Seen and Heard in New York: a Weekly Round-Up

While I may not be terribly productive outside my working hours, I do frequently use this time to enjoy the greatest hub of art, culture, and entertainment (and cuisine, finance, innovation, design, etc.) that is New York. (However, you will rarely see a silent movie with organ accompaniment there—Jersey City has dibs on that.) In the past week or so, I have been incredibly lucky to have watched a college basketball game, listened to a concert, and see two (or four, rather) plays. Frankly, I’m as astonished as you, dear reader, that I could fit this all within my week (and budget). But the cost of living here includes access to such opportunities. And if you don’t take advantage of this proximity, then you might as well live somewhere else--you know, somewhere cheaper and less exciting, like Philly.

Half girls, half guys, and all rock

My new favorite band, Beast Make Bomb balances clever art-school songcraft with punk moxie. Three years on from their inception at NYU, they are navigating a rising course through the New York music scene. With cool confidence, they have great potential and no shortage of energy to play shows large and small. I caught two of the latter just last week and remain infatuated with a band that deserves more fans and praise than little ol' me can provide.

It's hard to express, but on that night at Bar Matchless, they were just the perfect band to see--the right band for me, that is. Maybe I'm projecting on them what I want from my ideal band, but you can't deny the facts: the guitarist's slick riffs, lead singer's swagger, bassist's scruffiness, and drummer's intensity.

And although I don't know the members of BMB, they are as essential to my appreciation of the band as its music. Once again, I hope to draw inspiration from talented people doing what they love (because it certainly can't be for the money). Striving to be creative and productive with all their available time and talent, while remaining true themselves, has brought them this far and surely further. But who knows ... they may break up next week, their synergy spent; and I may very well get another new favorite band, and no longer show up like Mel from Flight of the Conchords at every concert.  Yet, since they're good and didn't seem like they were, you know, half-assing it up there, I doubt any of that will happen soon.

Since I lack a certain distance and critical eye/ear, I realize this post may not be the most objective or insightful review. Nonetheless, BMB in concert is the best art (and fun) I have recently experienced, and I couldn't not share it.

Getting back to it ...

In the year 2012, I have been to Iceland just as many times as I have posted here. Forgive me for the humblebrag, but I really don’t know how else to begin my return to this blog … you know, the one supposedly dedicated to getting me to write more about anything and everything.

The hiatus is partially due to my lack of progress with my Rite of Spring project. For whatever reason, I didn’t want to post again about my story (see below) until I had a complete rough draft to share. And despite my research and writing in January, February, and March … I haven’t finished that—hence the lack of posts. (However, I should have posted about seeing maestro Alan Gilbert leading the Julliard Orchestra in a kick-ass version of the Rite. Hm … maybe I’ll get around to doing that after all.)

In the meantime, however, I have done a variety of things that a less-discriminating person would call “bloggable.” And seeing as I seldom write creatively, or have any wry observations or impassioned views to express in essay form, I must again deign to recounting and reflecting on the life I am extraordinarily lucky to have here in the greatest city in the country world. (And by that I, of course, mean Jersey City.)

"The Rite of Spring" in concert

It’s hard to believe there was a time when orchestral music was provocative. Hell, it’s difficult even to imagine contemporary popular music—or Art in general—being shocking or controversial, but occasionally it is. Certainly, modern concepts would be unfamiliar and perhaps disturbing to a visitor from the past. And maybe I’m too jaded or ignorant to recognize the responses to mainstream culture in our society today, oversaturated and overexposed as it is—and yet nominally prudish and conservative. But forget my digressions and believe me when I tell you that there was a moment in time, just a century ago, when a ballet could cause a riot.  

Dum Dum Girls: Live at Maxwell’s!

Really, it doesn’t take much to get me to check out a show at Maxwell’s. I’ll even go to see two bands I’ve never listened to, just so long as I have the night (and next morning) off. Hell, even if I don’t--but can get to the corner of Washington and 11^th in Hoboken by show time—I’ll be there. Just give me a heads-up is all I’m saying … an hour at least.

Free Concerts Galore!

