Shortly after, the Athens, Ohio, threesome Times New Viking took the stage for a rather disappointing, though pleasant, set of thrashed garage pop. The energy-level appeared low among the group’s members, especially the keyboardist/singer Beth Murphy, who wore a static, bored expression throughout. Still, the set was enjoyable, featuring the catchiest of songs from the band’s records, though a crucial wildness was conspicuously missing. Perhaps it had to do with the clarity of the night’s live sound. The crackling fuzz and tinny lo-fi murkiness of Times New Viking’s albums–which sound like well-worn cassette dubs of haphazard basement recordings–are essential to the band’s raggamuffin charm. Without it, the live show felt starkly simplistic.

Last up was Atlanta’s Deerhunter, the evening’s uncontested highlight. The band has garnered plenty of accolades, all more than justified if judged by Monday night’s set of powerful, nuanced dream rock. Without the least hint of derivativeness, Deerhunter has mastered the best elements of shoegaze: fiercely loud yet never abrasive, adept at piling on wash upon wash of billowing guitar and wistful vocals without drifting off into vaporous nonsense. And in the midst of all this candied haze are aptly throwback elements: conjured snatches of melody that felt comfortingly familiar, like remembered bits of Phil Spector-style doo-wop or arrangements from a David Lynch movie. The effect was deliciously contradictory, somehow both faintly nostalgic and out-of-time, yet also unmistakably grounded in the present thanks to singer Bradford Cox’s warm rapport with the enthused audience. The set ended after one encore, hitting that oft-missed sweet spot when the crowd is both satiated and clamoring for a little more.

Nathan Bell @ 2640 is a brief but haunting release from West Main Development, a local label specializing in live recordings and one-time collaborations, with a penchant for tapping Lungfish members (a previous release features Dan Higgs). The label’s latest, four untitled tracks clocking in at under 13 minutes, was culled from a live recording of former Lungfisher, Nathan Bell, on banjo during a solo set at 2640 Space earlier this year.

On first listen, what amazes is the fullness of sound. It is hard to believe that Bell’s rapid, nimble fingering isn’t the harmonizing of two people, or even three. Yet there is something else going on with this release, beyond Bell’s skillful compositions, that makes it so compelling: a subtle, yet powerful, sense of place. You can hear the airiness of 2640′s wide-open chapel and high, slanted ceilings gently rounding the most piercing notes and lending a shimmer of ghostly crackle to the rare silences. This muddled, otherworldly fuzz, coupled with the hazy reverb of a borrowed amp–the sort of unplanned distortions that could drive perfectionist audiophiles nuts–is here a source of enchantment, perfectly complementing Bell’s meditative, faintly mournful playing.

Nathan Bell @ 2640 is available both on CD and for download via West Main Development.

Los Solos is a new monthly performance series featuring–you guessed it–solo performances. The twist here is that the series presents only women, pairing a local and an out-of-town artist on each bill. Pulling from the experimental undergrounds of dance, music, theater, and, video, Los Solos is programmed by curators-cum-artists Jackie Milad and Bonnie Jones. The series kicked off in September with electro-psych improv performances from Baltimore’s Whispers for Wolves and Philadelphia’s Fursaxa. This month’s outing showcases local video artist Kristen Anchor alongside Los Angeles-based experimental writer/lawyer Vanessa Place, author of Dies: A Sentence.

Noise caught up with Bonnie Jones, a gleefully interdisciplinary artist and co-founder of the anything-goes Transmodern Festival to discuss Friday’s performances, her curatorial process (like, giving herself grants), and why Baltimore is a scrappy arts city.

Noise: Why pair a local and out-of-town artist for every show?

Bonnie Jones: There is as much of a need to bring outside artists to Baltimore, to show outside artists that there is a real culture happening here, that it’s very unique and distinctive. It’s not Philly and it’s not D.C. It’s very much its own thing. At the same time there’s a very important need to let local people interact with people from out of town. There’s a lot of things that happen when you have a show or festival when you put people from out of town with your locals. They talk, they make connections. Those connections can lead to opportunities for both people involved.

Sometimes you go to other cities and see festivals [that are] all out-of-towners. There are few local community artists at all. Part of my curatorial vision is really involving the community, [including] minorities and women. Another part of my curatorial vision is, let’s always think about bringing Baltimore to the world and the world to Baltimore, always continuing that exchange.

It’s a nice contrast because any small community can get stuck in this idea that they are in a bubble. Baltimore, like any small community, sometimes forgets that there’s other stuff happening, and other stuff is relevant to what Baltimore is doing, too. I would never think, as a curator, I am the only one person who cares about these issues in performance art or who wants to present performance art. Even within Baltimore itself it’s been proven, because there are other people running series for performance art and there’s a lot of other activities now. %u2026 It’s always important to provide context. Where are you in your city and where are you in your state? Where are you in your world?

Noise: Why did you and Jackie decide to just focus on women? Obviously, it’s part of your mission statement, but you didn’t make a big deal, like: ‘Women need more exposure in Baltimore!’

I don’t think women necessarily need more exposure in Baltimore. Baltimore can be pretty egalitarian about who gets the opportunities that exist in the city. I think, systemically, in performance art–and this isn’t a performance-art series, per se. I’ve got all of the genres–dance, music, film, theater–maybe one person is doing a video piece. It’s not a performance-art series, I should clarify that. It’s performance in the sense that it happens on a stage.

Noise: Arts that are being performed.

Yes, arts that are performed. My own creative projects are music, improvised music, kind of like what the High Zero festival presents, and some level of sound and text performance stuff. So, when I go out into the world and see what kind of festivals are being together and what series are being run–and who’s running those series–obviously there’s no generalization that can capture [it] all, but it’s important to remember that sometimes a certain group of people needs to be embraced in a certain way. And a certain statement needs to be made, overt or subtle, that that group, being presented in that way, is clearly a surprise to people.

I gave the [Los Solos promotional] postcard to somebody. They looked at this postcard, through the names [of performers], and they went, “Oh! They’re all women!” And I was like, “Yeah, they all are women. It’s a series that only presents women.”

It’s not exclusivity, it’s not about some overt kind of political statement. It’s about an idea that in a world [where] I’ve seen an all-male festival, then there’s a counterpart to that. In the avant-garde art and experimental art, you do tend to see less representation of minorities and women. Sometimes it just happens that way. Sometimes you just don’t see it, it’s just not there.

It’s interesting because people think, Oh, I’m doing this radical work. I am part of this radical community, and sometimes they forget that maybe their radical community is still homogeneous. As an organizer and artist I want to say, “What the eff, guys? Are you just reiterating the dominant culture?” Are we having the same problems even though we all consider ourselves radical and politicized and tuned in?

Noise: That’s what I thought was interesting. Usually when people do an all-women thing they have a big statement, and I think that’s totally valuable. Like with Ladyfest, they made being a woman the central thing. What I find interesting is that you [said] this is a showcase for women artists, but that was it.

For this project, sometimes you don’t want the form to dictate what is the meaning of the program. Sometimes you don’t want the fact that it’s all women to provide what’s meaningful about the work itself. Here we have all these artists from very different backgrounds. So, I don’t want the form, all-women, to give anybody the idea that there’s a singular meaning to the work that is presented. It’s in and of itself created by very different people for different reasons. Some political, some not. Some feminist, some not. That’s what’s important here: individuals and their work.

Noise: How did you go about picking the artists? I’m really interested in why you paired certain people together.

Jackie and I had been doing a lot of organizing for a long time. She’s also the curator [at a student gallery] at the University of Maryland, College Park. The two of us are constantly looking at art that happens in town, thinking about programming this artist here or there. As a curator I like doing it enough that I stay pretty alert to what I’m seeing and what’s going on out there %u2026

When I came into [Los Solos] I knew I wanted to do all women, that I would have a local and an out-of-towner. I brought in Jackie to help me figure out the locals. We thought it would be really great to program people we had never programmed before, if we could present work that we hadn’t presented before in any other context. We weren’t 100 percent successful in that mission. But on the whole, when we look at that list–and when a lot of people in our community look at that list–in addition to being like, “Oh! It’s all women,” they are also like, “Oh, I don’t know a lot of these people.” A lot of these names, even the locals, are just not jumping out. I was pretty excited about this idea of curating the program with people that people might not know, [who] might be new to them and not part of their general orbit.

In terms of how we came up with the pairings, the first night [performers] were similarly matched, aesthetically. Two women who both employ certain levels of psych/drone. That was a no-brainer for me. I wanted to have a nice, big opening night for the series. This week is Kristen Anchor, who is the Creative Alliance’s filmmaker curator, and Vanessa Place, who is a writer from L.A. Kristen has programmed a 45-minute program of short video, of which four or five are her own. Kristen’s style, and the style of work she likes in video, borders on the edge of culty, cheeky with this heavy political kind of undercutting. Even if it’s housed in this poppy, cheeky, light kind of satire, there’s a lot of interesting politics, that covers a pretty broad spectrum of gender politics, sex politics, race politics. It’s across the board.

One of the pieces is “Let’s Get Out of Here,” by [City Paper contributor] Rahne Alexander. It’s clips of Hollywood movies, of moments when actors say, “Let’s get out of here!” She strung together several hundred of these little %u2026 clips. That’s image politics, how we perceive Hollywood. How we perceive celebrity. Which, I didn’t realize till now, is interesting coming to join with the person who is from Hollywood, who is Vanessa. She is a fairly radical and politicized writer. But she is a writer of a tradition that is not a monologue or stand-up. She’s working in a really obtuse form of writing. It’s a form of writing that is about programs and systems, restrictions on the writing. Putting limits on your writing in order to reveal new things.

Noise: Like her book [Dies: A Sentence] that is one giant sentence?

Right, the book that is the 150,000-word sentence. The thing with a form like that is that you can do really beautiful things. Like that book is about a dying solider in his last breath. That 150,000-word sentence is his last breath. That’s pretty special to be able to use fairly obtuse methods of writing to make strong political statements.

I’m thinking of this as the political night. Their work is infused with some politics.It doesn’t avoid it; in fact, it tends to be a centerpiece. They are both very well-versed in experimental forms as well as having good senses of humor and charismatic personalities.

