The Set List

CMJ After the Rain: It's Good to Be Home With Band of Horses Ringing In Your Ears

Upon returning to Los Angeles from the alternating sunshine and heavy rain of New York, most music pontificators had had enough of CMJ, others were as impressed by an act we both happened to stumble upon and, not surprisingly,  hyped bands secured more hype from reviewers who just can't get enough of shows that start after 1 a.m.
As the Internet wars or words raged over a (misguided?) piece about indie rock and race in the New Yorker, I was struck both by how impossible it is to assemble a true hierarchy for 21st century rock music and how CMJ plays into reinforcing that model; this was generally bill after bill of unfamiliar names with the occasional budding star thrown in. It lacks the communal spirit of any other festival, whether it be SXSW or Coachella. This was a scene made up of young people  finding an identity with people of a  similar stripe; music is not necessarily the bonding factor. For those of us who using the memories of the past, whether they be L.A. folk rock in the early '70s, New York punk in the '70s or Seattle, North Carolina   or Omaha, Neb., after that, there's a void at the center.
Blame the democracy on the Internet: indie rock is now a generally insular world that resonates with people who prefer to learn about music through personal recommendations and via MP3-filled websites. Seeing shows at venues  ill-equipped to present shows is no big deal.
And the acts on the verge of something bigger came and did their jobs: M.I.A., the Black Kids, Band  of Horses and St. Vincent  earned a big  thumbs up from the reviewers and bloggers; the challenge now is monetizing buzz.
My favorite moment, though, was one in which about 30 people were held in rapture by a man in his 60s appearing at a party outside the CMJ official lineup. Ed Askew made an off-the-wall folk album in 1968 album for the avant-garde jazz label ESP.    He is accompanied by a lute-like instrument called the tiple. A couple of years later, he made another series of recordings that were not released until 2003 and a few more were discovered and released this year; the man basically fell of the face of the earth.
He made it to his 7 p.m. show but his accompanist did not. He took it in stride and performed a capella, playing harmonica in between verses. His voice has a lovely calmness to it, no ragged edges here, and a poet's flair for combing the direct and the ethereal. It was the rare show that had obvious weight. He deserves a return visit to the recording studio.      

Imperial Teen Saves the Day at a CMJ Party

It's an illusion that the SoHo/Lower Eastside/Brooklyn CMJ territory promotes club-hopping - the  venues are too far apart to navigate without fear that you'll never be able to get back in at that first club. Staying put in one venue appears to be the easiest option, but so far it means hearing some mediocre music before getting to the one band that piques the interest. Hence, I'm not writing about St. Vincent here.
After three days of heading to showcases and parties to hear bands we may never hear from again - or may become bigger than Arcade Fire - I may have stumbled upon something noteworthy, a Providence, R.I., band called Deertick. Guitar, standup bass and drums, a modern folk-rock twist and a lead voice (21-year-old John McCauley) that's a combination of gravel, growl and high-pitched whine,  Deertick's songs possess a sentimental simplicity in their lyrics.
Might have been one bad breakup or one impossible-to-get girl, but they express romantic desperation cogently and concisely.
McCauley has a splendid list of influences in his bio: Neil Young, Townes Van Zant, Ritchie Valens (he closed with "La Bamba"), Tony Bennett and Sammy Davis Jr.   
Earlier in the day, after staring at band after band of guys who could potentially date my daughters, it was simultaneously invigorating and jarring to watch Imperial Teen showcase material from their new album, "The Hair the TV the Baby and the Band." Together for 13 years, three members of the quartet look like they could be the parents of the audience members. (One wonders what they must think by looking out over the crowd - pull your pants up! did that neck piercing hurt? jenny! you didn't eat lunch and that's your third beer!) This what so-called infectious pop is all about; five years away from the recording studio and the band does not appear rusty one bit as composers or performers, a strong antidote to the unfocused and unsure bands that populate CMJ.
With a forged identity Imperial Teen stands out as  a unique ensemble - even the best of these young acts sound like a pastiche of  acts and sounds from the '70s and '80s.  (They were preceded by Doors-meets-hard beats unit We are Wolves and the Clash-Smiths-Walkmen punks Cut Off Your Hands. For what they do, both were impressive).
PS The latest no-show was the Len Price 3, a brilliant garage rock band that I have been trying to see for two years.

