New York Music Daily

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Tag: velvet underground

Manchester’s Pins Headline at Rough Trade Tonight

At a CMJ show last October at Arlene’s, Pins had the misfortune of taking the stage on the heels of a searing, politically-charged performance by the brilliant and charismatic Lee Bains III & the Glory Fires. To their credit, the women in the Manchester, UK band – who come across as something akin to the bastard child of the early Go Go’s and Wire – held their own and managed not to be anticlimactic. The cheap advance tix for their midnight show tonight at Rough Trade are all gone, but it’s not sold out, general admission is a reasonable $12 and the L train is running, so you can get home afterward if you don’t live in Williamsburg. And who among us is still in that hideously gentrified part of town, anyway?

Pins’ new album, Wild Nights – streaming at Spotify – is considerably more polished than their stage show. Then again, they’re a lot more likely to strip the songs down and rock them out live than try to match the heft and bulk of the production. The opening track, Baby Bhangs takes a downtown NYC gutter blues riff and works around it, propelled by drummer Sophie Galpin’s artful blend of swing and stomp. “We’re not trying to be great, we don’t wanna be saved,”  guitarist/frontwoman Faith Vern intones matter-of-factly in Young Girls. But she’s nothing if not optimistic: “What will we do when our dreams come true?” she asks, over a chugging one-chord post-Velvets groove.

Bassist Lois Macdonald’s terse lead lines cut through the jangly nocturnal mist of Curse These Dreams. The album’s longest track, Oh Lord nicks a familiar Joy Division riff and builds a similarly hypnotic ambience, the guitars of Vern and Anna Donigan building a reverbtoned resonance. Likewise, Dazed By You sets a skittishly jangly early Go Go’s-style tune to a She’s Lost Control beat – and a really cool, surprisie ending. And the catchy, crescendoing House of Love works a minimalist, watery/gritty Unknown Pleasures dichotomy.

Got It Bad builds an echoey, repeaterbox-driven Lynchian soul ballad vibe: it wouldn’t be out of place in the catalog of fellow Brit Gemma Ray. Too Little Too Late, described by the band as “a middle-finger-to-the-world kind of song,” is a kiss-off number, a wall of distorted guitars and organ behind Macdonald’s catchy basslines, up to another trick ending.

If Only brings back the Lynchian pop sonics, post doo-wop melody lit up by blue-neon reverb guitar. Molly – a coy shout-out to the drug – sways along in a Black Angels-style garage-psych vein: “You look so good when you’re sad,” is the mantra. The album winds up with the mutedly brooding Everyone Says. Critical reaction to this album has been mixed – some have said that it lacks the punk spontaneity of their debut. But for all that defiant energy, at that point they could barely write or play their instruments: this is a strong step forward and a good late-night listen.

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Another Menacingly Brilliant Album and a Bowery Electric Release Show by Ward White

Ward White‘s Bob was the best album of 2013. Set to a cinematically shapeshifting pastiche of classic powerpop and art-rock, White’s harrowing, cynical, often brutally hilarious nonlinear narrative about unneighborly suburbanites, a plane crash, narcoterrorism, possible cannibalism and at least one murder was like no other album ever made. Attempting to unravel the mystery required multiple listening and a heavy finger on the rewind button, yet that only made the ride more entertaining. It compares more closely with literary than with musical works: Russell Banks’ surreal 1995 novel Hamilton Stark is a good one.

Maybe because a follow-up to such an individualistic, strangely brilliant album would have been impossible, White’s new one, Ward White Is the Matador (streaming at Bandcamp) goes back to the encyclopedically tuneful, wickedly lyrical songwriting he’s made a name for himself with since the late 90s. It validates all the comparisons to David Bowie, Scott Walker, Elvis Costello and Richard Thompson that White’s drawn over the years. In this case, the allusively menacing narratives don’t segue into each other as they do on Bob, and the music is louder, the guitars crunchier than anything White has done before. Is there a central theme? Possibly.

And maybe to shake things up somewhat, this is the first album that White didn’t produce himself: Bryan Scary (who plays keys) and Graham Norwood (who plays bass and adds guitar) take over the chores behind the board this time out. White’s playing the album release show on one of the year’s best triplebills on Nov 11 at Bowery Electric: the night begins with folk noir songwriter Jessie Kilguss (who’s also releasing a darkly brilliant new album) at 8, then White at 9, then similarly tuneful, disquieting retro soul/Americana songwriter Matt Keating at around 10. Cover is an absurdly cheap $10.

