New York Music Daily

Global Music With a New York Edge

Tag: new wave

La Femme Bring Le Noir to Williamsburg on the 19th

There’s no French equivalent to Halloween, but French band La Femme play as if they grew up with the American holiday. The core of the group comprises frontman/keyboardist Marlon Magnée, chanteuse/keyboardist Clémence Quélenneche, guitarist Sacha Got and bassist Sam Lefevre. Their June Summerstage show was tantalizingly eclectic, neither as dark nor as trippy as their previous studio output. While their latest album Mystere – streaming at Spotify  – is arguably their most diverse to date, there’s enough menace on it to entice you in and then keep you there with all its catchy hooks, both light and dark. The songs’ French lyrics range from surreal humor, to broodingly cinematic narratives, to punk hostility. La Femme are back in New York this Oct 19 at 7 PM at Warsaw in Williamsburg. Cover is $18.

The opening track, Sphynx, lives up to its inscrutable title – at heart, it’s a ba-bump noir cabaret number, but lit up with a swirly, circling synth hook and a big, ominously blustery string synth arrangement. La Vide Est Ton Nouveau Prenom (Empty Is Your New Name) follows a moody psych-folk sway, sparse acoustic guitar blending with mournful keys. Ou Va le Monde (Where’s the World Going?) sets Magnée’s apprehensive rap over the brooding surf rock that’s been the group’s signature sound, more or less, since the beginning. with a weird, achingly warped keyboard solo out.

The band takes an unexpectedly sunny detour with Septembre. notwithstanding the clever outro where they reintroduce a Jesus & Mary Chain theme to its Velvets roots. Tatiana sounds like the Black Angels on whippits (with a little Plastic Bertrand thrown in), while both SSD and Elle Ne T’Aime Pas (She Doesn’t Like You) come across as a Gallic take on Pulp during the British band’s snide pseudo-disco days.

Exorciseur (a pun on “exorcist”) nicks the changes from the national anthem of grunge and makes swaying psychedelia out of it. Mycose is a sardonically lyrical mashup of surf music, motorik disco and Planet Clare new wave. Tueur Des Fleurs (Flower Killer), with its low, looming string synth and Lychian tremolo guitar, is the album’s darkest and arguably best track. The dubby, ethereal, late Beatlesque Al Warda is ominously enticing; and the loping, surfy Psyzook, with Quélenneche’s stratospheric, airy vocals, is arguably even more mysterious.

Le Chemin (The Road) could be a dangerous early Dream Syndicate track if that group had been more keyboard-oriented. The album winds up with Vagues (Clouds), the epic that Julee Cruise never tackled. About 40% of this makes a first-class Halloween playlist; the rest you can sprinkle around your party mixes.

A Deliciously Catchy, Rewarding Quadruplebill at Berlin Last Night

It’s usually too much to ask someone to stick around through four bands in a row. But the quadruplebill last night at Berlin was worth it, four short sets and good segues between them.

Lily Virginia opened, solo. Her moody, mostly minor-key songs came across as a more organic take on corporate urban pop. It was cool that she played electric guitar rather than acoustic, with a dirty tone that gave her songs extra bite. She’s a solid player with a good sense of melody, even venturing into jazz chords in places. Her signature sound is that she runs her vocals through a pitch pedal for harmonies, and octaves, and all kinds of effects that ran the gamut from surreal to comedic. She’s playing the album release show for her new one at SoHo House, 29 9th Ave. in the meatpacking district on Nov 16, time TBA. Let’s hope that the songs on it are as richly textured and soulful as her set was: it’s easy to imagine a producer taking them and running hogwild with cheesy effects like drum machines and autotune.

Is there a style of music that Maya Lazaro can’t write in? Apparently not. The former Mariachi Flor de Toloache guitarist and singer led her tight, inspired band through a consistently catchy, dazzlingly eclectic mix of songs. When she wasn’t weilding her Telecaster, she was dancing, showing off some serious moves. Decked out in what looked like a pashmina over a casual studio outfit, she crouched and pounced and spun like a young Annabella Lwin (if you have a soft spot for the kind of new wave sounds that Lazaro has so much fun with, you get the reference). Matching power with dynamics and some misty mystery, she opened with Premonition, which sounded like it could have been from Madonna’s first album but with a biting reggae guitar edge. The second number, Cave Diving, was straight-up roots reggae in a John Brown’s Body vein, with a wry wah-wah organ solo at the end

From there the band – guitarist JR Atkins, keyboardist Michael Hesselin, bassist Nate Allen and drummer Kyle Olson – wound through Fever in My Mind, a tightly scampering Elvis Costello-esque new wave tune complete with a swirly Steve Nieve-style organ solo out as the bandleader swayed and twirled. Her latest single, No. 89 opened with watery chorus-box guitar over a laid-back clave beat – oldschool soul drifting gently through the prism of new wave –  slide guitar contrasting with uneasily twinkly keys.