Summer in New York, for me at least, is synonymous with eating delicious meals outside (sometimes in a park, sometimes on a sidewalk, but often on a rooftop), going to outdoor concerts, and (when possible) doing both. Usually, the city as a whole can achieve this ultimate aim by attending the New York Philharmonic’s “Concerts in the Parks” series, which brings this illustrious orchestra to each borough (even Staten Island) for a night of classical music—and sometimes fireworks! But this year, due to reasons unexplained (even to me—and I work for it!), the Philharmonic did not conduct this city-wide tour. However, an annual tradition on hiatus (just this one time, we promise), allows us the opportunity to discover other sources of entertainment. Festivals and arts series abound in this city, wherever there is space enough and an organization willing to present the artists. Already I’ve traveled to Red Hook Park for a concert—just one in the massive Summer Stage series put on by the City Parks Foundation, which embraces the entire city by staging concerts of various genres in nearly every sizable park. If you can’t find something to fill your Phil-hole, then you’re not even trying. Theater in the park, migrating street fests, food festivals, beer gardens, outdoor swing dancing, roof-top films … it’s a hectic three months trying to keep up, really.  I, for one, try to go to as many free, outdoor concerts as I can. And thus far, without buying a single ticket, I have enjoyed three summer nights of live music from some of my favorite artists: Andrew Bird, The Decemberists, and Animal Collective.

Catching Up on My June Adventures, Part 2: an Evening in Red Hook

late 19th Century Red Hook

 On a hazy night threatening rain, I trekked to the Red Hook neighborhood of Brooklyn for the first time. With its proximity to the New York harbor, Red Hook is (was?) perhaps best-known as a hub of shipping for the city. Though its recently become home to an Ikea store (accessible by ferry), the Sixpoint Brewery, and numerous boutiques and gourmet shops, this corner of Brooklyn is still solidly middle-class and ethnically diverse. The gentrification creeping toward it from the north has been held at bay so far (although Ikea’s amphibious landing was an audacious flanking maneuver, if I do say so myself. But let’s hope it’s more of an Anzio, and less of an Inchon.) However, hipsters do infiltrate and exploit the neighborhood’s secret treasure: a flotilla of food trucks that serve impeccable Latin food at the neighborhood ball fields. On weekends, apparently. Partly, I took this trip to see the band We Are Scientists (the source of the pin on my messenger bag that mysteriously reads “W. A. S.”) play an outdoor concert; but the majority of my motivation came from seeking out and eating the best papusa (or three) in the city. I’ve seen WAS twice before, but I’ve never had a papusa. So you can understand my priorities in this matter, and my disappointment upon discovering that the field adjacent to the stage—where I expected the circle of food trucks—was empty. 

 I found a sign advertising the return of the vendors for the summer, but no sign of the trucks themselves.

            With time and hunger to kill, I moved on to my back-up plan. Yes, I was sure of my destination, but not so sure how to get there. However, I possess a certain knack for finding places in this city when I only have a vague idea of their location. So after walking away from the park, I came upon Van Brunt Street and found on its corner the cafe/bar Fort Defiance. Named after a fortress built during the Continental Army’s ill-fated defense of New York City in 1776, Fort Defiance has a reputation as purveyor of unique cocktails, good beer (like Sixpoint from down the street—talk about local!), and noticeably above-average pub grub. I had expected to just pick up a delicious muffuletta (a sandwich just about as native to New York as a papusa), down a pint, and be on my way. However, the dinner menu had only, well … dinner options. I reluctantly turned down the heavy lamb dish and beer, and instead selected something more of the season: grilled mackerel, with a cocktail of Darjeeling-infused honey vodka, lemon, and prosecco. The mackerel, onions, and grainy mustard were very good (the accompanying freekah and fava beans, not so much), while the cocktail was light and refreshing. Hard to believe I had that kind of a meal while sitting at a dark wooden bar that wouldn’t seem out of place in an English pub, or in a neighborhood that twenty years ago was one of the country’s most crime- and drug-ridden. But rather than linger with another drink and a good book, I was out the door and on my way back to the park (a trip that was considerably easier than before—funny how that works.)
            The opening band was in mid-set when I returned to the stage, so I took the opportunity to check out the nearby waterway. And this is what I found: 