There’s a lot to sink your ears into here, fourteen tracks, the last one a VU White Light/White Heat style mystery that clocks in at over 20 minutes. Lou Reed is a recurrent reference point; there are also a handful of amped-up takes on Burt Bacharach-style latin-tinged pop, lots of glammy guitars, retro 60s keyboards, a devious Pink Floyd quote at the precisely perfect moment and a long instrumental break at the end of the first track that sounds like the Alan Parsons Project taking a stab at a noise jam. And lots of guitars, jangling and roaring and resonating.

Lyrically, it’s the same kind of allusive ominous storytelling that White worked so memorably on Bob, but within a three to four-minute verse/chorus/bridge rock framework. People may be horribly tortured here – or those grisly images may simply be a metaphor for an inner torment that’s just as painful. And pain is everywhere, from the guy who can’t see his hands in front of his face, to the drunk stumbling home, the guy kicking the hooker out of his place, the girl from the street gang, the killer “sweeping up the shards and embers scattered in the tub” and the 5 AM subway rider on the Brooklyn-bound L train platform watching a menacing pair of figures close in on him.

And for all the pain, White never loses his sense of humor, bleak as it may be. “What of all these women? They like to come and go, but mostly go: when they come, believe me, I’m the last to know,” one guy reflects. “Well, I guess that I will live to see tomorrow/I hope you got a toothbrush I can borrow,” another muses after his brush with death. “Throwing all my pills away was a bit premature,” admits another doomed character. As noir songwriting goes, it doesn’t get any better than this. At the end of the year, there will be a new Best Albums of the Year page for 2014 here and this one will be on it.

A Surreal, Creepy Treat From Dark Rock Legend Martin Bisi

In a past century, Martin Bisi was best known as a producer with a list of iconic albums – most notably Sonic Youth’s Daydream Nation – to his credit. Fast forward to 2014 and Bisi finds himself touring Europe and probably better known to this generation as a solo artist and bandleader, the purveyor of a distinctive New York brand of surrealistically menacing, psychedelic, melodic art-rock. His new album Ex Nihilo (Latin for “from nothing,” due out April 1) is a throwback to the raw, chaos-embracing, adventurous experimentation of albums like 1988’s Creole Mass. There’s plenty of Bisi’s signature savage erudition, literary and mythological references, and archetypes from across the centuries, scattered throughout these songs like bodies across a battlefield. And while there’s also plenty of bleakness and a relentless cynicism here (you just have to love the title of the concluding cut, Holy Threesome), Bisi’s irrepressible, sardonic wit glimmers amidst the chaos and desolation. He’s playing the album release show on April 15 at around 8 at Glasslands; cover is $12.

Contrasts abound here: Bisi’s cool, matter-of-fact, often half-spoken vocal delivery in the center of a whirlwind of overdubs, dead-girl choirs courtesy of chanteuse Amanda White’s epic multitracks, vocal samples, and vertigo-inducing orchestration. Likewise, Bisi’s guitar slashes and clangs, but with a purposefulness and tunefulness (Syd Barrett often comes to mind) that’s the one constant within what’s often a vortex of sound, most of it played by Bisi himself through a maze of reverb, delay and loop effects. This succinctness makes the sprawl around it all the more disquieting. Billy Atwell’s counterintuitive but propulsive drumming adds extra spice. .

The opening track, Nihil Holy begins as a cloudbank of nebulous, disembodied voices joined by muted, gritty electric guitar, drums and tumbles of keyboards, an acidic kaleidoscope of sound that sets the stage for the rest of the album. Eventually, the voices drop out and a starlit soundscape emerges. Bisi segues into the wickedly catchy 80s-style new wave goth anthem Sin Love Hate, with its massive, operatic choral arrangement and an unexpected free jazz free-for-all fueled by guests the Stumbebum Brass Band before it all comes together at the end. “I run around with animals,” Bisi intones sarcastically, “I pull their ears and pinch their tails.”