Love on the Street could have been the great hit single that Cindy Lauper never wrote. Next, the group launched into August Night, a straight-up backbeat highway rock tune that could have been vintage Springsteen, or the BoDeans with an alluring voice out front. The slide guitar solo out completed the picture. They saved the catchiest and most unexpected number, Stranger- a song that could be the great lost anthem on side 2 of Purple Rain – for last, Lazaro wailing, “Don’t wanna be a stranger anymore” on the way to a cold ending. She and the band play next on Nov 13 at around 10 at Footlight Bar, 465 Seneca Ave. (at Hamman) in Ridgewood; the excellent, more inscrutable and mistier Ivy Meissner precedes her at around 9. Take the L to DeKalb Ave.

The City and Horses played the night’s longest set, lots of funky, swinging mashups of new wave and 70s soul music as Elvis Costello or the Style Council used to do it – or as Lazy Lions do it now. They’re fantastic musicians. The two guitarists – frontman Marc Cantone and Shane Connerty – exchanged neat exchanges of furious tremolo-picking, when the latter wasn’t adding judicious resonance or biting funk-tinged riffs. They opened with a neo-mod romp and then a swaying soul-tinged anthem, Cantone looking back fondly on a teenage stoner girlfriend – or would-be girlfriend. This band’s songs are packed with funny lyrics, wry metaphors and self-effacing humor. The rhythm section – bassist Matt Manhire and drumme Chris Mirtalla – distinguished themselves with a couple of spot-on 70s disco interludes.

Most of their songs had one-word titles, the funniest of these being Space (as in, “I’ll give you space,” along with every planet in the solar system), winding up with a long, nebulous outro from keyboardist/alto saxophonist Nikki D’Agostino. Another number had a really funny verse where Cantone considered every member of the Rolling Stones’ lineup before he finally tells the girl, “I’ll be your Charlie Watts.” They wound up the set with the bitterly but bouncy We’ll Never Be Discovered and its rapidfire, noir-jazz spoken-word verses – on the surface, it’s about a tryst, but there’s a whole other level of meaning. Discovering a random band this good, late on a work night, makes all this running around town worthwhile.

And the Cabana Kids – guitarist/singer Joseph Lee and singer/percussionist Kiki Karamintzas – sent the crowd home on a rapturous note with their gorgeously bittersweet 60s flavored pop tunes. Lee played a Rickenbacker for extra jangle and clang, opening with the heartbreakingly beautiful ballad I Don’t Know Where You Are Now . It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to put the duo’s woundedly soaring harmonies in the same class with the Everly Brothers. From there the two moved back and forth between romping, vampy, upbeat janglepop and austere, lowlit laments, closing with a lascivious pop number. The night was over around half past midnight but could have gone on for another hour or more and nobody would have complained. Further proof that in the East Village these days, Sunday and Monday really are the new Friday and Saturday night.

The Grasping Straws Bring Their Feral Intensity to Bushwick Friday Night

With her dynamic, sometimes feral wail that often recalls Grace Slick or Ann Wilson, guitarist Mallory Feuer fronts the Grasping Straws, one of the most riveting bands in New York right now. Last month at Mercury Lounge, they headlined one of this year’s best shows, a mighty triplebill with Gold and A Deer A Horse opening with equally captivating sets. This Friday night, Sept 23 at 10 PM, Feuer is bringing her fiery four-piece, two-guitar group to Gold Sounds in Bushwick; cover is $10.

