Someone described the YHWH Nailgun show as "life-changing," so i was not going to miss this. This was also my first time at Elsewhere, which, in size and layout, reminds me of The Foundry in Philadelphia.
The openers were, in contrast to what i expected, challenging in an ambient way. DJ E (Chuquimamani-Condor) layered jungle sounds and reggaeton over house thumps in a way that did not always work. It took some getting used to, and it did grow on me, but maybe i just did not arrive in the proper headspace. Leya were something that could only happen in Brooklyn, really. Artsy alternative girl plays harp arpeggios while a crew-cut guy in white Jordans and a Knicks jersey chimes operatically through reverb and layers lines of electric violin. It was not what i expected as a Nailgun opener, but it was resonant and even moving at times.
A trio of pubescent kiddos talked and snorted through the whole Leya set, then crowd-killed for Nailgun. Saying this might be cheugy or whatever, but moshing is not the same post-pando. A few kids jumped off the stage to crowd surf, though, which i cannot deny was pretty fricking sick.
Mostly i locked in watching the drummer. Sometimes at heavy shows like this—especially if they have a masculine energy—i dissociate a little. Something comes over me. Or maybe it is the opposite, and the thing that was over me peels off. Whatever the case, i find myself entranced and depersonalized. A lot of the appeal of YHWH Nailgun, to me, is the inscrutability of their rhythms. I realized while locked in that all that emerges not solely from turbo diddles, but from the interplay between drummer and sampler.
The guy in charge of keyboards and/or samplers jumped around in a way that reminded me of Andrew from Sleaford Mods. Maybe his cues are spaced out. But furthermore, i get the sense that these guys like music as much as i do.
The guitarist's Bop It approach to guitar goes a long way towards creating Nailgun's unique sound. It was instrumental both during the loud and quiet parts. They could blast or bring it down to an ambient vibe and keep us wrapped around their finger in either case. He uses effects pedals, sure, but leans into mechanical modulation—playing behind the nut or toe-dipping on the volume pedal, for example—to generate Nailgun's spicier sonic accoutrements. I recall a stretch of a few minutes of natural harmonic tones minimally spaced between silent rests, during which the whole sweaty and battered crowd seemed to hold its breath. Not every band can pull that off.
And now, i am a straight man, but the singer is beautiful. They must have sculpted that face on Mount Olympus. I mean like, i am not gay or anything, but i know a beautiful man when i see one. You see that jaw. I bet you want to touch it. Or maybe you are afraid it might cut you. Not that you or i are delicate lilies or anything. And definitely, in my case, straight. But we can agree: the guy up there with with the uniquely strained approach to rock vocals is a beautiful man. The guttaral sounds ploughing through both larynx and walls of sound come out of a head made for fashion shoots and red carpets.
YHWH Nailgun's members pointedly do not interact with the crowd. No crowd work. Maybe it is aura-farming (i learned this word today). But i prefer to think it is just the way they are.
It occured to me there that i did not really know what they sing about. What does "fullback, raw, castrato" mean? Their stuff always coded as angry to me. Seething. You are cheese-grating my big toe, and i am sneering. Something is about to happen. A fuse is about to blow. I looked into it a little, and i think they have some lyrics about lovers, or devotion, or chafing on a difficult world, but the lyrical body could bear more scrutiny.
If you smell your hair on the subway and it smells like other people, it was probably a good night. Poorly socialized teen trios be damned, Nailgun attracts an overwhelming energy of acceptance. At some point, dissociated as i was, i turned from my second-row stakeout and yelled to no one in particular "Get the fuck out of my pit!" and threw my body into the flailing mass. I might be a bit of a legend, haha. The dark blue splotch on my lip is my receipt.
—Lucas Magookas
As a result of an otherwise engaged coworker's courtesy (shouts out), i had the privilege of seeing a jetlagged and very Welsh Gruff Rhys perform his American Interior project.
Le Poisson Rouge had the tables out for this one. That was not at all the case when i saw Xiu Xiu and YHWH Nailgun there in the fall. But tables fit the bill on this night. I would admit that the pace of things required some patience, but i have patience.
The show slalomed from lecture to comedy to music, taking its time, pausing for effect, doubling back to check on facts. It is the Gruff Rhys one man show or guest lecture in a kooky elective course. And we all learned a lot. Theories of pre-Columbian transoceanic encounters really get me in the mood. My night culminated in several tabs open to Wikipedia articles.
Gruff sounds solid. He is not a standout vocalist or a virtuosic guitarist, but his songwriting contains something compelling—at least to me. It could be that i have no objective argument in his favor, but we see the world in similar ways, and therefore connect on its lyrical representation. I also enjoy string arrangements; they sound so lush!
He played most of the American Interior album, but also played "Bad Friend," the leading track from his 2024 album. Why is he touring American Interior at this time, on its twelfth anniversary and on the heels of a new project? I have no idea. Early on in the show, though, he shared that it is a difficult project to explain. I would imagine so. It is a good reminder to me that not every piece of art has to grapple with great existential quandaries. Inspiration can find us amid esoterica.
—Lucas Magookas
There is an obscene artificiality to the field of lights. Munro probably intended this. Lights are often the very mark of the artificial; it contrasts with the notion and pastoral connotation of "field." So there is a contradiction here, but is it worth it?
I am not sure why there is a three-block parcel of fallow land adjacent to the United Nations. Does the city reserve it for art installations? Munro planted the original iteration of Field of Light in Uluru, Northern Territories, Australia, which has a lot more open space. In the context of Murray Hill (Tudor City? Midtown East?), it seems a bit of a monument to poor land use.
