Fancie American Voices at the smell

After a really demoralizing day at work, selling a product to people who had already experienced it and were not willing to provide more for its outspread, I limped to my bike and took off for the show. “The Show”. Make it grand. Put it up in backlights, add it on a billboard, make it plain. It was a show at “the smell”, which my workmate in an entertaining Freudian slip called “the nose”. The nose on the same block as which reside two raging Cali - Mexican bars, one gritty and dark, the other lit. The well lit one I visited to chug a pitcher, skipping the “Voices on Tape” show, for I had seen him and been well impressed 4 months ago. This bar shoulda been called “the nose” for all the coke that was showed down the amnesia seeking day laborers ‘strils; ‘heaters’ down the 9-5 chute. One of them had rotten teeth and a larynx that rasped out unintelligible words of greeting and drunken encouragement. His breath overwhelmed me for the half hour I spent in his company and all night I smelt it, in the alleyway of “the smell” with its piss stains, next to the “Staples Centre” as I rode past a security guard and a cute biker girl, on the row even, it was everywhere. His companion who shared his friend’s dreary labor but still possessed a full set of teeth and a clear tongue to speak of its hardships, personably communicated with the universal coke sign to his buddy and me. He of course asked me if I was a cop, I offendedly gave him the friendly finger, a sign that third worlders get without getting offended. I refused the blow and promised to guard their drinks. I had larger fish in my eyes. I had just finished watching a set by “American Gil & The Major Dudes”. How could I fill my nose when my ears and brain were overflowing with noise and references? The night proved to be a battle between the two that sound won soundly, over musicology and footnote, in the easy space between performer and audience on the thinly defined Smell stage, but also outside in conversations I had with the down to earth, eager to share musicians.

At the American Gil show, I was yet sober and felt self conscious enough that I did not pull out my pad, which I had nixed a couple hours prior at work. I needed courage yet for I had never done this before. My prior review of a smell show was written purely from memory. After the Gil show, just as "Voice on Tape" was setting up, I upped and ran to the bar next door, where, over a chugging, convivial, and fortifying pitcher of Bud light, I pulled out pad to jot down the frantic thoughts I had harbored as “American Gil” played just 10 minutes earlier. I had noted them down as Dan the man something in my pad, just 5 minutes after asking someone what they were called. If anything, this report is a controvertible one, for my memory is a sieve that unravels further into t-shirt hole-sized craters of unconfirmed remembrances with the insinuation of booze in its pores. First impression was “Pere Ubu” knockoffs—this is music aficionado skull geekery but bear with me as I explain further. The singer Gil is the second coming of Dave Thomas—from his ample frame to his high pitched impassioned vocals. Eerie. The band’s use of shrieky high frequencies and driving, exploratory, post punk rhythms also added to this impression.

But Gil also does a nimble Riverside, i.e. non confrontational, James Chance as well. He is a multi instrumental juggler of sounds, who over the course of the set, used a sax like James White / Chance from “Off White”. He also double fisted flutes, playing them both simultaneously with left and right hand. Hard as it is to be critical after meeting the sweet and unassuming Gil, I can’t shy away from describing my impression of things. “American Gil & The Major Dudes” sounded like a spazzy melding of American post punk styles, which may not be a bad thing. I thoroughly enjoyed their set and found nervy crevices within their rhythms, those foretold pockets of groove that I could rock out to; but I was not overwhelmed as I like to be and am at the best shows. To other observers of the show they were brilliant. Their enjoyment of the set should stand as a (ear?)ringing endorsement of the band that counters my subjective opinion. I want this review to be as democratic as possible. That is one aim of it. The other is to indoctrinate you with my point of view.

When I returned from the bar next door, I found my self at the start of the set by "Fancie". “Fancie” are from Berlin and California. That’s right bitches, how’s that for transcontinental love vibes. There is no straight up way to describe Fancie’s music. Listening to Fancie’s songs on their Myspace page, I am struck by how different they sounded on stage. On tape they are vocally delicate with a melding of voices taking equal precedence to their instrumental flights. On “the smell”’s troubled soundstage however the sound of their voices was blurrily upstaged by their instrumental prowess and visual distractions. They are a tightly oiled touring vets and sound at ease and even casual on stage. The songs unfurled with a vibe, a sense of the night unfurling. The anthemic “Double Maze” was a highlight. Folkish GZA worship in full effect. One of the singer / guitarists had a sweet Ghostface Killah sweatshirt with the red hoodie on. Midway through it Ghost face-girl, aka ElizabethWood—and her partner in crime jumped off stage, put on pink veils and faked slow motion bowling, launching empty underhanded fists into the crowd; perhaps they were handing the musical ball to us. It made for a surreal image that worked well with their sound.

