SWAYZAK WEDS., DEC. 1 WHAT'S DEEPLY DE-GROOVY and mordantly minimalist with only ...
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WEDS., DEC. 1
WHAT'S DEEPLY DE-GROOVY and mordantly minimalist with only the best analog intentions at heart and a live band's grand brio to match? That'd be Swayzak, the pride of the Brit dub-popish minimalist-tech scene. Originally, laptoppers David Brown and James Taylor started as do most synth duos: making bleepy, bloopy mood music for zero-level sculpture students leaning toward "multi-media" studies. That's certainly what their grinning, cold instrumental debut, Snowboarding in Argentina, feels like: a hiccupping house without joy or warmth.
By expanding their keyboard-washed palate to include chubby melodic choruses, fat-girlish vocals and warm squooshy skanking rhythms, they achieved Yaz-iness on their second CD, Himawari. A tough, humid, tech-pop vibe continued (but damn it, not as memorably) in their third album, Dirty Dancing. Stop. No one calls an album Dirty Dancing without looking and sounding stupid. So let's for the moment give them a pass on that record. Blame management.
Blame the over-exerted control of the dreaded laptop that they dropped just in time to turn their fourth CD into a weirdly organic affair. By bringing in Bolognese percussionist Francesco Brini, multi-instrumentalist Kenny Paterson, and hammy (in a good way) vocalist Richard Davis, Swayzak and their accompanying new record Loops from the Bergerie has, at its heart, a retro-phonic Detroit-house vibe. But with those heaving vocals, a heavier bottom and a bulbous bass plop to accompany the multi-color rinses of "My House" and "Speak Easy," there's grittiness to Swayzak's act-a thick-handed slap and tickle you just can't get from a G4. So dig it. And get there early to hear twirpy American tech-darling Matthew Dear "spin records" on an iPod.
Canal Room, 285 W. B'way (Canal St.), 212-941-8100; 9, $15.
A.D. AMOROSI
PACHA
WEDS., DEC. 1
STARTING FROM MELODIES that ripple with beachy bliss, continuing through to its rhythms that roll through a jovial jungle, Pacha (also known as PACHA Sound System) are a gently indulgent treat. There's something devilishly and quietly satisfying about the Palo-and-Cumbia- based outfit-their trembling vocal harmonies, catchy and clever, their deceptively smooth synth-base-as if enjoying them is akin to an Atkins freak gorging on sourdough muffins and non-carb-bar fudge. Unlike the somnolent insouciance of similarly shuffled snoresounds from Japan and France (I can't even think of the stupid nicknames alterna-nerdy Caucasoids had for Franco/Japo syn-ready ballads), the Braziliana of Pacha is immediately involving and moistly engrossing.
From the hum of their soon-to-be-released eponymous EP, the trio isn't content to whimper and hum. Though more of a soft parade than a brash, splashy carnival, Maya, Camila Bancelin and Nova sing and play electro-Afro-Latin fusion with provocative twists in their icy arrangements. The dub-like vacuum of recorder and bass, the backward d'n'b blips, the wet, puckered sequencers and cream-cheesy Fender Rhodes-these turn their silt-and-salty sambas into sweaty funk workouts while remaining shockingly calm and cool. You may start off the jerky bossa-hop of "Colombian Connection" by wriggling in your seat. It won't last. After three songs, you'll either be humping or dancing. Or both.
Joe's Pub, 425 Lafayette St. (betw. E. 4th St. & Astor Pl.), 212-539-8778; 11, $10.
A.D. AMOROSI
NANCY SINATRA
WEDS., DEC. 1
IN RECENT MONTHS, Morrissey has spun his cult-hero worship off into a cottage industry. At his Meltdown Festival in London earlier this year, Moz offered up a rehashed New York Dolls line-up, as well as performances from the Cockney Rejects, Sparks, Ari Up and Jane Birkin. Since Sanctuary gave him the Attack Records label, formerly a Trojan Records imprint, he's released a Dolls live set and a posthumous single by Jobriath, the American glam non-star with a growing cult following.
Moz also released the newest record from Nancy Sinatra, the sexy chanteuse with the famous last name. Sinatra, who typified the sexy, bikini-wearing 1960s blond bombshell, made her name with pop delights like the 1966 #1 hit "These Boots Are Made for Walkin'," three records made with Lee Hazelwood and, of course, "Somethin' Stupid," with her well-known father.
This new self-titled record sees Sinatra collaborating with the likes of Bono, Thurston Moore, Jarvis Cocker, Jim O'Rourke, Jon Spencer and Pete Yorn, with many of these fanboys contributing exclusive songs to the project. This sort of older artist/younger artist collaboration has happened time and time again in recent years with varying results: Things went well enough when the White Stripes called up their country and garage heroes, but considerably less so when Ray Charles recorded speakerphone team-ups for the Starbucks set.
