LIVE REVIEWS

The virtual band created by Blur frontman Damon Albarn and cartoonist Jamie Hewlett has burgeoned into a real-life phenomenon, with a 12-year string of Billboard hits, sold-out arenas and critical acclaim. At the drafty Oracle Arena in Oakland, the cartoon characters seen in the narrative music videos took to the flesh as a star-studded collective to wreak havoc on our senses and make love to our ears.

Although the venue is typically used for Warriors games, motor cross and Roger Waters concerts and was not conducive to schmoozing or dancing like some of the more intimate San Francisco venues nearby, those who chose to stand up and flail around could do so without feeling self-conscious, as seats were strategically placed to direct everyone’s attention to the stage.

Gorillaz unleashed a fire hose of visual stimulation with a carousel of vocalists, players and instrumentalists (including an Arab-American unit performing the intro to “White Flag”), gliding on and off stage while music videos and intervals of cartoon dialogue pulsed on the massive screen overhead. They ran with the Halloween theme, with grinning jack-o’-lanterns placed around the stage and band members wearing perspiration-smeared zombie makeup and sporting Inglorious Basterds army-sergeant uniforms and goblin masks.

They offered up a perfect mix of old and new songs off their various albums and EPs, with uptempo dance numbers like “DARE” and the emotional “Cloud Of Unknowing,” featuring Bobby Womack (during which they showed graphic clips of war planes crashing). The set list delighted even the most casual fan (a.k.a. parents chaperoning their 12-year-olds—“Hey, it’s the iPod song!”)

As disgruntled as fans may have been about the wallet gashing they endured on the $100 tickets, $30 parking fee and $8 watery beer, the constant barrage of animation, Yukimi Nagano’s tinkling voice, masked brass players, vigorous rapping and Albarn’s lithe vocals and attempted political banter made the outside melt away, if only for 90 minutes.

—text and photo by Maureen Coulter

“This is the first time I’ve been hot on this whole tour,” said a gleeful Greg Dulli near the end of a rousing set on Saturday night at Baltimore’s Ottobar. If you’ve seen Dulli live with any of his past or current outfits (Afghan Whigs, Twilight Singers, Gutter Twins), this might be a surprising thing to hear. But this 14-date U.S. tour, billed as An Evening With Greg Dulli, featured Dulli in a stripped-down, mostly acoustic setting. Backed by a violinist/cellist (Rick Nelson) and an acoustic/electric guitarist and backup singer (longtime Dulli bandmate Dave Rosser) for the entire tour, the group also added a drummer (Greg Wieczorec) over the last few dates. In this arrangement, Dulli’s normally howling songs were stripped to the bruised bone; their core of torment and dark urges laid bare. Despite the unplugged delivery, the show had a magical, sweaty fire that made it feel like a searing rock performance fitting of Dulli’s usual incarnations.

The crowd (well, me at least) had leaned hard into their Saturday night by the time Dulli and his band took the stage after 11 p.m. With the Ottobar’s website stating the show would start right at 9 p.m, the place was packed early. But Craig Wedren, former lead singer for Shudder To Think, didn’t take the stage until more than an hour after that, giving people plenty of time to throwback Baltimore’s iconic National Bohemian beer. It was worth the wait, though, as Wedren serenaded the crowd with his beautiful, fluttery voice. Standing alone in front of two microphones, he often looped vocal, guitar and simple beat parts to flesh out his odd-but-gorgeous songs. Highlights included Shudder To Think tunes “Red House” and “Hit Liquor” and a song he recorded for the HBO show Hung.

Dulli’s set started with him sitting at the keyboard, pounding out “The Killer” from the Twilight Singers’ Blackberry Belle. From the beginning, this show was on a whole different level from the performance earlier in the week in Philadelphia. The band was visibly amped up and played harder and louder. The room rocked in response. Dulli whipped the crowd into a frenzy with the Afghan Whigs’ “Uptown Again” early on in the set and really never let up. The set list covered nearly every record in Dulli’s catalog, with the acoustic setting being the perfect chance for Dulli to dust off gems like Congregation’s harrowing “Let Me Lie To You,” “Step Into The Light” from Black Love, the overlooked “The Lure Would Prove Too Much” from the Twilight Singers’ A Stitch In Time EP and piano-driven Gentelmen classic “What Jail Is Like,” which led off the band’s first encore. Dulli also pulled from his Gutter Twins project and shared a number of songs from the next Twilight Singers record, which is due via Sub Pop in 2011.

Dulli mostly strummed an acoustic guitar, only taking to the keyboard on a few songs. He drank bottled water. No ceaseless smoking. No alcohol. He’s now entrenched in his mid-40s and while he still wants the crowd “to make party,” he himself has seemed to reign in the rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle. But this more sober stage act has not muted any of his showmanship power. He knows how to entertain. He knows how to craft a set list where songs build on each other, each one topping the next. A signature Dulli move is inserting a line or two from other songs into his own. Examples tonight included a nicked verse from the Who’s “Pinball Wizard” at the end of “Teenage Wristband,” Prince’s “Little Red Corvette” appearing in “66” and even a teaser of his own “Milez is Ded” popping up at one point, which sent the crowd soaring.