Noise: The whole series is pretty multidisciplinary; even some of the artists themselves are. Was that something that came about naturally? Did you want to tap certain people and that’s how it came together? Or were you like, “We need a dance person %u2026 “

I think I was trying to represent as many genres as I could. It’s a nice project to put two people together who have their own unique aesthetic view and use the compare and contrast method. To introduce the idea of interdisciplinary. You have your dancer and your musician, and naturally your brain is going to start drawing these comparisons because they are stuck together. I was trying to have a broad mix of genre. I was almost thinking of this as a little Transmodern incubator–see what kind of work they do and think about them for other projects.

Many times events are specialized. People want to group things, at least by discipline. Though, in this town there are a lot of odd [music] show bills featuring different genres. This happens. But what you are doing, it’s not super-common.

In general people have the idea that they need to tap into a specific audience. Because more and more recently artists are becoming much more interdisciplinary, everything is moving to that. You know that a change is happening when they start putting that into grant applications or you start seeing interdisciplinary arts an MFA degree you can get.

I have a few theories about why that is. It kind of [relates] to certain forms of art [that] people are losing interest in. Like painting, sculpture, and poetry. They are getting a lot less play in the world than they maybe once did. Whereas video art and performance art, some music, definitely performance music. Like, I consider Dan Deacon pretty performance-based. Like a performance artist, he is doing more than just producing sounds.

Noise: Right, he is directing the audience to do certain movements.

Yes, he’s directing the audience. He’s getting in there as a player, as a performance artist. Part of the reason I think people are moving to that is stuff is that those more static forms–where it’s just you and the painting or you and the book, or in some cases, just you and the CD if you are living in the middle of nowhere and aren’t going to be seeing live bands–the internet has changed that. The idea of immediacy is really different now. Everything is immediate. Your engagement is different, the way you want to interact with things in the world. You want to be engaged. [You want] something that is mutable, that you can interact with because that’s the way the world is, kind of, changing.

There’s this other aspect because of the war and the politics, the current administration. There’s an urgency in artists to get a message out quicker. Paintings, books, and making CDs. Often the artists themselves don’t feel the urgency of those because it takes a while [to make]. Videos take quite a long time, but at least you have the internet as a medium to distribute, whereas a painting will go on a gallery’s wall.

From a very pragmatic organizer standpoint, let’s give a little bit of something for everybody. All of these artists have high aesthetic value, so let’s bring them together. Mix it up and let people choose what they want to see.

Noise: What’s coming up? Do you think you would continue this?

Yeah, particularly because in April the Transmodern Festival happens. I didn’t want to run into the next cycle of that. I just wanted to see how it went. Six months seems like a modest commitment. To the extent that I can, I am going to pay these people, you know? I am not going to expect them to do it for free or low-ball them like, “Oh I only got $10 at the door.” While that happens and that’s a part of how you get things going, these are artists who have been working for decades, some for longer than that. Susan Alcorn has been playing music for over 30 years.

After a certain point, as an artist and an organizer, if you have the means to do it, you just want to say, “Look I really want to be able to appreciate you. I want you to get some money out of it. I want you to put a level of commitment into it.” Usually, this is aided by saying, “This is a serious gig. I’m going to give you some money. I’m going to get a nice venue and work hard to promote it.” %u2026 It’s not in my politics that I need to get paid. I don’t have a diva feeling about it, but, boy, is it nice when you do!

This is not a festival. This is not some big Hopkins-backed or MICA-backed event. This is just a person who works a job and saves enough money to pay the people in her series.

Noise: So you are paying out of pocket?

I am paying partially out of pocket, depending on attendance. The admission always goes back to the artist, but they have set guarantees. So, if the door doesn’t make enough, I’ll pay the rest out of pocket.

It’s a strategy as an organizer and an artist that I’ve come up with. Which is: I’ll work this job. It affords me some money that I can put into my own creative stuff and that I can put into projects. So I give myself the “Bonnie Jones Grant.”

Noise: You’re giving yourself grants?

Yeah! My own grants. Bonnie Jones Grants! I did apply for a grant from Baltimore City, and we’ll see if I get that to cover the rest of the series. But, I don’t have any problem with that. I have an idea about a [term] that people use a lot, of the cultural worker. There’s this slightly Marxist ideology of the cultural worker, the person who just does this cultural work.

Noise: Like a curator?

Yeah, like a curator, an organizer, a person who runs a venue, a person who writes arts articles for little or no money! These are cultural workers, people who are not getting monetary gain. They might even be coming under fire, people getting pissed off at them for whatever they did or didn’t do. Whatever. They are exposing themselves, to a certain extent, to do this work. But, you know, there’s a certain level of commitment to it. You care about it. It’s a worthy job, a worthy thing to want to work for.

I have always maintained that I get a lot out of Baltimore. Every opportunity that I’ve had creatively, for my own career, has been the direct result of things I was turned onto when I came to Baltimore 10 years ago. I feel like I am willing to do a little public service, to put back into the community.

The difficult thing is, when you are an organizer or cultural worker, you have to negotiate your own ego. Negotiate how personally involved with your own project that you are, so that if it fails, are you a failure? If it succeeds, are you therefore a big, successful person? You have to negotiate these things when it’s your project because it gets personal. Especially if you aren’t getting paid, then it gets more personal. I don’t live or die by the Los Solos series. If it fails, that’s disappointing. I will work at making the next one better. If it succeeds, that’s great. The success of a series like this doesn’t come back to me. I want to maintain that it doesn’t have anything to do with me at all. The success of a series like this goes right back into Baltimore, you know what I mean? This is something the city can have.

Noise: How would you define success and failure? Is it strictly just how many people come in the door?

No. Does it activate people? Does it make people curious about other things that are going on in the city? Does it make people realize that there’s a forum? Does it make artists realize there’s a forum for particular kinds of work?

I think that’s something that all of the big projects in Baltimore have been great at, which is bringing other people into the city. Like, High Zero or Wham City, Transmodern or Creative Alliance, or any of these other events. Artscape, for that matter. [People] are thinking, Damn! There’s a lot of artists in this city. There’s a lot going on!

Noise: Right, it becomes an arts city.

Yeah, it becomes an arts city. It doesn’t necessarily become the BSO kind of city. It becomes a Providence [R.I.]. It becomes the interesting, scrappy city that has a really great, really full, really engaged arts community. To me, all of that is in the same spectrum. And my philosophy is definitely: The more you put in, the better. There can never be too many opportunities for people.

Now that the heat wave has kind of subsided, you can relive the last week of Code Red swamp weather with a sweaty warehouse show. Teenage noise foursome Needle Gun shares a bill tonight at the Copy Cat with Mr. Moccasin (which includes City Paper contributor Jared Fischer), Aghost, Birthing Nets, and St. Louis’ Muscle Brain. Noise checked in, via e-mail, with Needle Gun about the band’s origins, DIY methods, and what to expect this evening. (Apparently, balloons.)

City Paper: How and when did Needle Gun form? Were you all playing music before, either alone or in some of other configuration with current members?

Needle Gun: Needle Gun formed two summers ago, in this type of heat. It started as Jack [Patterson] and Max [Eilbacher], then we peeled Gram [Hummell] and Mike [Allison] off the walls with phone calls once the temperature kept going up. We were all good friends and the jams were (still are) worth the sweat. All of us had noise or rock bands that played each other’s parties and basements and put out “CDRs” … none are really worth mentioning, some browsing on MySpace and Xanga crypts can lead you to them.

CP: Is your music strictly improvised? Also, your performances, that I’ve seen, have been rather short. I think some people find fault with that–as if they don’t get a solid 30-45 minute set they’ve being stiffed in some sense. Have you dealt with any complaints in this regard? Also, what is (or would be) your response?

NG: Our music is and isn’t improvised . . . sometimes we grab sticks, bones, clang, sing, scrape out a jam that’s right pleasant or terribly trite, other times we end up carving spears, making tools, and drawing maps to the spots we wish to reach soundwise. Some people do feel we play too short, and that’s fine with us, 15-45 minutes is the time frame I like to see MOST bands play, we make no [exception]. If people do not care for that, I’m sorry, can’t sweep the sumac every time.

CP: You all seem well-integrated into the experimental and noise scenes here in Baltimore. While Needle Gun has a core membership, it seems you all have collaborated with a number of other musicians. Also, you all are fond of split releases with other groups. I’m curious as to some of your favorite collaborators? Also, how do these co-releases come about?

NG: In regards to a Baltimore “scene,” it is simply our friends. We all . . . LOVE playing music, so if our other friends want to lay some licks or fried fish down to our table they are always welcome. Sometimes people are busy making money or turning soil, so other people take their spots, there’s a long list somewhere of all the people that have added to our stew. Jen Kirby, Marc Rothe, Scotty Russell, Dan Gilmore, Alex “newage” Strama, Sam “hexsxrew” Garrett, and Jaxsonmil Flytrap are a few recent ones.

If we really like another band or musician, sharing a split release with them is an honor and a great excuse to record some tunes. Also, riverlike internet networking sites (at times a barren waste of life) have been a major hatching ground for shows, contacts, and media releases as we message nice folks from faraway places.

CP: On the subject of the Baltimore underground music scene, you all are in tight with some smaller local labels like MT6 and Terra Firma. I get the sense that these small-run, DIY releases have significance for you all–like, you are not just working with smaller labels until something bigger happens along. There’s a definite community vibe that shines through in you penchant for working with these labels as well as your fondness for co-releases. Can you speak to this community you’re part of and what value, or importance, you find in DIY methods of getting your music out there?

NG: I can’t stress enough the factor of friends on this Baltimore music “scene” equation. Labels like MT6 or Terra Firma do things correctly, [there's] no image or sell-to-kill ratio, the whole thing is so informal and easy. A CD-R is released because Scott (of Terra Firma) or Alex (MT6) likes our music, simple as that. No money = no bullshit/axis of power. If 0-3 people buy our music this year, it has been a great year of the brown rat, no ghost of John Lennon or holographic David Geffens flipping my lights at timed increments at night.