The Mermaid Queen, a duet with White, reminds of the Black Angels at their darkest and most focused, its slow, swaying Blue Jay Way-on-opium verse giving way to a catchy, early Pink Floyd-ish chorus, the backing vocals evoking a big gospel choir while the drums roll, the verses rise and an endless parade of devious psychedelic effects wafts and flits through the mix.The eight-minute Invite to Heaven Hell builds a stygian spacerock ambience, like the Chuch (or, for that matter, the Byrds) at their most psychedelic, with hints of peak-era Sonic Youth peeking through the pulsing guitars, disembodied vocals, soaring trumpet and that dead-girl chorus again. It’s one of the most deliciously tuneful things Bisi has ever done.

Suffer the Moon, another big epic, also evokes the Black Angels, but with a more grim, dramatic focus, cartwheeling drums paired off against the otherworldly choir, jaggedly tuneful guitars, rising and falling dynamics and a very devious melodic quote at the end. Fine Line finds Bisi and guest drummer Brian Viglione having fun with tempo changes that eventually coalesce into a murky post-Velvets groove, a snidely goth-tinged anthem about a girl who seems just a little too eager for her own good…or, for that matter, yours. The concluding cut is the album’s noisiest yet also quietest one: echoes of Pink Floyd (yeah, that’s a pun), the Church, the Velvets and the Beatles’ Revolution 9 swirl and overlap and obliterate each other in turn as the maelstrom spins, Bisi throwing a characteristically LOL ditsy vocal sample into the mix for extra sardonic bite. That’s a nuts-and-bolts look at what’s going on here: obviously, there are so many layers that it takes a lot of listening to figure what else is happening, if in fact such a thing is possible. More twistedly ornate aural junkyard sculpture – like a sonic version of the old Gas Station on Ave. B – than surrealistic pillow, it’s one of the most flat-out intriguing albums of the year. Bisi plays the album release show at around 8 at Glasslands on April 15; cover is $12.

Dark Tuneful Uncategorizable Indie Rock from the Martha’s Vineyard Ferries

The Martha’s Vineyard Ferries‘ debut album is titled Mass.Grave (you get it, right? Massachusetts supergroup-of-sorts?). Kahoots’ Elisha Wiesner plays guitar and sings with Shellac’s Bob Weston on bass and Chris Brokaw – who’s played with everyone from Steve Wynn, to Come, to Jennifer O’Connor (whose insurgent Kiam Records is putting this album out) – back behind the drums. As the title implies, this is unassumingly dark, thoughtful but very catchy stuff, unadorned without being threadbare. Most of the seven tracks here sound live; there don’t appear to be a lot of overdubs. You could call it postpunk, for lack of a better word.

Wiesner writes most of the songs. The first track, Wrist Full of Holes, works insistent, chromatically-charged guitar riffage over a loping beat. They bring in phasers on the chorus: cool touch! There are hints of Elliott Smith, another guy with a Massachusetts connection.

Track two, Parachute, sounds like an early 80s Boston band’s take on the Gang of Four, noisy but without any of the affections. It’s about an actual parachute jump,  or a metaphorical one, a pulsing, minimalist beat dropping out for a series of tradeoffs between the guitar and bass and then back up in a hurry. She’s a Fucking Angel (From Fucking Heaven), by Brokaw, adds layers of dreampop guitar and the kind of offcenter, noisy edge you might expect from a longtime Thalia Zedek collaborator. It’s also the funniest and most upbeat song here.

The best song here is Ramon and Sage. An insistent intro hands off to variations on an enigmatically clanging, resonant guitar phrase and then a deliciously catchy verse over Weston’s fuzz bass. It’s over in less than three minutes but could have gone on for twice that and wouldn’t be boring at all. Blonde on Red also begins with an insistent, rhythmic intro, evoking early Wire or Guided by Voices without the faux-British thing.

Weston’s Look Up, an anxious Boston-area motorway narrative, also has Wire echoes, that fuzz bass again and a sarcastic chorus: “Look up from the telephone, step off of the curb alone.” The last track, One White Swan is a post-Velvets slowcore dirge, Brokaw subtly coloring the funereal pulse with his fog-off-the-ocean cymbals as eerie vocal harmonies slowly rise to take centerstage over a minimialist guitar loop; this track also evokes Zedek in ultra-hypnotic mode. Safe to say that there is no other band alive who sound anything like them. It would be great to hear more from these guys; if this is the only album they ever make, it’s a gem, one of the best of 2013.