No surprise, then, that after the band’s encore (which included the Twilight Singers’ “Candy Cane Crawl” and a blistering cover of Jose Gonzalez’s “Down The Line”), the crowd didn’t even look toward the exits. They continued to clap and howl until the band came back out and did a breathless rendition of Björk’s “Hyperballad,” with everyone in the room singing along. Glazed with sweat, Dulli and the band retired for good despite protests for a third curtain call, the U.S. leg of this tour closed out with a truly great evening.

—text and photo by Doug Sell

On one of the most pleasant autumn nights in recent memory, a friend and I made our way to Mercy Lounge to see the storied David Bazan perform to a room full of doting fans and Next BIG Nashville (NBN) attendees who were anxious to see the year’s first headliner. The show, which also featured the Mynabirds (Bazan’s tourmates) and local Aaron Robinson, was curated by the recently (and sadly) defunct Paste magazine, the first of several sponsored showcases that would take place in Music City from September 29 to October 2 as part of a joint music fest and industry conference called Leadership Music Digital Summit (LMDS).

Just five years young, NBN is vying to position the city and its diverse talent next to similar creative enclaves like Austin and L.A., shaking the world’s tired and inaccurate image of Nashville as solely honky-tonkin’ in the process. Each year, the scope of the festival gets more immense, as Nashville acts perform next to internationally renown artists at the height of their relevancy. This year, that strategy couldn’t be any more realized: Yeasayer, Washed Out, RJD2, Wavves, the Hood Internet, A Place To Bury Strangers and Javelin are just a few of the artists that have descended on Nashville in recent days to open arms from the city’s creative, academic and business communities. In other words, while it’s still held in untouchable reverence, the Grand Ole’ Opry might not any longer be the hottest ticket in town.

For its part, LDMS brings key players from the industry’s creative, legal and business arms to discuss its state of affairs and, more importantly, what’s next. According to NBN co-founder Jason Moon Wilkins, the combination of the two endeavors is a well-orchestrated effort to “[tell] the full story of Music City and the countless crossroads, musical and business, that run through it.” In addition to the previously mentioned artists, thought-leaders from the likes of Pandora, The Orchard, ASCAP, CAA, The Windish Agency and labels such as Fueled By Ramen, Columbia, Epic and Interscope gathered on panels in the presence of conference attendees to hash out the future of music making, marketing and consumption.

While the selection of Bazan by the NBN team initially struck me as odd—he’s already played Nashville twice this year, for one, and next to the other headliners (Yeasayer, RJD2 and Wavves), his “buzzworthiness” is negligible—my speculation was ultimately misguided. Indeed, the crowd was rapt from start to finish (a true rarity in Nashville), and I’d almost forgotten that Bazan’s catalog is so deep that he could play far more than three shows in a city per year and they’d all manage to sound completely distinct. This, in addition to the fact that he’s just as penetrating backed by the roar of a live band or alone, devoid of anything but a guitar and his rich tales of spiritual strife and indiscretion. On this night, perhaps more than any of the six or seven times I’ve seen him since 2001, he sounded an affirmed, raucous note, aligning his always gripping lyrics with a zealous musical punch that will undoubtedly leave an impression for weeks.

I’d already seen Bazan last fall touring in support of his latest solo effort, Curse Your Branches (Barsuk), a record that is often referred to as his “break-up letter with God” because of an article penned by Chicago Reader‘s Jessica Hopper, which detailed Bazan’s evolution over the last few years from evangelical Christian to skeptical agnostic. That show, at Atlanta’s Drunken Unicorn, was mostly filled with material from the new album. In Nashville, however, he would revisit his Pedro The Lion work in droves, reaching back as far as 1998′s It’s Hard To Find A Friend before rummaging through later albums Control and Achilles Heel. He even tapped into his inner Martin Gore with an eerie version of “Gas And Matches” from his synth-heavy Headphones album. Joined by Blake Wescott (guitar and vocals), Andy Fitts (bass and vocals) and Alex Westcoat (drums), Bazan bellowed through more than a decade of fan favorites with an impassioned clip that suggested time has only made him more fervent about his craft.

The set began with Curse Your Branches‘ “Bless This Mess,” an angular pop song that translated much more vigorously live than on record. The guitars were grittier and fuller, the rhythm section like a proud metronome and the three-part harmonies were immaculate and enveloping. A few songs later came “I Do,” a somnolent vignette of a married father at his most desperate. The tension of this song set the stage perfectly for “Rehearsal,” a noisy, guttural barb at an unfaithful partner who is as angry with a partner’s “stepping out” as he or she is with the lack of creativity used in executing the act. It is this kind of dark humor (that’s really not funny at all) that has made of Bazan one of the most compelling lyricists of the last decade, a fact not lost on Paste, which included him in its “100 Best Living Songwriters” list a few years ago.