Still, it's a credit to Sinatra that she can hold together an LP with such eclectic writing credits. While Bono and Thurston might do well to hook up with some young talent themselves, tracks written by Cocker, Yorn and band Calexico all come off exceedingly well. The single "Let Me Kiss You," written by Morrissey and appearing on his recent album, sounds even better in the hands of his idol and labelmate. And with so many marquee names, a project like this could have easily sunk under the weight of so many egos.
It would be nice to see some of them come test the chemistry on stage at her solo slot at Joe's Pub (maybe Cocker will fly over to tackle half of "Some Velvet Morning"?). But, regardless if anyone else shows, Sinatra's ever-growing repertoire of classics and collaborations should no doubt suffice and help cultivate another generation of salivating young fans.
Joe's Pub, 425 Lafayette St. (betw. E. 4th St. & Astor Pl.), 212-539-8778; 7, $30.
AARON LOVELL
JEDI MIND TRICKS
THURS., DEC. 2
THERE'S LITTLE DOUBT that Philadelphia hiphop duo Jedi Mind Tricks will pour one for ODB. Since the late 90s, Producer Stoupe the Enemy of Mankind and Vinnie Paz-aka Ikon the Verbal Hologram-have kept the flame burning for all things Junior Wu. The ominous soundtracks, the furor-filled beats, the obliquely referenced lyrics filled with mayhem and mania to go with their oafish chuckles. Ever since the bolting bats and spiritual thunder (that's what all the Bible samples will do for you) of The Psycho-Social, Chemical, Biological & Electromagnetic Manipulation of Human Consciousness, gruff, ungracious rapper/writer Vinnie Paz has proven himself to be the Robert Mitchum of hiphop. With that 1997 masterpiece, Paz, despite the Rza/Gza in him, became famous for his low, smoldering scripture-thumping tomes, murderous outlook and vengeful torpor-real Night of the Hunter stuff.
JMT could've stopped there-made that singular classic and went home a legend of militant socio-spiritualized hiphop. But their latest CD, Visions of Gandhi, propels their skin-popping sense of impending doom to new heights while examining further God's will and woeful disappointment at that which he created. Tony Kushner and Mike Nichols ain't got nothing on the Paz of "The Rage of Angels" (featuring Crypt the Warchild of Outerspace, the evening's opening act) and "Walk With Me."
Knitting Factory, 74 Leonard St. (betw. B'way & Church St.), 212-219-3006; 9, $15.
A.D. AMOROSI
BEYOND THE NORMAL SLEDDING HILL
THURS.-SAT., DEC. 2 - 4
KATIE WORKUM AND Will Rawls are full of Yankee toughness. Full of know-how and no frills and make-do. Plus they love cold weather. Workum is co-host of the popular "Danceoff!" series, which has recently outgrown Joe's Pub and moved to Symphony Space and PS122; Rawls dances for one of the most highly praised young choreographers of the past few years, Shen Wei. After collaborating on a couple of short pieces and dancing together in last year's The Miami Project at Gale Gates et al, they're making their first evening-length physical-theater project, Beyond the Normal Sledding Hill, for which they naturally chose a theme of two babes lost in the snow.
Workum is compact, determined and a little feisty. Rawls is a tall drink of water who looks about twice Workum's height when they stand side by side. The material that spins out of their fertile collision juxtaposes clarity and idiosyncrasy. For instance, they layer a meandering, repetitive conversation about the molecular structure of snowflakes over a simple, rhythmic walking pattern. This kind of intelligent yet casual incongruity shifts the focus away from what they're doing to how they're doing it. Away from what they're talking about to what makes them tick. As the two characters in this dramedy-part Hansel and Gretel, part Fred and Ginger-get increasingly lost in Mother Nature (or maybe the inside of a dream or outer space-the duet will be performed in an all-white space), their sense of direction unravels and so does their sense of decorum.
Workum's and Rawls' performances are delightful and a little bit scary. There are snow angels but there ain't no sugarplum fairies in this Beckett-esque Winter Wonderland.
P.S. 122, 150 1st Ave. (9th St.), 212-477-5288; 7:30, $15.
CHRIS DOHSE
ISIS/THESE ARMS ARE SNAKES
SAT., DEC. 4
YOU ARE AN esoteric metal band with touches of the prog-dinosaur in your delivery, in your chord changes and overall structure. This is not bad. Rather, that sort of grandeur, the epic-ness of Troy without the silliness of Alexander or the helmets, allows for a somnolent tonality-a restful Cage-like éminence grise. You don't wear out your welcome either. Instead of Emerson-Lake-Palmer toccatas, you keep your songs fast, furious and break-neck harrowing. Despite drifting into long-lengths, your music is as lean as a skeleton.