The lights themselves look coolest when the light-emitting diode strips form a sort of web shape. But this seems almost accidental. The ensemble looks more pleasing when you are in it at ground level than from above. It kind of grows on you as you meander. Grows. Like a field. Plants and grasses and shrubs are growing in here, too. Which clearly requires some management. Aesthetically, they provide the negative space. The clamor of the city continues, puncturing the sense of enclosure.
This must have been a lot of work—planting a field. Of light. I am partial to works of art. I find that in modern, conceptual, and installation art, the process can express as much as the product.
Lit windows in the city's edifice visually extend the field on the vertical axis. Lights illuminate the path, but i wish they were not there. They outshine the installation a bit. I suppose they must be there for safety, but in that case, i wish it were more dangerous. Remove the guards standing by emergency exits and remove the lone fire extinguisher (presumably for the inevitable brushfire). Let a minotaur loose. Make it interactive.
—Lucas Magookas
Cavalier from the Backwoodz label opened. At first, my attitude was "Who is this guy, heh?" But he won me over; he was kind of funny.
The troposphere was stewing us in a swampy pre-storm broth, but Armand Hammer fought through it with breath control, Kenny Segal beats, towels, and bottled water. People knew their lyrics. In fact, they seemed to know the collab album better than the solo works.
Elucid is a unit of a man, and his voice reverberates off his body in a baritone resonance. billy woods seems like an intense guy when performing. He strikes me as one of those people with whom i likely agree on most socio-political matters, but also is so heavily principled (burdened by integrity?) that he can see entire personages in a glance and wastes no patience on naïveté. I was a little afraid to make eye contact. He makes some jokes though, which cut the tension.
Hip hop seems stale to me lately, but woods is one of the few contemporary hip hop artists i still listen to and trust to deliver quality. I like his style, and i find he is improving. I found myself nodding during the show, and not to the beat, but in agreement.
—Lucas Magookas
In the age of streaming and zoomers with squirrely attention spans, i fear we are missing the joy of serendipity. I do not mourn the loss of channel surfing, but there is something more rewarding about hearing good stuff on the radio. When someone else is curating, i find there is a lower threshold for goodness. I have more patience for tracks from Boiler Room sets than those on my own playlists. Maybe my expectations are lower. Maybe like one cannot physically tickle oneself, i struggle to tickle my own fancy.
And maybe a good selector never reveals the secret to the selection, but sharing seems more important. My secrets are obsolete anyway. I am zipping down the road, you can chew on this—my dust.
So in that spirit, here are five of my favorite finds on radio.garden.
Somebody got me to listen to the Master Musicians of Jajouka. Nothing was ever the same.
Yabiladi runs two stations that appear on radio.garden: Yabiladi Radio, which at last listen was playing Arabic-language hip-hop, and Yabiladi Azawan Amazigh, which was playing folk music. I tend to prefer Azawan Amazigh, but i still mix them up.
Moroccan folk music has this amorphous liquidity to it that makes it good music for working. I would not claim that Yabiladi is the best place for it, but i have certainly pulled some tracks from their playlist for my own pleasure.
Sometimes you go looking for one thing and find a different thing which is also good. While looking for Moroccan stations to quench my Jajouka thirst, i stumbled upon a nocturnal deep house outfit out of Marrakesh. From 1800 to 0600 West Africa Time, they rotate ice cold, pulsing tracks through the vault, the blast chiller, and the airwaves.
There are really no commercials to speak of, but they do have a rich robotic punch-up that tries to pronounce the name of the station.
I have a playlist for concentration loaded with songs i do not recognize because i heard them once on La Confiserie Sonore and threw them right into the mix.
Datafruits seems to be a collective of geographically-dispersed DJs broadcasting out of Seattle that platforms a chaotic style of DJing that i really respect. It is also a record label? They are not trying to please anyone; they are pushing boundaries. When almost everything seems to be worn out, datafruits reaches higher to scratch the ultimate itch.
Shiva, The Dancer, creates through destruction. Likewise, Datafruits sublimates the anxious noise in my head, allowing me to focus. Focus is the wrong term, but i find myself able to think. And maybe those thoughts are all norepinephrine-derived, but they are thoughts nonetheless. It tunes me to a modern, frenetic energy.
Brokenbeats broadcasts nonstop breakbeat heaters out of Odesa, Ukraine. Tune in when you need something to keep you awake and going during study sessions.
Listening currently, i heard a punch-up that described their music as "atmospheric drum and bass," which sounds right, but the term "drum and bass" makes me a little suspicious.
The chat is sometimes lively and probably always unmoderated. One time the host asked me about my favored streaming format and, uneducated, i was like ".wav?" and he let me know immediately that waveform is not a streaming standard. I suppose if you dance with flame you should be ready to get roasted.
No discussion of radio is complete without 91.7 WMUH Allentown, the only station that matters. WMUH raised me over radio waves. Its power was too raw, too eclectic to ignore. I never stood a chance. From Radiowave Distortion to Latin Sunday to Gutbucket Esoterica to the Jhankaar Program (Saturdays, 0800-1000), WMUH offers a solid introductory course in musicology.
I think i have probably mentioned it before.
—Lucas Magookas
To find a Caterina Barbieri concert, follow the girls in leather trenchcoats, the bob cuts, and the twink in chainmail.
I arrived during Eli Keszler's set. I did not recognize the name, but it turns out that I actually saw him performing his ambient diddly-bops at an arts festival in 2018. He fit the vibe alright. But his dense percussion bounced rambunctiously around the cavernous venue. Some had overlooked the David Byrne theory of matching spaces and sounds.