After the first of three Q&A sessions—a regular feature at Bazan shows for as long as I’ve been watching him—he drifted into “Hard To Be,” which took the polar approach to much of the set, fleshing itself out more loosely and calmly than on Curse Your Branches. “Indian Summer,” “Please Baby Please” and “When We Fell” followed, each a dead-on rendition of its recorded counterpart. A few songs later, the crowd exhibited an obvious pleasure as Control‘s opener, “Options,” crawled underneath Bazan’s aching story of marital delusion. Here, as well as on “I Do” and closer “Band With Managers,” Wescott imbued the song with a washy drone that took the room one step closer to a sort-of emotional paralysis that was only undone when Bazan referred to Nashvillians as “some of the most delusional people in the country” to throngs of laughter in the final Q&A session. Sure, his comment was subjective, but the man speaks from experience: Cutting his teeth on the fringes of the Christian music industry before disavowing a belief (sometimes caustically) in the original sin narrative has undoubtedly brought on a healthy amount of righteous disdain from within the city, which to many is known as the “Christian Mecca” because it harbors more churches per-capita than any other city in the U.S. Of course, it’s possible he was referring to the myriad of musical pipe dreams littering Davidson County, but I’m going with the former thesis, if for no other reason than it hits closer to home for him.

While the brooding, drawn out intensity of “Bands With Managers” closed out the set in characteristically affective fashion, it was Achilles Heel‘s “The Fleecing” that sent me thoughtful into the night. Easily one of my favorite songs of his, it’s always spoken to me because of the way Bazan articulates the ultimate fallibility of spiritual discourse between believers and non-believers and its hinting at the godly ennui that would be fully realized on Curse Your Branches. On record, he sings in the chorus, “I could buy you a drink/I could tell you all about it/I could tell you why I doubt it/And why I still believe.” Six years, lots of questions and a drinking problem later, Bazan now closes the final line with “don’t” believe, before adding, “I was blind, but now I see,” satirizing a religious idiom to poignant effect. For most in the room, I’m assuming Bazan’s worldview shift is a non-issue, but for those who were perhaps introduced to his work through starkly beautiful covers of hymns or early meditations on grace, these lyrics had to invite a wince, or a tightening of the chest, as their hero—the only Christian artist who truly spoke to them for years—denounced it all with vehement courage right before their very eyes. To be (really) sure, living in Nashville does not a disciple make, but Bazan of all people knows how a message like that will be telegraphed in a city swarming with religious institutions. And, it works, no matter what you believe.

—Ryan Burleson; photo by Patrick Copeland

Setlist after the jump.

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MAGNET’s Maureen Coulter reports from the 2010 Outside Lands Festival in Golden Gate Park.

Sunday, August 15

On day two of Outside Lands, I spent all my free time signing up for contests I’ll never win and nabbing swag I’ll never use. So far the count is two headbands, a neon-colored bandana/scarf, a T-shirt, shampoo, glow-in-the-dark dog tag and a Shrinky Dink. I also ate an entire meal comprised of free samples.

After making rounds at the promo tables, I joined the crowd on the Polo Field and hung out for Janelle Monae. Although she was a half hour late coming on, she made up for her curtailed performance in hair-tossing, hip-swiveling intensity. Monae is a pixie with American Idol-worthy pipes, and her music is spunky and distinctive, like a female Gnarls Barkley.

Having Al Green on the festival ticket may have seemed a bit out of place, but he owned the crowd. Beseeching trumpets and trombones combined with the gospel crooning of his three daughters onstage with him complemented his conversational, raspy voice and expressive hand gestures. He drove the audience wild with a cover of Roy Orbison’s “Pretty Woman” and had them singing, “I’m … I’m so in love with youuu,” on “Let’s Stay Together” as he tossed roses into the flock of middle-aged women with yoga-toned bodies, Ray-Bans and Chuck Taylors.

French pop group Phoenix played an energetic set anchored by a rumbling bass that could have triggered a tectonic shift. Lead singer Thomas Mars roamed around like a hyperactive child, climbing on speakers, bounding offstage and ultimately crowd-surfing. The percussionist whaled on the drums, sweat flying. The burgeoning swarm of shiny, booze-soaked concertgoers equaled Phoenix’s vivacity, showing its stamina even after two straight days of partying.

MAGNET’s Maureen Coulter reports from the 2010 Outside Lands Festival in Golden Gate Park.

Saturday, August 14
5:30 pm

Google Maps owes me $6. For the third time in a row, its directions have led me to Narnia. And not in the talking-animals-and-good-white-witches kind of way. After getting off the highway, I spent 60 minutes idling among a fleet of hybrids until I found myself crossing the Golden Gate Bridge (hence the $6 toll), on the opposite side of the city.

All was not lost, however, because I managed to steal a few sweet shots at Vista Point before I turned Blue Steel (my Toyota Camry) around and headed to Golden Gate Park. I headed inside just in time to catch the end of Pretty Lights’ and their strong bass thundering down the Polo Field. I also slipped into the Big Hassle Media press conference presenting Taylor Goldsmith from Dawes and Julian Dorio of the Whigs as well as representatives from Manifesto!/Whetstone Winery, Philz Coffee and Maverick Restaurant.

Midafternoon, Gogol Bordello, the frantic punk gaggle from New York City, hurdled onto the Twin Peaks stage. Lead singer Eugene Hutz looks like he emerged from a really hip and artsy concentration camp. His lanky, wraithlike body flailed deliberately around the stage, shrilling into the microphone as the other army fatigue-clad band members manhandled accordions, bass guitars and violins. The crowd responded by waving their arms and jumping around in a rock and roll Irish jig. Their funkadelic rock sounded like Primus and the Clash invaded the Olive Garden.

