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The Slug Bearers of Kayrol Island Tues.-Sat., March 23-27 There is a collection of half-broken appliances around my apartment, and I know I'm not alone in harboring these machines in revolt?VCRs that do not eject, toasters that burn on any setting, cassette decks that will no longer fast-forward or rewind. As a society we tacitly accept planned obsolescence.
As it turns out, these same poorly constructed small appliances can be a unique source of artistic inspiration to the right mind. If you're skeptical, I turn your attention to this week's run of Ben Katchor and Mark Mulcahy's The Slug Bearers of Kayrol Island, or the Friends of Dr. Rushower. The "tragicomedy for music theater," as it is billed, is being presented at the Kitchen after being workshopped there last summer.
You may recognize both names behind this production. Katchor is a much-decorated cartoonist?he counts among his honors a Guggenheim fellowship and a MacArthur "genius grant." His illustrated stories have been published in magazines and collected into books?and in these pages over the years?and several have already become musical dramas. Bang on a Can turned Carbon Copy Building into a modern-day opera, and composer Moritz Eggert set There Was a Building, or, the 58th Street Broiler, for the New York-based Music at the Anthology Festival.
In Slug Bearers, Katchor's drawings and animation are the visual element over which Mulcahy?composer, soloist and former frontman for the Miracle Legion?wrote the show's score. He has also taken on singing four of the roles, joined by five additional vocalists who interact with the projections. A four-man backing band with quite a variety of instrumental talents among them completes the crew.
"We sort of lucked into this group of people who seem to be really hardworking and enjoy it," says Mulcahy when I catch up with him a few days before the show opens. He describes their creation as a pop-opera, along the lines of The Who's Quadrophenia or Jesus Christ Superstar.
For fans of his Miracle Legion work, Mulcahy says there will be at least one major reference to listen for, but the majority of the songwriting has been a much different process. "It's an interesting way to approach writing a song," he admits, "because the first rule is to make sure you can understand what people are singing, and usually when I write songs, half the time I'm trying to make sure they don't know what I'm talking about."
The Slug Bearers project grew out of a strip Katchor drew for Metropolis, an architecture and design magazine. Reading the plot synopsis, this seems a good show for those who don't mind their story lines well on the fantastic side. The tale revolves around the exploited workers of Kayrol Island and the philanthropic efforts of Dr. Rushower. Due to the miniaturization of the circuitry needed to run the cheaply produced appliances of the 21st century, they are packed with small lead weights to "give the impression of heft and material worth" as well as to keep them from blowing away.
The plight of the Slug Bearers?the workers who carry the weights off the dock on Kayrol?is gaining attention, and Rushower organizes a goodwill expedition in hopes of alleviating their suffering?namely by introducing them to "consumer fiction'" aka the "poetry of the modern instructional pamphlet." Though the project fails to elicit any response, Rushower's daughter finds love and happiness with one of the workers and remains behind.
Confused? I was too, so I asked Mulcahy for help. Now that he's seen how all the elements of the show work together and is "pretty sure" he knows what's going on, he breaks the plot line down like this: "It's basically a guy with a daughter. Another guy comes along and the two of them take off [for Kayrol]. She meets another guy and doesn't come back, so the first guy comes home and tells the father. That's the real super-duper thumbnail, but it's all wrapped up in Ben's insane language."
That turns out to be a blessing and a curse. "I mean, you know what word no one uses in a song?" Mulcahy deadpans. "'Irregularly.' But it's all over the place."
The Kitchen, 512 W. 19th St. (betw. 10th and 11th Aves.), 212-255-5793, x11, 8, $20.
?Molly Sheridan
Cecil Taylor Through Sun., March 28 The fantastic reality of Cecil Taylor's music has been a dense, elaborate fountain since critic Nat Hentoff noticed, at Taylor's '58 Newport gig, half the audience running toward the bandstand and half heading away from it. With phenomenal piano technique hurtling beyond the awe of both its impact and the extraordinary cultural quality informing it, plus a rampant energy level that has him dancing and poeticizing from the bench, Taylor's a defining presence of our day, regarded by plenty as its most brilliant musician.