CP: So, for those who have yet to see you perform, what can they expect from this Thursday’s show?

NG: I can predict as well as you. All we know as of now is Mr. Dirt Scrussells will be hitting skins, balloons will be used, and all four core members will be there. Hopefully live music will sprout, with those wood floors you never know.

While the likes of Rolling Stone and New York magazine have christened the Golden West Café as Baltimore’s premiere post-show hangout–a rather perplexing claim as it closes by midnight–the restaurant’s own events have been overlooked. This past Saturday, during the slothful frenzy of Memorial Day weekend, Golden West once again moonlighted as a club with a double bill featuring Snacks and Microkingdom, two local acts with very different takes on improvisation.

First up was Snacks, who generously lived up to their name by bringing along a glowing multitiered punch fountain bubbling with searing ginger gummies floating in homemade ginger beer. After urging the smallish, table-bound audience to partake in the refreshments, the duo of Tom Boram and Dan Breen took up their positions on either side of the makeshift stage–a slightly raised platform by the front window normally occupied by booth seating. Both of Snacks’ sets were short, though heavy on electro-live drum clatter and punctuated with improvised bursts from battling trombones. Breen, in a peaked cap hung with charms, handled most of the percussive duties while Boram, of the alchemist’s beard, twitched behind a stack of keyboards and gadgets.

During the first set, Boram–in full anything-goes mode–stepped into the foreground for a furious bit of tap-dancing. Later, to a backdrop of Breen’s sharp, shuddering cymbals, Boram rigged a contact mic to a balloon and evoked, through furious rubs, an oddly plaintive series of chirrups and bellows. The overall sound was that of joyful, willful weirdness, a thorny, skittering fog of arrhythmic clatter and electro-squelches. Imagine a room full of gangly, hippie-flipping robots toying with water-logged Game Boys and catapulting off each other. Despite the uncustomary second set, the performance felt no longer than a half-hour or so.

Next up, Microkingdom–so fond of appending its name–performed as the Respect Commanders. This evening’s incarnation consisted of core duo Will Redman (drums) and Marc Miller (guitar), along with habitual collaborator John Dierker on sax and visiting, Buffalo, N.Y., keyboardist/accordionist Otto Muller. While the rest of the ensemble were gussied up in the sort of jazzman finery that befits the group’s off-kilter noir–crisp button-down shirts, ties, fitted vests, and such–Dierker, in an unassuming dark T-shirt, stood out in casual relief. When things got a touch chaotic, Dierker remained something of a cyclonic center: all wildly puffed-out cheeks, concentrated shivers, and forceful sax squeals.

All in all, it was a more subdued set than shows past, with little of Microkingdom’s heavier rock leanings. Redman and Miller sounded especially mellow, eschewing any thunder drumming and epic guitar wails in favor of subtle tweaks and flourishes. Guest musician Muller’s contributions on keyboard and accordion were likewise understated, more mood enhancer than attention-grabber. You got the sense they were playing to the setting: With the audience clustered about tables and talking softly over drinks in the dim, gold-tinged light, it did feel a bit like stumbling back in time to a long-lost languorous speakeasy.

As previously reported, the Talking Head recently left it’s longtime Davis Street location for new digs inside Sonar. Earlier this week, a couple shows were held in Sonar’s smaller-stage Club room, but Wednesday’s show went down in the space’s former lounge, the Talking Head’s official new home.

Upon arriving at Sonar, the only notice of a new tenant was a hand-lettered sign propped up at ground level next to an alley entrance. The narrow, dimly lit passage, nearly blocked by a parked van, gave the evening a clandestine air apropos for the punk-rooted show bill. Stepping inside was disorienting–the lounge’s posh leather sofas and pool table were haphazardly jammed up against one wall, requiring a quick side step as one entered the lounge proper. A rough foot and a half-tall platform–flanked by a splotchy, unfinished wall–was set up opposite the intact bar. A tiny merch table was squeezed into a corner beside a hodgepodge of amps and other audio equipment. Clearly, it was a room in transition, like a basement storage space that just happened to be lit with the golden ambiance of fancy, crackled-glass ceiling lamps.

Having heard that hometown act Deep Sleep was opening with a surprise set, Noise arrived early, catching the band in midsong. The band nailed that tightly wound, thrashy Southern Cali punk like the past 20-odd years never happened. Think: Descendents-esque bass lines and unrelenting vox courtesy of singer Tony Pence, who got in an impressive jack-knife jump without fumbling a word. Like most good things, Deep Sleep’s set was over just a little too soon.

Next up was another unbilled addition, Chapel Hill, N.C.’s the Spider Bags: a twangy foursome complete with slide guitar and a singer affecting that booze-wearied drawl. While pleasant enough, the group didn’t impress. To be fair, the sound in the lounge was borderline terrible–the space is, essentially, a concrete box, for now at least. Assumedly, this explains why the singer’s guitar sounded scratchy and fuzzed out in the worst way. Then again, the slide guitar rang out silver and clear. The drummer fascinated by pulling some excellent, pained faces as he pounded away, and the wiry lead singer went all mad scientist at set’s end, throwing his guitar to the ground, clambering precariously atop the drum kit, and conjuring some wavering feedback from his amp during the extended outro.

The Golden Boys , from Austin, Texas, were up next. Like their tourmates the Spider Bags, this group played country-tinged rock, complete with booze references. However, the Golden Boys hail from a markedly rowdier, garage rock sound prone to lo-fi messiness. Throughout its set, the group would drop the twang in favor of cacophonous, vaguely psychedelic midsong breakdowns punctuated by monkey-house yelps. The keyboardist seemed promising at first–and again, maybe it was a sound issue–but didn’t seem to bring much of anything to the set. All in all, the Golden Boys came off as a bit silly and muddled.

After a longish break, the crowd rallied ’round for skrunky degenerates Hollywood, including a few curious interlopers from Sonar’s local hip-hop show, who seemed torn between fist-pumping or creeping back out the door. Loud and surly with a touch of butt-rock glamour, Hollywood specializes in heavy riffs and dude-vox pile-ups reminiscent, at moments, of early Suicidal Tendencies. The five-piece spilled off the low stage–the singer perched on an amp surveying the crowd with a hint of bitter amusement, the guitarist slid on his knees across the floor in fully serious rocker pose. The set was roiling, willfully meatheadish party punk perfect for those nights when you can’t remember how you broke your arm and mortally offended all your friends.

Next up was Montreal’s CPC Gangbang, which likewise played chaotic, anti-social garage punk–though far less convincing than Hollywood. Noise didn’t catch too much of its set as the affected nihilism came off as merely obnoxious. Luckily, CP music editor Michael Byrne was there to fill in the details for the rest of the night’s acts:

Given the above about Hollywood–missed by myself–CPC Gangbang was definitely overaffected, almost to the point of being showy and shallow: lots of jumping around, hitting guitars against this or that, you’re-all-dead sneering, and half-convincing way-too-long feedback attacks that didn’t make a whole lot of sense in a garage-punk song. A tiny girl in a cut-off T-shirt with underage X’s on her hands went crazy at some point and tried to start her own circle pit. This was more funny than anything else given one of the more disinterested punk audiences in recent Talking Head memory. She got hosed with beer and was way too pissed off about it.



The music is trad garage done well, and, in fairness, it takes a lot to do trad garage better than “well.” Even the master himself, John Reis (Hot Snakes, Rocket From the Crypt), is having a hard time with it these days. I dig on the riffs, though, swapping between straight-out arena style and snarly, jagged tears. And when Paul Spence and co-vocalist name-unknown drop the “creepy” singing and just breath fire, it’s bad-ass. (And, given the bunker sound of the room, anything “clear” is anything but.)



By the time Vincent Black Shadow went on, the crowd was getting real thin. As in, there may have been more band members/employees/music writers in there than fans. The show was not what you’d expect from VBS on record, for better or worse–there’s not much in the way of processing, so the whole getting-raped-in-the-ear-with-a-bit-sander effect isn’t there. But hearing Adam Savage sing-scream live makes you wonder if he was processed at all on the last VBS record (More Deeper)–he turns his throat into some kind of trashed static filter on cue so easily that it’s almost startling. The band itself live is rock-rock rather than the claustrophobic, noisy punk rock of its records.



Savage–long greasy hair, slouch, T-shirt, and jeans–as a spectacle is more convincing than Spence, who looks like your average indie kid turned punk in a sport coat. He’s more awkward about it–hard to explain, he’s just a mite goofy in a charming way–but he’s got confrontation down. Just a light touch; he’s not screaming in people’s faces or spitting on the sound guy, but you gotta love his quick snip at the standoffish crowd: “So, you’re gonna make me come all the way out there to fuck with you.” Nice.



Maybe one of the best parts of watching Savage perform is how slyly happy he looks. Even if he’s spazzing around the club floor, he’s got a certain affability. It’s nothing obvious–he’s not grinning or dancing or anything–but you can tell he understands this as a party, not a fight, or even a spectacle for the sake of a spectacle.

Tuesday morning, in a blog post titled “Retiretard,” garage-punker Jay Reatard announced that he is quitting music. While later admitting it was a joke, the post made reference to Reatard’s recent fracas, centered on an incident earlier this month in Toronto, when he punched a fan in the face. Of course, it was all filmed (and then looped for hilarity) resulting in a viral video and flurry of online discussion (ahem) that could definitely turn one’s thoughts to an early retirement.

Reatard, who got his start as a teenager in the late ’90s with his sloppy, ferocious bedroom recordings, has been steadily gaining fans–such as including Bradford Cox of Atlas Sound and Deerhunter, another Southern musician made good who has, like Reatard, been pegged as something of a bad boy by the indie press. In the last two years, Reatard has toured relentlessly with his backing band, released a collector-baiting 7-inch series on Matador Records, performed at big-time indie showcases such as SXSW, and is slated to play the upcoming Pitchfork Festival.

