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K.G.O. (Reprise)
METAL BRIDGE
SCARECROW
THE WHORE
ALL BY MYSELF
HEY MISTER
FAKING SMILES
BROKEN (Birthday Wish)
TOO LATE FOR SORRY
SHOCKER
K.G.O.

Reunited and it feels and sounds so good. Mick Jones, Don Letts, Dan Donovan, Leo Williams, Greg Roberts are back together as Big Audio Dynamite (B.A.D.) and performed a gig at the intimate Roxy for the lucky few that snatched up tickets. The energy in the room was electric and the band is as tight as ever.  Mick Jones knows how it’s done.  This is a true musician who not only was in the legendary Clash, but clearly loves what he’s doing and does it like no one else can. Jones has set the bar high. Here’s to more B.A.D. lives dates and hopefully new tunes. Photos by Debi Del Grande.

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It’s not the sadness of an accidental pony shooting, or the sadness you might feel the moment you register a pilot’s face before he dies at an air show, but it is specific—as redolent and quietly haunting as any ritual that necessitates candle-lighting. On the song “I Shot Smaller and Smaller Fruits Off Her Head,” Lindley sings, “Let’s make a monument to memory,” and somehow, with his latest collection of songs, he’s managed to do just that.

Lindley’s set at the Roxy was accompanied by violinist Ysanne Spevak and vocalist Miwa Matreyek (the animator responsible for Oh, Light’s brain-bending cover art) whose delicate harmonies mirrored the ones on the album, while bringing the songs’ occasional hooks into sharper relief. The dusty acoustic rustling chimed like bells heard on an old car’s AM radio as Careful sang about swimming, ghosts in summer, and tenuous post-apocalyptic human connections. It’s worth noting that the weight of the subject matter was sometimes surprising, considering Lindley’s gregarious on-stage presence. I asked him about this incongruity, and about his upcoming residency at Machine Project.

Amalia Levari: [Long rambling question mostly concerning a genre my friend Jack calls ‘sad bastard music’].
Eric Lindley: There’s humor buried in a lot of the songs, and I actually get away with saying some bleak things on stage with a smile or chuckle, but it’s definitely two different worlds. I think the kind of fleeting social interaction that we have with most people is really non-conducive to sharing sad thoughts, of course, for a lot of biological, as well as simply social reasons, so the songs are a way to convey sad emotions in a more or less safe, contained, package… but I would really feel strange, and like I’m misrepresenting my inner life if I didn’t joke around a lot on stage, and only played these depressing songs. And the stage is a strange place. It’s weirdly more and less intimate than a one-on-one conversation.  You have permission to say incredibly bleak things that would just result in awkwardness… but then you can also joke around in a way that would have just resulted in awkwardness, too. You don’t expect a response or sympathy or anything, so the people you’re conversing with aren’t pressured to empathize, but just to observe and think about what’s happening.

Do you usually mention the fictional quality of the content? Or was that just so that your family wouldn’t pull you aside after the show and say, like, “what the hell, dude?”
EL: Hahah… I don’t usually. I had a moment with my mom maybe a year ago where she said all my songs and writing were so sad, that people would think weird things were going on at home (she didn’t put it that way, but that was the gist), and I felt like I should make it clear for her sake. Also, some of her friends were there, so I wanted to make it extra clear…

THAT’S NOT AWKWARD AT ALL.
EL: Yeah, zero awkwardness, when you’re talking about depressing sex on a beach, and abusive relationships.

Just wear a shirt that says “I was not molested.”
EL: I mean, that’s usually how I introduce myself. […] I think as a kid I also used to say that I only liked sad art. Sad movies, sad music, etc. My mom used to read to me and my siblings every night, before we went to bed, and they were older than me, so it was Kurt Vonnegut stories, and Holocaust survival memoirs before I was 8 or 9 (though it didn’t freak me out as a kid—my mom had better judgment than to subject me to purely upsetting stuff). I think a lot of that became my experience of art—that if it didn’t make me empathize so much that I felt like crying, or at least thinking about death or trauma, then it wasn’t really worthwhile art. I’ve broadened to like purely formal stuff since then, and to appreciate the effect of art that can make you happy, but ultimately I do come back to the more cathartic, sad types of things.

What’s going on at Machine Project? Will we see more or less sadness?
EL: Ah! Yes! It’s going to be a single puppet show, performed for people one-at-a-time, hundreds of times (so people can see it, but it’s also going to be a foil to gather data for a psychology experiment). So, a person can walk in, sign a waiver that explains that they are going to be in an experiment. Then they see the show (which is pretty sad, it turns out), take a short survey, and once we’ve collected the data, we tell them about what we’re doing and what we’re exploring with the experiment. And there will be talks from scientists about their research, and other events related to the thing.

If I was Robin Williams I would make a Tourette-like joke about the Stanford Muppet Experiment at this point.
EL: Hahahah

No, don’t laugh.
EL: Yeah, Robin Williams is going to assist. He’s just going to run around the room picking up things and making jokes about Madonna.

He’s contributing chest hair for the puppet fabrication.
EL: That too. It’s a little coarse, but we can use it to stuff things. And scour stuff.

So. Will there be lab coats?
EL: Yup! We’re getting a costume designer to do lab coats.

Also, what’s this about physics?
EL: Ah—physics was my major in undergrad (along with music—a double major). Which was awesome, but I didn’t have the patience to do the problem sets. The ideas were so good. But the problems took forever.

[We talk for a minute about Neil Gaiman’s fantastically depressing Punch and Judy book, which I ordered used, and which arrived puffed up like an accordion, because someone had spilled what must have been an entire pitcher of coffee on it.]
EL: I just got the idea to sell strangely used items on Amazon. Like, what’s the most bizarre way an item could arrive when someone finally gets it? If all the ‘e’s have been blacked out, or the pages have been painstakingly rebound in a slightly different order, or forged and replaced with a slightly different version. Or a clarinet with a soft, fake tongue as the mouthpiece.