For his week at Iridium's Adventures in Jazz festival, Taylor brings his big band Orchestra Humane and a clutch of fresh compositions. "Some of the music's never been heard," says Taylor's bassist Dominic Duval. "Pieces were written for the cancelled Equinox Festival in Boston. Others Cecil's writing specifically for this gig, and for this orchestra's Who's Who list of improvisers."
"There's nothing 'free' about any of this," Taylor told Jason Gross in a 2001 interview, describing his wildly powerful music (while admiring engineer/architect Santiago Calatrava). "It's the construction of cantilevers and inclined pylons." In recent years, he's fielded an Orchestra Humane at the Knitting Factory that was three times the size of the Iridium band, played duets on Columbia's lawn with the great drummer Max Roach and performed on Mercer St. with his Bosendorfer grand and a butoh dance master.
In each, Taylor brought an unerring sense of the future's capacity, a blast of current force (improv giant Steve Lacy says playing sax with Taylor taught him music's offensive mode) and the awareness that "fun becomes a celebration of those great practitioners who've preceded us." Taylor's mom was tight with Ellington's drummer Sonny Greer, so between jungle beats and a New England Conservatory of Music degree, Taylor knows of what he speaks. Revering Ellington to interviewer Gross, he measured his own accomplishment as well: "It's about American music that never existed in the world until we did it."
Iridium Jazz Club, 1650 Broadway (51st St.), 212-582-2121, call for times, $27.50-$32.50, & $10 min.
?Alan Lockwood
33rd New Directors/New Films Weds.-Sun., March 24-April 4 There is a moment in Jim McKay's new film Everyday People at which I let go of my minor quibbles with the film (it's set in Brooklyn, but was actually filmed at longtime Lower East Side landmark Ratner's) and its presence in the New Directors/New Films series (McKay's 2000 Our Song was one of the most accomplished films of that year), and embraced its status as a slightly flawed masterpiece. Ira (Jordan Gelber), the owner of Raskin's, has decided to sell his restaurant to a developer planning on putting up high-rises in their working-class Brooklyn neighborhood. Having just informed his staff that, in a matter of weeks, they will be out of jobs, the tension in the air is palpable. Then, Ira catches Victor (Victor Pagan), one of the busboys, attempting to smuggle unordered entrees out of the kitchen. Confronted with his try at theft, Victor looks panicked, overwhelmed with fear and anger, and vomits. This unbearably intimate scene is one of the many small miracles of Everyday People, quite possibly an even better film than Our Song. McKay structures the film in a manner highly reminiscent of P.T. Anderson's Boogie Nights (a filmmaker he shares little with other than an apparently unbounded talent), breaking it into two parts: a study of a familial workplace environment and its dissolution into individual parts. In the truly crushing sadness of private travail, McKay reaches an understanding of our daily lives, at both work and rest, unmatched by any other American filmmaker.
Other films in New Directors/New Films don't quite match up to Everyday People, but the series nonetheless features a number of impressive first efforts. David Ofek's documentary No. 17 is a political murder mystery in which the filmmakers investigate the identity of the unknown 17th victim of a suicide bombing in Tel Aviv. No. 17 emerges as a portrait of Israeli society at the margins and the psychic damage done by the seemingly never-ending violence in the region. Ursula Meier's sports film Strong Shoulders features a superb performance by Louise Szpindel as a young runner so driven she manages to alienate her coach, friends and boyfriend. Nonetheless, Strong Shoulders positively glows with the vigor of healthy bodies and the joy of athletic success.
Seducing Doctor Lewis is a soggy French-Canadian romance, its kooky characters not nearly enough to offset its flat, unimaginative style. The Brazilian The Middle of the World, directed by Vicente Amorim, features the stirring music of songmeister Roberto Carlos, but is ultimately more a disturbing portrayal of religious fanaticism and dysfunction than the warm-hearted family film it intends to be. Gaston Biraben's Captive is a superb work on the fallout of Argentina's "dirty war" against leftist dissidents between 1976 and 1983, as reflected in the life of a teenager who discovers that her real parents were desaparecidos. Biraben's film ably depicts a society still struggling to come to terms with its buried past.
Walter Reade Theater at Lincoln Center, 165 W. 65 St. (betw. B'way & Amsterdam Ave.), 212-875-5600, call for times, $12.
