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as printed in AntiMatters, March/April 2001 |
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February 10: Brain Cell Genocide IV (Brer Brian's CD Release) February 14: The Full Monty on Broadway w/Annie Golden February 21: Peter Dizozza's The Last Dodo February 25: Sharon Fogarty's's The Overdevelopment of Scott March 16: Joie/Dead Blonde Girlfriend's Sweet Sixteen x2 March 21: Mike iLL Friday, February 10 I didn’t think so, because even though the crowds were huge and the punch was spiked (well, the rum was spiked with punch), and even though my mind was taken up with all the beautiful women that were dancing around, I think I’d remember if I saw you there. It was a very friendly night. To celebrate the birth of Brer Brian’s latest solo CD, he put together a night at the birthplace of his plays, The Dirty Matrix and Wrong Fag to Fuck With, wherein some of his favorite bands could come together, play, and eat chicken wings. The definition of favorite bands for Brer Brian seems to be those that are somehow associated with him. Starting up the evening was Secret Agent Gel, who, as Corey Maass, produced Brer Brian’s first album, Bagiddy Ba. Following was Grey Revell, whose band, in an earlier incarnation, included Brian. Brer himself played a set with his group Them’s Good Eatin’ before ceding the stage to Spencer Chakedis and Deep Sound Diver, who shares with Brian the project UFO Vs. the Mothership. After all that the unscheduled Sylvia Mann and the Manly Men (named by and including Brer Brian in the line-up) performed to a drunken and diminished crowd (the night, starting at midnight, ended sometime after four). It wasn’t just about the music, though. It was really about good times. While Secret Agent Gel, a soundscapist, played his prerecorded tracks, the evening’s growing audience ate chicken and punch. As Grey Revell and his stripped down rhythm section wore themselves out within a few numbers, the Standing Room Only crowd danced furiously and threw throwing balloons all about the room. Brer Brian, amazed that he could sing and play at all, considering the amount he’d been drinking, played an abbreviated set while the audience tried to dry off their sweat before going off into the frozen night. The final scheduled act was Deep Sound Driver, who played some moody sax-driven raunch – as the dwindled crowd collected themselves and schmoozed, until most of them joined the stage. Various members of UFO Vs. the Mothership, as well as Grey Revell, joined the Diver to jam away well past the wee hours. The audience – such as was left – was understandably appreciative. "Some of us had actually kinda forgotten we belonged to a mutually supportive music community," Sanjay Kaul, of Lunchin’, said, "It was a complete blast!" Grey Revell was equally enthused by the great vibe throughout the night. "Great Party. Made me wanna write more barn-burning tunes." It was, all told, a great celebration of one artist’s vision, his commitment to community, and his own performances. For creating such civic-minded events – and for his excellent new album – Brer Brian should be congratulated, but not so much that he rests on his laurels, and fails to put together Brain Cell Genocides V-VIII. (Jon Berger) Wednesday, February 14 "None of that AF crap for me tonight!" I cried, "I want to see some good old-fashioned musical fun, as based upon a liberating semi-independent British film about finding liberation through bursting body imagine stereotypes and role-modelling. I’m going to see some THEATRE, dammit, so no AntiFolk tonight!" I dashed headlong into the theater, laughing maniacally at the promise of a show featuring six men getting nekkid. I rubbed my hands excitedly at my evening’s escape from AntiFolk environs. And the house lights went down and the stage lights went up, and who was the first performer to hit the stage but Annie Golden. Annie Golden’s got a CV like some sort of multiprofessional. The one’s I always heard of were: Lead singer for original new wave band the Shirts, actress in Hair and Cheers, and now, one of the two members of Golden Carillo. With acoustic guitarist Frank Carillo, Golden was one of the earliest acts to play at the Fort at Sidewalk. I hadn’t seen them in years, and there she was on stage, as one of the female leads. I thought I’d seen her names fronting solo projects, too, at West Village places, so I never got to see her. She was good; strong voice, good personality. But unlike the earlier number, "It’s a Woman’s World," and the incredibly vibrant performance of the hot conductor, Kimberly Grigsby, The Full Monty is very