In the press pit, the typically awkward music writers and photographers were swinging their limbs and raving over the band’s manic fusion. By the end of the afternoon, you could tell they wanted to end their set like a little kid wants to get out of the ball pit at McDonald’s. They had to be practically yanked offstage and jammed their way through the credits before finally taking off.

Many bands can only dream about the kind of instant success attained by L.A. quintet Local Natives. After a wildly successful stint at SXSW 2009, debut full-length Gorilla Manor was released to critical acclaim, earning the group comparisons to the perfect storm of beloved indie bands including Grizzly Bear, Vampire Weekend and Fleet Foxes. The self-funded album hasn’t even been out a full year, but Local Natives are already playing their material to numerous sold-out venues, including the First Unitarian Church in Philadelphia.

The audience sat in the pews and on the floor of the extremely un-air-conditioned church sanctuary in a very civilized manner while openers We Barbarians played their set. However, that all quickly changed between acts, when the crowd began creeping closer to the stage and a certain group of people decided to start the “standing up” trend. Everyone eagerly awaited the arrival of Local Natives in a tight crowd despite the jungle-like heat and greeted the band members with an explosion of cheers when they graced the stage sporting some crazy haircuts (and guitarist/vocalist Taylor Rice’s signature ‘stache, which rivals John Oates’).

Little introduction was needed with such positive energy radiating from the crowd, so the band dove right into “World News” and proved that it wasn’t afraid to fill even the smallest space to the rafters—not even the house of God. The guys played loud and with an unbridled enthusiasm until they were sweating with reckless abandon onstage. The fans, in turn, proved that they had all worn out their copies of Gorilla Manor prior to the show by dancing and singing every word, as so many Local Natives songs are just so sing-along-able.

The band members showed off their musical versatility by periodically switching instruments (including guitarist Ryan Hahn busting out a mandolin for “Airplanes”), all while nailing their signature harmonies and milking the slower parts of songs down to a tense whisper before hitting back with twice as much force. By the time album opener “Wide Eyes” came around, the audience was so riled up that someone actually crowd-surfed, and Rice, who seemed a little stunned by the event, reminded everyone to be careful, but to still have a good time. After a particularly powerful rendition of ballad “Who Knows, Who Cares,” the band took the briefest of breaks before obliging the crowd with an explosive encore with “Sun Hands,” and the fans chanted the chorus as the crowd-surfer rode his wave once again.

When the show was over, the band had played the entirety of Gorilla Manor, much to everyone’s obvious delight. The nice thing about having such a short music catalogue is that everyone was pretty much guaranteed to hear every song they wanted to hear. However, the audience, with their fervor and evident devotion, could have rocked out for at least an hour longer if there had been more material to be heard. Sophomore album, please!

—Emily Costantino; photo by Tad Lecuyer

Everyone I encounter who knows Pinback has vehemently agreed the group of San Diego alt-rock alchemists is the best band you’ve never heard of. Flying under the radar for a decade, founders Zach Smith and Rob Crowe have churned out albums and EPs glutted with arresting beats, melodic guitar and bass and two-part harmonies that will make you want to dig out your discarded high-school journal and contemplate existence.

The city of San Jose has a negligible music scene consisting of Taylor Swift and Elton John pocket piracy at the HP Pavilion (when the San Jose Sharks aren’t tossing pucks around) and orchestra recitals frequented by the old and the rich. The presence of Pinback at the Blank Club was a welcome departure from the downtown area’s usual Friday-night routine of dive-bar surfing.

The venue was situated on an unoccupied side street, lined by about three cars. Stamping hands was a woman who was white-knuckling her Bic pen and looked like she’d dealt with her quota of drunks for the night. At first I wondered if I was in the wrong place, but then I spotted a few girls sporting asymmetrical haircuts and holding cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon. While waiting for the opener, I occupied myself by oogling the trippy lights spinning across the floor, as if I’d just smoked a whole month’s prescription from one of the “collectives” down the block.

After the initial ear-grating snoozefest forced upon us by Little White Teeth (or some combination of those particular words), The Rob and Zach Show, a pared-down version of Pinback, began their set with two somber ballads, strumming their instruments and reclining in their chairs.

“We’re touring just the two of us, as The Rob and Zach Show,” Crowe announced to the somnambulant crowd. “We came here to play songs we don’t normally get to play, and relax and have fun.” I groaned. “But we are too nervous to be having that much fun.” For the next 45 minutes, the duo made good use of the drum machine on songs like “Fortress” and “Non-Photo Blue” to liven up the club and get everyone grooving.

Any person at the Blank was only a few feet away from Crowe and Smith. The low-rise stage was a resting spot for many a discarded drink, and after the show Crowe exchanged emails with several fans. When I spoke with him after the show, he told me a new album was in the works. “We have about five really good ideas so far,” he said. As much as I appreciate their music, I almost hope their upcoming record isn’t a hit. Then the next time I see them, I’ll be sipping an $8 Diet Coke and peering through binoculars on the opposite end of the Shark Tank. Half their charm is the fact that they’re all mine.