The Grasping Straws have been through some lineup changes, but they’ve really solidified their uneasily catchy sound with the addition of lead guitarist Marcus Kitchen (who also plays in the similarly dark if slightly less ferocious trio Mischief Night, wihere Feuer switches to drums). At the Mercury show, they opened with what could have been the great missing track from Patti Smith’s Radio Ethiopia, the tense clang of the two guitars over Sam Goldfine’s catchy bass hook on the turnaround. The band’s first detour into lingering, rhythmically tricky, enigmatic rainy-day Britpop suddenly took a savage leap into the post-grunge era on the chorus, and then back, on the wings of Jim Bloom’s elegantly shuffling drumss

The big crowd-pleaser Sad State of Affairs came across as a messy yet wickedly tight post-Silver Rocket SY hit. Rolling toms propelled the more brooding. rainswept number after that, rising toward resolution on the chorus as Feuer’s voice dipped and slashed – then they took it toward sludgy metal terrain as the frontwoman’s wail rose over the thump

A pointillistic pulse anchored by Goldfine’s bass incisions kicked off an anthemic, period-perfect 1982-style new wave-flavored song with echoes of dub reggae, the Slits, and a sunbaked guitar solo. After that, the band made a returm to overcast midtempo janglepop punctuated by anotther rise into fury, then a ridiculously catchy, midtempo anthem where Feuer rose to another all-too-brief, blues-infused wail on the chorus

Lulls juxtaposed with jangly peaks at the end of a phrase throughout a skittish downstroke rocker, followed by a slithery mashup of Hendrixian pastoral psychedelia and doublespeed intensity. They encored with a lickety-split new one, stampeding Murder City proto-punk taken into the 21st century. There will be a lot of this kind of s moldering fire at the Bushwick show Friday night.

And the opening acts were fantastic as well. With just bass, drums and vocals, the all-female quintet Gold sound like no other band on the planet. And while you might not think that the sound would hold up alongside a couple of loud rock bands, it did, due to the women’s three-part harmonies and the catchiness of the bassist’s punchy, trebly lines. While their sound has the same kind of outside-the-box creativity of the early punk movement, it’s also in the here and now. And A Deer A Horse adrenalized the crowd with their theatrical, intense mashup of catchy, anthemic postpunk, glamrock and the occasional triumphant descent into stomping, doomy metal. They’re at Elvis Guesthouse on October 8 at around 8 for a ridiculously cheap $5.

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Intense, Purist, Catchy Tunesmithing and Devastating Wit from Elisa Peimer

Singer/keyboardist Elisa Peimer is a lot smarter, and edgier, and funnier than your typical folk-pop songwriter. She has a distinctive, soul-infused, slightly throaty delivery, has a way with a classic pop hook and also a devastating wit. When her lyrics aren’t uproariously amusing, they’re a lot more subtle. Case in point: Better, the big, Celtic-flavored 6/8 ballad that opens her new album Inside the Glass, streaming at her webpage. It’s not a typical kiss-off song: instead of chronicling a list of misdeeds, Peimer puts a positive spin on an otherwise gloomy storyline. Will the girl in the narrative realize that she can do better than the guy she’s with, who’s always got one eye on whoever’s coming through the front door of the bar? No spoilers here. Peimer and her excellent band – whose core is Paul Cabri on guitars, Irwin Menken on bass and John Clancy on drums – are playing the album release show on June 12 at 6 (six) PM at First Acoustics Coffeehouse in the basement of First Unitarian Church, 50 Monroe Pl. at Pierrepont St. in downtown Brooklyn. Take any train to Borough Hall; cover is $10 and includes yummy vegetarian food.

The funniest song on the album is titled Good Song. Anyone in the arts can relate to this one – see, the girl in the story used to write one great tune after another until she finally got into a good relationship with a guy. Now she’s happy…but she’s miserable all the same since all her new songs are trite and cheesy. The last verse is priceless. Bad relationships: the gift that keeps on giving!

The band blazes through stomping, new wave-inspired powerpop in the bittersweet Good for You, a dead ringer for vintage early 80s Motels. Bobby Hollywood, another Celtic anthem, is Peimer at her crushingly sardonic best. In a couple of tersely crafted verses and a chorus, she nails the pathology of the kind of gentrifier narcissists who frequent places like the Union Square greenmarket:

I was buying Brooklyn pickles
Made by a hipster out in Queens
Surrounded by my neighbors
In their hundred dollar jeans
But the one that caught my eye
Was the one that didn’t care
About the cooking demonstration
‘Cause Bobby Hollywood died right there
..But the teller of the story
Seemed to vanish in the crowd
Lost in trucker hats and strollers
Of the financially endowed…

Aloft with pilllowy strings, the parlor pop ballad Poetry is a lot more enigmatic – until the ending, which is way too good to give away. Hint: this song is MEAN! The band gets electric again on It’s All Right, a mashup of Rolling Thunder Revue Dylan and more recent folk-pop. Then Peimer switches to guitar for the delicously jangly, uneasly anthemic Can’t Make Me Stop Loving You.