Desolate yet alluring, right? Or maybe not. But soon enough the guys from Brooklyn making noise on stage departed, making way for an altogether better “Brooklyn band.”
            We Are Scientists provided what I’d expected: rockin’ dance-punk, with the tight play and wit of a seasoned band. (Their longevity, showmanship, and instrumental skills were frequent sources of comic relief.) But unexpectedly, I soon felt myself drift back to my first concert in New York, on a cold late November night. Before moving to the area, I had only been collection of music I do now; actually, I even have difficulty just fathoming the vast difference between the role of music in my life then and now. In high school and college, I never considered myself enough of a fan of any band to be willing to buy a ticket to see them in person. I just didn’t get it, and I didn’t care. But oh, how I would come to appreciate the experience of live music. And because of that WAS concert at Irving Place mere months after I’d started life in the a new city (as well as a Josh Ritter concert I saw that previous winter at DC’s famed 9:30 Club—a concert I still listen to via NPR!), I haven’t gone a month without going to at least one concert. I still recall how, on that frosty night, I just sat in my empty bedroom and listened to their albums on repeat while slurping Cup o’ Noodles.

But in the open air of Red Hook Park, I just nodded along to the familiar riffs. And though nostalgic for that previous concert, I held no fondness for the crowd surfers landing on my head or the stoned soccer moms standing behind me. No, this concert was just fun, plain and simple. Although this was the third time I’d seen them, only now did I appreciate their talented ability to reproduce live renderings of studio effects. But I’d always enjoyed their witty between-song banter—which I assumed, ever since that first concert, every band possessed; this presumption has not held true, much to my dismay. Rare is the good band that can take their music seriously after all these years, and themselves not so much. Though the neighborhood* was new, the music on this night was refreshingly familiar.  

                

*I still need to go back to Red Hook for papusas, a visit to the Sixpoint brewery, and a refreshing drink from Sunny’s bar. Any takers?

New Jersey Rocks! (a.k.a. “You Will Always Be a Loser!!” or Titus Andronicus Forever!!!)

It seems the old adage holds true: You can take the band out of Jersey, but you can’t take the Jersey out of the band. And thank god for that. Patrick, Amy and the rest of Titus Andronicus may now reside in Brooklyn (the epicenter of the New York music scene, I begrudgingly admit), but they assert their NJ roots (it is the Garden State, after all.) And they do it not only by playing kick-ass rock shows anytime they return to the area, but they even pay homage to New Jersey in their latest video (more on this later.)

For Tim and I, the evening began typically: a pile of Chinese food, PATH trip to Hoboken, and then a lovely evening stroll along tree- and brownstone-lined streets to the Mecca of local music venues—Maxwell’s.  And then, although we eschewed imbibing, we did stand around like a bunch of losers judging the swelling crowd. When I go to shows, I pray that there aren’t too many hipsters—but with the bands I see that’s usually unavoidable. But actually, I’ll take hipsters over douches any day (and always over stoned soccer moms.) There were more of them in the crowd than I’d expected, but I chalk it up to just being a well-apportioned representation of north Jersey. Well, except for all the black, Hispanic, and south Asian people. But moving on …

Dinowalrus opened, and they turned out to be a pretty good band blending drums with a drum machine, psychedelic guitar riffs, and delayed/distorted vocals. I didn’t take to the vocals at first, but nothing else would have worked with the rest of their sound--which actually rocked. Forgive my sense of surprise; I generally don’t anticipate great opening bands—but Dinowalrus just happens to be the best Tim and I have seen (personally, I saw Screaming Females open for Arctic Monkeys, but since I’ve seen them multiple times as a headliner they're disqualified.)   

Speaking of Screaming Females, we saw them at Maxwell’s at the end of March (partly because Tim had never seen them live, and partly because I couldn’t stand waiting another month for a concert). Although they are tight performers with sick style of rock, I was somewhat disappointed with that evening’s show: only an hour-long set—with an animated video accompaniment for each song. An artsy concept that seems good in concept, but perhaps not in execution—just a little too short and structured for my liking.