Brilliant, Menacing Americana Rock from Mud Blood & Beer

Mud Blood & Beer were one of the best bands in NYC’s late, lamented Lakeside Lounge scene. They play what’s essentially an update on the 80s “paisley underground” sound that was rabidly popular on college radio, a darkly psychedelic, lyrically-driven blend of country twang, electric Neil Young rasp and Velvets stomp. They’ve got a new album, The Sweet Life just out and an album release show on April 13 at 8 PM at the Bitter End. The band has two first-rate songwriters and brilliant lead guitarists in Jon Glover and Jess Hoeffner, who share share an edgy, restless unease. Anger, danger and black humor pervade this album. They make a good team, Glover playing menacing southwestern gothic Steve Wynn to Hoeffner’s somewhat more eclectic, straight-up rocking Dan Stuart. With layer after layer of jangle, clang and roar, guitars and vocals up front, Stephen Swalsky’s bass and Stephen Sperber’s drums up just enough to keep everything rolling, the album’s sonics are better than most vinyl records made these days. Count this as one of the best of 2013 by a mile.

Glover’s Nasturtiums opens the album and sets the tone, a grimly bitter, minor-key, backbeat-driven desert rock anthem that builds to a savage guitar solo, like the Dream Syndicate’s Karl Precoda in especially focused mode. “Silence like an echo from a tomb…for forty days I wandered in the wilderness, returned to find nasturtiums in bloom,” Glove intones. Lost, by Hoeffner is a briskly catchy tune that evokes 80s legends True West, gleaming new wave blended with  luscious layers of Americana guitars. Another Hoeffner tune, You Wanted to Be Misunderstood, evokes the Long Ryders with its galloping, electrified bluegrass vibe and an all-too-brief, blistering Glover solo.

A couple of Glover tunes come next. Little Black Heart takes a spiraling hook that Tobin Sprout could have written and sets it to snarling, twangy rock, totally late-period Dream Syndicate, a band these guys evoke even more savagely on the slow, creepy Corner of His Eye. Hoeffner’s smoldering fuzztone ambience and then a feral, jagged solo highlight this sinister tale of dirty dealing and its potential consequences.

Matches & Gasoline – a Hoeffner number- evokes a steady Green on Red feel, followed by Glover’s snarling title track, which with its offhandedly brutal, bluesy solo wouldn’t be out of place on the Dream Syndicate’s classic Medicine Show album. Hoeffner’s See the Light could be an early True West song, while Glover’s briskly shuffling Be Still amps up the rocking Bakersfield country vibe.

One of Those Days – another Glover tune – returns to a savage Steve Wynn/Neil Young ambience with its menacing midtempo sway, cruel minor-key bridge and dismissive lyrics. Tell Me I’m Wrong, by Hoeffner, could be the Replacements, while Break Your Heart, with its shivery vibroslap sonics, is the most psychedelic track here. The album closes with Testimony, a murder ballad, opening with a tongue-in-cheek ELO reference and snaking its way through a series of increasingly agitated Glover solos to its doomed ending. More bands should be making music like this. In addition to this album, Mud Blood & Beer has their 2009 debut and also the album by Hoeffner’s side project Crooked Highway available as free downloads.

Fun Post-Velvets Stuff from the False Alarms

Today’s free download is the debut album by the False Alarms. If Darklands-era Jesus & Mary Chain is your thing, this is for you: the Brooklyn band use that album as their template, right down to the murky sonics and offcenter bent-note guitar leads. What differentiates the False Alarms from the rest of that crowded field is their energy and sense of humor. This is one of those bands whose ideas are better than their execution – tightness is not their strong suit. But having the ideas is the important thing. Just about anybody can build up chops on an instrument if they practice enough, having good songs is a whole different story.

Six of those here. Nothing of the Sea nicks the hook from Bauhaus’ Bela Lugosi’s Dead and takes it to Darklands. When She’s Able is more of a post-Velvets stomp, and it’s funny; this girl is a real mess. Johnny Suicide takes Jim Carroll’s People Who Died and adds Dead Boys snarl and roar, while White Flowers goes back to the J&MC, with lyrics so completely dissociative they’re a hoot. The reverb-drenched Don’t Mind Feeling Bad has the same vibe but no drums; the closing cut, Formality Blues is the funniest, has no bass and would have made for a good stoner jam if they’d decided to make it any longer than about a minute 45 seconds. “Why you have to be so fucking lame?” asks the frontman. Bands like this usually A) don’t last more than an album, B) typically disperse their members into even better bands…or morph into one. Get this one now while it’s online.