There is, too, a delightfully crisp but dark and lascivious manner to your lyrics-a crusty, bleak sexuality that'd make Cronenberg smile and Burroughs cough himself alive. And you are not Tool. You are Isis, and your singer, Aaron Turner, has toned down the thundergod yowl for your latest CD, Panopticon. At least from the primal scream of its predecessor Oceanic, anyway. Experimenting with texture, shading and light (yet remaining as heaving and trippy as they had been previous) has made Isis into loosely knotted metallurgists. This is the musically alchemical equivalent of David Yurman, at half the price and half the Lateralus, if you please.
Tighter, harder, more horror-core punkier and more Fugazi-Mogwai-ish is the riff-heavy These Arms Are Snakes. Everything about These Arms, from the sound of their EP, Oxeneers Or the Lion Sleeps When Its Antelope Go Home, is wonderful and winding. Except for singer Steve Snere. He's not great. Not yet. But he exudes a tart truculent nature that should one day give him the devilish drama of a Ronnie James Dio only with better hair. And taller.
Bowery Ballroom, 6 Delancey St. (betw. Bowery & Chrystie St.), 212-533-2111; 8, $13, $12 adv.
A.D. AMOROSI
EMOTICONS
THROUGH SAT., DEC. 18
EMOTIONALISM IS OFTEN at odds with contemporary art, which generally prefers reasoning to feeling. In visual art, emotions are an essential component, but to our eyes, the expression of intense feelings appears sentimental or kitsch. Yet reason alone is too dry. "Emoticons," a show curated by Kevin Zucker, presents 12 contemporary artists who found a way to effectively describe profound experiences through cerebral means.
Emoticons are the grammatical symbols and pictures used by emailers and instant messengers to add emotion (e.g., smileys) to their abbreviated writing. The term fairly describes the works displayed, as they each rely on modified symbols to express old passions in new ways.
Carol Bove's Driftwood Bench is the first piece encountered upon entering the gallery. Mounted on simple steel legs, it invites you to sit on the aged log and listen to a recording of the 1960s book by Allen Watts, The Future of Ecstasy, which predicts a utopian 1990s. Ironic, tragic and humorous at times, Bove's piece-without being obvious-is a conduit to a wide range of powerful emotions.
Jon Kessler's sculpture titled Ikebana uses gears and motors to drive three color-separated photo transparencies of a simple Japanese floral arrangement back and forth across a rod. The three images line up to create a perfect picture for just a second; nevertheless, we wait and watch for this fleeting moment.
In the back room of the gallery, Juergen Bergbauer makes his New York debut with five computer-edited photos of sculpted gardens. Mounted against a matte gray background, the green hedgerows, unnatural in nature, project our ongoing, yet frustrated wish to create and control life.
The exhibit is spare, but well laid out, with each work uniquely echoing the theme. Thoughtful and inviting, Zucker has organized a subtle yet satisfying show of emotion;-)
Guild & Greyshkul Gallery, 22 Wooster St. (betw. Grand & Canal Sts.), 212-625-9224; 11-6, free.
JULIA MORTON
JOEL MEYEROWITZ
THROUGH SAT., JAN. 22, 2005
IN 1966, AFTER one of his early photographs yielded an unexpected sale, Joel Meyerowitz did what any young artist would do: He took the money and ran off to Europe. On his own in unfamiliar lands, he journeyed through Spain and Germany, lived with gypsies in Andalucia and slowly made his way to Morocco, Eastern Europe and Turkey, all the while chronicling his exploits the only way he knew how-with a camera. The results of that coming-of-age journey are now on display at the Ariel Meyerowitz Gallery (which is owned by the artist's daughter), almost 40 years after the photographs were taken and 26 years after the artist established his reputation with the publication of Cape Light, a now-classic volume of color photography.
As might be expected, the fruits of his free-spirited adventures are a hodge-podge of street scenes and landscapes, roadways and close-ups, united only by Meyerowitz's youthful curiosity and foreign-born innocence. Instead of recording, as most photographers do, what is noteworthy or important, he seems instead to have focused on moments that were puzzling or unfamiliar. In one bustling scene, commuters hurry through the snarled traffic of a European street, stopping only to glimpse a young man in a suit who, for reasons unknown, is lying on the sidewalk. Another image depicts a group of elderly sightseers staring over a mist-obscured cliff in Wales, seemingly oblivious to the fact that they are being photographed.
If a few of the pictures here seem accidental, as though Meyerowitz were simply reacting as opposed to appraising with a trained eye, then they can be chalked up to inexperience. Still, the exhibit is worthwhile, if for no other reason, as a chronicle of one artist honing his instincts. An eerie photograph of Chartres, as viewed from a distance in a moving car, stands as evidence of what was yet to come.
Ariel Meyerowitz Gallery, 120 11th Ave., 2nd fl. (betw. 20th & 21st Sts.), 212-414-2770; 11-6, free.
TRAVIS ST. CLAIR