This is precisely what I had in mind when I saw a projection screen erected on stage after Dinowalrus. But what came next assuaged all dread of a multimedia show, and indeed, it verily warmed my heart. On that screen, Titus Andronicus premiered their new video—simultaneously broadcast in various venues (physical and online) throughout the state (then, I guess, the rest of the world … as if that mattered.) As far as concept and execution, I think the video speaks for itself:

 I love that the tour starts in the Pine Barrens and finishes in Jersey City. (I only regret that I was not among the audience on that JC rooftop … sigh.)

But I was in the audience at Maxwell’s last night; whereupon, I saw a wholly different band than Tim and I had nearly two years ago—quite literally (the number of former members of the band dwarfs the current line-up.) We’d never even heard a note of their music before going—I just wanted to see a show at Maxwell’s, and I’d read that they were hard-rocking punks of a sort. And basically all I remember of the concert is that it was incredibly loud, and the vocals unintelligible. Oh, and that one of the guitar players wore his guitar awkwardly high.

This time around though, I’ve been jonesing to see Titus Andronicus since last July when I first listened to their second album, The Monitor (okay, maybe since the fourth or fifth listen.) A concept album of interconnected melodic rock songs based in part on the Civil War—how could I not like it? Maybe not every song, but I do love the seven-minute opener and the fourteen-minute closer. And when they’re played back-to-back (or rather, closer into opener) at the climax of the show for a perfect 20-minute block of song? That was pretty freaking cool. As was the taste of electric violin provided by the joyously-bouncing Amy Klein, the harmonica solo by the drummer’s dad, a bit of moshing, and much singing-along to Patrick Stickles rock-ballad choruses. And though I didn’t pick up a copy of their album on vinyl or a tote bag (really?), I did leave deaf, hoarse, and humming every chorus and riff. Good times.

Sharon Van Etten! (again?)

Yes, again.  Of course, again.

See?

Okay, I will admit that I am something of an SVE groupie (by the mere fact I call her SVE, and have seen her in concert 3 times in the last 4 months, and own her latest album, Epic, on CD and vinyl—as well as her first LP, Because I was in Love.)  

But, you see, I just had to go this time, for reasons outside my own fandom.  First, it was at the Bowery Ballroom—both the largest venue she’d headlined in this city, and something of a homecoming concert (her parents and extended family—from Jersey!—were there, after all.)  And secondly, my roommate/uncle Tim had never seen her in concert.  There you go.  And so, of course we found ourselves sharing beers at the basement bar way too early—because that’s exactly what you’re supposed to be doing on a Saturday night in the city.  But enough of this needless justification, on to the concert.
 
The night began with an act plagued by technical difficulties and too-beautiful guitar playing for a male singer/songwriter-type artist.  His name will be withheld lest he search for reviews of himself, find this post, and be bitterly stung by this all-too-accurate description of that evening’s performance, and his style in general.  (I know I would.)  But since SVE had invited him, she joined him onstage for a song to salvage his set  (undermined most-cruelly when his guitar amp failed mid-song—just as he finally got rocking!) 

Then, came The War on Drugs, a favorite of SVE’s who joined the bill at her behest (I like to think she wields that kind of power, but who really knows.)  They brought more rock than the first band, but, as Tim would point out, they channeled fading classic rockers, with little originality.  Well, they didn’t sound too bad, and had some pretty good energy overall (as well a drummer whom the entire audience thought was a roadie.)  But as eleven o’clock approached, they thankfully yielded the stage for the artist we’d all come to see (hear?)

Though apparently nervous, Sharon Van Etten began by belting out “A Crime,” her usual opening song—one that immediately brings her and the audience into the moment.  Her arrangements are simple but solid as her voice—a beautiful instrument on its own.  And to provided fullness and rhythm to them, she sang the rest of the set supported by her regular vocal, bass guitar, and percussion accompanists, as well as a pianist for the first time.  And of course, all this music serves very well to compliment her honest, bittersweet lyrics.  With guest appearances from friends in the indie music scene, shout-outs to her parents (and her boisterous cousin in the front row), multiple encores, much nervous banter, and a general sense of appreciation/reflection from an earnest singer who’s come a long way from open-mic nights in Tennessee dive bars—it was a memorable concert, and evening overall. 