Caterina appeared twice to ready her gear, but she did not really appear until she emerged on a bed of fog with a bionic arm equipped. It matched the chains dangling from her platform heels. Despite the getup, she comes off more nerdy in person than the sulking mysterious artist image i had internalized. But then, who else composes on a modular synthesizer and performs in arthouses? This is nerd stuff. Nerds rule. 🖖
They filled that warehouse with more fog at once than i have ever seen in my life. At times, i could not see the people in front of me. But it did create a canvas full of opportunity to make the visuals impressive. Caterina could have appeared and disappeared like a ninja.
This show was moving; it was one of the best performances i have ever seen. Time to rethink my top three. But of course it was that good. I may have said before that Barbieri's music, despite its electronic textures, is deeply emotional. The way her snowball of sound grows like a fugue into an acoustic avalanche left me sweating, mouth agape. Oh god. We are so small. What is usually a weakness in electronica counts among her strengths. I was trying to be present, and trying to cry—and getting close—but i could not quite get there. I felt too perceived. Maybe, like reaching climax, crying is close to impossible on this much escitalopram. She kept weaving in the melodic motif from "SOTRS." Everything was familiar but fresh and raw and slightly improvised by virtue of the analog performance.
Marie Davidson was a good time in the way a fan of her band's music might expect. She started sparse and weird, and built her set to a darkly burning intensity. The crowd that was densely immobile for Barbieri mostly drained out to leave a lot of room for relaxed bodily expression. I even danced briefly with a stranger.
—Lucas Magookas
The Pan-Pot show coincided with a fetish party. I got in line and was a little surprised when somebody unzipped to show their strategic stickers. But would we put it past a Berlin-based techno duo? No, we would not. The couple ahead of me in line felt overdressed; if they were overdressed, i was the Pope in the octagon. "Fetish attire only" would make the night interesting. Nonetheless, i knew i was in the right place, but i was pretty sure i was in the wrong line. I chose to stick around for a little, maybe for anthropological research, maybe to gather intelligence for a friend.
As it turned out, Pan-Pot were upstairs and the fetish party was downstairs.
Desna sounded good. Up there with Amelie Lens and Sama' Abdulhadi delivering trance that builds consistently enough to carry the room. I was probably not as intoxicated as the music calls for, but i had a good time. She was playing when i arrived and played for about three hours.
Octave One appeared backed by a buoyant white light, like biblically inaccurate angels, or like a Close Encounter. I had seen them online in their massive Moscow Boiler Room set, and in pictures, but i was still startled by how much they simultaneously look like themselves and like deities of electronica. Their music came on hard and fast, true to Detroit techno. They played some of their hits—Blackwater, Afterglow—and i lost my mind. It would have been fine if they did not play the hits. It was enough to see them, but it was divine to hear the hits recombined and remixed live—crunchier, faster, bassier, or choppier.
I had planned to probably leave once Pan-Pot began, but something fixed me in place. They are no Octave One, but they were hitting the right notes. I had transcended the lack of water, lack of sleep, and lack of drugs. I was locked in, lost to dance.
—Lucas Magookas
Finally, we saw him. We saw Jonathan Richman in the flesh. He does exist. But he has better gifts than Santa. He offers a whole wholesome outlook on life. From the first warm strums, he invites you to serenity.
Without spoiling the setlist, i think i can say that Jonathan did not play all your favorites. But i anticipated as much, and since i trust him as a songwriter, i knew i would be able to enjoy any combination of his content. He can play whatever he wants; i am there for the Jonathan Richman experience. One person requested "When Harpo Played His Harp," (a good request) and Jonathan obliged.
Richman's nylon-string guitar sounded melliferous and saintly in that reverent environment. At the outset of the show, he wandered the church, exploring its acoustics. Throughout, Tommy Larkins leaned back with the drums, adding but never taking.
The crowd seemed older in aggregate than the average American. Perhaps Richman's show attracts a certain kind of person who thinks they are special. There was an annoying couple next to me. He liked to double clap. He really liked to double clap. The man in front of him must have turned around, because i noticed a commotion in which the subject of my chagrin poked the man in front of him and asked "What, you don't like it?" and his girlfriend had to ask him to stop. Later she even interposed with her hands. Why would you go to such a concert and make yourself a problem?
Jonathan regaled us with banter about his music and touring life. He even told a joke or two. Sometimes when musicians do that it is bad and not funny, but this banter was good and funny. One could describe the rest of my night as frustrating, but Jonathan's wholesome force overpowered it all.
—Lucas Magookas
Elton John put on a fantastic show, but of course he did.
Costumed and feathery folks smiled and sauntered through the stadium and surroundings. I felt the same expressive freedom and sense of ease one feels at a pride parade. It is okay to be yourself here.
Often, i bring a record sleeve to try to get the artist to sign, but in the case of Elton John, i uh, already have that. So i had nothing to fret over, and only had to focus on enjoying the show.
Mister John, for his part, still rocks like a crocodile, working the crowd, slamming the lid of the piano, getting lost in the music. He played all the hits: the big ones that come to mind, your favorite song of his, the hits you forgot were his hits, and his new hit with Dua Lipa. It takes a while for a legend to play through all those hits, and it was a long concert, though it never wavered nor lost momentum, even amongst two costume changes (he appeared in a bathrobe to close the set).
What a guy, that Elton!