Along the way, even before the Toronto punch-out, Reatard has had several clashes with audience members. Another online video, from a Las Vegas show late last year, caught a man climbing onto the stage, bumping into Reatard, and getting a swift double kick to the chest. Meanwhile, in classic punker fashion, Reatard played on without missing a beat. In an interview from October 2007 on the Turn It Down blog, Reatard explains yet another fight–this time during a Memphis hometown performance at Gonerfest (an annual showcase for Goner Records, a label that released much of Reatard’s earliest material). Detailing the incident, he claimed the fan–apparently angry about Reatard’s use of acoustic guitar for his set–threw a drink at him. In response, Reatard decked him in the face.

“Some of those people cross the line,” Reatard says in the interview. “They think they own musicians, they think they own a band and if the band changes they take it personally. [I]t’s really strange. I can’t relate to it. If a band I like change into something I don’t like, I just stop listening to them. I don’t go to their show and throw vodka in their eyes.”

Of course, such altercations between musicians and fans have a long, oft-revered history in underground rock. Compared to the legends surrounding Iggy Pop or G.G. Allin, Reatard’s on-stage fisticuffs have been pretty mild. Still, when heading out to the Black Cat for his show last Saturday, Noise was definitely ready–hoping?–for a skirmish. Instead, it was a subdued and perfunctory evening.

The first surprise was that the show actually occurred on schedule, meaning Noise–assuming a late start thanks to Baltimore-bred notions of “punk-rock time”–missed both opening groups, Cheap Time and the Shirks. In a prescient indicator of what was to come, Jay Reatard and backing band launched into the set with a mere mumble of introduction.

The performance, which suffered from woefully submerged vocals, was heavy on songs from Blood Visions, including standouts such as the title track, “It’s So Easy,” and “My Shadow.” Between songs the band remained tight lipped, expertly chugging through the set list like fluffy haired automatons, with only the briefest of respites and no effort to engage the audience.

For its part, the large-ish crowd was strangely mellow and seemingly content with polite pogoing and mouthing–not singing–along. It wasn’t till midway through the very last song that a small, lackluster circle pit opened up in front of the stage. Before the last notes rang out, much of the crowd was headed off to close bar tabs or to queue up at the merch table. Eerily, people expressed more excitement in buying t-shirts than they had in seeing Jay Reatard perform. All in all, it was a deflating evening–an otherwise good set done in by the detached band and disconnected fans.

“YELL AT ME

IT’LL BE FUN

AND EASY

THANK

YOU”

Though it sounds like a kinky personal ad, the above enticement is lifted from a recent Lexie Mountain promotional e-mail. Another caps-heavy missive described her then-upcoming recording session, held last Monday at the Red Room at Normals Books and Records, as “HECKLE TIME USA.” Intrigued and a touch nervous–just what would “creative heckling” entail?!–Noise joined about eight others for the hourlong, mostly a cappella performance that may end up on a solo live LP released by Holy Mountain next year.

Initially expecting a show that just happened to be recorded, the disarray of the Red Room–which doubles as Normals’ storage space–hinted at something more impromptu and unusual. In fact, the performance was a recording session, and the “audience” was soon put to work. To both relief and disappointment, however, heckling was off the agenda.

Lexie Mountain–nee Alexandra Macchi–had set up her equipment, including a sampler, several microphones, a laptop, a chunky black cassette recorder, and a box of tapes, toward the back of the room. After thanking the attendees, she explained we were to kick things off by wildly clapping and cheering for a full minute while she recorded us on cassette. The idea was that after performing each song she would play our earlier, canned reaction while we cheered over it in real-time. Those first unsure seconds, after she flipped the recorder on, were quickly amplified into raucous yelps, whistles, catcalls, and laughter.

The self-conscious silliness and the artifice of the exercise did strange things to time: it was difficult to tell if the pretend mirth had just lasted 60 seconds. It felt much longer, as several times the enthusiasm petered out–people looking expectantly at one another until someone whooped or stomped their feet, and suddenly we were all at it again with renewed vigor, like it was a competition, the volume rising in a subtle crescendo of cheers.

In the afterglow of participation–feeling part of it, though the performance hadn’t precisely started yet–with throats a bit raw, palms a tad sore, next we learned our lines for the first song. Describing the theme as “overblown” and “petulant pageantry,” Macchi coached us on a few, longer variations of the chorus before settling on the honed-down, easy-to-remember chorus of “Oh my god/ Miss America,” which was chanted real slow and low, drawing out each syllable like the measured rhythms of a work song. Meanwhile, Macchi layered and looped her own voice till the song harked back to the raw, unadorned sacred-harp choirs. Further playing off that gospel vibe, at song’s end, Macchi sampled a bluesy preacher’s sermon from her stash of cassette tapes.

The rest of the songs had a similar stripped-down feel, and the audience, upon Macchi’s requests, improvised sounds with whatever was readily available: shouting out random words or shuffling their chairs across the hard wood floor. Each song riffed on the power of one voice slowly stacked upon itself–aural decoupage–until the room seemed flush with singers. There were moments when the Red Room felt a bit like a sanctified church–those small, resourceful congregations that can turn any old place, from a former movie palace to a strip-mall shop, into a house of worship. With those churches in mind, the ramshackle Red Room, already a multiuse space, felt especially fitting for an evening of secularized avant-spirituals.

“I can’t play instruments very well, and I’m sort of tone deaf and flat, so I’m the easiest person for me to harmonize with,” Macchi explains via e-mail. “When I play solo, I’m pretty nervous and I also don’t plan things out very well, so I can’t say I really intended to do anything specific. But sermons, storefront churches, choir practice, and the passion of faith are certainly influences.”

Macchi also mentioned that she will be recording again, for the release, later this spring.

Last Saturday, Baltimore hosted a wonderfully unlikely event that meshed music, art, and a gorgeous view of the city at twilight. 387 Feet Above, part of the Festival of Maps mania that has swept the city, is an art exhibit curated by Gary Kachadourian and hosted at the Top of the World observation level at the World Trade Center. In a stroke of brilliant promotion, the opening reception featured a who’s who of local experimental musicians, curated by Geoff Grace, and including Nick Barna, Jay DiLisio, Eric Franklin, Grace, Twig Harper, Yutaka Houlette, Marc Miller, Jared Paolini, City Paper contributor Carly Ptak, Jason Urick, and Jason Willet. Expectedly, there was a great turnout.

The vibe was far removed from your typical concert. There was no stage and no sequential lineup: Instead, the musicians played all at once having set up some distance apart, each in front of (or on) one of the many benches that looked out onto the city. Attendees were free to linger at each station, chat with friends, peruse the art, or merely stare out the tall windows that enclosed the floor on all sides. The soft lighting, subdued chatter, and strange sounds imbued the evening with a mellow reverence.

And, of course, there was the knockout view, likely the main draw for many who would normally avoid the Inner Harbor. From way up there, though, detached from the coarse razzle-dazzle of Hooters and the Hard Rock Café, people clustered, transfixed, at the windows. There was no denying the glamour: the inky Chesapeake Bay, the winking lights, and the sky streaked peachy-orange by the sunset.

Last spring, Baltimore introspective indie-pop outfit Thrushes rose out the internet ether when “Hearbeats,” the lead single off their then just-released debut album, Sun Come Undone, became the No. 1 downloaded song for the week of March 30. In light of this success, the band offered a remix contest, intending to release its favorite version. Due to the volume and quality of submissions, the group has expanded the project into an EP, out May 6, on its own Bird Note Records. The CD features the original “Heartbeats” alongside six remixes and a video directed by playwright Kevin Doyle. An additional three bonus tracks will be available on iTunes.

Noise caught up with guitarist Casey Harvey, to discuss the remixes, the group’s popularity in the U.K., and its next album, Night Falls.

City Paper: Who were the people sending in remixes?

Casey Harvey: We had some DJs locally, [such as] DJ Steelo from Baltimore. He did one that had a real nice, chill downtempo feel. We had a DJ from D.C., [DtheNextLevel], who did an ’80s, John Hughes film-inspired piece. We had some people from the U.K. who did a kind of Kevin Shields, My Bloody Valentine treatment. We had professional people [and] people who are fans and just worked in their bedroom.

CP: You mentioned some U.K. DJs. Do you have a big fan base over there, and how did they come to hear of your group?

CH: I sent hundreds of promo kits all over the U.K. For some reason, we really get tagged with “shoegaze.” I think there’s a much bigger fan base for that in Europe, especially the U.K. That kind of British-rock stuff is still pretty popular over there, so that helped a lot.

CP: Are you working on material for another album?

CH: We are about three-quarters of the way done writing material. We plan to be in the studio in June or July. So, we’re thinking a fall or early winter ’08 release for the next record.

CP: You’ve released videos before, and they were kind of lo-fi-looking but the new one–

CH: Yeah, this came out really great.

CP: Who is the director and how did it all come about?

CH: The director is Kevin Doyle. He’s a playwright and runs a theater company in New York called Sponsored by Nobody. He’s [received] awards from The New York Times and pretty big places. I’m not sure how he came across us. I think he saw us play in New York, and he was really interested, particularly in that song ["Heartbeats"]. He had the vision pretty much fully formed in his head of what he wanted to do. He came to us. He put the storyboards together and he came down here one day, and we filmed [the band scenes], in October, at the Metro Gallery.

Then, he had some actors, from his theater company, that he filmed on the beach in Long Island for those narrative scenes. It took a long time, the editing. He put a lot of work into it. He had a really good feel for making it look professional.

CP: You have a good relationship with the Metro Gallery. Is that why you chose to do the performance scenes there?

CH: We had done some videos before that were in warehouses, garages, kind of industrial spaces. We definitely wanted something with a cleaner look. Metro Gallery, with the windows all around the front, had access to some good light. The gallery setting was a blank canvas: white walls, white floors. We could really mold the space into something we wanted.

The video:

The new Wham City space could be any nondescript, ramshackle ghost of industry in the outskirts of the Station North Arts District. The only indication that a show was going on early last Saturday evening–the space’s first–were a man and woman standing outside and politely hurrying people in. Later, though, when the space was full and those at the door were turning folk away, there was just no hope of being discreet: cars, sharklike, circled the street over and over in search of parking, laughing young people strolled the block, others glided up, near-silent, on their fancy bikes–like one guy whose tight, ivory jeans perfectly matched the immaculate, old-fashioned white walls of his tires.

