MUSIC
His voice lives on in a slew of mixes, singles and two albums he put out; the last one, posthumous. Tonight, friends, fans and fellow performers come together to honor his contributions to hiphop-and life. All the heavy-hitters are on the card: DITC, Grand Puba, Black Rob, Herb McGruff, Pharoah Monch, DJ Premier, Kid Capri, Freddie Foxxx, Large Professor, Wordsworth, El Da Sensei and Karrupt Money; on the decks are the X-Ecutioners and DJ Boogie Blind.
S.O.B.'s, 204 Varick St. (Houston St.), 212-243-4940; 7, $30/$22 adv.
-Dan Martino
Let's say nice things about the Anubian Lights. In electronic pop and sample-sonic circles, this unit of multination types ain't new. In fact, its prime members have been tied, in one way or another, to creepy space-rockers as far-flung as Chrome (eww), Nik Turner's Space Ritual (double ewww) and Farflung (duh). Somehow though, Len del Rio, Paul Fox, Tommy Greñas and Doran Shelley have managed to keep the Hawkwind out of their ambient (occasionally dance-o-phonic) trolling. And for the record, I like Hawkwind.
Anyway, the Anubian team has made Euro-tinged space junk and lounge jazz since 1995, merrily rolling along until making the acquaintance of Lydia Lunch. Her scabby voice was apt for their single, "Champagne, Cocaine & Nicotine Stains," which turned the tables from light to dark and harder and No Wavier. Which is why bringing in No Wave/electro soul legend Adele Bertei into the fold makes sense. Bertei is the queen of skronk, having screamed and played needling keyboards with James Chance's Contortions as well as utilizing a previously unknown soul croon for Culture Club and Thomas Dolby during the late great 80s. Making her a permanent Anubian makes sense as the male-band-on their new CD Phantascope-go for everything from Cure-pop to tech-funk with stops at micro-house and noise jazz. We love Adele Bertei and have awaited this return forever. Just deal.
Joe's Pub, 425 Lafayette St. (betw. E. 4th St. & Astor Pl.), 212-539-8778; 9:30, $15.
-A.D. Amorosi
Guitarist Ladell McLin was blowing away audiences on the south side of Chicago before his voice broke. One night Junior Wells was in the audience at the legendary Checkerboard and christened McLin "Buddy James" after just one set-a prodigious blend of Buddy Guy's blues and James Brown's funk. McLin has since reclaimed his own name, and while he can still sound like a Buddy James, these days he sounds more like a Stevie Ray Hendrix. In any case, expect blisters. With Palmyra Delran and Agency.
Arlene's Grocery, 95 Stanton St. (betw. Ludlow & Orchard Sts.), 212-995-1652; 9, $7.
-Alexander Zaitchik
Antique Sixguns frontman Leif Solem writes strange, sweet, clever, sometimes sad little songs that he performs on a series of broken-down, improvised and slapdash instruments. Yet he's still able to coax out of these $3 guitars and unexpected contraptions melodies that are surprisingly catchy, to surround stories about lives that go in unexpected directions. (If you need comparisons, think in terms of Jonathan Richman, early Ween or those first few Guided by Voices albums.) I hate the term "quirky," but Solem is unquestionably in possession of an odd and quirky kind of genius. With a band behind him, the sound becomes fuller, the volume increases and the tempo tends to pick up, but the melodies and the lyrics remain front and center. Their namesake song remains one of my favorites. It's about guns!
C-Note, 157 Ave. C (10th St.), 212-677-8142; 11, $5.
-Jim Knipfel
Downtempo is good. Downtempo is good. Keep saying it to yourself. No matter how jammy Sound Tribe Sector 9 may get, the Stone Mountain, Georgia synth-jazzers have a great thing going-usually. Rife with dub frippery and ambient trippery, the Sector indeed keep space in its place. For the most part, they are a kinder, gentler, wordless meeting of Brand New Heavies, Chemical Brothers and Portishead, with sumptuous breakbeats rippling by like ducks paddling across a jazzed-out pond.