—Lucas Magookas
I went to the TC Superstar show after a fifteen-hour shift in the rain, because there are other ways to love.
More than a concert, seeing TC is an experience. I felt the healing power of music. My eyes welled up. Maybe i am simply nostalgic for the youth i once had. I seemed the most psyched in the room for "Toyota Corolla", their eponymous track. I must be becoming an old head. The TC Superstar fandom feels like a community—like an in-group. It was a girl in the crowd's birthday, and she birthday-requested "Closer," which was evidently not on the setlist this tour. But they figured it out, and performed it anyway. How nice!
I would go so far as to say it is one of the most valuable shows you could attend at this cultural moment.
—Lucas Magookas
Sorry is a sweet rock band. I was worried we were going to get boring indie rock after the first song, but they executed well enough. Marco, evidently added to the band last, dabbles in keys, samples, and an SP88 situation. I could tell that these effects were getting muddied and somewhat lost in the space. It can be really difficult to translate a busy sound from the studio to a small live setting, and Sorry should feel proud. Opening acts always face an uphill battle, but this one, with its tender vocals and sliced riffs, was able to get me bobbing my head. They introduced themselves saying, "Hi everyone we're Sorry." Aha.
So we finally saw Sleaford Mods, who we have mentioned previously and talked up to acquaintances since 2017's English Tapas. The Mods seemed to enjoy themselves at their packed show at Philadelphia's Foundry. Andrew (extnddntwrk) surprised many of us with his outgoing disposition and flailing limbs; i had anticipated stationary head-nods. Jason shuffled and slid about and had some fun words for the crowd. Highlights include "You know the words!" and "Philadelphia—you have a lot of energy!" He promised to return and run up the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art, over-eager tourist vibes be damned.
This Philadelphia crowd had surprisingly good energy. This was the show at which i became the most soaked in beverages. Someone lost a lot of their clear cocktail to the side of my head and leg. My elbow went into somebody's head, and somebody's bone sailed into mine. Sorry came around from backstage to mingle with the hoi polloi, and at some point Asha (lead vocals) must have noticed me jumping because she grabbed me by the belt and hurled me into the pit. We stan a queen. A girl in the moshpit who knew many of the lyrics screamed at me that i knew all the lyrics—a magical moment. Yeah, my neck is sore.
They did not play my favorite track, "Under the Plastic and NCT," but that did not surprise me. The setlist dipped into some aged back-catalog ("Tiswas", "Jolly Fucker"), which got at least a few people excited. Perhaps—and this is speculative—there are seasoned and new Sleaford Mods fans, and everybody has a favorite album, which is equally likely to be any of their works. The couple behind me sounded excited to hear "Elocution." Indeed, the Spare Ribs single cuts seemed to please the most, though some of the lowlights off the new album did not really land (looking at you, "Top Room"). The consistency of their work and steady growth of their international fanbase must make it difficult to build a setlist that works everywhere.
So are they worth seeing live? I could entertain the argument that their live sound does not differ terribly from recordings; they pipe in their beats, after all. But they are syncretic, unique, and caustic enough to filter out the closed-minded from their body of attendees. Earnest attendees are bound to find like-minded people, and that is true of any show, but the makeup of Sleaford Mods' American fanbase remains a mystery to me. How and where do these people hear about Sleaford Mods, the punk hip-hip duo from Nottingham? Probably, the Internet. Like me, they are likely people who enjoy music broadly to begin with, discover the Mods, and fall deeply for their urban, post-industrial vibe. It is not for everyone. So i would advise that they are worth seeing if you already know and enjoy Sleaford Mods. You may otherwise feel lost.
They declined to sign the vinyl that i gripped dearly amid sloshing bodies throughout the show, but they do not have to sign anything if they do not want to. It is fine. My heart is not broken; i am not despondent, nor miffed, nor bitter. Get them next time, buddy. Or get over it.
—Lucas Magookas
WMUH—the only station that matters—invited Acid Dad from Brooklyn and Catatonic Suns of Allentown to rock the Seeger student union.
So this is what a show is like in Allentown. Tickets were ten dollars, and we got two acts and two complementary drink stubs. My DC-addled brain thought "They must be losing money on every ticket?"
Obligatorily, i thought i saw my sixth-grade social studies teacher at the gig. Obligatorily, there was a long-hair dude drunkenly yelling encouragement at the opener. Local life.
Any old punk could glean what i was getting into from the "Acid Dad" moniker, and they would have been right. Maybe there is something vanilla about white dudes playing hard rock. And i do wonder how anybody manages to stand out in such an oversaturated genre. But i do find an expression of freedom in the wibble-wobble of the wah pedal over a mish-mash of high notes. I probably could have made the same sounds, but i did not, so i guess i have to shut up and rock.
—Lucas Magookas
Wellll here we are. Look at us. Who would have thought?
For our first show since the Before Times®, our friend tipped us off to a stacked bill at the Black Cat. Thank goodness (Alhamdulillah, et cetera) that it still stands and still exists. Troubled as i was to watch it shrink, the renovation is probably a better use of their space; it can maintain its core offerings while slimming its footprint on the pricey fourteenth street corridor. Those core offerings are pinball, a noisy bar, and excellent, offbeat shows.
Too Free, who i first experienced via their No Fun video, are DC native disco proselytes, bringing heady and noisy grooves to the stage. The programmed drums are easy to understand, easy to get behind. Which leaves cognitive room for playful and nimble vocals. Frankly, it was exactly the blend of humanity, noisebathing, and pulsation that the doctor ordered to cure your pandemic forgetting.