Once inside, it was up a narrow run-down stairwell and into a small, rough room–the smoking lounge–with a smattering of chairs and just one window smeared with pigeon droppings. The show had yet to start, so people milled about, chatting and wandering into the adjacent walled-off show space: a huge, wide-open rectangle with a high, vaunted ceiling crisscrossed by wooden beams. Tall windows, lining the wall to the right, are painted over with images of fruits on vacation (pineapples skiing and such), and in the dim light the windows shone soft blue, like at the cusp of dawn–a jarring effect when caught in the corner of an eye, making it seem far later than it truly was.

Outsized characters had been painted all along the right side of the space–a charming cartoonish vampire and a cutesy bat thing with eyes that bled black down its chubby blue body. To the left, the walls were mostly bare–better for video projections–save for a glittering gold foam installation, like stalagmite champagne bubbles frothing from the corner, floor to ceiling. There is no stage, so the bands played from the floor, setting up a little to the left or right–wherever they wished, really. The space invites this looseness. It is all very much what you would expect from Wham City: dilapidated, bare function dressed up in scavenged, absurdist fancies, ripe for any whim that may strike. Like some ragamuffin clubhouse, equal parts John Waters Mortville and the studio from the early-’90s children’s show Kids Incorporated.

And the early ’90s were certainly a touchstone with many people in the crowd who harked back to a decidedly grunge, My So Called Life-era of fashion: fuzzy button-up flannel shirts, leggings, baggy tees, droopy knit hats. Further cementing this nostalgia were the bands on the bill, particularly opener Adventure, all clearly weaned on Super NES. Even the Sharpie marker crosses that one got with admission looked an awful lot like Nintendo controller buttons.

Adventure consists of two guys, one tucked up against the golden foam bubbles behind a keyboard wired to a laptop while the other danced in front of an endless stream of psychotronic projections. Both were clad in clinging, white full-body leotards that appeared to melt away in the flicker of images against the wall. While the lithe curly-haired keyboardist rapidly banged out some long-lost Zelda soundtrack, the other, a hearty, barefoot fellow, bounded about with an impressive reserve of unflagging energy, playing the familiar archetype of the Fool–the clown or jester, stomping from side to side on a small, scratchy platform or stepping down to entice audience members to cavort with him. It all made sense, after a bit: the name, the shtick, the beckoning gestures of the dancer. There is a princess locked up on some dungeon mountaintop, and Adventure was set to take us there. Quite simply, it was silly as hell and all the more fun for it.

Next up were Videohippos, complete with their own narrative-free collage of projections and found sound clips. Their set was mellow, pleasantly echoing jangle pop, though the vocals were irritatingly submerged. The ever-growing crowd rallied around, as they did for Health, an L.A. group and the bill’s only out-of-towner. Maybe it was the press of bodies muffling its sound, but Health failed to awe with its trendy mix of electro dance clatters and airy psych-out flourishes.

Finally, for the closing set, was Ponytail. The audience swelled in, giving the band scarce room to set up its equipment. Frontwoman Molly Seigel, of the alley-cat mewls, greeted the crowd with a little hometown love cry, declaring Baltimore the best city in the world, which, oddly, garnered an utterly deflated response. The band left no time to dwell on this awkwardness as it swiftly launched into song. From the first note on, the floor began heaving under the wildly pogoing crush of feet. It was scary, this shuddering that seemed to roll in waves all the way to the far wall, which–if one’s back was pressed to it–shook with palpable minor seismic tremors.

The funny thing, though, is that no one seemed to care. If anything, the crowd went extra bonkers, inching impossibly closer to the already hemmed-in band as if this threat of collapse merely enhanced the excitement. And perhaps it did, in some minute echo of old, curious tales: the aristocrats given over to Caligula-like hedonism during the wane of the Roman empire or the desperate decadence in walled-up medieval cities during the Black Plague. Danger-heightening enjoyment, an old story.

Ponytail has really come into its own with a marvelous tightness and cohesion. The band’s initial charm–the rough, wild blasts of unadulterated energy–has been tumbled smooth, and older songs, from its debut Kamehameha, have been honed into extended, even epic-at-moments jams. There’s something deliciously relentless about this growth: getting better and better with each outing, delivering more fully the promise of music to transport, to forget all troubles–Wham City’s weak floor perhaps, or even one’s own self.

And that post-set hangover, when the audience remains enrapt, hoping that just maybe the band will do an encore or something–those moments when the crowd looks slack and dazed before hurriedly reassembling their composure and finally heading off with an over-the-shoulder glance. This refusal to leave, despite the increasingly exasperated urgings of Wham City staff, is proof of a promise delivered.

This Saturday, March 29, Bernard Farley, the Washington D.C.-based electronic musician and DJ known as Outputmessage, returns to Bmore Electro‘s monthly More or Less party at the Depot for a night of melodic electrohouse obscurities. Well-known in the IDM scene, the 24-year-old self-taught musician boasts an impressive résumé of releases and production work. While he initially broke out in his late teens when Ghostly International released his track “Bernard’s Song” on its 2003 Idol Tryouts compilation, Farley got his start a decade ago.

Farley bounced around during his childhood–he was born in Queens, N.Y., but moved to New Jersey during his early adolescence before his family settled in Richmond, Va.–but music was a constant in his life. His father played sax, violin, and keyboard, while his mother sang and introduced him to disco and R&B. As a young teen living in Jersey, friends turned him onto Aphex Twin, Orbital, and Underworld. Under this matrix of influences, Farley, then 14, started making his own music after his mother brought home a computer. “I was pretty much on that thing all the time,” he reflects via e-mail. “I knew barely any music theory at all, just the notes on the keyboard, but I had so much fun experimenting with things. Eventually, I taught myself a lot of theory.”

His first big break came just weeks after starting his freshman year at Virginia Tech. There he was introduced to Jeff Robidoux, a childhood friend of Ghostly International head Sam Valenti. Robidoux passed on Farley’s demos to Valenti, leading to Ghostly’s release of his 2002 remix of Dabyre’s “Hyped-Up Plus Tax” and, in 2003, “Bernard’s Song.” Valenti later turned David Copper, head of the Melodic label, on to the burgeoning artist, leading to the 2006 release of Farley’s debut album, Nebulae.

While plugging away to earn both bachelor’s and master’s degrees in mathematics, Farley continued making music–and connecting with yet another label head: Miguel Lacsamana of D.C.-based Echelon Productions and the band Stamen and Pistils. While opening with a DJ set for Crystal Method at a Virginia Tech show, Lacsamana spotted Farley in the crowd. “He saw me dancing and immediately noticed something about me apparently,” Farley says. This encounter led to the release of the Oneiros EP on Echelon and collaborative works between the two, including a new venture called Demerit that Farley describes as “geared right for the dance floor.” Recently, Farley has contributed some production work and remixes to Lacsamana’s electropop Person project, which has an album due out this June on Echelon.

These days, Farley is finishing up his second Outputmessage album for Melodic. “It’ll be the IDM I was doing before but infused with dance and pop,” he says, adding that he’ll be singing on some tracks. Also in the wings is New Models, a rock-influenced dance collaboration with D.C.-based musician Mark Herbkersman, which Farley describes as “kind of like Postal Service with balls.” New Models will have an EP out soon on Cincinnati-based Race Car Productions.

Listen:

Outputmessage Marquis DJ Night Mix (11.29.07)

Outputmessage Marquis DJ Night Mix (10.25.07)

Leading something of a double life–immersed in academia as a Johns Hopkins University grad student by day and DJ by night–Adam Gonzo is a regular at the Ottobar’s weekly Tensday party, where he spins tonight. Gonzo’s sets omnivorously pilfer from vintage disco and house, pop and hip-hop, with plenty of odes to local sounds–from Baltimore club to the Death Set–and at times they hang together purely on inspiring a compulsive locomotion.

Fittingly, he’s christened his straight-to-the web, free series of mixes “Dance Party for Dummies.” The series’ recently released third volume quickly sets the slightly off-kilter tone, opening with Snoop Dogg’s vocodor-licious “Sensual Seduction.” There’s a persistent romance throughout the mix’s 40 minutes, albeit more akin to “wild at heart, weird on top” kind glimpsed in Barry Gifford novels than Hallmark Channel fare. Snoop’s throwback jam mingles with authentic synth-heavy 80s fluff tempered by well-timed grit–like the extended remix of Blaq Starr and Rye Rye’s “Shake it to the Ground” or the closer, Timbaland’s “Come Around featuring M.I.A. The best moments of themix–such as the upbeat take on Royksopp featuring Erland Oye’s wistfully airy “Remind Me”–are when the mood slyly shifts, slipping from sweat to sighs and back again.

Download it here.

While the bludgeoning chorus claims “We want some Pu-Pu-ssaaaay,” everything about the ridiculously NSFW video for “Pu$$y”–from Spank Rock’s Bangers and Cash side project–seeks to negate this. For a bootie rap, the crudely animated images of disembodied vajayjays–quite literally hammered and bitch-slapped–look, well, thoroughly unsexy. Repulsive even, and maybe that’s the point.

Lyrically, the song is just slightly nastier than the usual club-quaking sex odes. For those familiar with Spank Rock’s explicitness, there’s nothing to arrest you midgrind. The video, on the other hand, tackles a new level of foul while simultaneously lampooning and actualizing the lyrics’ bravado. Imagine if a virginal 13-year-old went to bed dreaming of the clutch of scat porn he discovered at his bachelor-uncle’s house. Those damp flights of fantasy, wholly divorced from any real-life experience, would look a hell of a lot like “Pu$$y”‘s adolescent doodle-style animation.