Alice Tully Hall, 1941 B'way (65th St.), 212-875-5050, call for times, $12.
?Saul Austerlitz
Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus Through Sun., April 11 I'm a tent snob when it comes to the circus arts. I hate stadium venues, even for rock 'n' roll. The only rock band I've ever seen that could properly fill a stadium was Pink Floyd, probably owing to the fact that they've owned more gizmos and special effects than NASA. Tents are intimate, romantic, creating an otherworldly atmosphere right at the starting gate.
Thus, it was not without a certain apprehension that I allowed myself to be herded into the vast cavern that is Madison Square Garden last week for the opening-night performance of the latest edition of Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus. As if to confirm my darkest fears, I was informed by one of the horrible Garden staffers that if I ducked outside for a smoke before the show, I would not be readmitted. This filthy Nazi-fascist swine told me it was for "security reasons." Right. I was thinking about how secure I'd feel with his head on the end of a sharp stick when the show started and swept me away.
Ringling understands something that Cirque du Soleil (known as "Cirque du Passe" these days) will never get: the value of an authentically silly gesture. Cirque du Soleil hasn't had a decent show since director Franco Dragone split, along with most of the creative team responsible for the signature feel of that company. CEO Guy LaLiberté owns the logo and the name, but Guy calling himself Cirque du Soleil is like Paul McCartney calling himself the Beatles.
The Ringling show is a dazzling, dizzying spectacle of mirth beyond compare. It manages not only to fill the Garden, but to actually make it seem small. I was laughing so hard that I didn't even think about a cigarette for two and a half hours. The clowns are terrific, the acrobats are frightening and the animal menagerie looks well cared for and very happy?even the big cats. They have trained cows in this show! Cows are dumber than union schoolteachers, so I have no idea how they did that.
The most amazing thing is an upside-down act that must be seen to be believed. It's got to have something to do with some really exotic rigging, but I still can't figure out exactly how it's done.
This is exactly what we all need at the tail end of this long gloomy winter: a great big dose of silliness to loosen our spirits for spring. And nobody does silly more extravagantly than the Ringling show.
Madison Square Garden, 2 Penn Plaza (32nd St.), 212-307-7171, call for times and dates, $12.50-$50.
?Alan Cabal
Weds. 3/24
The Subway at 100 Time to get deeper underground. The Science Industry Business Library is presenting an exhibit on William Barclay Parsons and his impossible dream of building a subterranean mass transport device to serve the fair city of New York. Madness, you say? You and the rest of your naysaying ilk can eat humble pie today while witnessing a slide lecture presented by James E. Monsees called "Evolution of Tunneling in New York City." 188 Madison Ave. (34th St.), 212-592-7000, 5:30, free.
Demon of the Derby People often complain about the coarsening and debasing of society. What they haven't taken into account is the diminishing popularity of roller derby, which is like societal coarsening and debasement on wheels. Demon of the Derby, a new documentary about a 71-year-old roller derby queen and her 50-year career of shoving and roller-skating makes the strongest case yet that we need to end civility now. Anthology Film Archives, 32 2nd Ave. (2nd St.), 212-505-5181, 9, $8, $5 st./s.c..
Hula Hoop Beach Party Maybe you missed the memo or were misled by the Arctic temperatures this week, but spring has sprung like a poorly packed Slinky. What better way to get a hop skip and a jump on the season than with Hula hoop lessons? Show up dressed like Tim Robbins in The Hudsucker Proxy, carry a hand-drawn picture of a circle and repeat the phrase "you know, for the kids." Then stay for the sing-alongs, silent auction, snacks and pool party. That's right, we said pool party. Sol Goldman YMCA, 344 E. 14th St. (betw. 1st & 2nd Aves.), 212-780-0800, 10, $10, $25 families, $7.
Thurs. 3/25
The Bad Plus In the post-bop, punkified, power-trio post-modern jazz genre (is there one, outside of these guys?) no one plays faster, funkier and looser with the truth of jiving jump grooves and smart-allecky solos than the Bad Plus. It helps, perhaps, that the all-rhythmic unit (piano, bass, drums) consists of chilly Midwesterners through and through?bruiser white guys who come from Wisconsin and Minnesota. Their hard but hazy esthetic?bassist Reid Anderson, pianist Ethan Iverson, drummer David King?is not the conveniently skronky one of downtown. Their odd-shaped, sharply angled, calamitous jazz-rock has hills and dales that are soft and supple.
