing tune) and Pipeline (Commercial Interruption opened with that one: since they’ve got a keyboard, their version was especially cool, in the spirit of the original). Since their songs don’t usually have lyrics, surf bands have to get over on music alone, which explains why so many good players end up becoming part of the surf music cult. Commercial Interruption, whose name alludes to the fact that they do a lot of old tv themes, covered an impressive range of styles, starting with the Mothers of Invention, complete with a noisy psychedelic freakout mid-song and then an amusing segue into a series of corny 70s hits including the Andrea True Connection’s immortal More, More, More. From there they tackled a couple of early Beatles tunes, then the loping C&W of The Magnificent Seven, and eventually a breezy, jazzy I Dream of Jeannie theme. Their frontman/bass player took a couple of solos full of slides and punchy chords that managed to be flashy but not stupid; they also did a couple of edgy, stomping minor-key originals.

Strange But Surf’s originals were also the highlight of their roughly 45-minute set, as they switched instruments, had fun putting their own spin on the Ramones’ “hey ho, let’s go,” sped up Lee Hazlewood’s spaghetti western theme Baja to a gallop, unearthed Where the Action Is (a mid-60s Dick Clark show theme) and turned Marbles, their drummer loose on guitar and vocals on The Martians Are Pissed. After swooshing their way through the Avengers Theme, Link Wray’s grandson joined them for a surprise appearance on guitar for The Rumble: as far as brushes with surf rock royalty go, it doesn’t get much more personal than that. There’s another free show here on August 18 with Witches in Bikinis headlining at 7.

The surf didn’t stop when the tide came up and the sun went down, either. Since this was the first Saturday of the month, tireless promoter Unsteady Freddie was putting on his monthly surf show at Otto’s. By half past eleven, the Tarantinos NYC had taken the stage. They’re an unlikely-looking bunch – jazz drummer, metal guitarist, rock bassist and pop keyboardist – but they have the kind of chemistry that comes from constant gigging and the kind of diverse, cinematic sound their name implies. And they don’t just do songs from Tarantino movies: this particular show featured a lot of unpredictable, anthemic originals, a digression into Link Wray like the one on the boardwalk earlier in the day but with a lot more alcohol involved, and finally a majestically lurid version of Henry Mancini’s You Only Live Twice.

For anybody who might have questioned the decision to put a psychedelic Greek rembetiko band at the top of the bill, the Byzan-tones’ eerie, chromatic, sometimes microtonally-spiked stomp generated a lot more spontaneous dancing and absolutely stunned the crowd: it was half past one in the morning by the time they finished, but nobody left the room. Recently regrouped, with Steve Antonakos’ guitar taking the place of the electric oud they employed back in the mid-zeros, they’re once again one of New York’s best bands. From the apprehensive, Arabic-tinged Byzan-Tone Beat, to the tricky Black Sea tempos of Pontic Pipeline, to the high point of the night, a murky chromatic vamp that morphed into a macabre samba, the intensity didn’t let up. In his resonant baritone, frontman/guitarist George Sempepos intoned a somber yet bouncy rembetiko song about a street urchin bumming for cigarettes and accosting the wrong guy (who turned out to be a cop; the kid asks him anyway). The music got a little bit lighter, with one number that sounded like a syncopated version of the Stones’ Beast of Burden before going back into the shadows with a slinky, furtive vamp that Antonakos lit up with some surrealistically searing slide work and then a warped variation on the Peter Gunne theme. They closed with a tongue-in-cheek song called Crawfish Saganaki, pulsing along on a Bo Diddley beat. All this made dealing with the heat seem like afterthought.