much a man’s production. And from the start, the men kicked ass. The first number, "Scrap," is a powerful number and strangely arrhythmic way to start the show. A pretty cool song for Broadway. Turns out the songwriter for the musical is David Yazbek, whom I’d never seen, but has played numerous times in the Village. I’m pretty sure he’s a regular at Arlene Grocery, but maybe more intimate rooms, to boot. I really enjoyed The Full Monty, including the last instant of what was, indeed, the FULL Monty. I found that especially entertaining… and I learned an important lesson. Try as I might, I can never escape AntiFolk. (Jon Berger) Tuesday, February 21 Seems that the universe isn’t quite the one we think it is. In Chernobyl in 1999, we discover that a nuclear holocaust is narrowly averted, but almost caused by one of a multitude of dodos stuck in the works of the nuclear machinery. Dodos, of course, infest the planet in numbers like none seen before. There are so many that people stomp on the dodos, killing them as a matter of course. How did this strange state of affairs occur? To answer this, we return to 1919, where Harry Zeffero, with the help of his South African sidekick Tomas discovers the Last Dodo, one of a tribe of dodos moved to a hidden but erosion-threatened island in the middle of the Nile River. Harry Zeffero, to join the Explorer’s Club, inexplicably the jeweler’s dream, leaves his family to befriend and eventually befoul Myessence Missolini, the name of the very human last dodo, a preadolescent in the lost culture of endangered dodos. Zeffero, in exchange for money, clothes and a high life, sleeps with the dodo, which doesn’t seem to bother people especially, since people question if the last dodo is, in fact, a dodo. Some think she’s a goose. Some think she’s a human. Some think she a goddess incarnate. What is she really? The answer might be able to be found in The Last Dodo, Peter Dizozza’s latest production, available on Tuesdays at Baby Jupiter. Starring Tony Hightower and Kimberly Mossel, issues of bestiality, family heritage, wife swapping, endangered species, female circumcision, ritual mutilation and the divergence of aboriginal cultures all are brought up and rapidly considered or discarded in the new musical. There are good songs. There are hilarious lines. There is an obscene plot and more polysyllabic utterances than you could fornicate with any phallic protuberance. It’s a sprawling, unwieldy work, with so many concepts as to fill three musicals. It’s a powerful set of ideas that will, considering Peter Dizozza’s track record, be revised and reformed over and over again until it emerges as a barely recognizable reincarnation of its former self. It might be worth seeing The Last Dodo, one of a tribe of dodos, before this version goes extinct. (It’s running through the end of April at Baby Jupiter, 170 Orchard at Stanton in Soho.) (Jon Berger) Sunday, February 25 Adding to these pleasantly-themed works is the latest, The Overdevelopment of Scott, a science fiction tale featuring the genetically engineered ‘lab rats,’ (cloned humans that were designed especially to be experimented on). Featuring an AntiFolk orchestra (made up of Fogarty, Kenny Davidsen and Tony Hightower), and featuring numerous members of Sharon’s comedy collective, the Funny… Sheesh improv players, The Overdevelopment of Scott is funny and sad, horrific and humorous, dramatic and damned entertaining, all at once. In the future, according to the plot, humans will be used for chemical and psychological testing. From affects of eating disorders to nicotine addiction, people will help people make people’s lives easier. But at what cost? The story, the songs, the star-turns (from Jason Grossman, John Hartmann and Sam Riegel as the experimented and experimenters, respectively) attempts to answer the question. Sharon Fogarty, as the voice of the computer, is especially evocative. I’d strongly advise you to see the show, except it had a four-day run, and you missed it. Tough luck. Maybe, though, she’ll mount it again soon, or at worst, there’s a chance to catch the next anti-musical she puts together. Keep your eyes open. (Jon Berger) Friday, March 16 Big hearts, big love, and big balloons were everywhere as Kimya Dawson (of Moldy Peaches) blessed everyone with peace, joy, and cuteness and gathered birthday wishes from a packed but eager back room of friends, family, and eager fans. The bands on the bill completed the circle of life that exists at the Fort. On this night it was American Anymen, Major Matt Mason USA, Moldy Peaches, and Joie/Dead Blonde Girlfriend. American Anymen defies all generic