Here’s a sample and more coverage, but it really is best to see her perform live, if possible:

OMG!

Omigodomigodomigodomigodomigodomigodomigod …. I saw Prince in concert nearly a month ago and I haven’t written a damn thing about it.  That’s right, Prince—aka. the Kid, the Purple One, the Artist Formerly Known as Prince, or just:

On a cold December night out at East Rutherford’s Izod Center, my roommates and I witnessed the first concert of Prince’s “Welcome 2 America” tour (whom he was welcoming was never made clear.) Perhaps the strangest aspect of the evening (normally just Prince himself), was the fact that before the concert and in between the opening acts, the film Finding Nemo played on the multiple enormous projection screens in the center of the arena—without sound.  While that certainly did not set the proper mood for a Prince concert (although it is more of an “experience” than concert), it just barely kept those of us who’d seen the movie entertained, and everyone else confused and bored. 

But eventually, the animated fish were replaced by a jazz band, led by Esperanza Spalding.  A petite young jazz musician dwarfed by her bass and immediately recognizable afro, I’d actually seen her in one of NPR’s “Tiny Desk Concerts.”  She’s very good, with a fresh voice that recalls classic jazz singers, but her style is more suited for the intimacy of a club rather than a gaping arena.  Then (after the next installment of the Nemo saga) came a singer of arena-sized voice and girth.  After this performer’s soulful serenades, we suffered through the finale of Nemo, while eagerly anticipating the headliner.  I napped.  Then, suddenly, the lights in the arena darkened, and from a trapdoor in the symbol-shaped stage rose the funky, fifty-something-year-old music icon himself. 

What can I say about Prince that hasn’t been said before?  Let it be known that I’m not really familiar with his oeuvre, outside of the Purple Rain album/film, that is.  This, however, did not prevent me from thoroughly enjoying the performance.  He began with one of his newer songs, featuring a trio of Amazonian vixens that would frequently accompany him throughout the night.  But for me, the concert did not properly begin until he sang “The Beautiful Ones” to his ballerina/muse.  And that wouldn’t be the last time he danced on his grand piano, either. 

With his band in the center, Prince roamed the stage, making full use of the 360-degree exposure—as well as trapdoors, multiple costume changes, song medleys, and guitars that seemed to appear out of thin air.  As an aspiring guitar player, I particularly enjoyed the wailing riffs and tasty licks.  Both the openers returned to the stage for a number each, which was nice to see.  Overall, the concert balanced upbeat, funky songs with down-tempo ballads.  Prince also balanced a mix of new and old songs—but nothing seemed out of place or outright bizarre. 

Except for everything.  

Essentially, it was as if we in the Izod Center were visited by extraterrestrials from an incredibly cool and funky planet for two hours, and then had to make sense of the world after their departure.  Maybe, this is what Prince meant by “Welcome 2 America.”  Who knows?  All I know, with certainty, is that “Purple Rain” is definitely a 15-minute, sing-along arena anthem; and anyone who says otherwise wasn’t there and just doesn’t get it, and probably never will.  I pity them.

And since I really don't have any pictures or videos from said concert (and since Prince thoroughly patrols the Internets for such things), I offer you this dramatized (though highly-accurate) account of the man in his prime: 

More ... everything.