She paints a guardedly hopeful late-winter tableau in Daffodils, then follows that with a considerably more morose, angst-infused parlor-pop ballad, What Would He Say. The album winds up with the towering, overcast art-rock anthem This Life. Another first-class release from a member of the Brooklyn-based Chicks with Dip songwriters’ collective, whose members include Aimee Van Dyne, Sharon Goldman, Carolann Solebello and several other cult favorite songsmiths..

Palehound Brings Her Uneasily Lyrical Psychedelic Pop and New Wave to Los Sures

Would you go to the base of the Williamsburg Bridge for distantly brooding female-fronted psychedelic pop or catchy, tersely energetic new wave? If so, Palehound at Baby’s All Right tonight, May 25 at 10 is your thing. Cover is $14.

Guitarist/singer Palehound, a.k.a. Ellen Kempner, has a debut album wryly titled Dry Food streaming at Bandcamp – if you’re wondering what the joke is, just imagine you’re a dog. On one hand, for someone as young as Kempner to be riding such a wave of hype – at least from the PR machine behind her – is cause for suspicion. On the other hand, her songs are smart and relevant, she sings in an unaffectedly strong voice, and as a bonus there’s a lot of offhandedly savage, Babyshambles-ish guitar chord-chopping here.

The album’s opening track, Molly, is a time trip back to 1981, jagged flurries of guitar on the verse giving way to a catchy, jangly chorus over Jesse Weiss’ skitttish drums and a dancing eighth-note bassline from Dave Khoshtinat. On the surface, at least, it seems to be about a selfish girl rather than the drug.

Healthier Folk – a sarcastic dig at how the beauty product industry makes a fortune off feeding and encouraging womens’ insecurities – has a freak-folk sway, fueled by careening slide guitar over a bed of opaque acoustics and cymbals, up to a big dreampop peak. “Pushing back your tongue with my clenched-teeth home security system,” Kempner sings with a breathy unease in Easy, a creepy, shapeshifting post-party scenario.

Cinnamon sounds like a haphazard take on jaunty sunshower Cardigans lounge-pop, with hints of early Lush. The album’s eerily waltzing folk noir title track layers spare guitar and Kempner’s whisperingly cynical vocals over simmering organ. “You made beauty a monster to me, still kissing all the ugly things I see,” she half-whispers.

The spare, dusky Dixie is the folkiest number here. Cushioned Caging is the best and loudest, part clangy southwestern gothic bolero, part Sleater-Kinney. The album closes with the catchy See Konk, a sinisterly dispassionate account of loss and madness. Believe the hype: Palehound is every bit as worth hearing as she’s been made out to be.

Dada Paradox Pick Up Where the Wickedly Catchy, Lyrically Brilliant Larch Left Off

In recent years at least, it’s hard to imagine a more productive rock music couple than Ian and Liza Roure. As the brain trust of both the Larch and Liza & the WonderWheels, they made a mark as purveyors of hook-driven, lyrically sharp Elvis Costello-ish tunesmithing and acerbically catchy psychedelia, respectively. When both bands imploded, the Wheels morphed into Tracy Island – fronted by Liza, on guitar – and the Larch became Dada Paradox, fronted by Ian on a multitude of guitars, bass and percussion, with Liza on keys. Dada Paradox picks right up where the Larch left off with 2014’s In Transit without missing a beat. The new album, Mobile Flight – streaming at the band’s webpage – has some of the most memorable songwriting released this year, and the duo will bring it to the stage at the release show on May 25 at 8 PM at Bowery Electric. Low-key psychedelic crew Psychic Lines open the night at 7; cover is $10.

The anthemically crescendoing opening track, Find Ways to Matter traces an uneasily metaphorical space travel narrative over a tasty bed of judiciously multitracked guitar textures: the interweave between the acoustic, the electrics and the twelve-string is intricate and Byrdsy to the point where it’s hard to tell which is playing what. Light hand percussion rather than a full drumkit has the paradoxical effect of directing attention to Roure’s lattice of fretwork, adding a low-key bedroom pop charm.

The twelve-string also takes centerstage over twinkling electric piano on the first of a handful of miniatures here, the wistful, gently nocturnally-tinged Here Comes Another Day. From there the duo segue into the album’s catchiest and also most nonchalantly ominous track, the tropically-tinged Another Day in Paradise. It’s Squeeze’s Pulling Mussels without the one-note guitar solo, updated for the teens with a backdrop of global warming.