When Exotiq Int'l took the stage, i remembered that shows could be very loud. They are a new band, without any music out, as far as i can tell. And they were working some kinks out onstage, but as professionals. Jaguar from Priests fronts the band, Niko from bottled up whacks out highly-effected jazzy guitar chords, and Laura Harris from Ex Hex maintains dance energy from the kit. Dajando steals the show at times on the synthesizers with ripping fills that make your brain buffer and your eyelid twitch. They are a band to keep in mind; there is a lot of potential energy there, and we could see it punctuate the show in flares.
—Lucas Magookas
O is a garage rock album without all the froufrou. It takes an as-needed approach to vocals while prioritizing wall-to-wall riffs and fills, tossing in approximately one and a half guitar solos. This project blends the unpredictable noise of Gauntt's experimental electronic percussive production and Vanasse's blues-tinted post-punk guitar growls and wails into a punchy hard rocket launching to scratch a distant itch. We recommend if you enjoy Lightning Bolt, Jack White, or Hella.
O is a maximalist endeavor, offering no breaks for your ears, but a guaranteed sweaty energy level. The mix comes off not as clean, but meticulous. Lows shake the earth without muddying the water, while highs pierce the air near your skull. Overall, the earfeel places you in the third to sixth row at a gig in a bar or basement. Which works perfectly for a band so oriented to the live space (i have seen them play at least three times). Even then, though, Gauntt puts up a wall of sound on turbo drums and Vanasse trips over an array of pedals to achieve blistering guitar tones. Two men generate one unholy racket. They could bring in more members, or play with fewer effects—but that would be too easy.
—Lucas Magookas
Bantou Mentale sets the stage for a decade's worth of Afro-futurist Afro-funk.
On the surface, Polybrass sounds like another collection of weird Euro club tracks. But realize that Electro Guzzi actually play live instruments, and we can frame this as a boundary-defying Krautrock album. Bewitched sounds of dawn supermarket panic.
Like a sonic spinal tap, this is electronica that strikes to the core of what music is. At once energetic and ruminative, on listening round twelve i begin to wonder whether i am listening to the music or being manipulated by it.
Also of import: her Boiler Room set.
Jlin crosses footwork with drumline in this tactile and animated album.
Suokas pushes the needle of deep house forward with emotive string sections.
The Mods have cracked the code of expressing working-class anger as the twenty-first century sprials out of control. Piss off!
Organ layers on Vincent's earworm pop anthems link them to classic tropes of French pop on 2016's Retiens mon désir. Crystal clear vocals and staunch drums keep it propulsive, cute, and fresh throughout.
I thought i watched Fat Tony walk on stage and light a huge blunt. It turned out to be incense. And he continued to surprise. Fat Tony demonstrates what a solo artist can accomplish in the hip hop vein. He had a heartfelt vegetarianism song, and shouted out to "All my creative types." Is he corny? Yes, a little.
Tony's subby beats shake the club, he sings on key, and he raps; he is a triple threat!
black midi's disjointed and tight sound recalls Primus, Swans, and David Bowie's Blackstar. All the stops, starts, waves, and math can exhaust you. But those payoffs make it worth it. They look young. i itch to read their biography, but that also may dispel the magic for me. At one point i thought i heard them speak Dutch and thought "Are they European? Could they be?".
Our expansive domain of mosh cleared a circle during a buildup. i thought somebody had gotten hurt. Then the song dropped and we all leaped in.
Were i a touring musician, i would want to surprise people with genre but you cannot do that because as a concertgoer you want to get the mood right. And you could not ask the audience because the response would be "bglgheheib." Everyone would want something different. People want to know what they are getting into. And with black midi, you do. But then, Fat Tony is a curveball. So the show as a whole is for music lovers.
—Lucas Magookas
Aaron Leitko towed us through tumultuous electrosonic fronts. He guided us through thick clouds and turbulence with aplomb.
What Ami Dang lacks in sitar chops she makes up in raw, bona fide mastery of low-frequency oscillators, sequencing, sampling, and production. Her soundscapes are dark and deep. They are a sperm whale's throat, swallowing you.
—Lucas Magookas
Coriky played a free (true to Positive Force style) show at the Georgetown Community Library outside on Book Hill one fall afternoon.
I enjoyed myself, but i was not blown away. I had the creeping feeling that i was watching a dad band reunite with material to smash the Trump administration. Maybe i should have closed my eyes, though.
Most of the time they held back and put the lyrics forward. But when they stop sweetly harmonizing, their talent comes through. Lally lays down cool grooves with tense intervals. MacKaye still bends his little harmonic sounds; his detuned style carries over from the Fugazi days. Farina pops unexpected rim-shots and fills fluidly.
—Lucas Magookas
The Effects turn out to be a cool math rock band experimenting with unconventional rhythms and patterns. We want to see them grip those odd meters with more courage. But it is good to see a tight math rock band in the DC area, and on Dischord, no less.
Tropical Fuckstorm shovels classic/arena rock voices and twisted guitars into a heaving, sweaty, emotive tide. They kind of drag on, but less like a dying animal and more like a child shuffling their feet across the carpet, building up static. Their competitive advantage is that they possess the ability to play tracks that should get boring and not just make them bearable, but dive through the toxic clouds and sample nutrient-rich sand beneath. The Fuckstorm might exist outside genre, incorporating elements of ambient in their guitar noise and hip hop in their drums. Indeed, their choruses sound like high speed drone.
I like to imagine that Fuckstorm is what we get when some scrappy Australians get together in a barn and just play music, not a genre.