But they're a band. With horns. From Georgia. Their drummer is all polyrhythm and Afro-beat. Sometimes that combination of elements, even throughout the slowest melodic enterprises, can get out of hand for long periods of time. Recently, though, the quintet has found itself in glitch-core and blip-hop territories, taking a quieter storm approach.
The result is a tiny name change (STS9) and Artifact, a softer, shorter-song reverie of distilled best moments. Meaning it's everything you love about Sound Tribe, only in charming, tinier doses-collage-cut strings and steel guitars backed by orchestral drums and still-life pianos. Artifact is round and creepy and different from anything STS9 has done previously without taking you too far off their funk-beaten track. Which is good.
Irving Plaza, 17 Irving Pl. (15th St.), 212-777-6800; 8, $25.
-A.D. Amorosi
Kudu are Sylvia G. on vocals, D on drums and computers and Nick K. on synths. Sylvia is a first-rate jazz singer, but in Kudu she is more club-kid-gone-bad than diva. She has feline wit in spades and sings like a hijacked police siren in whirling howls about desire, the body, confusion, blood. She is sexuality unhinged.
Kudu's basslines bump like electro, and the keyboards produce an immersion effect when heard live reminiscent of the wet, hazy sound of early-80s post-punk psychedelia. But any apprehension that Kudu are retreads of that era is cancelled by D's mastery of the drum. He has so internalized the digital breakbeats of jungle music that he sets down snake-writhe rhythms with his bare hands. He also knows how to rock straight ahead, electro-style. It is his demonic drumming that makes Kudu modern.
Despite Sylvia's jazz background and the group's residency at NuBlu-incubator of Norah Jones-Kudu are not about jazz sophistication. Kudu go straight down the center, directly to the core. Their music is psychedelic pop-catchy and concise, stripped down and raw. Set inside a wash of synthetic keyboard sound, their live show is demon drums and is-no-other jazz singing.
Before and after Kudu's sets, Andre McLeod and Ron Jean-Gilles spin broken beat, reggae, house, disco, rock, funk-all in a Kingston/Port-au-Prince style.
NuBlu, 62 Ave. C (betw. 4th & 5th Sts.), 212-979-9925; 11:30, $5.
-Dominic LaRuffa
Sandwiched between the long-overdue tribute to Big L and the Beautiful Struggle by Talib Kweli, Cormega will be tearing the roof off S.O.B.'s on this hiphop-heavy week. After the demise of the Firm and being trapped on Def Jam for five years without a release date in sight for his first LP, this Queensbridge MC, first heard on Nas' It Was Written, will be releasing that album on the world. Technically his third album to see the light of day, The Testament is his first recording, documenting his younger, more aggressive days. If you don't know, Mega lets off the raw energy of a hungry rapper holding his own in the bodega cipher. This album release is a celebration of a time when Cormega rhymed over beats that rattled Jeeps like L.A. earthquakes.
S.O.B.'s, 204 Varick St. (Houston St.), 212-243-4940; 7, $15/$12 adv.
-Richard Nurse
Baritone Thomas Buckner, pianist Stephen Clarke and harpist Nina Kellman (whose expertise shimmered in theater director Martha Clarke's Vienna Lusthaus: Revisited) present "Readings of New Compositions" at the S.E.M. Ensemble's charming Willow Place Auditorium in Brooklyn Heights. Alvin Singleton's "So You Say" is on the program (his "When Given a Chance" was at Carnegie for ACO's Improvise! Fest last year), along with works by Mantione, Welch, Bekaert and Kasemets. Take it in as a warm-up for S.E.M.'s big Zankel Hall gig next month.
Willow Place Auditorium, 26 Willow Pl. (betw. State & Joralemon Sts.), Brooklyn Heights, 718-488-7659; 8, $5.