—Maureen Coulter

Zooey Deschanel, the often dippy but always charming indie-film darling, proved once again that she can do no wrong. There is no need for slashes in her title; she is truly all at once two separate entities: a movie star as well as a musician. With singer/songwriter M.Ward, she fronts She & Him, and the duo’s live sound—backed by the Chapin Sisters’ bright harmonies, plus your standard bass, guitar and drums—is full, cheery and buzzing with energy.

The second album from She & Him, Volume 2 (Merge), brings Deschanel’s sunny, retro vocals and chord progressions together with Ward’s raspy voice and driving guitar solos. The set list included tracks from their sophomore album, like “Home” (about Deschanel’s native California) and a sassy cover of Skeeter Davis’ version of “Gonna Get Along Without You Now.” To start, there was also the soaring “Sentimental Heart” and their specialty “You Really Got A Hold On Me,” both showcasing Deschanel’s crisp, vocal resonance.

What links all of She & Him’s songs is no matter how somber or heartbreaking the lyrics or melodies, they somehow retain a certain sunniness, a light energy. Even the down-in-the-dumps “Brand New Shoes” can still have you smiling and singing along with Deschanel’s deep-rooted whispers, “We are all made of air/There’s stars in my eyes and sun in my hair/But I’m runnin’ away/It makes me feel better/It’s just like you told me it’d be/It’s nothin’, nothin’.”

On the sad-yet-cheerful “In The Sun,” Deschanel whipped out the ukulele, which only added to her charm, as she hopped around the stage, strumming and smiling. Both Ward and Deschanel swapped instruments from guitar to keys and back again. On “Sweet Darlin’” off Volume 1, Ward began on keys then Deschanel joined him on the bench at the bridge as they plunked on the keys at the same time- Deschanel adding theatrical glissandos.

Both Deschanel and Ward have a bit of a theatrical flair to their performance—not over-the-top, but professional. The mood of the show is more like a well-oiled stage play than the reality of an intimate concert. Even the way duo took the time to bow for each other and then recognized their band behind them before exiting was more community theater than Hollywood, only adding to their charm.

As Deschanel crooned “Why don’t you come and play here?/I’m just sitting on the shelf” on “Why Do You Let Me Stay Here,” there seemed to be a communal heaving sigh from the audience. In no other setting is it socially acceptable for a six-foot-tall man, pushing 200 pounds, to screech, “I love you!” other than being just a few feet away from the lovely Deschanel. Ward managed to steal the spotlight from his ethereal bandmate as he picked out an incredible ‘70s guitar riff that sliced into the otherwise poppy tune.

After returning for a short encore, She & Him played two unique, crowd-pleasing covers while still tapping into their retro themed set. First was “Fools Rush In” (covered by Sinatra and Elvis, to name a few), which the band recorded as a part of Levi’s web series where artists remake songs that inspired their current sound. Last, Ward broke into the familiar, nostalgia-inducing riffs of ‘50s rock ‘n’ roll with “Roll Over Beethoven” as Deschanel let loose on the keyboard. And just as mysteriously as they broke into the music scene two years ago, Ward sauntered offstage trailed by Deschanel, who hopped and skipped behind him.

—Cristina Perachio

It’s the 31st annual Festival International de Jazz de Montréal. MAGNET’s Mitch Myers translates the action.

OK, it happened. Critical mass was reached and I’m maxed out after a night of watching John Zorn’s aptly titled Masada Marathon at the Théâtre Maisonneuve of Place des Arts. Two shows, one at 6 p.m. and another at 9:30, totaled almost five hours of music, showcasing a number of magnificent artists in a variety of unique settings, all under the direction of musical iconoclast Zorn. It was a gesture of bold programming for the Montreal Jazz Festival, but one fitting in its drama and lofty ambitions. Zorn served as formal conductor for the festivities and only played alto saxophone for a portion of his time onstage, instead introducing and directing the musicians with a series of emphatic hand signals and gestures. In a revue-styled evening, Zorn and his troops manned the stage in various combinations, showcasing the particular skills of a number of notable players, most of who have been featured on CDs available on Zorn’s illustrious Tzadik label.

The core group of Masada regulars included drummer Joey Baron, bassist Greg Cohen, percussionist Cyro Baptista and guitarist Mark Ribot, but also featured longtime Zorn associate Dave Douglas on trumpet, keyboardists Jamie Saft, Sylvie Courvoiser and Uri Caine, cellist Eric Frielander, violinist Mark Feldman, clarinetist Ben Goldberg, drummer/vibraphonist Kenny Wolleson and bassist Trevor Dunn, to name a few(!). Zorn has been formally performing under the Masada banner since 1993, but many of these relationships go back further than that. Practically a reunion and historical overview of the New York City downtown music scene, the Marathon was chock full of highbrow musical moments. Much of the compositions and programming in the first show contained a strong Spanish tinge, as well as some klezmer, free jazz, classical innuendoes and hardcore thrash. The stage band was constantly changing, with elegant solo bits, dramatic duets, trios and full-on band assaults. Friedlander did a great solo portion, as did Caine, and a quartet featuring Goldberg was remarkable. Four lovely female vocalists (Basya Schechter, Ayelet Rose Gottlieb, Malika Zarra and Sofia Rei) did a segment a cappella during the first show that required some patience, but when the Electric Masada band took over and pounded things out, all was forgiven.