This figured neatly into the clutter and calm of These Are the Vistas, wherein Iverson's complicated piano sounds (not just his runs and fills) seem dub-housed, leaving the abstraction of "Silence Is the Question" and nasal covers of Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit" and Blondie's "Heart of Glass" to start a mini-revolution of hype and huzzahs. (Anyone who can make the dirge-dullards' dream of Nirvana sound good is pretty amazing in my book, as I still find Cobain the most overrated songwriter in pop history.)
If Vistas was good and grueling, their new CD, Give, is groovier and goofier?more complex in that they turn funky-drummered covers of songs by the Pixies ("Velouria"), Ornette Coleman ("Street Woman") and Black Sabbath ("Iron Man") into wildly ribald neo-c-c-classical c-c-communication breakdowns and original tunes like "And Here We Test Our Powers of Observation" and "Layin' a Strip for the Higher-Self State Line" into smarmy avant-jazz takes on the dippy-ness of old-school pianists like Tristano and Guaraldi with the cutesiness of 88-key-stroker Ben Folds.
Is this good? Yes. The sometimes-silliness of the Bad Plus lets us know for sure that they're not Medeski, Martin and Wood. Is that bad? Maybe. The sometimes-poe-faced-ness makes us know for sure that they're not Medeski, Martin and Wood. With Craig Taborn.
Bowery Ballroom, 6 Delancey St. (betw. Bowery & Chrystie St.), 212-533-2111, 9, $15.
?A.D. Amorosi
AmBUSHed The main cast of the Chicago City Limits had its work cut out for them last Thursday. The group's new two-act show, amBUSHed, which premiered earlier this month at the Aspen Comedy Festival, is almost entirely audience-driven. Unlucky for the performers, last Thursday's audience was an assortment of uptown retirees and prep-school mall rats?not the most inspirational people to concoct skits around.
But the cast was brilliant, striking the perfect balance between low- and highbrow, high school humor and grandma-friendly jokes (for edgier, lewder comedy, venture further downtown). Indeed, the show's got a little something for everyone. It opens with a song, an improvised variant of Chicago blues based on someone's life in the audience (last week an Irishman in the front row got his life sung back to him). Then it's a medley of sketch, improvisations and monologues, all performed flawlessly by the show's five-person cast. There's political satire mixed with Broadway musical spoofs mixed with a mock game show, redolent of early Second City, in which the audience makes up answers and the contestants make up questions.
Of the cast, Joe DeGise II (also the show's co-director) is the funniest, though the audience favorite was Eugene Cordero. The performers' strong suit is their improv, be it through song or sketch. The humor is well-honed and never forced, and the scenes are always clever, with lots of breaks for audience members to yell out stuff. It must be noted, however, that amBUSHed at times comes across almost as too perfect, too predictable. Sometimes, the screw-ups are the funniest part of sketch comedy, and at Chicago City Limits, the cast is too polished to ever miss a beat, mess up a scene or deviate too far from the norms of improv.
Chicago City Limits Theater, 1105 1st Ave. (61st St.), 212-888-5233, 8, $20.
?Lionel Beehner
Clearlake Thurs., March 25 & Fri., March 26 The last time English rockers Clearlake came to New York City, they had four days to kill before their inaugural show at the CMJ Music Marathon. Like good visitors, they didn't let the occasion go to waste. Lead singer Jason Pegg, when describing their larking about, maintains a stereotypical English reserve, saying little more than "we just went a bit nuts." It's uncertain what "a bit nuts" might entail exactly, but whatever transpired last October, one result of their antics became apparent as soon as they took the stage: Poor Pegg had almost completely lost his voice.
No matter. The foursome took the stage with stern determination and proceeded to systematically implode. Their vibrant momentum?built on a symphonic usage of guitars, keyboards, bass and drums?is tethered together so tightly, one could get motion sickness listening. And Pegg managed to utilize his pummeled pipes to his advantage, allowing their injury to feed into the contracted yet kinetic quality of the band's music. Straining to release the notes became a metaphor for a sound that wrestles internally with its own expansion, like an organism fighting simultaneously for and against its very life.