Kathy Acker and William Burroughs might have got a kick out of the feverish, boner-deflating fetishes presented here: stand-alone lady bits oozing green slime; crab-walking, nightmarish vagina-creatures consisting merely of shapely legs and genitals; and over-the-top anal fixation, including a cartoon Spank Rock lasciviously lapping up feces. “Pu$$y” conjures a scarily hilarious world so blatantly fixated on orifices that the notion of objectification falls short. Though you could peg the video as misogynistic–it could easily turn up in a new volume of the music video-analyzing Dreamworlds–”Pu$$y”‘s absurdist imagery, intentionally or not, could also be read as feminist satire.

Taxlo fixture DJ Dave Nada has been busy spreading his rowdy blend of Baltimore club and hip-hop far beyond the East Coast. Despite a gnarly cold, Nada was kind enough to check in with Noise during a lull between touring, to discuss recent shows in California and Canada, his upcoming releases, and whom he is stoked on seeing at the South By Southwest music festival in Austin, Texas.

City Paper: You went out to the West Coast first with Blaq Starr. Then you went up to Canada with Jokers of the Scene. Maybe we should start with the Blaq Starr tour. How did that go? What was your reception like out there?

Dave Nada: The Blaq Starr tour went really well. Basically, Mad Decent [Records] and Cullen [Stalin], who does Taxlo, had the idea of having me and Blaq Starr do the West Coast. It was the first time Blaq Starr has been out there, first time I have been out there, so they wanted to get us out there and kill it.

We only ended up doing two shows–San Francisco and L.A. It was cool considering it was our first time, and the crowds were really receptive. People in both cities were pretty much going crazy. A lot of people were really, really, really excited to see Blaq Starr actually perform and not just DJ.

I got to hang out with the guy and see how he is. See the artist he is even off the stage and out of the DJ booth. It was a good experience.

CP: From going there, I guess it was pretty mild–the weather.

DN: The weather was fine, up to [the] 60s. Unlike Canada, when I went up with Jokers.

CP: I was going to tie that in because, on your web site, you were saying [Canada] was having some record-setting blizzard.

DN: It was a great time, but we ended up having to cancel our Montreal show. Toronto was cool. Ottawa was cool. We did Kingston, and all three shows were rad. But the storms definitely had an impact, like in Toronto. It was that day that one of the blizzards had finished. It was still a good crowd, considering it was a Wednesday night in Toronto, in a storm.

We did Kingston, which is a good town, right between Toronto and Ottawa. It’s kind of a small college town. It ended up being really crazy. That was the least amount of weather problems. Me and Jokers went on and basically spun the majority of the night. It was really good turnout, really good reception. Kids were really into the Baltimore club and electro shit.

Ottawa was great. I did the monthly Disorganized [show], [the Jokers] have been doing it for years. Even through the stormy weather, it was a packed house.

CP: How did you hook up with Jokers of the Scene? Were you friends from before?

DN: We were fans of each other’s music and have mutual friends who are also DJs. A while ago I put them on to Cullen and Simon [Phoenix], to have them do Taxlo. But each time they came through Baltimore I was out of town. So we were finally able to get a chance to DJ together in Columbus, Ohio. It was Zen.

We had always maintained the relationship online, through music. Then, finally having to DJ together, it was a great time. Good chemistry. So, they were like, “We’ve been meaning to bring you up for Disorganized, so let’s organize a tour surrounding it.” I was really privileged to get down with those dudes.

CP: Did you notice any difference in reception between the West Coast and the East Coast? Or America and Canada?

DN: I would say Canada is a bit more progressive as far as the music goes. There’s a really strong interest for new music out there. I did notice in Canada that people were really, really receptive, more so than in the U.S.

CP: Did you notice any difference between the West Coast reception and what you get here on the East Coast?

DN: It was funny because San Francisco reminded me of playing at the Talking Head on a weekend night or a Monday night. It was a small spot, but it was packed. People were hanging off the ceiling, totally just going crazy for the music. I was really impressed. That was my only experience of the West Coast, but I would say they got down as strong as Baltimore on a good night.

CP: Is your 12-inch only going to be available at South by Southwest?

DN: I’m doing a show for Burlesque [of North America]. They are putting out a record to promote the night called Do It to It. It’s me, Cosmo Baker, Smalltown DJs, and Bird Peterson, a dope producer.

Initially [the record] was just going to be for promo for South by Southwest, but once the word got out there was a big demand for it. So now Turntable Lab is going to pick it up. It will be available shortly after the festival.

CP: What is on the 12-inch?

DN: It’s a mix that I did for “Crank That” by Soulja Boy. I did [it] with Federico Franchi.

CP: Is there anyone you want to see perform while you are down there?

DN: I’d like to catch Simian Mobile Disco; I think they are DJ’ing. I’d like to catch the Breeders [and] Million Dollar Mano, this producer out of Chicago who is really dope. DJs like Cosmo Baker and the Rub guys. I really look forward to seeing Switch again, too. Santogold, especially. She’s one of my favorites. Jokers of the Scene will be there. The Peer Pressure kids from Montreal. They’re really solid DJs. It’s going to be crazy, I can’t wait.

CP: Do you have anything coming up besides the 12-inch?

DN: I just finished doing a remix for this group called Time Machine, out of L.A. That’s going to have an official release fairly soon [on] the label Glow Like This. I’m working on an EP for T&A [Records]. Some other projects [like] production for Matt Nordstrom, out of D.C.

CP: What kind of stuff are you doing with Matt Nordstrom?

DN: With Matt Nordstrom it’s a little bit more on the electro-house tip. He comes from more of an electronic, ambient background, [and] combined with my [Baltimore] club background, we started working on a few tracks. They’re getting really good reception. It’s a lot of electronic, kind of crazy. We’ll probably have some stuff out from that later in the Spring.

CP: The EP that you are working on, do you mind talking a little bit about what that’s going to sound like?

DN: It’s going to be a follow-up EP on T&A. It will probably be five songs featuring Baltimore club. I am working on that right now. That should be out hopefully by the end of spring.

Tittsworth has a new album coming out. I have a remix on his album that’s going to feature all kinds of people like Kid Sister, Nina Sky, and Pase Rock.

This past Tuesday, word was that Rolling Stone was in town. During the day, its envoy had been spotted at Hampden’s Golden West Café and Normals Books and Records. Later that night, the mag’s representatives headed over to the Floristree warehouse space for a lineup of hometown acts Ecstatic Sunshine and Double Dagger, along
with Brooklynites Parts and Labor. Even without the tip-off, it wouldn’t have taken long to suss out the paparazzi among the chatty weeknight crowd. Wielding impressive cameras, a couple of middle-aged photographers conspicuously clustered along the stage throughout most of the evening. With their all-business air, one wondered what they made of Floristree’s boho casualness, complete with two of the space’s boldest cats winding through the audience.

Ecstatic Sunshine was up first, with its recently minted lineup. For a fan whose become invested in a group’s sound, there’s a sense of end-of-an-era bell tolling when musicians veer off into something quite different. In this case, the group grew from two dudes battling it via guitar with hyper-ferocious glee to a decidedly more introspective three-piece. Nostalgia aside, with Ecstatic Sunshine playing out frequently since the reshuffling, it’s been interesting to see the group figure itself out a little more each show.

Since guitarist Dustin Wong’s departure, Ecstatic Sunshine has moved heavily toward great washes of reverb. It’s pleasant enough but bogs things down a bit. When guitarist Matt Papich launches into some of that nimble noodling it feels a bit like running into an old friend you’ve missed more than you realized. Still, as Tuesday’s performance showed, there’s a lot of promise in playing this newfound love for echoing psych-outs against Papich’s expressive guitar styling, as evident in the moments when one element receded so the other could stand in relief.

Parts and Labor were up next, with a brand-new guitarist, Sarah Lipstate of solo noise project Noveller. Though “emo” is a dirty word in the underground lately, Parts and Labor definitely hark back to that genre’s heyday in the best way possible. Make no mistake, though–it’s not as if they sound like, say, Lifetime. The comparison holds up in terms of energy, thanks in large part to their drummer’s machinelike thrashing and the flat singsong of their boy-on-boy vocals. Perhaps the best way to describe their set is noise-pop: feedback squall anchored by space-age keyboard tinkle and the two singers’ almost-harmonies. Whatever you want to call it, Parts and Labor had the crowd pogoing like NoDoz-gobbling 14-year-olds at their first VFW hall pop-punk show.

Double Dagger closed out the night with mostly new material, though its somewhat subdued set was peppered with older songs like “The Psychic.” Singer Nolen Strals mounted the stage with a megaphone, better to be heard during his customary midsong charges through the pit. From the first chord on, a circle fomented in front of the stage, sending those out-of-town photographers scurrying for less turbulent vantages. While energy was high both on and off the stage, it was a mellower, less confrontational set for the group than shows past. Still, at night’s end, the crowd ambled out, sweaty and spent. It wasn’t the wildest, weirdest night of Baltimore music, but Rolling Stone got a glimpse of community–from the bands giving each other props onstage to Double Dagger pausing between songs to help return one woman’s lost shoe–the oft-unheralded charms of a small city’s underground.

The evening began with a series of pieces from Berlin-based composer and artist Christian Kesten that turned the notion of performance inside-out. You could not help feeling a bit like Alice sitting down to tea with the Mad Hatter during Kesten’s multilingual and even protolingual pieces, such as “Untitled: Breath and Lips,” 24 minutes, he claimed (though Noise didn’t time it), of Kesten exhaling softly into a microphone. Sitting behind him, on a small table, was a white vintage floor heater, and when the Red Room’s own heating system whirred into life, the suspicion crept up that Kesten was, in fact, both impersonating and in conversation with these units.

About three-quarters of the way through the piece, the audience started fidgeting en masse, and a quick look about revealed a number of flummoxed expressions on attendees’ faces. In eerie contrast, Kesten remained unnaturally stock-still the entire time, as he had during another piece, “Resting the Tongue,” which consisted entirely of him waggling his tongue about like some slow-probing bivalve mollusk mating dance, accented by wet clucking noises. As Kesten offered no context or explanation for these pieces, you couldn’t be blamed for wondering if he was playing a grand trick on the audience by making its reaction the true performance. Like those waggish norm-violation experiments so popular in introductory sociology courses, Kesten’s inexplicable pieces induced a playfully awkward sense of WTF?! In this respect, he was a great primer for appreciating the evening’s finale, the bewildered mumbo-jumbo of Mask Mirror.