—Lucas Magookas
Between his husky vocals and imagist lyrics, Simon Joyner sounds like Lou Reed covering Bob Dylan. Some have pointed out a Leonard Cohen connection, but that was lost on me. As much as i have to chastise him for so prominently wearing his influences on his sleeve, i have to commend his creation of new sentences. Morning Sun, Slow Down! Like a children's song (for adults) Joyner tends to anthropomorphize aspects of nature like the seasons, body parts, or the sun. His tenor voice is present. It neither soars high nor dives low for long. They say that people speak at Fa—the fourth on a major scale. Joyner, for his part, navigates the path between singing and Uncle Simon storytime.
Each instrument sounded necessary in its place.
Pocket Moon, the title track from his forthcoming album, is a dark and lonesome cowboy desert song.
—Lucas Magookas
Big Bill has supplied us with a steady drip of singles since 2017's Toast, so i was glad to receive all new tracks on this project. Clocking thirteen minutes, it calls into question the public's attention span and the relevance of the album format. But with interlude and outro, it makes a play in that direction. Gap Year is a snapshot of a transitional period in someone's life. It seeks to convey a few ideas cogently in a short time, and utilizes many hooks to that end. There are no features and no added instrumentation on this project; it is a solitary venture.
Gap Year often juxtaposes and conflates the mundane and profound. Big Bill takes us from "I bought hella houseplants" to "Find my way" without interstice. Details of everyday life serve as synechdoche for the cosmic struggles of man.
—Lucas Magookas
Amyl and the Sniffers delivered their mullet-clad fans a ripping punk show imbued with the fun, sexy confidence of cabaret. Between songs, Amyl shadowboxed and flexed her biceps, Schwarzenegger style. Watching her whip the air before the crowd with the mic's XLR cable, I had to wonder what their stage presence owes to the BDSM community.
Between songs, Amyl bantered incomprehensibly in her twangy Outback yelps.
Wrenching guitar riffs make the Sniffers notable; each track opened to waves of recognition and enthusiasm. They did not play my favorite song, Gacked On Anger, though. Or did they? From the ecstatic, inexhaustible pit, Amyl's lyrics got hard to parse and all the riffs sounded vaguely familiar.
—Lucas Magookas
If you ever wanted to see Rage Against the Machine play a grimy bar, XK Scenario is for you. They wear their influences on their sleeves: the aforementioned Rage, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Bad Brains, et cetera. This was the most aggressive pit to which i have ever been a party. I learned what crowd killing is here!
—Lucas Magookas
How old are the Knife Wives?
Knife Wife's music is moody and simple—like school. Their music sounds a little rough around the edges, but as they go figuring stuff out, they are figuring out some cool stuff. They can pull off grungy solo vox, or they can sing in spooky unisons.
Their multi-instrumentalism promises flexibility and potential. Repetitive lyrics and repetitive licks, though, seem to subvert critics' longing for complexity.
But how old are the Knife Wives?Boston Cream meshes jagged guitar riffs, smooth bass lines, and turbo drums into inviting grooves. Mel and Peach dance like wacky waving inflatable tube people.
—Lucas Magookas
This was my first time attending a show at Pearl Street Warehouse. Neck-length haircuts were profuse on the ladies at this show. Unlike at rock or hip hop shows, Tuttle's banter made this feel relaxed and homely, as though we were at an impromptu jam in somebody's living room. She took time to tell us a cute little story involving Jewel (a country artist whose popularity peaked at the turn of the century).
Tuttle, at twenty-five, is immensely talented, yet unassuming. She plays a mean clawhammer—a technique that looks like it combines the Wooten double slap and finger picking on alternating downward and upward strums. When she started ripping out simultaneous bass lines and melodies at supersonic speeds, i could only shake my face around in ecstatic expression and exclaim "She is teaching class!"
Tuttle covers a wide range of Americana genres: blues jams, bluegrass ditties, and alternative singer-songwriter. She moves seamlessly from ballads to rippin' guitar solos. Her bandmate, sliding on a Telecaster®, often expands the atmosphere of the overall sound.
Tuttle's new album focuses more energy on songwriting and vocal performance. Though i certainly prefer the bluegrass tracks on which she takes the lead on guitar, i trust her still to deliver well with her pure voice.
—Lucas Magookas
Ex Hex is glam rock. You can tell because Wright plays a Gibson Flying V through Marshall stacks, because Harris slams the snare, and because all three are absolutely glamorous. (Timony plays a Koll.) And they shred. It all feels good, like hearing "The Boys Are Back In Town."
It is so vintage.
A stripped-down sound that allows guitar riffs to speak for themselves updates the sound for the twenty-teens. Their melodies seldom strayed far from the root; we take joy in simplicity.
The crowd was predominantly women. And the 9:30 club was nearly packed. Ex Hex's grooves held us persistently on the precipice over mosh.
This was my first time seeing The Messthetics live, and i like them. And thanks to a 9:30 employee, i snagged Canty's drumstick after the show.
—Lucas Magookas
Duendita groans like an eighteenth century galleon. She roars like a tiger. She makes her home in the low low (She's a bass!), but assures you that she can hit the silky high notes when her voice pops up like a periscope out of water.
Her delivery overall, like a boxer, is confrontational. The rumble and tumble of SP-404 percussion keeps you off-kilter. Vocal uppercuts soften you, and sly beat drops knock you over. But she is equally respectful. The way she laughs between songs, you could begin to believe that perhaps she is your friend.