I really wish that whenever I have a particularly sucky day in my life, I could head off to a small bar in Brooklyn and listen to Sharon Van Etten sing with her band.  Yes, I went to see her again, this time as part of CMJ Music Fest headlining an afternoon line up at Bruar Falls (named for actual waterfalls upstate)—a setting even smaller than Mercury Lounge  And while the last concert was a vocally stunning, sincere, and flawless performance, this one was casual, fun, and, well, sloppier.  Example: Sharon began playing one of her songs twice without realizing that it was not played with a capo; third time was a charm.  And unlike last time, her back-up singer was not present, and the drum and bass had more of a presence on stage (ie. they were louder than before).  Actually, I’m really glad it wasn’t at all like before; I’ve realized I don’t exactly like going to see a band more than once (although I’ve made exceptions for We Are Scientists (I took my uncle the second time), and Screaming Females (the first few times were in huge venues, and they were just openers)).  But I just had to see SVE again, and when I heard that after a few shows in the region she would be stopping by Brooklyn … well, you know the rest. 

Oh, I just so happened to recognize the band that played before her, Lower Dens, from a Tiny Desk Concert I watched a few days ago.  And I’ll have to say, they are a band not fit for the limitations of an office; I really wasn’t impressed with … well, the band looked bored, the vocals sounded dull, and the guitar parts seemed rather simple—stuff even I could pull off.  But at the show last night, Lower Dens had all their equipment, and filled the bar with a big hazy, distorted noise set over a driving beat.  And fortunately, enough heads blocked my view, so I didn't actually have to see their guitar fingering. Overall, not too bad, but best experienced live.

Actually, the day wasn’t really that sucky, especially considering I had lunch here:

A nice cozy space, with good service and chefs—and pretty good sushi (at an even better lunch special price).  If you’re ever in Murray Hill around lunchtime and don’t feel like going to any of the two dozen Indian places in the neighborhood, then check out Umi Sushi on 31^st St. b/t Park and Lex.

Oh, and today, I concluded my relationship with the Madison Square Mark’t “Food Square” with a lamb meatball hero:

Featuring three large meatballs set in a hearty baguette, the sandwich came with tomato sauce, a cilantro-based salsa verde, and ricotta salata shredded on top.  The combination of flavors was good, and the meatballs themselves were especially delicious, but I kept hoping the green stuff would be mint rather than cilantro.  I mean, mint jelly goes with lamb, so why not make a salsa with fresh mint leaves?

Also, Flatiron from today and yesterday:

And I noticed these hundreds of lightbulbs hanging in the middle of Madison Square Park, with more art installations coming in the next few weeks:

Oh, and apparently the Chelsea Hotel—a historical and cultural icon to New York and the neighborhood—is up for sale, rending its future uncertain. 

Although I have no really connection or any particular love for the building, I’d hate to see it go to an owner who will ignore its special history, as in the many celebrities and artists who have lived or died there.  But then again, it’s not that old … and how long can we really hang on to these kinds of landmarks?  Especially in Manhattan, where so much history has been torn down and subsumed by the onward (and upward) march of Progress?  But then again, what is Progress?  And do we want to live in a city that does not recognize and cherish the unique features that make it what it is?  thegreatestcityintheworld  Ahem, excuse me.

Sharon Van Etten and Kyp Malone at Mercury Lounge!

Enough with food, it’s time to go back to music, particularly my insatiable pursuit of new music—even just for more music.  I always have cds on hold at the library. I read up on new bands and new albums by established artists.  And as I keep an ear out for the new and up-and-coming, I reach back toward everything I’ve missed—80s pop culture, Led Zeppelin, revered bluesmen—in order to understand how everything in music (or culture and art in general) is connected and influenced by what came before.  But as for the present, my latest source for new music is NPR Music.  Their website features an archive of concert recordings, a song of the day, music articles, All Songs Considered podcasts, and their First Listen series. 

So, I listened to the ASC Fall Preview and heard for the first time a female singer named Sharon Van Etten.  I jotted her name down in my notebook, along with a few other bands I liked, just in case I ran across any albums, videos, or upcoming concerts. And who should I read about in the Village Voice the next week?  Sharon Van Etten.  And who would be doing a late concert the following Saturday night with Kyp Malone of TV on the Radio (one of my favorite bands)?  Again, SVE. 