Minutes before (chronology of this show is questionable to me for I ripped off the pages of my notepad as I finished 'em and unprofessionally stuffed them in my back pocket) liquid ice had been released. As it swirled around, again the smell of the laborer’s mouth invaded my senses. So imagine the smoke, the smell and then Fancie’s theatricalism in service of directing vibes, like a conductor of the imagination, with the visual and the aural battling for superiority. At one point of the set, one of the band’s members energetically joisted with a sword while in a fencing mask. The laptop they used to manipulate sounds or god knows what else played loops of win media graphics dead in the middle of the stage—a case can be made for the use of Mac-books as props in shows. They are pretty and give off light on mostly unlit stages. Are other non-musicians like me amazed at the arcana that goes into setting up a show like this? How do you crazy-kool musicians do it? I love you for your knowledge as well as your creativity.

As the set ended I started up a conversation with the two guys next to me. Daniel, stylish in a short trench coat, told me he thought they were like a collage, disjointed. He found them a little incoherent. But I loved the slapdash funnishness of the whole thing. The mixture of sounds—from slippery, hi-hat disco to 4 on floor dance, baggy-beat to hip hop, fake strings among others—made me jittery and united at once.

You cannot unite continents without sounding a little like a collage. Any one band can be several. I don’t think Fancie can even decide on a single name, sometimes calling themselves Fanice. A band with a real case of multiple personality disorder—is that a good or a bad thing? Maybe groups are positioning themselves as different bands in different contexts so they can find themselves in the right niche, the one everyone’s been looking for the new hit in. But that is cynical bullshit. “Fancie” just killed live, and that is the god’s awesome truth. Musicians are a curious bunch; they are just as much the style curators as readers and writers are. Hell, the readers and picture takers are the musicians too. Culture is the remix. There is no one sound that you have to adhere to. Freedom, just like X- Ray Spex demanded, but this time from the bondage of boredom and genre hegemony. 24 flavors of ice cream at all hours of the night.

Fancie was that good musically and that indescribable. To add to the confusing blending of styles and influences, Fancie broke up into a splinter faction called Alas Alak Alaska who played next. Alak is composed of a slightly different lineup from the main group and were led by a jazzy trumpet driven sound with a lot of soothing, wool mitten warm vocal interplay going on. Lovely stuff and definitely worth checking out. The sheer glut of creativity coming out of this group of people is astonishing. Outside after the show I spoke briefly with Elizabeth Wood from Fancie and she spoke of how she can barely explain her group in terms of influences or genres and how musicians often never know where their inspiration comes from when they become deeply immersed in work. I lamely mentioned that they reminded me a little of “the Happy Mondays” but meant only that they resembled that group’s positive vibes and danceability. All the talk of influences and lineage is sometimes moot. They are the critic’s crutch that he uses because of his inability to transcribe the sounds he hears in pure terms. I’ll keep insidiously using them like I just did above though!

The “Fancie” show had multiple aspects is what I am trying to say, I think, not all of which I can pin down. What I saw was one angle of it—the angle I saw from off stage right, with the eyes and mind I am given, as the drunk on a pitcher—part fan, part critic that I am. This is one opinion, one vantage point, one frozen frame of icicled singularity. I think of the many minds that show melded and their diverse opinions of it. There was a guy with a cane walking around taking pictures. I put him down in my notes as Ahab, in search of his great white (what else at this venue?) whale—the great picture. Later I found out he was called John and he had driven down from Riverside to document local heroes American Gil. He was sweet as all hell and provided pictures for this review. He also told me of a burgeoning Riverside scene that I’d love to check out someday. A guy like that in the audience makes a show like this even better. An interesting audience is as important as an interesting band.

And on the night rolled, like spokes and chain above rain slick streets. It was getting close to 12:30 when I realized that stores close in 30 minutes and made the decision to do a booze run to help make it through the cold night. Helpful directions were quickly obtained and I jumped on my bike to make a sprint across the hump of hills between Figueroa and Alvarado. It was quite a ride and I hustled hard for I did not want to miss the night’s headliners—Voices Voices. I had seen them a week ago at the same venue and was deeply impressed by the sound that the band, consisting of Nico and Jenean, conjured between them. I had walked right up to them spontaneously after the show to tell them how good they were. Small venues are cool like that, instant communication and feedback, level playing field between audience and performer. Hearing their excellent Sounds Outside EP later had confirmed my opinion that they have something special. The nearest comparison that I can offer would be Isis but Voices Voices, as their name suggests, emphasize the sound of their intertwined voices more. There is a starkness to their treated guitar and voice soundscapes that is alien and slightly spooky. At times they forego all drums to pursue pure sound. "Flulyk" particularly off Sounds Outside, reminded me of the Richard Strauss composition - Also Sprach Zarathustra (Thus Spake Zarathustra) from the 2001 soundtrack.