One grouping of Zorn’s army culled from his Electric Masada collective is called Dreamers (check out their excellent CD), and their portion of the evening might have been the best of them all. The musicians in this dreamy combination were all impressive in their own right, but Ribot, Cyro Baptista, Jamie Saft and Joey Baron deserve special praise. Zorn’s own playing was sharp, and his presence onstage was a mix of deadly serious, loving, attentive, gracious and playful.

The Masada Marathon just went on and on and on, but nobody in the audience seemed to mind. Including me. The sight of all the musicians standing together at the end of both shows was endearing and inspirational, and a true testament to Zorn’s relentless artistic vision. Check them all out, individually and collectively.

It’s the 31st annual Festival International de Jazz de Montréal. MAGNET’s Mitch Myers translates the action.

As the Montreal Festival ebbs and flows, so do I. The early part of this jazz week radiated low energy for me, but the musicians I saw perform still did their level best to entertain and inspire. Consider master drummer Manu Katché, here to host a few shows of his own as part of the vaunted Invitation Series after appearing as a guest of trumpeter Paulo Fresu. Leading his modest quartet for an early show at the Gesù Theater, Katché stood out as the obvious focal point in spite of the democratic nature of his group. The French-African Katché is not an overly showy percussionist, but his tasty, understated grooves have made him an in-demand player for the likes of Sting, Jeff Beck and a long, long list of other top-line artists. Along the way, Katché has put out a few CDs as a bandleader on the ECM label, the most recent being Third Round. While the musicians in his touring group are not the same ones that play on the new disc, his quartet sounded well-rehearsed. Essentially, pianist Alfio Origlio, electric bassist Laurent Vernerey and saxophonist Tore Brunborg were little more than adequate, but I kept my eyes on Katché for the whole time and was not disappointed. Over the course of the show, I began to understand what all of these great musicians see in Katché. He’s simply a great timekeeper and an imaginative drummer with a great amount of musicality to his playing. I’ll be interested to see him take up with some of the other talented musicians slated to join him as the week progresses. Odds are the opportunity for more experimental sounds will present itself, and some amazing improvisations are sure to follow.

After a killer feast in Chinatown, I returned to the Gesù (my second home) for a late night gig with the Wallace Roney Sextet. Roney, a trumpeter, is an interesting case. A child prodigy diagnosed with perfect pitch and taught by the likes of Clark Terry and Dizzy Gillespie before being mentored by Miles Davis, Roney has had his ups and downs. Now, at age 50, Roney is quite well established but working without much traction as younger, hipper jazz artists are attracting the attention (and gigs) he once enjoyed. The Gesù was not exactly filled to capacity for this show either, which I took as a bad sign. The band, which includes Wallace’s brother Antoine on saxophone, was workmanlike but never amazed. As far as Roney himself, it’s wild how much he tends to sound like mid-period Davis. He can’t help it, and he certainly is an inventive, talented soloist. Sadly, as a bandleader, I don’t see him as particularly challenging or all that inspiring. Still, when the rhythm section was cooking and Roney’s fiery trumpet blended in unison lines along with his two saxophonists, a few sparks did fly. It’s almost as if Roney is trapped in modern-jazz jail and doesn’t know what to do to get out. As with many noted musicians of his stature and talent, the responsibilities of keeping a band together and working can be a burden as much as it can be a joy. Like, what else is he supposed to do?

I’m not sure I know the answer to that one.

It’s the 31st annual Festival International de Jazz de Montréal. MAGNET’s Mitch Myers translates the action.

As Italian trumpeter Paolo Fresu’s all-star segment of the festival’s Invitation Series wound to a close, I had to admit that this amazing game of musical chairs had its own worldly charm. For his final night, Fresu hosted Norwegian trumpeter Nils Petter Molvaer and French mega-drummer Manu Katché for an evening of dark, swirling improvisation. Both Fresu and Molvaer have an affinity for electronics and often process their horns through a fund of electronic effects. The two began playing without Katché, riffing and darting around one another through an echoing cloud of sonic ambiance. Fresu’s style was more melodic than Molvaer’s, but to a great extent, their dueling horn-play was almost indistinguishable in lieu of the heavy electronic gloss that filled the Gesù Theater. Naturally, things picked up quickly when Katché hit the stage, as his impeccable rhythmic drive forced Fresu and Molvaer back into the moment and the group improvisation truly began. As trumpeters, both Fresu and Molvær owe an artistic debt to Miles Davis, and the processed sound of their respective horns mixed with Katché’s insistent pulse made for a Bitches Brew-type experience: a bubbling, churning cauldron of jazz fusion that pulled the Gesù crowd into rapt engagement. Molvaer was the most experimental, fiddling with a variety of sound backdrops on his laptop and singing into the bell of his horn, which was electronically processed into a ghostly, unintelligible croon. Toward the end of the lengthy set, a lone identifiable melody emerged. It was Molvaer leading a haunting version of “Scarborough Fair.” Katché was as much fun to watch as he was to listen to, and this gig was a harbinger of his own Invitation Series, which is set to begin.