MorMor is touring with a full band, and it feels like a bit of a jam. Few bands escape their individuals' stylistic aspirations. The drummer smacked the snare with a street-funk sensibility while the other two leaned in and out of the mix. This show was really a team effort: most members pulled double-duty (or mor) on instruments. They had some sweet solos on the keyboard and guitar. Mr. Mor has assembled a talented band here and i am excited to see where the new material goes with a band in mind.
I could see the setlist from where i stood, which is, like, helpful, but ruins some of the fun.
MorMor takes the side of Al Green and Gallant in the great debate over falsetto in rhythm and blues. His voice, like that of an exotic bird, pierces through the lush foliage of augmented chords. We are not sure where that bird came from, but i hope it goes far.
MorMor closed his set with Heaven's Only Wishful. I pulled my earplugs out to let it pass through my skull. Shivers shaking my spine confirmed that i was in the place to which music sometimes takes you.
—Lucas Magookas
Buke and Gase's inscrutable percussion constructs are sometimes chonk chonky, sometimes nimble. We are never quite ready for those thunks. Over these Aron pours his throbbing Gase lines. Arone's Buke and voice create soaring walls of dissonance that scintillate like Archimedes' mirror ray of destruction.
You look at the homemade instruments and hear the vocal yodel, and at times it seems that Buke and Gase owe something to folk music. Are they singing the mountain songs of the chaotic urbane? Is this the sound of the collective cranium buzz that pervades our modern society? Merely to be awash in such cacophony feels rebellious. Surely this will repel the administration, or your parents, or your boss, or whoever.
—Lucas Magookas
The first thing i thought was "Wow, this vacuum is actually really annoying." I walked into the exhibit and met a feeling of overwhelming anxiety. I could not quite put my finger on the voyeuristic power dynamic setting me off-kilter but i knew that This is like, weird, man. I felt like i was standing in the execution theater, and it made me really nervous. It made me furrow my brow.
Some tactile investigation revealed that the inviting pile of schmutz consisted of dry breadcrumbs. Breadcrumbs? Breadcrumbs leave a trail... Aha! These are Mueller's breadcrumbs, made from corruption croutons. i have a thing for the Sisyphus story and Tibetan Buddhist sand art, so i sprinkled some breadcrumbs in a spot right after the Ivanka double vacuumed it. i hope she is having insights about impermanence. For my second toss, i tried to throw some to the back, to mix things up, but they only scattered widely. Crumbs are not particularly aerodynamic. i decided to rest on my laurels and stop at two tosses.
Ultimately, this piece accomplishes what it sets out to do. Nothing is more fragile than the image of somebody who has traded in their soul for a brand—that is, to become a brand. You might undermine her integrity with fine points on cable news, but good heavens, do not expose the Brand! The Brand is her livelihood. The Brand is unique. The Brand withers in ultraviolet light.
Fake Ivanka's eyes would occasionally flit up and meet mine. Is this part of the role of Ivanka? Or is this a betrayal of the piece? Why is she doing that? I think she really likes you, man. Find her after the performance and ask her, "So how do you spend the other 22 hours of the day?" I wonder if she ever uses the detachable hose extension. Nobody is supposed to vacuum in high heels. Is she okay? Hmm. Blink twice if you need help, Ivanka double.
But then, i suppose the real Ivanka did the piece a huge favor by tweeting about it. Maybe that is her subtle congratulations, her blessing. The vacuum sounds louder now. I want to stay and fight to understand, but not at the expense of my night, nor my sanity. I look away, i walk on home. I leave Ivanka to her devices.
—Lucas Magookas
Okay so. This is my second time seeing Poppy play live. Since the Poppy.Computer tour, they have reinvented themselves as a sort of black metal princess force for uncertainty. Madonna comparisons used to be apt; now she is more like Marilyn Manson.
She was clearly not lip-syncing this time, which i like. This was evident in her struggles to hit the high notes on Pop Music. She also battled with Play Destroy's piped-in Grimes vocals—the bar trading and refrains are simply too rapid. Poppy debuted on stage actually playing a pale blue D'angelico. A pair of Marshall stacks flanked the center of the stage, a powerful device to anchor the show in rock and metal tradition. Certainly, the addition of live instrumentation helps bring the show out of the interweb and into the physical realm.
They played a lot of old tracks, even taking it back to Everybody Wants To Be Poppy, the first single she released as That Poppy. Still no Lowlife, though.
Their costumes appeared rather scruffy; I would think they could at least find better wigs. But i suppose they blew the budget on their eight- by twenty-foot light-emitting diode display and Marshall stacks.
This was a predominantly male audience. i find difficulty decoding the psychology of that. Poppy really needs to do something that makes me feel less concerned for her safety. Maybe her staking out of a posture as a non-binary feminist flag-bearer will help balance the fanbase. (The above observation is only my impression and this might vary between cities).
Poppy, Titanic Sinclair, and team have an undeniable knack for creating earworms. But i fear that the creative turns they took on Am I A Girl? will derail their satirical mimesis of pop music and multi-storied satire of creative influencer/superfan culture. Moreover, though, this looks and sounds like the music they enjoy making. I want them to be happy more than i want them to have an exhibit in the MoMA.