The Mask Mirror performance kicked off with Kesten posing quasi-philosophical questions to the tight-lipped program, which answered in a series of single words: yes, no, what, and why? Just as the novelty of watching this began to wear, the musical accompaniment kicked up: snippets of improv drum skitters and a strummed guitar that prompted the program to spit out all manner of words, in Bosetti’s own Italian-accented voice. Kesten, again, commenced with the breathy exhalations and squelching back-of-throat vocalizations, giving the performance a white noise, static effect, like the disorienting junctures on the radio dial where two stations–say, a local jazz program and a call-in talk show–hissingly blur together.

Common sense aside, it was difficult not to treat Mask Mirror, with its randomized garble of words, as a willfully cryptic Oracle of Delphi reincarnated as an Apple laptop. While Bosetti had described the project as “about the aboutness of being about”–the sort of vague proffering that makes little sense until witnessed firsthand–what Noise got out all of this is that it’s devilishly hard not to seek meaning even where it’s clear none is forthcoming. Not until the program, in a moment of absurd hilarity, spit forth the word “hamburgers” did it all click: Mask Mirror is a tool for shearing all meaning from language. It’s a liberation, of sorts, like the sound version of Rorschach tests: The mind is encouraged to wander freely and delight in words purely for their sound. In the information overload of contemporary times, Mask Mirror’s playful rupturing of sense–its nonsense, in other words–is a welcome respite.

Alessandro Bosetti is a composer and sound artist splitting his time between Baltimore, Berlin, and Milan. In November of last year, Bosetti released African Feedback with the European publishing house Errant Bodies. It’s an audio project and accompanying book that explores the response of the Dogon villagers of West Africa to Bosetti’s favorite experimental, electro-acoustic, and improvisational music along with some of his own compositions.

The CDs he brought to Mali and Burkina Faso included works by Henry Chopin, Robert Ashley, and Keiji Haino. While villagers listened to the CDs, Bosetti recorded their responses: the stories they told to describe what they were hearing, their imitative vocalizations, and even their silences. After returning to Europe, Bosetti edited the music and the responses together into a strangely mesmerizing work, like Alan Lomax turned musique concrète composer. Portions of African Feedback can be heard through Bosetti’s web site.

This Saturday, at the Red Room at Normals Books and Records, Bosetti performs another of his projects, Mask Mirror–a collaboration with Berlin composer Christian Kesten. Mask Mirror is an experiment with language, using an interactive software program written by Bosetti. The performance is a conversation of sorts: Through sounds, pitches, and syntactic prompts, Mask Mirror speaks, issuing unexpected sentences and posing questions to which the performers respond.

Noise recently caught up with Bosetti for the lowdown on his various projects, including one that could be called Waverly Feedback.

City Paper: Recently you did a show at 2640 Space at St. John’s Church. How did the audience respond to African Feedback? What was their reaction?

Alessandro Bosetti: I think there is a lot of curiosity. It changes a lot. What is really interesting to me is, I think, there are a lot of things that are really ironic, in the project, in the responses.

CP: The response of audiences?

AB: Yeah, it is interesting to me how different audiences take this irony in different ways. The audience in Baltimore seemed very serious about it. There are, in the piece, video projections and collages from the spoken feedback–so you can read what the people said. There is a whole number of very random stories. Like someone, listening to an electronic music piece, says: “There are three people there, in the hospital. One has a wound in the foot. One has a wound in the hand. The other is wounded in his arm. The one with the wound in his foot is going to die, and he dies.”

There is a lot [that is] very surreal, when this person is describing what they are hearing. It’s funny, very funny. I have some audiences that are laughing a lot. Other audiences are very concentrated and very serious about it. In a certain way, I think the Baltimore audience is very serious about it. Very interested in it and asking me a lot of serious questions about it.

CP: What was your response to those sort of stories?

AB: My thought? I thought they were funny! At the same time, they were very plain, too. People down there [in West Africa], they are not very fancy. It was not like, “Oh, I see something really weird.” It was like, “Oh. I see that.” Even when it was something supernatural or that [seemed] weird from my perspective, the way they perceived it was always very normal. Their religion [is] animism, in different forms, in the two villages where I was. They have a connection with the supernatural. This is daily. So, a lot of the answers were really, really far out from our perception, but for them it was totally normal to say, “Oh, here is that spirit, doing this and that.”

Dogon people, if you tell them Americans [have gone to] the moon, they say, ‘Dogon people have been on the moon much before that.’ So, there is this lack of surprise [in their] sentiments. They are told in a very, very, very plain way and in a quiet way.

CP: In another interview, when describing the project, you said: “It was a process of arriving in Africa with many expectations and projections.” Then you said you became freaked out. After coming back to Europe, you said you were unable to draw conclusions. So, when starting out to Africa, what were the expectations and projections you already had in your mind?

AB: Actually, I don’t know. The way I went there was like trying to go outside the usual circuit of experimental music where I have been traveling a lot. I was thinking, Well, I can tour very far away from my country, and this music takes me far away. But then I realize I always play for a certain demographic of people. Even if I go to Japan. The same kind of scene, if you want.

Therefore I really wanted to go out from this. The first thing that came to my mind was Africa, in a very random sort of fashion. I didn’t have many expectations in terms of what the people I was interviewing should have told me. I remember–this would be the problem–they had expectations of me. Like, “This guy, what is he? He is an anthropologist? A journalist? What does he want? I try to give him what he wants.” So, they tried to ask me, “What do you want?” And I was like, “I don’t know what I want.” In that sense, I had less expectation for them.

On the other side, I think what really turned me upside down was that I was going there . . . I brought my favorite experimental music records and stuff. So, I had this compilation of my favorite things, my favorite records. Or what I believed were my favorite records. In the process of editing this music, listened to in a completely different context, something really deep happened to me. It is hard to put into words, but, for sure, my relation to my background kind of changed.

CP: You had a quote in another interview, about learning after doing this [African Feedback] you didn’t have to go that far away to find a space that was outside of the Western paradigm.

AB: Yeah, yeah. This is the other thing. Going to Africa was the first thing that came to my mind. But why not just go around the corner and make [this]? To make a Baltimore example, like the Red Room is a venue for experimental music which is in a neighborhood where most of the people have really no idea what this music is. So, it could just be going around the corner from the Red Room and saying, “Hey, listen to that.” It could be as far out from the world of experimental music, the world of Western experimentation, as you want.

I could have been doing it in Berlin, where I was living. I could have been doing it in Italy, where I am from. Many, many places. My fantasy, my first impression was, “Oh, I have to go Africa for that.”

CP: Having said that you could go around the corner, to Greenmount Avenue, and do that, do you think it would have had the same effect that doing it in Africa seems to have had? On you, personally?

AB: No, of course not. But the other thing is, a question is, what is the effect this had in Africa? It didn’t have just one effect. This is totally different, this project, [than] anthropological research. I came back and I could not draw conclusions about it. People ask me what the reactions were, and [I say], “Oh, there were many reactions.” I can find some common traits, but what is fun about the project is you go meet a lot of people and, [when] you end, you feel more confused than in the beginning.

Actually, with Ian Nagoski of the True Vine Record Shop, I asked him the same question. I was making an interview with him for a French magazine. I asked him: Why is the Red Room, which is in a 90 percent black neighborhood, [when] you go there it’s 99 percent white? He was like, “Well, we should go around there and ask people.”

So, we will do that, next Monday, and start going around and asking people. Just around, next door, and try to confront them with that. See what they think. No special project about it–just personal curiosity, you know?

CP: There was another quote I came across that I thought was really interesting. You were describing African Feedback, I think on your publisher’s web site, and you described it as “some kind of a big mirror, eventually becoming a mask.” So, I was wondering if that view of the project directly ties into what you are doing now with Mask Mirror performances?

AB: Yeah, there is something to do with it, for sure. There are a lot of other projects like African Feedback. There is a lot of mirroring projects–giving my stuff to other people and having it translated. So, in a certain way, there is this metaphor of mirroring yourself in the others–in another culture or another context.

Then, I remember writing down a note some time ago. It was: “Try to build a mask that has nothing to do with anything.” At the same time, I started thinking I would like to be able to build a sampler, like a software that organizes speech. Which is Mask Mirror, in a way. This kind of applies to this note. This is the first time in a long time that I [am doing] a project that isn’t about something. It is just about the aboutness of being about. It could be about everything.

CP: What does a Mask Mirror performance consist of?

AB: The idea is this software organizes samples of spoken language. It is like a speaking machine, like a speaking robot if you want. It is still rudimentary. I am starting off with this, and [as] I am building, it gets complicated and more complicated. The idea is that this robot which has my voice, for the moment, kind of interacts with me or other people who are playing. [It] will, with me and Christian, be interacting with both of us. It’s a robot, in terms of it being a computer, and you hear its voice.

CP: So, it interacts by vocalizing?

AB: Yeah, it speaks. You hear the voice. He has my voice, and it is like a vocal synthesizer and a sampler.

CP: What triggers a response?

AB: For now, I can play it with a keyboard. I can determine the syntax of phrases. For example, I can tell it that I want a verb or I want a conjunction, an adverb, a question, or something a little more complicated, like sentences. It also reacts to certain pitches and sound. Still, as much as it is controlled by me, I can [only] control him partially. I can tell him to emit a phrase about that or just do this certain syntactic structure.

There is a lot [that comes] out by chance. Also, the way the humans have to speak with it is not by chance. It triggers a lot of reactions and associations.

CP: Is this multilingual?

AB: For now it’s English. I would like to have it multilingual.

CP: When you do this, do you ever let the audience participate with it? Or, have you thought of doing anything interactive on that level?

AB: Yeah, yeah. I think there will be a lot of improvisation, probably. I don’t know yet. It’s a very new thing.