It would be ridiculous to write about jazz this week without noting the recent passing of Chicago saxophonist Fred Anderson, who died on Thursday. Anderson was supposed to play annual New York City avant-garde summit the Vision Festival that night, but was instead honored with 10 minutes of silence, which seems like more than he will get here in Montreal. In related news, trumpeter Bill Dixon also passed away recently, and the two musicians had their share of artistic similarities. Both men were born in the ’20s, and both played key roles in the development of free jazz in the early ’60s. In Chicago, Anderson was one of founders of the AACM (the Association for the Advancement of Creative Musicians). Along with Muhal Richard Abrams and members of the Art Ensemble of Chicago, Anderson helped pioneer the supportive arts community that has inspired generations of musicians since. Dixon followed a similar track in New York, as he helped organize the famed 1964 “October Revolution in Jazz” and also founded the short-lived Jazz Composer’s Guild. Much like Anderson, Dixon was a role model and mentor to many upcoming artists over the years. While not the highest profile, both men were highly respected and came to reach a certain prominence in their golden years, and neither ever stopped playing music. And let us also remember Canadian jazz advocate Len Dobbin, who passed away one year ago during the jazz fest. He died suddenly at a local jazz club surrounded by his friends and family, which was quite shocking at the time. Looking back, Dobbin went out doing what he loved best. Hats off.

Back to the business as hand. In commenting on the presentation of Herbie Hancock’s The Imagine Project, I have to say, for me, it was more disappointing than anything else. Not that it was bad—with backing musicians like drummer Vinnie Colaiuta, bassist Tal Wilkenfeld and guitarist Lionel Louke, it was way too polished and professional to be bad. It just felt like another mainstream move by the ever-popular Hancock. Jumping from funk-filled fusion to bracing acoustic improvisation to his recent Joni Mitchell venture and then finally on to his inspiration-oriented song choices off of the newly released CD, The Imagine Project, Hancock was clearly going for the lowest common denominator, and in an effort to please everybody, he certainly let me down. I also found the maestro’s efforts and comments somewhat patronizing and egocentric, but that’s just Herbie being Herbie. Hancock’s lovely and talented vocalist Kristina Train wore heels so high she could hardly move to the music onstage, and I was bored stiff during the band’s covers of tunes like John Lennon’s “Imagine,” Peter Gabriel’s “Don’t Give Up,” Bob Dylan’s “The Times They Are A’Changin’” (sung by Tal Wilkenfeld!) and the especially ill-chosen version of Bob Marley’s “Exodus.” Auxiliary keyboardist Greg Phillinganes saved the day with his vocals on “A Change Is Gonna Come,” and “Don’t Give Up,” but when the substitute keyboardist from Toto is the high point of a Herbie Hancock show, you know there’s really something wrong. Even the funky encore of “Chameleon” didn’t move me, and the sight (and sound) of Herbie playing the guitar-like keyboard strapped around his neck made me wince. OK, sorry for the sour grapes.

Tomorrow will be another day.

The Morning Benders‘ sound is almost as sweet as their stage presence. This quartet blends dreamy vocals and beach-y percussion, grounded with funk-rock bass lines. At times, the vocals and island rhythms, like on the track “Promises,” sound like a fresh and innocent Vampire Weekend or even a rocking, not-quite-so-sleepy Beach House. These guys captured the crowd with Beach Boy-esque “ooo-aaa” background vocals and ‘50s chord progression, like on “Excuses” from their debut album Big Echo. Broken Bells can thank the Morning Benders for really warming up the Sunday-night audience. Frontman Christopher Chu singled out a fan wearing a Big Echo T-shirt and asked him which song he’d like to hear between “Mason Jar” and “Hand Me Downs.” The fan decided on “Mason Jar,” and that’s what the band played to an approving audience.

There needs to be some kind of appeasement or sacrifice made to whatever cosmic force brought the Shins’ James Mercer and DJ/producer Brian Burton (a.k.a. Danger Mouse) together. This collaboration, whose self-titled debut album sold nearly 50,000 copies in its first week in stores, is simply a perfect pairing of two solidly talented artists. Interestingly, the background animation that played throughout the show gave some insight into Broken Bells’ sound: Half the images were nature close-ups (a bubbling stream or sunset) and alternately scientific-looking items (rulers, orbiting geometric shapes) on graph paper. Mercer has this “lonely cowboy” thing going for him. His voice, lyrics and twangy-rock sound bring about images of a vast desert or speeding past a mountain range. Burton brings a calculated, almost scientific aspect to the music with catchy dance beats.

They opened with their radio hit “October,” which immediately got the audience swaying and singing along. While on the album Mercer handles vocals, guitars and bass and Burton plays organ, drums, piano, synths and bass, live they also had help from guitarist Dan Elkan, bassist Jonathan Hischke, keyboardist/trumpeter Nate Walcott and guitarist/keyboardist Nik Freitas. It was incredible to watch Burton seamlessly jump from organ to drums to piano to bass, and the six-piece band played a really tight set from start to finish. Each song off the album was performed with perfection, and they threw in two crowd-pleasing covers: Tommy James’ “Crimson And Clover” and Smokey Robinson’s “You Really Got A Hold On Me.”