Mercury Lounge was dark when I entered before Kyp Malone’s 11pm set.  I slipped through the narrow bar to the small room at the back, only just beginning to fill.  But as it did, and as Kyp himself set up his gear, the growing tension and energy of the tight crowd was palpable.  The stage was right there, and the solo performer was right there: a feeling of exposure for them, intimacy for us.  Playing an electric resonator guitar, Kyp kept his songs quiet—initially.   But when he actually strummed, the resonator sent out chilling reverberations.  Without his usual backing band, The Rain Machine, Kyp utilized this quiet/loud dynamic—or “cheap dramatics” as he called it.  Though his songs were mostly long and languid, his delivery was precise and his pacing deliberate.  And then he’d kick it in: angry, screaming verses pouring from his beard, angry, screaming chords jolting the room.  Humor and his comfort with audiences appeared in his between-song banter—and he played up the coming appearance of his good friend, Sharon Van Etten.  He frequently checked his watch, gauging how many songs he could fit in before she preformed—and intimated to us the dilemma of choosing songs to play from the deep catalogue of his mind.  And I truly believe that he could have played for another two or three hours that night; perhaps the effort of doing so alone would have been too much, but I do not doubt that he possessed that many songs and could have held our interest over the course of a long set.  Unfortunately, an encore was not an option that night, even though I definitely wanted to hear more from Mr. Malone. 
 
However, as soon as Sharon Van Etten stepped on stage, I forgot who that guy with all the hair even was (until he stood in front of me, that is.)  Smiling, she was beautiful up in those lights, dwarfed by an immaculate red guitar.  And then she sang.  And I smiled.  And my stomach flipped.  I think this is called “swooning”—a condition with which I’m not frequently afflicted.  Well, needless to say, I was hooked, infatuated even, for the rest of the night.  Her voice, echo-y and amplified, was … ethereal?  No, too light.  It was more solid and striking than that, betraying nothing of the nerves she exhibited when not performing.  Although she was releasing her second album, and had gigged with her band for at least a month of this tour, Sharon was giddy when introducing them.  She exhibited sincere wonderment as she marveled the audience, and an endearing nervousness when addressing her on-stage awkwardness.  But it was all about her songs—her voice, yes, but also the pain and beauty in her lyrics. And with family and friends amongst an adopted-hometown crowd, Sharon Van Etten’s music embraced us and we embraced her back.
 
So, I bought her new album, Epic, that night and have been listening to it frequently over the last week.  To see pictures from the show, check out Brooklyn Vegan.  Check out YouTube for some live videos of both Kyp Malone and Sharon Van Etten.  They also have websites.  And here’s the profile from the Village Voice, if you want to know the backstory on SVE.  Also! If you’re in the New York area, Sharon Van Etten will be performing at Bruar Falls in Williamsburg on Wednesday at 6pm.  Be there, for the good of your soul.  I will.

Music! Including a review of Kraft (not the one your thinking of)

Ah, music … it’s about time I started blogging on it.  Now, I’m just as passionate about music as I am food.  Like cooking, I noodle around on one of my many guitars (or sometimes an autoharp), and sustain my dream of being in an indie band.    And in the same vein as eating out at restaurants, I frequently go to concerts (more often than plays—gasp!).  But unlike food, I tend to immerse myself in music as often as possible, anytime there’s silence—I try to fill it with music.  When writing or cleaning my room, when cooking or doing the dishes (there’s a cd player and box of cds in the kitchen just for this purpose), and of course the many hours spent riding the train.  But, did I mention concerts?  


Friday night, after a perfectly boring shift at the subscriber table (aside from the usual people watching), I treated myself to one of the perks of a job at the New York Philharmonic (aside from the fact that I sit on my ass and earn money): actually listening to a concert.  It was the first time I’d done this all season, and the second half of the program that night compelled me to sneak  through the doors (though not without the approval of the house manager, Omar.)  Walking into the hall, no one could fail to notice how radically the piece rearranged the concepts of an orchestra, or the traditional boundaries of the performance space.  A gong hung from the ceiling in the center of the seats.  Smaller gongs and metal objects occupied the rear corners—even directly behind my seat.  And a stage center, soloists manned a piano, cello, contra-bass clarinet, and an assembly of ordinary objects and junk placed far out of context.  This would not be a typical performance.