Noise caught up with the ever-touring Dan Deacon, currently warping young minds in Australia, and psychotronic DJ/video artist Mark Brown for the scoop on Wham City’s latest venture. The collective’s brand-new, more-than-just-music label debuted earlier this month with Wham City Box #1, a multimedia compilation featuring a CD and DVD, along with hawt-couture goodies such as a T-shirt, slap bracelets, and handmade buttons featuring phone numbers from ex-Wham City members. This limited, 100-run edition highlights the extended Wham fam, including works from musician Lizz King, illustrator/comics artist Dina Kelberman, comedic playwright Adam Endres, and Santa Dads’ Connor Kizer, among others.

The CD was curated by collective member Jason Paolini and the DVD by Brown, while Deacon handled design matters. Though held up by a few months, the compilation is the first in an annual series. Future volumes are slated for December release–just in time for the holidays–though good luck stuffing one of these meticulously screened cardboard beast into Grandma’s support-hose stocking.

Currently only available at the Whitney Museum of American Art in New York, where Deacon performed earlier this month, Brown says the box set should be available locally, and through the Wham City site, in early March.

Upcoming releases include LPs from Deacon, Girl Talk, and Bird Names along with a CD from straight-to-YouTube talk-show sensation (and City Paper contributer) Ed Schrader.

For the past few months, rakish electronic musicians and recent Bmore transplants, Matmos have been busy settling into their new digs and wrapping up their all-synth album Supreme Balloon. Slated for a May 6th release on Matador Records, Supreme Balloon uses an array of vintage synthesizers, some quite rare, and features guest collaborators including Jay Lesser, Safety Scissors, Marshall Allen of the Sun Ra Arkestra, and Keith Fullerton Whitman. The album will be available on CD, double LP, and as a digital download, with the latter two featuring a bonus track, “Hashish Master” from minimalist composer Terry Riley.

For a taste of the self-described ‘cosmic pop sound-origami’ check out “Rainbow Flags,” an ebullient lead single that puts one in mind of brunching robots.
Taking its cue from mid-century exotica, the track has that tropical-tinged cheese down pat, accented by horns that sound like the garbled adult characters of Peanuts after a few too many mimosas.

If that’s not enough to tide you over, local music blog Aural States has the first of a two-part interview with Matmos up. Drew and Martin discuss the perils of driving in Baltimore (“It’s like a spider on acid weaved a web and they threw street names down on it”), the city’s experimental music scene, and whether or not John Cage did psychedelic mushrooms.

On opening the door of the Depot on a recent Sunday, it was clear that Nightmoves, a new twice-monthly DJ night, had already created a buzz. Though it was early in the evening–resident DJs Ari G (Ari Goldman) and Prettyboi (Sam Turner) had just arrived–a small crowd was sidled up to the bar. The soft chatter mingled with Arthur Russell’s “Keeping Up,” giving the recently renovated club a relaxed feel equally amenable to warming stools with friends and easing dance-phobes to the floor. Now sporting a fresh coat of red paint and raised ceiling, and with the TVs that had sat above the bar happily banished, the Depot has been transformed from grimly claustrophobic to invitingly laid-back.

Devoted to the mellower end of the disco and vintage dance spectrum, or what the residents call “Cosmic Boogie,” Nightmoves pops off this Sunday for its third outing. Though the night is new to town, it had its beginnings in Washington as irregular one-off events. When Goldman decamped to Baltimore, he kept the name and recruited recent Ann Arbor, Mich., transplant Turner to revive the night here.

“People here are a little more interested in getting funky,” Godlman laughs when asked about the differences between Baltimore and D.C. “The dancing happens a little easier.” Maybe there’s something to the old crack that Washington doesn’t dance?

The move to Baltimore has offered other perks as well: Both have high hopes for bringing in bigger-name DJs–something Goldman wasn’t able to do in Washington as money was an issue. Looking to the future, Turner hopes to pick up some of the over-21 Taxlo crowd now that the long-running weekly has switched focus to singular events.

Nightmoves definitely has potential to fill the hole left by Taxlo, but with an approach that’s more akin to that party’s origins as a casual anything-goes event rather than the nightlife behemoth it has become. Nightmoves’ charm is its low-key atmosphere and appreciation for dance obscurities, something both DJs attribute to their start in free-form college radio.

Turner was a station manager for University of Michigan’s WCBN, where he rubbed shoulders with some of Ann Arbor’s techno legends. The scene there, with its flagship Ghostly International label, inspired him to start digging for records. Goldman has a similar story: As an alumnus of the University of Maryland’s WMUC, he credits the pressure to find new music for his weekly show as the impetus for amassing records and learning to mix.

The never-ending search for fresh cuts led both DJs to befriend serious dance-music collectors, such as this Sunday’s guest, Andrew Morgan, who runs an online record auction business. “Regardless of how the nights after this go, this will definitely be one of the crazier nights of music you’ve never heard before,” Goldman says.

[Nightmovespace]

Why brass instruments? We all love loud and exciting music. Not everyone loved the idea of having to either be on a stage or being stuck to electrical equipment. Even the idea of doing it with guitars and bass. Most of the people in the [Brigade] have been in other bands, but we are all big fans of this type of music and the mobility it has.
How many of the people in the Brigade were band geeks back in the day? I get an impression that quite a few of them were, to be honest. Definitely, I’d say, a quarter of the band were in marching band. Some of them [were] in more respected college marching bands. I loved marching bands growing up. I was never in one but I loved them.
It seems like you have played an interesting range of events. Yeah, it’s run the gamut. When we were starting we would just crash whatever we wanted. Crash a supermarket and see how long it took them to kick us out. [Or] crash the Dunkin’ Donuts drive-thru. A lot of times we’d crash bars to get free drinks. We’ve done weddings. We’ve done city events where they want crazy bands. All the shows that we are doing [on this tour] are just small club events.
We’ve held parties held in cemeteries. We just played a memorial service the other day that was moving but awkward. It felt strange to be in this little bar making a mighty ruckus. The young lady’s ashes were sitting on the table in front of us.
How do you all travel? Yeah, that’s always the toughest part. We [are] sometimes able to pull it off with two vans. Right now we have a 12e-passenger van and a seven-passenger van. Definitely close quarters, but luckily everyone in the band really gets along. So, even when we’ve done long stretches, it just works out fine. We share the driving. We share the food. It’s somehow turned into this weird, almost hippie commune thing, without the hippies.
So the music–is it mostly original compositions or a mix of covers and originals? Not yet, sadly. Not enough original. They’re coming up. We’re getting more and more of them. But, at this point, we’re still working off a lot of old, traditional tunes whether they be Balkan or New Orleans stuff. We are big fans of Bollywood music. We’ll take it and turn it into something for a 19-piece brass band. We play some hip- hop. Anything we hear that we like, we’ll turn it into something of our own.
Did you live in Baltimore before? I did, for six years. For three of those years I lived in the Copy Cat, and for another three years I lived over on McMechen Street.
So, you’re familiar with some of the troupes that do the parades here. Yeah! Whoa!
They definitely do a modern twist on the whole marching-band thing, like with their awesome hip-hop-influenced step dancers. Is that sort of what you are doing? It’s not as organized as that even. It’s rough.
Right, you seem to have a looser thing. Your players can dance around and do their own thing. Musically, the type of stuff you are talking about [is] definitely what we are shooting for. Something that powerful and that exciting, you know? The traditional marching music is pretty boring and cheesy. So, it’s fun to get something with a lot more blast to it, a lot more swing and a lot more movement to it. Especially [with] the type of [small] venues we really like playing. We don’t stand on the stage. We like to be right in the middle. So, it can be a little too chaotic to get in marching formation like other bands do.
So, what do you have in store for us here? You mentioned making an appearance at the Mount Royal Tavern. If, time permitting, I’d really like to hit the Tavern, just because when I lived in Baltimore I liked going to the Tavern. I enjoyed spending time there. That’s a place I have good feelings about. I don’t have good feelings about many places left in Baltimore. [But] the Tavern is one of them.

With it’s reverential hush, 2640 Space at St. John’s Church is the ideal spot for a quiet performance. The sanctuary’s crumbling walls, soft lighting, and strings of garland arcing from pillar to pillar foster the bohemian coziness of a basement show, but with a touch more glamour. Last Friday, True Vine Records, the Hampden record shop, capitalized on this warm intimacy by sponsoring a benefit show for St. John’s homeless services featuring Susan Alcorn on dobro, banjo virtuoso Nathan Bell, guitarists Melissa Moore and Ian Nagoski, and vox manipulator Jenny Graf.

It was a modest affair for such an accomplished lineup: The small, rapt audience nestled in a ragtag assortment of chairs, some clutching mugs of coffee or tea to ward off the chilly night, while the musicians eschewed the stage and set up on the floor a few feet away. A trip to the rest rooms revealed a few astonished teenagers eavesdropping quietly just outside the doors. Members of a visiting youth group on retreat at the church, they had crept up from the basement upon hearing the music.

The night progressed with a variety of sets from the performers: Bell and Moore both played solo, with Bell debuting a couple in-the-works compositions, though you’d be hard-pressed to presume the robust, complicated pieces were unfinished. Moore used the simple formula of guitar and voice, though she’s far from the stereotypical female singer/songwriter. Her cryptic vocalizations, accompanied by rapid fingering on an acoustic guitar, are more akin to speaking in tongues than the earnest ditties of coffeehouse divas. Alcorn, having traded in her hallmark pedal-steel guitar for the less exotic-looking, though handsome, dobro, was a strong presence throughout the night: The other musicians appeared happily reserved, unostentatiously accenting Alcorn as she conjured delicate warbles, showcasing the singular, subtle beauty of each echoing note.

During two sets–one with Alcorn and Nagoski and one in the whole ensemble finale–Graf’s silvery, reverb-enhanced vocals were a welcome anchor, staving off the pleasant stupor of meditative noodling. Unfortunately, Graf was nearly silenced by equipment issues during the latter: a languorous improvisational set from all the musicians that seemed to transpose the audience so fully there was a few minutes of silence before applause sounded at the end. The evening’s spell held long after the music ended–after being gently herded out by 2640 staff, audience members lingered on the church’s stone steps, chatting up strangers with a communal flush rarely seen at club venues.

Video by Danny Baxter