Antibalas' American Afropop; The French Kicks at the Mercury Lounge; Kitty in the Tree Play Pop High Above the World
"I've never seen this many people in the room before," said an older Brecht Forum member, gazing wide-eyed at the gyrating masses squeezed into the slightly shabby, linoleum-floored digs in a Chelsea office building. Antibalas was playing, and their fans had turned out in force. The occasion was a benefit for the Brecht Forum's piano, but the good-looking crowd was there to get high in one way or another, stomping and twirling, tucking up their shirts, enjoying themselves freely, with minimal posing. The band and the Forum were a natural match?Antibalas has a quote from Bakunin on their website and, before the elections, was encouraging visitors to "go Green."
They're an unusual band, to say the least?a 14-piece Afropop ensemble, basically the closest you can get to seeing Fela now that the Master is dead. Two trombones, guitars, saxes, trumpets, keyboards, percussion and a rock-solid, baby-faced bass player who looks like he's about 16. The Brecht Forum doesn't have a stage, and I suspect that suited Antibalas just fine, as it effaced the distinction between band and audience?the thin line of floor between the two vanished after the second song, even before the band started threading their way through the crowd. The sound was decent everywhere in the large, mostly windowless room, but it was good to be up front, to see the guitarists, one white, one black, never miss a lick in the midst of their perfectly coordinated dance routines, to see the trombonists face off against each other from opposite sides of the pulsating group.
Antibalas plays mostly originals and some covers, like Fela's "Colonial Mentality"; they put out a couple of singles and their first CD earlier this year. Their music is basically a variation on the blueprint Fela laid down, with lots of bass riffs, cross-rhythms, catchy horn lines, shiny bright guitar. Sure, they could be called derivative, but derivative of one of the 20th century's certifiable musical geniuses, the creator of a terrifically complex music, formally speaking, that was wildly popular, widely influential and remains great fun to dance to.
Despite their political stance (they were among the protesters at the Republican Convention in Philadelphia), Antibalas is not about preaching. Most of the tunes don't have lyrics, and saxophonist Martin Perna keeps his introductions and commentary brief. He said that the band was about expanding human possibilities, about evolution in a way, and community, and democracy, and progress?all good things. Things that seemed convincingly realized, in a small way, that Saturday night before the elections and their reminder of our democracy's limits. Like Fela's famous (or infamous) commune, Antibalas is trying to create something different and real, and seem to be succeeding, minus the 27 wives, of course. Their website lists at least a show a week, sometimes more, so there's plenty of opportunity to check them out?at No Moore or in various more "underground" settings around the city.
Eva Neuberg
I got there a few minutes before the Kicks were due on, which left me ample time to grab a beer and check out the last few minutes of Inflatable Men's set. "This is our last song," declared the spiky-haired frontman, "and it's the song of all songs." Great, I thought?another band that has to tell me when they're playing the hit I'm supposed to like. Then their DJ started some boom-boom beats on his turntable, which inspired the keyboardist to bolt center stage for a valiant attempt at some half-assed James Brown splits. For a second, I was back at the State Theater in Detroit, trying to pick up goth chicks to early 80s industrial drivel.
By the time the Kicks came on I was extremely relieved to have something else to do besides smoke cigarettes and listen to the inane conversations going on around me. My insecurities were running wild and the 6-3 girl standing next to me wasn't making things any easier. The guitar player came on first and started pulling in the crowd with furious power chords that lit the place up. One by one, the rest of the players filed onstage, dressed in the glitzy 70s garb that seems to be resurfacing as the "now" look for Lower East Side rockers.
Their first couple of songs blazed a trail of straightforward trash-laden power pop. Then, out of nowhere, they threw in some off-tempo melodies that generated a thoughtful tension. I had this hazy notion I was listening to a cross between the early Kinks and Weezer, all the while traveling down a few streets I've never seen before. Drummer Nick Stumpf served as an excellent home base, hitting the shit out of his drums and craftily singing in a throaty "I'm drunk on life, and probably a few Buds" kind of way. A unique aspect to this quartet is that three of the four members lend a hand in lead and backup vocal duties. Although they all sounded helliriffic in their own way, I found myself craving the songs guitarist Josh Wise sang. He did that early Elvis Costello thing better than I've heard in a long while. Most impressive was when all three joined forces and fired off into the night with some old-fashioned ooohs and aaahs.
The Kicks definitely pulled me out of my funk, and managed to stir the back room of the Mercury Lounge into a mighty uproar. The crowd was bouncing around in a mad frenzy, soaking up as much of the heat as they could. When the Kicks hit their last note, the throng of partygoers begged for one more, leaving the quartet aglow with smiles. Finally, after torturing the girls in front for just the right amount of time, they came out for one final slug and beat us over the head with a wonderfully scripted version of the classic Pixies mantra, "Where Is My Mind?" Not a bad note to end on, I thought. Not bad at all.
d. stortion
Be forewarned when attending your next rock show at Windows on the World: no sneakers and no jeans. Which is funny, because you could get in with flipflops and sweat pants. If you make it past the doormen you have next to deal with the ear-popping elevator ride. All these inconveniences are worth what happens next. A quick walk to your left and a look out the window and there's Brooklyn, a walk around the perimeter and far below's the Statue of Liberty.
The vastness of the views is only contested by the craziness inside. Hula-hoopin' go-go dancers on raised platforms doing their thing in front of a movie screen above the stage, with a Dean Martin flick silently running while the hidden DJ plays Fats Domino and funky, fast James Brown. A quick mashed potato will get you to the sushi bar. And speaking of bars, there are three to choose from.
Most of the crowd was 30-plus with dates and danced like they had a full day of sitting on their butts at the office. So this was the scene when Kitty in the Tree took the stage. Everyone look interested and most looked very happy to be there, not your usual bar-show atmosphere. The band takes over the stage when the go-go dancers take a break. Looking happy and as interested as the audience, Kitty introduce themselves and jump into a capitalistic, pot-positive ditty pinned "E.S.P." Bad corporate dancing ensues, but the band keeps stomping out four-minute bouquets so things stay jumpy.
Everyone plays an instrument, so there's no pop posing or theatrics, it's all rock and song. The vocals and music complement each other, and there's enough variety in tempo that you don't get too bored too easily when listening. The atmosphere is comparable to a casino room with too much extra oxygen being pumped in. The sound in the bar was totally pro. Not unlike your home stereo. If you have a very expensive hi-fi system. The emphasis was on the vocals, with the drums somewhat overshadowed. Loud enough to grab your full attention, but low enough so you could order that $10 cocktail or make a pass at a stockbroker with no problem.
First set went 30 minutes, then a 30-minute break. Go-go dancers returned, this time in front of a black-and-white film about 1940s jazz rebellion. Halftime entertainment consisted of watching the sushi chef cut up some octopus, and browsing a book on the New York City infrastructure in the lobby gift shop. The band came back and performed to a smaller, drunker, slower audience. The view from the bar is something to see. Kitty in the Tree are something to hear. And the bizarreness that goes on at the top of the World Trade Center is something to witness for yourself.
Simon Dasher