Another Gorgeous, Lushly Orchestrated, Psychedelic Album from My Education

NYMD’s sister blog Lucid Culture called four-guitar Austin postrock instrumentalists My Education “The Dirty Three meets Friends of Dean Martinez meets Brooklyn Rider meets My Bloody Valentine,” which makes sense. Their music takes you away to a different and much better universe, where angst is confronted and then transcended, where pain rises and is then swept away on the wings of what sounds like a million guitars. Lush, ornate, hypnotic and psychedelic to the extreme, their new album A Drink for All My Friends blends Dirty Three pensiveness and FODM desert ambience with elegantly austere touches of Brooklyn Rider strings, then stirs it ferociously with a MBV dreampop swirl.

This album opens on an unexpectedly quiet note, guest Sarah Norris’ vibraphone mingling with James Alexandre’s viola for a hypnotic circularity that brings to mind Missy Mazzoli’s chamber rock band Victoire. Then the guitars enter one by one on the second track, For All My Friends, an army of roaring riffage that finally rises to a titanic wall of frantic tremolo-picking, reaching a Pink Floyd majesty as the bass bubbles over the top of the sonic cauldron and ends unexpectedly raw and jaggedly: what a ride this is!

The practically ten-minute, cinematic Mr. 1986 builds out of a pretty, acoustic chamber-pop theme into an elegaic anthem, both nebulous and forcefully direct, Henna Chou’s terse piano finally taking centertstage and then quickly receding against the guitar orchestra. Built around a distantly menacing, echoey heart monitor motif, Black Box richly blends twinkly Rhodes piano with all the guitars into a slow, crepuscular freeway theme speckled with weird samples of television or radio dialogue,

Robot-Hohlenbewoner rides a funky, more animated motorik groove: if U2 wrote good songs, they would sound like this. The ten-minute Happy Village takes its time to eventually clarify that this particular village isn’t so happy at all: it’s the Velvets as John Cale might have dreamed of orchestrating them circa 1967, plus mid-70s Floyd angst, hynotic Black Angels murk and an unexpected nod to new wave on the way out. The album ends with the arena-rock spoof Homunculus, like Big Lazy’s Starchild but more amusingly crass. My Education are huge in Europe, which is where they are right now, on tour: a band this good deserves just as avid a following on their own side of the pond. Count this among the most lushly enjoyable albums of the year in any style of music.

Tom Shaner’s Long-Overdue Solo Debut: Worth the Wait

For those who’ve followed Tom Shaner’s career since his days in the early zeros fronting Industrial Tepee – the great southwestern gothic rock band that should have been as famous as Calexico or Giant Sand but never was – his new album Ghost Songs, Waltzes and Rock n Roll is long overdue. Ironically, though billed to Shaner solo, it’s far more lush and richly arranged than anything he did with that band, in fact, the best thing he’s ever done. The music blends layers of jangly, twangy, spiky, occasionally searing electric and acoustic guitars over a nimble rhythm section, ornamented with deviously flickering keyboards, mandolin, banjo and the occasional wry electronic effect. Songwise, there are echoes of Steve Wynn, the Byrds, Leonard Cohen and Nick Cave in its most pensive moments.

Shaner’s nonchalant, laid-back vocals are sort of a cross between Lou Reed and the Wallflowers’ Jakob Dylan. The songs’ lyrics are terse, cynical and clever: they’ll resonate especially with anyone who’s weathered the same storms as Shaner has during these past few years as the New York he came up in slid closer and closer to New Jersey. Although many of the songs have a dusky desert feel, a familiar urban milieu recurs throughout the album. That factors in heavily on the funniest song here, the deadpan, early Elvis Costello-ish Unstoppable Hipster, as well as the considerably more spare, haunting Downtown Has Done Damage, which reminds of the Church around 1986 or so.

Sinner’s Highway sets a surreal, sordidly Lynchian scene to snarling minor-key rock: a late-period Industrial Tepee tune, it reminds a lot of Steve Wynn, with a wry quote in the solo guitar outro. Another one from that era, Sister Satellite manages to be dreamy yet bracing as its layers of guitar mingle and then surge.Then Shaner evokes another well-known late 90s/early zeros band, White Hassle, with Forever Drug, spiced with tongue-in-cheek samples and hip-hop turntablism.