What makes this album great is that each song has a certain amount of diversity within itself: using the synth to create a waltz, the trumpet to give songs a regal feel and the piano to create an “Entertainer” old-timey sound. On the clap-along “The Ghost Inside,” the trumpet brings a Southwestern sound to an otherwise guitar-fueled rock song. The last song before the encore was Broken Bells’ first single “The High Road,” which blends electronic sounds and Mercer’s desperate vocals to create a modern cowboy’s anthem so catchy you can’t help but sing along.

Mercer thanked the crowd for coming out to support the band on a Sunday night. The amount of orange Flyers T-shirts in the crowd was a good marker of the effect Broken Bells has had on fans. A note to Mercer and Burton: If Philadelphians are willing to forgo an important playoff game to see your band, you should probably continue making music together because you’ve got a great thing going.

—Cristina Perachio

The smell of patchouli and incense wafted through the Henry Fonda Theater in Hollywood Tuesday evening. A sold-out crowd enjoyed a night of three offbeat pop/rock acts. Brooklyn-based songstress Pepi Ginsberg kicked off the evening with a spirited set culled mostly from her latest LP, East Is East (Park The Van). Ginsberg’s distinctive vocals, ranging from a deep throatiness to crystalline high notes, juxtaposed keenly with jagged guitar squeals and off-kilter rhythms. “Come on, what’s the matter, man?” she yelped during “Bingo/Ninths” while she attacked her Hofner archtop and thrashed along with bassist Tim Lappin, guitarist Amnon Freidlin and drummer Matt Scarano. Shades of Regina Spektor abounded on new song “Coca-Cola,” as Ginsberg’s tremulous voice swooped and dived abruptly. The adventurous crowd warmed to this idiosyncratic artist and capped off her set with enthusiastic cheers, including one new fan who screamed out, “What’s your name?”

Frontman John McCauley of Deer Tick wore a Thin Lizzy T-shirt, while drummer Dennis Ryan rocked a Lady Gaga ensemble. This seeming dichotomy actually fit the group’s vibe perfectly. Deer Tick is the postmodern version of a ‘60s country-rock combo. McCauley, with his ever-present shades and Budweiser-fueled stage banter, played the classic-rock-frontman role to the hilt. “And I know you saw right through me, afraid I’m taking you for a ride,” he growled on “Baltimore Blues, No.1.” Fittingly, he offered up an invite for fans to join the group on a trip to Sin City. “Let’s all go to Vegas! We can trip balls and gamble.” Mid-set, he yelled for Taylor Goldsmith of Dawes to get onstage to sing “Me, Me, Me,” a Faces-esque rave-up from their new side project MG&V. McCauley and Co. even threw in a cover of the Replacements’ “Can’t Hardly Wait,” which he jokingly attributed to Donnie Wahlberg. Deer Tick finished off its 12-song set with “Manage,” from the soon-to-be-released The Black Dirt Sessions. The thunderous riffing and bruising drums pummeled the crowd into submission.

Dr. Dog, however, brought its rabid fans right back to life. The Philadelphia natives performed a near-marathon set, taking the stage at 11 p.m. and finishing around 12:30 a.m. They opened the set with “Stranger” (the first track on new album Shame, Shame). The buoyant rocker energized the crowd with its chugging guitars and sparkling vocal melodies. On “The Breeze,” singer/guitarist Scott McMicken sings, “Do you feel like you’re stuck in time?/Forever waiting on that line/If nothing ever moves/Put that needle to the groove and sing,” while the band grooves away like an oddball mixture of the Beach Boys, Phish and Guided By Voices. Sweaty, bearded young men pogo’ed up and down while chanting the lyrics to every song, as bra-less girls swayed in time to the tunes. The set included almost every song from the sleek album. The group toned down some of its musical quirkiness, but retained its sunny pop instincts. The brief, funky “Mirror, Mirror” displayed a new modern-rock tinge with its jangling guitar lines and three-part harmonies. It’s about as sexy as Dr. Dog gets, and one boisterous fan loudly admitted to losing his virginity to the song. It builds into an organ-drenched climax, then, just as quickly, ends.

Singer/bassist Toby Leaman wiped his dripping wet face with a towel, as the Dog began “Shadow People.” The song started off as a Flaming Lips-ish ballad, but progressed into a full-on anthem with the entire group chanting the refrain, “Where did all the shadow people go?” Dr. Dog reached further into the past for inspiration on “Unbearable Why,” with a rhythm rooted in classic early-‘60s girl-group pop. The title track to Shame, Shame closed out the main set. The song slid and bumped along for four minutes, punctuated with clean guitar licks, ahhh-ing backup vocals and a spiraling crescendo. The audience, raucous from the start, got even crazier during the encore, when two overzealous fans leaped from the stage. The crowd failed to catch them, leading Leaman to comment, “Has anyone here ever been to a concert before? These dudes almost died!”

—text and photo by Danielle Bacher