The comparison also proves apt for the band itself, as they return for a nationwide tour, opening alternately for the Decemberists and Stereolab. Despite the fact that we're living in a post-Coldplay world, it has yet to get any easier to predict what allows a British rock act to triumph on these shores?and whether it's necessary to Americanize one's sound in order to do so. Not that Clearlake are able to exact what sounding American?or for that matter, British?means. Notes Pegg, "For a long time we [would] get, 'Oh my god, this band is so English,'" and Pegg admits that he's never been able to interpret that assessment. Is it that he sings with an accent? That they share a sonic territory with the Doves, Radiohead and mid-career Charlatans UK? Or is it a more deeply seated cultural difference?the English discretion vs. the American brashes, a buttoned-up cool in a land of letting it all hang out?
This tour will provide the band an opportunity to put their audiences?and themselves?to the test. To witness Clearlake is to give in to their magnetism, and it becomes difficult, if not impossible, to hold back with them. If their last trip here is any proof, they'll find it equally hard not to go a bit nuts.
Thurs. at Mercury Lounge, 217 E. Houston St. (betw. Ludlow & Essex Sts.), 212-260-4700, 9:30, sold out.
Fri. at Bowery Ballroom, 6 Delancey St. (betw. Bowery & Chrystie St.), 212-533-2111, 10, sold out.
?Devon Powers
Stone Soup with DJ Scribe and Guests After flying back from this year's Winter Music Conference in Miami, I realized why so many people hate dance music. The images they've had burned into their brains by popular culture are that of muscle-bound, steroid gorillas with glistening spiked hair grinding next to loopy girls with orange skin and too much make-up over a pounding techno soundtrack. Or, perhaps, when the word disco is brought up, they think of John Travolta and the era's most famous club, Studio 54. On some level, these images aren't far off. Bridge-and-tunnel clubs, like Sound Factory and Exit, recently busted for drugs, boast patrons who look like they just left a Staten Island gym.
Mostly, though, white suburban kids have been told that dance music is gay. A lot of hipsters feel the same way?following their Vice bible?and prefer to stand perfectly still at the next indie flavor-of-the-month show. It's ironic, then, that almost all modern music owes a debt to disco. Thugsters have been spittin' their tough rhymes and grindin' baby mamas to sampled disco and funk loops. Just ask P. Diddy. It bought him a mansion out in the Hamptons.
But when I woke up at noon one day while in Miami, I heard a terrible noise coming from the pool at my hotel. Sure enough, there they were, the Europeans, banging away to hard pulsating beats without any melodies or decent instrumentation. Just oontz... ooontz... ooontz... sssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhwwwwhaaaaaaaaa... oontz... oontz... oonntz. This went on for eight hours. I know this because I left, went to the beach, ate lunch, went to another party and returned just in time for the encore, a trance remix of Def Leopard's "Photograph."
Fortunately, the trend of DJs only playing a certain type of music is dissipating. It's reflected in the city's record shops. DJs, who now take up half of Manhattan's population, are starting to rediscover the musicianship behind disco and its many offshoots. Turntable Lab, which started selling break records online five years ago, now deals in everything from hiphop to house to scratchy funk, reggae, dub and classic dance staples. Unlike large chains, the staff acts as a filter for the consumer: "We always carry what we like, and for a moment when we first started, we were in the hiphop and turntablism phase, but as the years passed our taste expanded," says one of the owners, Pete Hahn. They survived the internet bust and built a real store in the East Village.
DanceTracks, too, once the home of house, has begun to expand their selection and make older tracks more available. They'll increase their appeal when they start selling online.
As a record addict, I've always stuck with my wax and all its colorful genres. I'm a uniter, not a divider, and if we all don't dance together and share ideas, indie kids will forever think TV on the Radio was born of nothing. DJ Scribe, who seems to have played with everyone in the city, from Red Alert to Rich Medina, is someone you can trust to get you moving while giving a little education. He's serving up his usual pot of goodies at Stone Soup, at 13 Little Devils, a new intimate spot. He's also really serving soup. Vegetarian. He's the kind of guy you can ask, "Dude, have you heard that Max Sedgley 12-inch called Happy? It's killing floors over in the UK" And he'll probably respond by telling you, yeah, it's on the Italian label Irma and that he had it two months ago.