CMJ Dilemma For Bands: What is Music Worth

A bit of an interesting debate arose in a panel I was on today. A label owner based in Germany felt recorded music has become a form of a "business card" for young bands and that unless an act is on a major label, there are too many blocks in the international revenue stream. A New York-based French man disagreed, suggesting that recorded music has to be sold to retain its value to keep everyone in the food chain operating.
It took me back to just the night before in which three bands had three clearly different views on their music and its relative value. Cholo, a New York quartet that thrives on herky jerky melodies and course yet ambivalent male-female vocal interaction, had a friend give out its CDs. On each, a sticker read in part: "Thanks for accepting this gift from cholo. Feel free to burn copies and share with your friends." They also advertised a gig at Union Hall on Nov. 20.
NYCSmoke, with a far more commercial sound that's a bit of emo 2.0 mixed with some early '80s drum sounds and polished late '70s guitar licks, said they traveled three-quarters of a block to get to the Ludlow Street venue Fat Baby. They sold their CD for 10 bucks. This is an act with eye on that big money prize, the sort of rock act that may well soon charm an A&R exec who loves modern music with the contingency that it reminds him (or maybe her) of the classics.
And then there's the Tel Aviv band RockFour, which won - deservedly - a contest for their version of Syd Barrett's "Arnold Layne."  Although they had to battle some guitar-crackling-sound snafus, they came off as professional distillers of adventurous rock bands of years gone by. In some ways its reminiscent of the early rock en Espanol bands that wore their influences so clearly on their sleeves. But here, the assimilation is as thorough and complete as, say XTC did with its predecessors; this is as fully formed a band as one is likely to see at these types of festivals. Playing Rickenbacker guitar and bass  means you won't avoid certain Beatles-Byrds sonic results, yet RockFour is doing so in a refreshing and catchy way.
They have U.S. distribution - "The Memories of the Never Happened" was released Oct. 9 - and quite rightly they're selling the CDs at gigs. It's the "Arnold Layne" recordings they should be giving away for free.      

CMJ Day One: Ah! The Frustration (Or PJ Olsson, Where Are You?)

No complaints about registration here - that was a 60-second process. Instead we learn the hard way that no matter how much it appears an act watches to catch some buzz at a festival, there is no way to alert the troops that they won't be showing.
PJ Olsson's gig at 8:45 p.m. at the out-of-the-way Alphabet Lounge - that means $6 cab ride from any downtown subway stop you choose - was not to be Tuesday night as he inexplicably canceled. On one hand, these things happen, but then again, here was the perfect example of a guy working the label-TV licensing biz, having signed with the new CBS Records and landing several tunes in the network's shows. I could not think of a better artist to start CMJ with.
Trying to not feel my tip was in vein, I settled in for a few minutes of Ilonka, a South African with red boots who moved to Nashville and talks about Nashville as the place where her dreams might come true but lists Los Angeles as her home on her MySpace page. She performed to a two-member film crew, the bar manager and four other people; it truly felt like "Nashville" - the Altman film or the failed Fox TV show, your pick -  but in the back of my head the Most Serene Republic was taking the stage at Bowery Ballroom in a half-hour.
A short cab ride later, at the Bowery doorway, one learns that Gotham-CMJ reality check: The Bowery Ballroom likes to get paid so only 150 badge holders get in to the club. You want to see Dean & Britta at 10? OK, show up for Shaky Hands at 7. At least we can walk the rest of the way. Once we settle in at Fat Baby on Ludlow Street - with a bar upstairs where all could see the mighty Indians pound the Red Sox between bands - and the bands downstairs, a check of the Blackberry reveals a pitch from a publicist - on how great the creation of CBS Records is working out for artists. Maybe another day. 

CMJ: Reaching Into the Bag of Tricks

  It doesn't matter if it's a film festival or a music festival, there's always a stuffed goodie bag to greet an atendee's arrival. As usual, one has to wonder: How much of this stuff is useful? What does this tell us about the confab we're about to step into? I already had PJ Olsson's show on my list of acts to check out, but the inclusion of an ad in the bag reaffirms some belief I have that certain acts have a company behind them,  CBS Records in this case, that wants their acts to stand out. Well, without making too many judgments, CMJ attendees now have in their possession:

6 compilation CDs (New Zealand, OurStage, Austin, Severe Records, Filter and CMJ being the providers)
5 postcards/pamphlets for online services
4 handbills for showcases
4 cards enabling free donloads including one for Mark Ronson's remix of Bob Dylan's "Most Likely You Go Your Way (And I'll Go Mine)"
3 maps
3 production serves postcards
2 coupons (clothes and bowling)
2 postcards for actual musicians performing at CMJ
2 ads for films
2 educational brocures
1 Zune ad
1 insurance brochure
1 menu for a pizza joint
1 bookmark advertising R. Crumb's "Heroes of Blues, Jazz and Country"
1 cable TV show ad
and, what else? - a single condom.

Butch Morris Revels in The Rarely Recalled Spirit of Miles Davis

In New York for CMJ, it felt like a good idea to step completely outside the indie rock realm and venture into a cabaret setting and then some downtown free jazz. Judy Kuhn dazzled with exceptionally honest renditions of Laura Nyro songs; in an eye-opening performance, Butch Morris conducted the Nublu Orchestra in the

Alphabet

City

club Nublu.

Favoring funk flavors that his players clearly relished, Morris went in a rooted, direction Monday not usually found on his recordings. Morris calls his work “conductions”: With baton, he guides the music and the musicians, asking for thunderous bass lines, the occasional rat-a-tat drumming and a steady recurring single note blast from the alto sax. It meshed wonderfully, recalling the funk of Miles Davis’ “On the Corner” period and fed into some Sun Ra-ish electronic keyboard lines and, for a few very captivating minutes, some dub reggae. Morris is making the usually derisive term "fusion" a badge of honor.