As I rolled back through the alley this night, successful in my inebriated quest, and propped my bike outside on the steel enclosure of the neighboring parking lot, I met two Daniel’s—the one I mentioned earlier and the other, the scraggly, bearded saint/bum of “the smell” who offers friendly advice and words of greeting to all visitors. We conversed for a few minutes about the origin of their name and Daniel the resident was deep in the middle of a rumination on the righteous word of the lord when I heard what sounded like whale calls emanating from the walls. Hallelujah, here was my true call, a wordless sound from the deeps of some placid lake of soul. I betook myself indoors to pursue this deep aquarium sound.

The group used green and blue lights that grew and dimmed as the set progressed. A song would start with Nico’s simple two note strum pattern on guitar, reinforced and churned by a supple, rousing drum beat that would build up into a rude rhythmic upsurge as Jenean came in with her pummeling explorations. Then Nico would add leavenings of chiming guitar. Later as the song came to an end she would cover the drum’s retreat with howls of feedback. The Song rising like mourning out of ashy dawn, yet hopeful and inspiring. Just as they were about to burst open the song with their trademark, anthemic keening they were let down by malfunctioning mics. A slight faltering of rhythms, lights coming up, anger at the betrayal of equipment, the capriciousness of electronics. “Turn off the lights, from that part, lets go.” Fuck if that’s gonna stop them. So what if a whole world of their sound had been cruelly removed like an amputated appendage. Like Norman Mailer cutting off the mic and shouting into the packed audience of listeners in “The Armies of the Night” Voices Voices bravely carried on. Strum, drums and sound manipulations was all they needed anyway. Like a superior athlete hobbled by a bad knee but still a better player than the rest of the field.

Jenean’s hands weaved in and out of her snares creating dense, muscular patterns that churned Nico’s watery, subterranean soundscapes like the pistons of a riverboat. She would pursue a rhythmic idea to its natural conclusion and then keep going further, sometimes even losing control of the beat. Her dogged pursuits of the beat, into the dead-end alleys of the 8-bar, seemed to underscore her growing frustration with sound issues.

I love that defiant punishing spirit in a musician. While the avenue for vocal interplay between the pair was reduced because of sound issues, they never stopped communing, always looking at each other and engaging in an unspoken and continuous exchange of ideas and spirit. Audience be damned, though we got to tag along for the trip and experience aural heaven in the meantime.

Toward the end of their set VV conjured up sounds that I heard as being like traditional Sufi or Qawwali music. I didn’t remember hearing this in their CD and when the set ended asked them if this was intentional. Apparently they were just jamming out and stumbled upon those phrases that I wildly misinterpreted. Again, so much for a critic’s ability to order a musician’s tastes in recognizable categories. Conversely you could also look at this as an example of how widely interpretable VV’s sounds can be or of how far out and exploratory they can get when they hit the sweet spot.

Vocal mics seem to be pretty problematic at the venue—get on it guys, fix it pronto. Even Fancie seemed to lose much of their vocal subtlety during their set. I hate to see my favorite bands handicapped by faulty equipment like this. The full, textured nature of VV’s sound was never fleshed out that night. They came across as hardy professionals who took the technical handicaps in their stride and still constructed a tight set, but just imagine what they might have achieved with a complete arsenal of aural weapons at their command. I encourage all readers of this mixed up review to go check out all the bands I wrote about. They are each alive in their own way. Also, if you are in the LA area, come around to “the smell”. I have been there three times and never come away without a new idea. Genuine people come here, never mind the hype about bulimic hipsters swathed in suffocating layers of scenester saran wrap. Everyone I ever met here has been enthusiastic about music and about life. I leave each time, half deaf and jarred out of my own complacency. Otherwise I wouldn’t take all this effort to write about it or critique it. It’s just five bucks for a dank hit of the most exciting sounds, people. Take a big puff and hold it in your lungs for as long as you can. I dare you to exhale!