-Alan Lockwood
After the rise of Norah Jones and Alicia Keys, the folk-soul-jazz singer's role in society has increased exponentially since the days of Mark Murphy, Kenny Rankin and Al Jarreau. Or maybe they just got better. Yes, they did get better; even when the material is weak and dull (and jeez, be honest, Keys and Jones have got some dull-ass material), the singing itself got smoother and subtler. Less hysterical. This includes guys like Jones' protégé Amos Lee, whose debut is due soon on Blue Note and, most certainly, Raúl Midón.
Along with being an open-faced, gentle crooner whose haunting, playful baritone can lift easily into a soprano's raw yet fluid lilt, Midón makes a damn fine writer. His melodies play out like Stevie Wonder's-filled with sinewy twists and complex chord shifts on both his first record, Blind to Reality and his due-soon State of Mind CD. Along with composing delectable melodies that smack of samba and salsa grooves, Midón has fashioned himself into an irony-drenched lyricist unafraid of both spiritual and social optimism.
Opening is Anthony Mills, a trained opera singer and gospel-choir member who has used his high-reaching scales for Sizzla, Dead Prez, KRS-One and Harry Belafonte's All-Star Band. His most recent socio-conscious CD, Cry: No More Slavery in the Kingumb, features piano genius/Basquiat fan Jason Moran and a sound that approaches blues, spirituals and reggae.
Joe's Pub, 425 Lafayette St. (betw. E. 4th St. & Astor Pl.), 212-539-8778; 7, $15.
-A.D. Amorosi
With their latest release, The Trial of the Century, the French Kicks just may have perfected the less-is-more theory. As the syncopated guitar twangs take a backseat to the atmospheric gasps of piano, the keyboard-driven post-punk soul never seems overbearing. Lying perfectly beneath it all is the relaxed tension and subdued groove of the rhythm section led by Nick Stumpf, who played all the drums for the record as well as most of the lead vocals.
In a live setting, though, Nick has relinquished his drum throne and will now lead from the front of the stage with a confident, subdued charm all his own. This is a process the band started back in 1998 in DC, where it all began upon their college graduation, but more important, their graduation from the city's infamous hardcore music scene. Eventually migrating from DC and its DIY mindset to hipster-friendly Brooklyn, they found themselves fully immersed in a blossoming arty/post-punk movement.
With a handful of EPs to follow and their previous full length, One Time Bells, the French Kicks have always shown hints of the subtlety; on the new album, it sounds more complete. Sonically, Trial of the Century stands out as their strongest project to date. Never over-aggressive, they leave plenty of space for Stumpf's songs of melancholic romanticism to breathe, contributing to the French Kicks' off-kilter pop sound. From the energetic buzz of lead track "One More Time" and the lush piano beauty of the title track, to the refined finger-snap jazz of "Oh Fine," the French Kicks have shown a fine knack for creating a body of work that takes you through an emotional whirlwind and in the end leaves you a bit misty and tragically satisfied.
The Bowery Ballroom, 6 Delancey St. (betw. Bowery & Chrystie St.), 212-533-2111, 8, $13.
-Jimmy Ansourian
Just when you thought the two-man dirtball electro jam had worn out its welcome, a new twitch electrifies the genre. Mommy and Daddy-the married couple that is Vivian Sarratt and Ed Hallas-falls somewhere between the lost soul sound of Soft Cell and the scabby blather of Suicide. They've been bumming around Brooklyn for five years, dropping occasional singles and the Euro-only Live How You Listen, a full-length filled with dirty computer beats and big, beat-up bass lines that neatly accompanied their button-pushing punk-tro-inspired melodies.
Their manic keyboard-and-bass-battered music is better than ever with the EP Fighting Style Killer Panda and their due-soon CD, Dual at Dawn. Switching off between singing, syn-strumentation and bass-playing duties, the marrieds never leave delicious harmonies ("Run It Off") behind while focusing on their pulse-pummeling new wave roar.
Being happily stuck in the new wave past isn't just for Mommy and Daddy. Openers the Static Age, Vermont's best (and probably only) practitioners of overly dramatic goth-punk squalor take to snotty, moody lyricism and densely atmospheric Bauhausian rabble on their debut, Neon Lights Electric Lives.