—Lucas Magookas
Some have suggested that the Sahara-Sahel regional folk-rock genre faces oversaturation. Can Ali Farka Tourè, Toumani Diabaté, Fatoumata Diawara, Tinariwen, Rokia Traore, Songhoy Blues, Imarhan, Noura Mint Seymali, and other North African musicians with international acclaim make room for more to follow in their footsteps? At least some of the appeal of Kel Tamashek and Desert Groove is its relative inscrutability to Western ears. It could, conceivably, mainstream itself out of novelty. Consider, alternatively, that these styles have transcended the critical mass of extremely online obscurantists and landed a genuine fandom in the world. Congratulations, then, to the transnational Berber irregular polygon region on promulgating an uncompromising cultural export the way Jamaica has done with reggae and Mongolia has done with Tuvan throat singing.
Mdou Moctar, for his part, showed signs of innovation. These desert groove artists are always playing a balancing act between their open adoration of Jimi Hendrix and the traditions of their upbringing. Some may feel inclined to say "... but Moctar never strays far from his roots." But he does stray; Moctar jams in recognizable ways. He personally looks up to Eddie Van Halen, and that comes through in his playing. Melodically, he does not seem far off from acceptable norms in Western music. Probably because he grew up listening to classic rock. My companion leaned over and made the observation that they sounded like Kansas. The band. We all find what we look for, i suppose. Moctar's shredded riffs, fed through a tube scream, scorch over his rhythm players, who ground the performance in tradition. They took a linear route quite simple at its heart.
In Desert Groove, and in Moctar's live performances, the groove follows the kick drum. The snare offers syncopation. But i saw at least one baby boomer clapping with the snare (the three and the three-and?). Oh and the drummer sped up on numerous occasions, so he either needed a click track or this was an intentional effect to add to the sound's frenetic charge.
It sounded downright nasty.
Nasty?
Yeah, you know, like when you see guitarists screwing up their faces during a solo, or funk band leaders leaning nearly all the way over? Nasty. They were playing nasty. Together with the rushing rhythm section, the performance evoked a Youtube video entitled Nasty But Every Time It Gets Nasty It Gets Even Nastier.
—Lucas Magookas
dwell possessed an extra-dank aroma today, which was noticeable from the bottom of the stairs. Summitting the stairs, i noted that drying cannabis buds would provide tonight's backdrop.
Model Homes played.
But when TC Superstar pressed play on their SP, the space lit up. TC Superstar used energy beam in a most positive manner, and it was super-effective. We had even pulled the tire swing out of the way. i do not care how important you think your job is. You need to dance to this band.
TC Superstar's lyrics treat the bleakness of the mundane with a bright glibness that disarms their heavy subtext. Unfortunately, songs began to blend and blur together sonically, but that could indicate a cohesive album and artistic vision. It was a good sound anyway, so please reprise it. And the project spills out of the confines of sound into physical art and stage performance. TC Superstar exudes something that says "art installation" at least as much as "rock band."
Their standout track used the chorus to hop along a reference to the Toyota Corolla. (Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh. The TC stands for Toyota Corollaaaa. Okay.)
Emily and Yuriko, dancers, toed the line between technical prowess and inviting people to ecstatic expressive freedom. At least one amateur dancer in the room marveled at their balance, stamina, and flexibility. We also send props to Connor for sounding good while dancing without lip-syncing, but more importantly, for wearing a WRGW tee.
Palette tied together the night with their subterranean spaced out vocal frenzy.
i had fun. i feel good. i feel warm.
—Lucas Magookas
dwell is a DIY venue in the Trinidad neighborhood of DC whose exact location is privileged information. Zula's show there felt cozy and warm and nice. This despite their being from Brooklyn. Maybe i should not be so surprised that a DIY band felt at home in a DIY space.
Zula takes influence from many artists, but tries not to wear them on their sleeves. But they had one phrase that would have fit snugly on Talking Heads' 1977. Their new material seems a little more Neutral Milk Hotel, a little less Lonerism. It is certainly more verbose than the work they performed at Above the Bayou back in 2015.
It sounds like i have reservations about the direction they are taking. That sounds right. But Zula, in its new incarnation, retains the essence of Zula that make it fresh and enjoyable. Keep surprising me, Zula. And keep playing shows in DC.
—Lucas Magookas
Tsuhimamire entered my life on trivia night at the Songbyrd Café. We slid into a fourth place finish while in the next room, people were milling about the way they do in rooms too small to pace—with their heads down looking all around but at nobody. But the moment Tsushimamire let out their warm-up noise, a crowd got in formation. i found myself perched on a step, which was uncomfortable; i longed for a pit.
They made me wonder what punk rock filtered in to Japan from across the ocean. Were Tsushimamire pulling Minor Threat EPs from the rack? How old are they, exactly? Were Tsushimamire pulling Minor Threat CDs from the shelf back in the day? Maybe i am not giving Japan enough credit. The land of the rising sun has a long and colorful music history of its own, so why would punk rock be an exception? Tsushimamire, for their part, blurred the line between emulation and innovation. Truthfully, they employed more of the latter.
Tsushima's crunchy bass grooves kept every measure interesting. When the bass line followed the guitar, it was never the product of lazy songwriting, but a calculated move to add weight to a phrase.
Takagi's percussion was energetic and tireless. Fills were subdued and sparse. Rather, Tsushimamire's drum section contributes urgency and amperage with reliable thudding on the floor tom. The crashes were screwed in really tight though, which i thought was weird.
Kono affected her guitar leads with reverb that reminded me of basement jams. Which is kind of how the whole thing feels. Except that their jams do not wander aimlessly. Every riff is that one tastiest of licks you get out of an hour's jam session.
Their fast ones ripped and their slower ones chunked hard. One guy asked me if they were Melt-Banana, which i suppose sort of fair, but not really. I try to make everything a Powerpuff Girls thing, but face it, they are all Buttercup.
—Lucas Magookas