She Will Shine is crushingly caustic: over punchy, syncopated, Jayhawks-flavored rock, Shaner relates how a girl who couldn’t hack it in the big city is ostensibly leaving for better things in the country, but “when the lid is lifted, everything is shifted…her time is complete, the future is a one-way street.” Rosa Lee, a big concert favorite, works a more pensive, regretful vein.

Shaner pairs Foreverland, a creepy reggae song, with the nebulous, only slightly less creepy psych-folk anthem Silent Parade. Where Grief Becomes Grace, an echoey desert rock dirge, is as broodingly evocative as anything Giant Sand ever did. A cover of Tom Waits’ Cold Water picks up the pace with a gospel-fueled menace, black humor in full effect.

Only slightly less dark colors close the album. Everything Is Silver returns to a romping Elvis Costello vibe: it’s the opposite of what it seems. And My House is Green builds a moody acoustic Velvets ambience. But not everything here is as dark: there’s Sun Girl #2, with its lushly gentle Sunday Morning sway, and Streets of Galway, a lively Irish tune. One of the best albums of 2012, no question. Shaner plays the release show – assuming the subways are back up and running – at the Knitting Factory on Nov 7 at 8:30 PM.

Another Trippy, Murky Album from Thee Oh Sees

If you’re into garage rock or psychedelia, you might be interested to know that Thee Oh Sees have yet another album out. Putrifiers II is everything you’d expect from the band: warped Brian Jonestown Massacre rambles, pitchblende Black Angels atmospherics and a couple of tracks that sound like Stereolab gazing up from the bottom of a well. Everything here follows a wobbly path straight back to Syd Barrett.

Unexpected flamenco tinges kick off the first track, Wax Face, quickly leading into one of the band’s signature dense, echoey, pounding vamps. Keyboardist Brigid Dawson sings with an eerie, deadpan brightness on that one and also the swaying, hyypnotic Hang a Picture, decked out in late Beatles paisley harmonies. They move through the lushly sustained neo-Velvets dirge So Nice and then a nebulous violin/keyboard drone into the funky soul strut Flood’s New Light and its sarcastic ba-ba-ba chorus.

With its wall of guitars and inscrutably creepy lyrics, the six-minute title track shifts tempos back and forth unexpectedly, followed by the briskly shuffling, squalling Lupine Dominus, the most obvious early Pink Floyd homage here. The album’s best songs are We Will Be Scared, an off-center Lynchian noir pop tune lowlit by sepulcural flute, and Goodnight Baby, which with its allusively catchy jangle could be a Church outtake from the late 80s. The last cut is Wicked Park, recalling the Pretty Things’ first adventures in acid chamber rock. Turn on, tune in, you know the rest.

Go See Agent Ribbons

If you like dark rock music, get to know Austin band Agent Ribbons. Last night at Party Xpo the duo version of this group put on an excellent, sometimes understatedly, sometimes outright menacing show despite having to cope with some technical difficulties. The previous night at Bard College upstate, frontwoman/guitarist Natalie Ribbons had lent her Telecaster to someone who’d put it into some obscure, weird tuning, and had then retuned her tuner as well. But she wouldn’t let any of that stop her. Behind her, drummer Lauren Ribbons held down an elegant thump on the toms and the kick – she does what Lou Reed probably wanted Maureen Tucker to do but didn’t have the guts to ask. She’s also got a beautiful voice, which she used to add creepy, high harmonies on a few songs.

One of those songs was Family Haircut, a new one – you know a band is good when their best song is their newest one. This turned out to be a reverb-drenched take on 50s noir Nashville, ending with Natalie singing what sounded like a sarcastic la-la-la outro. A lot of their songs have a surreal, often macabre edge. One example was Grey Gardens, which is grey in the purest sense of the word – it’s pretty much dead, offhandedly referencing the dotty old women immortalized in the Maysles Brothers’ documentary. Another song worked a primitive, minor-key Cramps garage rock riff; the one that followed that sounded like lo-fi Arthur Lee. Their last tune took a dramatic early 60s Elvis-style pop tune and gave it abrasive noiserock overtones, while their opener, Pinocchio veered uneasily between major and minor like Syd Barrett. They could have played twice as long and nobody would have left; if this intrigues you, they’re at Public Assembly tonight at 9ish opening for the Secret History and then at Goodbye Blue Monday on Sunday at around 10.