The resolute, propulsive Happy Families, another track from the late Larch days, looks back to vintage, offhandedly savage Armed Forces-era Costello with its sardonic portrait of Mr. and Mrs. Executive doing a number on each other while trying to keep up appearances. Spooky Action surrealistically explores an eerie sci-fi action-at-a-distance scenario over a stately Britfolk waltz, Ian’s recorder and Liza’s ghost-girl vocal harmonies ramping up the mysterioso ambience.

A gentle baroque keyboard interlude leads into the wryly sarcastic character study Inflexible Flyer, Ray Davies channeled through the prism of peak-era, mid-90s Blur. For those who don’t get the joke, the Flexible Flyer was a popular kids’ snow sled back in the 60s and 70s. There are a couple of folk-flavored tracks here –  The Far Side of the Fray has a deadpan savagery in the same vein as Roger Waters’ The Bravery of Being Out of Range, while The Apocalypse Cheering Committee is as cynically funny as you would expect from this crew.

There’s also Solar Birds, aloft on a keening slide guitar line with an early 70s pastoral Pink Floyd feel, and the album’s majestically jangly closing escape anthem, Sorrows of Stephen: “The sorrow suffocates, to draw a free breath seems like it’s worth the risk that you take,” Ian encourages. A good fifteen-plus years since the Larch started ripping it up in scruffy dives all over Brooklyn, it’s good to see the Roures arguably at the peak of their career as players and songwriters. Count this among the half-dozen best releases to come out of New York this year.

A Dark and Stormy Night at Berlin with Diane Gentile and Karla Rose & the Thorns

Get out often enough and once awhile you’re rewarded with magic synchronicity. Last night’s show at Berlin turned out to be a long launching pad for two intense, charismatic frontwomen airing out their defiantly wounded low registers. Diane Gentile is sort of a younger New York counterpart to the Motels’ Martha Davis. She puts her own individualistic spin on the dark side of propulsive 80s new wave sounds, and her band is killer. Karla Rose & the Thorns have noir intensity, a more psychedelic sound, and while their bandleader has a chillingly vast range, she can also belt way down in the lows. It was a seriously dark and stormy night without the cliches.

Gentile was playing her birthday show, and the place was packed. The way Berlin – the lowlit basement space under 2A – is set up, you have to position yourself right where the bar, the stage and the tables past the sound booth intersect if you want a good view of the stage. But Gentile made all the jostling worthwhile. Playing a shortscale Gibson hollowbody model, she and her tight quartet opened with an indelibly shadowy downtown New York tableau held in check by drummer Colin Brooks’ backbeat and stormclouds of cymbals. The most sardonically funny song of the night was Boyfriend, a stomping, bitttersweetly Bowie-esque anthem. The most propulsive was Motorcycle, a brisk, understatedly desperate escape number. The most crushingly sad was Wasted Word, a requiem for the departed in every sense. Lead guitarist Jason Victor (of Steve Wynn’s band, the newly reformed Dream Syndicate and wildly fun noiserockers the Skull Practitioners), whose massive, menacingly reverberating clusters of chords ramped up the menace, smoldered and then eventually careened into brushfire terrain on Gentile’s anguished, closing cover of Bowie’s apocalyptic epic Five Years. She’s at Bowery Electric on June 12 at around 9 on a great triplebill with Americana rock songwriter Ana Egge and this era’s most spellbinding voice in newschool retro C&W, Laura Cantrell.

Rose and her band built a shadowy black-and-white Twilight Zone ambience right off the bat and set the bar impossibly high for the rest of the evening. The former Morricone Youth frontwoman opened with Silver Bucket, a surrealistic mashup of Smokestack Lightning sway and Gun Club gutter blues. Rose sang her misty, slinky film noir narrative Time Well Spent – a metaphorical time bomb of a song for any overworked New York artist on the brink of losing their grip – with a smolderingly low, ruthless edge. Then she foreshadowed where Gentile would go with Drive, an alluring new wave number. The best song of the night was Battery Park, a marauding desert rock anthem with a long, chainsaw Dylan Charles guitar solo to wind it up. A close listen revealed Rose making the connection between the pathology of Easton Ellis serial killers and the narcissism of high finance. Even with her gentlest number, the hypnotically Velvets-inspired Living End, she wouldn’t let up on the menace. It was absurd that this band, who capture both the angst and the guarded triumph of artists in a city under siege better than any other current New York act, didn’t get more time onstage.

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.