expectations. Headed by Brett Sullivan on lead guitar and vocals and joined by Michal Eisig on guitar and vocals and James Brognel on bass, they are a maelstrom of thrashing, twisting excellence that freely borrows from hip hop, country, and punk. It all gets mixed up, digested, and decorated into a beautiful mess and a vocal delivery that veers from everything above and creates a new sub-genre of madness: country hip hop. The night of contrasts continued when Major Matt Mason USA quietly stepped onto the stage. It’s just Matt sitting on a chair singing his brand of urban folk. At times, his lyrics are driving and forceful, but he always returns to his sensitive and vulnerable delivery and a very dry sense of humor. Moldy Peaches (Kimya Dawson and Adam Green) is loud, quirky, and cute. Jack Dishel on lead guitar and Strictly Beats on drums (both of Stipplicon) gave them that rocking backbeat to punch their humor-filled urban, slightly naughty, lyrical call and response—that begins to make sense after all of the incongruity if you listen carefully. Joie/Dead Blonde Girlfriend is a loud, gruff one-man band of attitude, a fragile, wounded musical soul searching for the highest beauty in all things. Listen past all of the angry volume, and you will find a songwriter that has lived a world of lifetimes before he arrived at this moment to save you from yourself. Here are country punk melodies with frayed edges and healed scars that mirror an omniscience that calls to you with each passing lyric. Joie/Dead Blonde Girlfriend is a force of nature that the world must know sooner or later. (Michael Perazzetti) Wednesday, March 21  The evening’s precipitation prohibited a greater turnout, but iLL precipitated a performance worthy of a packed house. While reknowned as a solo artist, he played backed by the Poor Old Souls, consisting of an eight-foot, cowboy-in-black bassplayer and a strong-armed, sideburned drummer; combined with iLL customarily topless and green-haired, the scene had a vaguely freakish air, reminiscent of grab-bag casts like Parliament or (god forbid) the Village People. But even more surreal was the precision these three struck from the first note to the last. Throughout the hour, rolling through iLL’s repetoire, they played with flawless execution over bridges and breakdowns with the casual confidence one might expect of a band with years of experience together.Additionally noteworthy was iLL’s own guitar playing, which serves in capacity as rhythm, lead and sound effects. This, beyond his evident writing ability and stage presence, belies his treks across America and the experience he gained from them. These solo anti-tours provided the meat for his Anti-folk Road Manual and helped shape an artist who is one part comedian, one part storyteller, one part philosopher. Take, for example, his lyric, "The sky’s comin’ down like a load of pork fuckin’ beans / the fat lady sings ‘cause she’s burstin’ in her jeans," a line of mad humor, immediately followed by a self-confession of frustration: "And I dream to make scenes, but I ain’t got the means / so I scream and I scream and I scream;" capped with a chorus referencing one of his myriad influences, "Born to dive / we struggle and strive / Can’t get out of this world alive." This consistant flow of interest iLL delivers with and open-eyed vivacity unique on the anti-folk scene, though the better part of an average Manhattan crowd might not know where he’s coming from. His ability to storytell with an intensely personal voice, combined with a tendency to use the terminology of a self-described ‘wigger’ can make the everyday alleged liberal wonder what they’re listening to. But something in iLL’s delivery speaks authenticity and legitimates his writing, even when he sings in the first-person perspective of a disaffected daughter. iLL also has the passion and presence to make a weak lyric ride so smooth it goes unnoticed. Most impressive, however, is the difference between his current live performance and the recordings captured on his Anti-Folk Road Manual CD. iLL has retained and polished choice bits like "Icicle Man" and improved dramatically since the publication’s release a short year ago. And just so, the grindstone of touring is bound to sharpen any musician. Nobody corrected the soundman who misread "Mike Ill" and introduced the artist as "Mike 3". Even iLL himself just laughed. It was as if it were a faux pas unworthy of correction. And if the soundman didn’t know, well, perhaps he better ask somebody. (Cedrick Boltze) |
March/April 2001 Main Index See something you liked this month? Something you hated? Send us even a brief account of it. |