Fag Bashers at the International Noise Conference, April 9th 08

This is a review of a show I saw at The Smell back in April. I was in the crack mother city - LA, for the first time in 4 years and decided that it was about time I went to check out the venue. I had heard excellent things about it - all ages, serving only vegan food, with a community vibe about it that appeals to the old Fugazi fan in me. I was a little kid in India when those guys toured and helped open up the all ages scene that Dischord kick-started in the early 80's. When I got older I used to read with a wide eyed wonder about their idealism and work ethic. The Smell continues things in the same spirit - the slogan and band name 'No Age' painted on the closed, steel front on Main Street comes from a SST comp from 87. They obviously take their cues from the hardcore community spirit and heritage. As evidenced from the organizers' slightly stiff reaction to the Fag Bashers antics, one could also say that they share some of that scene's uptight self righteousness.

The show was advertised as The International Noise Conference - a reference perhaps to the famous 1991 International Pop Underground Convention organized by K records. The acts that went on before the Bashers, played short 5 - 10 minute sets with minimal set up and fuss. They mostly consisted of a single person with a deck, effects pedals and mic. The night was tight and the impact focused. Walls of squall, recoiling power noise and thrusting feedback reached deep into my ears and opened my tympanum to all audible frequencies - The effect of the sound on my ears was akin to a psychedelic, revealing the full possibility for hearing, like psylocibin divulges the subconsciousness to the brain. The short set times meant that no one got bored or tired of the aural assault we were subjected to. I felt a sense of calm come over me that I have seldom felt at a concert.

Typically concerts tend to set me on edge - the palpable smells of alcohol, weed and the hint of sex, all conspire to make me slightly uncomfortable, and I have to lubricate myself with a few beers to overcome my natural reserve. In keeping with the spirit of the venue I arrived with nothing more than Ramen and caffeine in my stomach (Little Tokyo is a few blocks away and just down Main street is a friendly coffee shop called Groundwork). The aural assault had the paradoxical effect of calming me even further. In short I was ripe meat for the Fag Bashers set.

I was seated on the couch in the main room next to the bookshelf. I am hoping that they get around to posting the video of the night, so that everyone who reads this can get a clearer picture of the mayhem, the two members of the band staged, and see how incongruously they fit with the rest of the event. The video posted on their myspace site-




of an earlier show gives one a good idea of their get up and M.O. - two thoroughly skinny guys in football jerseys, with an amp, mic, boom box, busted looking drumkit and a stack of empty kegs. At first, I was not aware that they were part of the show because they were the first band to play in that well lit corner of The Smell.

A Nickelback song started to play on the boom box. The reaction of the smattering of scenesters and noise freaks, me included, as the song started to play was priceless. Everyone froze. Not a head bobbed. One enlightened hipster started to ironically shake his head to the song for a few seconds. Nothing could have caused more discomfort among the assembled noisea-rat-i, than the simple act of playing this thoroughly populist number, in the middle of such an elitist show. Now, I have seen groups of kids at the bar down the street from where I live in Allentown sing along to that same song tons of times, their faces filled with joy, like the dancing and singing congregation at a black church. Their faces seemed to convey the feeling that they were being understood by those rock stars, their workaday lives expressed in the singer's nasal whine, that to my ears dripped with overproduced compassion. I would bury my head in my beer and try not to meet any faces.

I would have given a lot of money to see one of those guys squirm through some of the sets I saw that evening and then, see a grin light up his face when this song played. To see the reaction of the people around him when he sang along enthusiastically, would have been precious. You want to talk about a red state blue state divide - there it is, in an oversimplified and somewhat disingenuous way.

Here I must digress and provide a link to a great article in the venerable Onion titled "Local Hipster Over-Explaining Why He Was At The Mall".

Everyone of us has at some time in their life been guilty of a taste violation(if you believe in such things). All the cool music I listen to today, is in some sense a cover up job, to hide my history of pop indiscretions. Try as I might, I will never be able to erase the fact that I was into rap metal when it went around, or that I listened to some really weak 70s MOR and prog from my dad's collection. I think it's stupid to pretend to be superior, because today you listen to better music than the next guy. You just got lucky that someone or something tipped you off at the right time. And yes there is better music and worse music. I will defend that position, it isn't all subjective. Who gets to decide is up in the air however and it is a continuous process, like erosion or the formation of mountains.

I am very conflicted about cultural elitism of any kind, and I am guilty of it in a lot of ways. It is easy to dismiss people for their lowbrow tastes, but also incredibly lazy to do so. My best buddy in PA listens to what I consider to be horrible music, but I don't give a shit. When sites like Facebook ask you to list the music you like, all it does is make you more easily definable, and hence digestible, by people, culture and their salesmen. I am not going to let something as inconsequential as taste, in something as trivial as pop culture, choose my friends for me. Friends over Trends.