We do need, as a society, to make our consumer exchanges more amusingly passive-aggressive.
EL: Absolutely. It’s what makes us human. (Or so I think—you don’t have to agree. I know that SOME people don’t agree).

Well, I agree that part of what makes us human is the ability to conceive of clarinets that the player must—must!—make out with in order to play them.
EL: No truer words have been spoken.

This article is just going to say “Eric Lindley prefers his woodwinds slutty”, and then it’ll have a picture of you with an instrument Photoshopped to your face.
EL: You know, that picture already exists.

In the hearts of all men?
EL: Yeah… only there.*

When is this Machine Project thing happening?
EL: The residency starts on January 23, and we’ll have an opening the following Friday, I think. I should mention that all the songs are true and rooted in very real and exciting and traumatic events that are very interesting to hear about.

No need to hear about those.
EL: Good, I figured not.

(clears throat, shuffles away)
(grins creepily)
(neck craned forward)
(steeples fingers)

(high-fives the wall, for some reason)
(passes out)
(wakes up cranky)

www.carefulmusic.com
www.machineproject.com
*[Update: No longer only there.]

—Amalia Levari

They played Western instruments (and the use of electric guitars, synthesizers, and drum kits were a good reminder that, for all we owe to Africa, musical inspiration is circular rather than one-sided), but the instruments weren’t at the heart of the music. These guys were tapping into an eternal compulsion, and it would have been served by whatever tools of the trade they happened to have on hand. This was illustrated in the middle of their set as the Refugee Allstars dropped their their guitars and picked up traditional instruments that gave us a taste of the place from whence this music came.

The band stopped periodically, every eight to ten minutes or so, in order to switch gears and present a different groove. But it seemed like they were only doing that for us in the audience. I got the sense that, if we hadn’t been present, they would’ve just locked into a single rhythm and continued it for days, hopping and smiling and communing with each other the whole time.

—Geoff Geis

The Icarus Line brought people West, way West, to The Roxy on February 25th. It can be weird being on the Sunset strip. right in the middle of the audience was a woman with an unfortunate boob job and a cowboy hat and outside the sidewalks were scattered with leopard and zebra print spandex. But that didn’t change what was on stage, the kings of L.A. doing their thing. Alvin, Jason, and James were razor like, stylish and clean. Annie Hardy contributed some backing vocals. And the grooves were dangerous and destroyed The Roxy. The Icarus Line does it want they want, when they want.

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Mobs waited in line, begging for tickets outside. Inside, the dark space was decorated hanging limbs, hearts, blood, balloons and an official prom photo shoot stand. Torn petticoats and tights, pink sparkles, red taffeta, pin-striped suits, tuxes and leprosy. I didn’t pay attention to the stage, even though it was so loud and I was dancing, until the a group of rotting female dancers stole the first half of the show with a sexy shambling undead dance. It wasn’t to “Thriller,” but it could have been. And then the moment right before the moment the crowd was waiting for—the prom queen and king were announced. By a show of cheers the two most physically decomposed fancy faces were crowned, and Saint Motel took the stage.

Saint Motel was a fun gig. Their music feels fresh, like poppy seed indie rock and roll with a tenderness towards celery and cucumbers. And then some hot soup. And then a strange hand formed caffeinated cracker that you eat without remembering to chew. I can’t and won’t try to pin point what they sounded like Saturday. Well, I might. After I talk about how gosh-darn adorable they all are in their almost-preppy almost-hipster button-down-shirt-and-jean ensemble, with each member just shy of a bowl cut sweeping across their forehead. They like having their shows with a theme, and it’s not to divert attention away from their music—which was crisp and clean, lively, loud, and tons of fun. Interesting lyrics—lyrics I could hear being beautifully sung and sometimes yelled. I feel strongly that they are on to something here—making a party of it, and engaging all of our senses. We watched and danced in flocks, we sweated, we opened up our wounds to Saint Motel’s killer beats. It wasn’t the zombie apocalypse; it was a good ol’ time, and face it, enough of us wish we had proms to go to with a high-energy talented live band, no expectation to actually communicate—zombies are completely irrational—and the opportunity to gnaw on a little human flesh.

—Beth McNamara

The moment they get on stage, Stevens and de la Vega assess the vibe of the people they are playing to and adapt quickly to play to their crowd.  Starting the show with “Shake ‘Em Loose,” Rumspringa channeled old rock and introduced themselves with a comfortably long and mellow jam.  Stevens even threw out noise-makers and maracas during “Catfish Blues,” incorporating the audience’s abilities to catch onto the Rumspringa wave and ride it all the way through the end of the set.

Today’s answer to rock, Rumspringa channels the roots of the genre and bring pride back to the electric guitar.  Stevens and de la Vega have such command of the stage and their instruments that you get lost in their natural talent. Stevens creates multiple melodies using Little Lupe, a memory pedal that makes Rumspringa’s intricacies possible.  As for de la Vega’s vigorous and acute drumming, I’ll just assume that while on stage, he grows six arms to take complete charge and keep up with Stevens’ quick-fingered guitar playing.

Rumspringa brings a new meaning to jam band.  They are a mixture of great instrumental breakdowns and psychedelic riffs with songs that blend into each other and create equilibrium between the music and the listener.  Their new untitled song sums up their expansive range of talent and musical concepts, integrating the most influential original roots of rock.  Stevens completes the classic image by singing into an old-fashioned microphone and pacing the stage in his socks.

Their set was short but sweet and regardless, Rumspringa will always leave you feeling refreshed, reawakened and satisfied.

—Britt Witt