Knitting Factory Old Office, 74 Leonard St. (betw. B'way & Church St.), 212-219-3132; 8, $8.
-A.D. Amorosi
Saxophonist Kenny Garrett's albums tend toward the smooth, yet they don't suffer from the overproduction polish that can zap the life out of modern jazz. Garrett favors unassuming harmonic shifts and grainy textures, but even when he decides to roll out a flurry of slightly dissonant notes-as he sometimes does-the work remains unhurried and eminently listenable.
Not unlike his onetime mentor Miles Davis, Garrett is a "smart" musician, in the sense that he allows his backing players to do their thing. It's an approach that ultimately highlights his own style. This graceful contrast adds subtlety to the work and, perhaps, constitutes a hidden ingredient-the distinct aspect of a sound you might recognize but can't necessarily put your finger on. While Garrett may seem to pine for the bygone (70s) era where silky jazz horns, funk, soul and pop arrangements converged into one elegant blend, he avoids saccharine cliché. And though his music may not seem immediately threatening, it isn't necessarily safe either.
Iridium Jazz Club, 1650 B'way (51st St.), 212-582-2121; Weds. & Thurs. 8 & 10, Fri. & Sat. 8, 10 & 11:30, Sun. 8:30 & 10:30, $27.50-$32.50.
-Saby Reyes-Kulkarni
Bishop Allen is a band so exceedingly poppy, so dead-on identical to every other indie concoction out there, it's enough to make one want to comb their mess of uncombed Brooklyn hair. But their sound is not just refreshing, but catchy, a combination of Modest Mouse's faux angst, Pavement's atonal vocals and the Pixies' girl-guy harmonies. Sure, some material is either too sappy or laced in Williamsburg-proud irony (Bishop Allen founded the African Methodist Episcopal Church), but others are the golden lines of a sad man's diary: "Well she was blushing like a wedding day/With her eyes so sharp and black/And her gentle little smile was the color of blood/And she's never ever coming back." Songs meander in and out of poppy progressions and unpredictable melodies-think Built to Spill, only more upbeat and minus the dueling guitar solos.
Mercury Lounge, 217 E. Houston St. (betw. Ludlow & Essex Sts.), 212-260-4700; 7:30, $10.
-Lionel Beehner
Pianist Ethan Iverson takes pause from the hot trio the Bad Plus to go solo up in Carnegie's Weill Recital Hall-a perfect place to hear Iverson's brash and deeply informed playing. Iverson and his Bad Plus band mates have been musically tight since their teens in the Midwest before the band got underway in 2000, commuting between Minnesota, Wisconsin and New York. An '02 JVC fest debut at the Vanguard had the downstairs jazz mecca's owner Lorraine Gordon sign them up for a week's stint in '03, and had them ink a Columbia Records contract with the label's Yves Beauvais, who was also in the audience (their second Columbia release, Give, got a Grammy nod for producer Tchad Blake's bold sound).
Updating the term "power trio," the Bad Plus covers the Pixies, Aphex Twin, "Heart of Glass," even "Iron Man." But Iverson credits the band's drummer, David King, and bassist Reid Anderson with the rock smarts, and will be tuned more toward American songbook material tonight. The pianist spent five years as musical director for the Mark Morris Dance Group and played toy piano for Mikhail Baryshnikov during White Oak Dance Project's 2000 season. A Cornelia St. Cafe Contemporary Classical Series set last year had Iverson and saxophonist Mark Turner duet while two metronomes maintained separate paces.
The Weill recital is presented by the Abby Whiteside Foundation; Iverson's studied for a decade with the foundation's doyenne, Sophia Rosoff, having been directed to Rosoff by one of her long-time pupils-and one of jazz's premier pianists-Fred Hersch. Iverson puts it on the line for Rosoff at Weill, as well he should: She also instructs the likes of Myra Melford, Barry Harris and a bevy of the classical world's fine pianists.
Weill Recital Hall at Carnegie Hall, 57th St. (7th Ave.), 212-247-7800; 8, $25.
-Alan Lockwood