While I liked the music at The Smell, and felt comfortable with the people there, I still didn't feel a part of them either. I didn't like that all those drunk kids at the bar I frequented felt some kind of bond over a cheesy pop song, that they identified with some syrupy, rhyming drivel. Occasionally I would make the mistake of disputing their tastes, and was sometimes dismissed or ignored because of that. On the other hand, I was delighted to see the hipsters and scene crawlers at The Smell be confronted with sounds they could not tolerate. Noise, Industrial, Grindcore, insert extreme music of your choice here _______ - is supposed to be all about confrontation and subversion. What could be more discomfiting to the status quo of this crowd than Nickelback?

The squirming was great while it lasted. Comprehension eventually dawned on the audience, as the Bashers started to put on shoulder pads and one their ranks dropped to the ground to do push ups and grunt. More people gathered around their little circle as I foolishly remained seated right next to them. The two mischief makers started to thump chests, make grunting sounds and yell at each other about the massive party they were going to have tonight. A few minutes earlier I had noticed one of the guys, lets call him Mr.Yellow for the color of his jersey, peel the labels off a 6'er of O'Doul's. The reason for this dawned on me now, when they popped one of the bottles and started to chug it. This could not have gone down well with The Smell Elders, The Smellders if you will; I saw a few frowns and folded arms go up in the audience, like a steel barrier would in a larger show. What would the cops do to their "premit to operate" if they saw the bottles of fake beer, with no labels on them to prove the innocence of their contents. The two Bashers - Mr. Yellow and Mr.Blue, became more and more rowdy, tossing the empty kegs around, jumping on each other and spraying fake beer on the audience.

Mr. Yellow was pretty good about the beer spraying, limiting it mostly inside the floor space around him, except for me. Seeing that I was a chump, sitting right next to them, looked relatively harmless and was thoroughly enjoying the spectacle, he took the liberty of hosing my hair and glasses down. I did not mind it one bit. I only wished they had got more people, that they had a fireman's hose of beer, to wash the stiff bodied lack of enjoyment off some of the noise police. I understand their concern for safety and respect for the limitations of the spectacle, but I was ready for more, yet slightly scared of escalation. I had been perusing the "Industrial Culture Handbook" on that couch before they started and some of the shit those original freaks pulled was unbelievable. Compared to say a Throbbing Gristle show, this show was tame, notwithstanding what happened towards the end. The interesting stuff at the Fag Bashers show was all cerebral, though they were also a heck of a lot of fun.

Nickelback turned into Bawitabaa, turned into Korn. Their screams and jocky exhortations bled into the songs and helped recontextualise the familiar, radio-rock pap into more alien soundscapes. Formally speaking they weren't that great. "Kevin Shields", who came later in the bill, was better. Not that 'Kevin Shields' people - it was a chick who has the admirable cheek to take on the name of the MBV mastermind, and the balls to play really fucking loud, louder than any of the men who played, and just loud enough to make you shit your ears a little. It was the unbalanced atmosphere the Bashers created that carried them head and shoulders above the rest of the crowd. The same way the victorious football players they parody get carried away, at the end of a game. Eventually some of the fake beer bottles broke. Mr.Yellow, the skinnier of the two and a star showboat, made sure of this. He also made it a point to roll around a little in it and to draw blood from his arm. Later he pointed his bleeding arm into the camcorder recording the evening.

Make no mistake about it, it did not happen in the heat of the moment. It was more surgery than accident. There was the element of self consciousness to the whole performance that did not in the least take away from their commitment to jolt the audience. If you think Jim Morrison or any other infamous exhibitionist did his thing without calculation, you are definitely fooling yourself. Maybe a completely shit faced Iggy came close; I believe my man Lester Bangs when he said something to that effect, about the electrifying, spontaneous nature of Iggy's self mutilating act. However I dont think that there is anything more acutely conscious, and done for effect, than cutting or self injury. Even the old maxim states, that the best rock bands are ones that look like they are about to fall apart, but just manage to hold together.

The whole time they played I was sitting on the edge of my seat. I understood the meaning of that hoary cliche that day. I had something between a delighted grin and a clenched jaw, the whole time. To possess a sense of humor, to use it intelligently and unabashedly, is a rare thing in music. After the show, I went up to Mr. Yellow who was waiting for the bathroom to become free so he could clean up his arm, and told him that they were great and that it was the best show I had ever seen. Then I patted him on the shoulder as he just grinned and nodded his head enthusiastically. Mr. Blue helped the tired looking Smellders clean up the floor. As I stepped around the room, emotionally exhausted but razor keen in the head, I felt shards of glass crack under my shoes.