Big shouts to the crew over at Halcyon, who are closing next month, but promise to open an even better club.
13 Little Devils, 120 Orchard St. (betw. Rivington & Delancey Sts.), 212-420-1355, 10, $5.
?Dan Martino (soulstatik@hotmail.com)
Paul Mooney You've seen him field questions from Dee Snider and prognosticate as Negro-damus on Chappelle's Show. Now's your chance to see cuddly, non-threatening comic Paul Mooney rip it up live. Carolines on Broadway, 1626 B'way (betw. 49th & 50th Sts.), 212-757-4100, 10, $24.50.
Jack Grace This big, mutton-chopped galoot fronts a fiery steel-guitar-driven country band that the New York Times claimed to discover a couple of weeks ago. Like, wow, they actually have country music in New York now! Tell all your friends in Chappaqua! To his credit, Grace generally manages to skirt around the weepy/drunken cliches that so many country acts wallow in. Rodeo Bar, 375 3rd Ave. (27th St.), 212-683-6500, 10, free.
Fri. 3/26
Grunt, Deathpile Don't go looking for lovely melodies or catchy hooks in Williamsburg tonight. The name of the game is noise?screeching, horrific, apocalyptic electronic noise, unfathomable rhythms and guttural howls?as Finland's Grunt, New York's Deathpile and five other migraine-inducing, evil-tempered bands come together to see if they can wake up Satan. It's Grunt's premiere U.S. performance, and black-noise legend Deathpile's last show ever. Be sure and bring your Nietzsche. Thicker than Water, 58 N. 3rd St. (betw. Wythe & Kent Aves.), Williamsburg, 7:30, email viodre@hotmail.com for more info.
Goddesses & Doormats The title of Anie Rexes' new runway collection is somewhat of a misnomer: Don't expect to see a dom in stilettos pulling a horsewhip out of some poor rubber-clad guy's ass crack. It's strictly couture, baby. She'll make you one of your own to order, so size two up, i.e., real women (over 100 lbs. and under six feet), can wear this too. RSVP required. Northside Bank, 33 Grand St. (betw. Wythe & Kent), Williamsburg, res. req., 718-218-0055, 8, free.
Sat. 3/27
Charlie Hunter Trio Although the work of guitarist Charlie Hunter is most often placed into the category of modern jazz, he draws from a musical pool of dizzying variety. He has played in hiphop activist group the Disposable Heroes of Hiphoprisy, studied guitar under Joe Satriani as a youth, played on streetcorners in Europe, twice appeared on Lollapalooza's second stage, put seven albums out on Blue Note (the last of which, Songs from the Analog Playground, featured then up-and-coming Norah Jones as guest vocalist) and one on Les Claypool's Prawn Song label, and kept audiences guessing by changing his band configuration with regularity. Well-known among jamband fans, it's a surprise Hunter doesn't command more alt-hipster cred. (It's probably good that he doesn't.)
Like Medeski, Martin & Wood, Soulive, Drums & Tuba and the Bad Plus, Hunter represents (however indirectly) jazz's evolution in a period in which genre boundaries are practically non-existent, and a sense of experimentation flourishes in spite of the stifling, almost fascist rigidity of radio programming. The son of a mother who lived the traveling hippie lifestyle, Hunter claims not to have worn shoes until the age of eight. His family eventually settled in Berkeley, where he spent most of his life until his 1997 move to the New York area. (He now resides in Montclair, NJ.) Hunter cites the vibrant variety of the Bay Area music scene as a key influence on his own hunger to blend different styles. Even his technique is off-beat: With Hunter's customized eight-string instrument, he plays both guitar and bass lines and sometimes sounds like a Hammond organ too. He is perhaps a little too convincing at this?if you don't pay close enough attention, you'd swear there were two guys playing, and you might not notice the skill involved in the rhythmic counterpoint. Picture Stanley Jordan with four arms, and you might get an idea.
Last year's Right Now Move, a quintet release and his first for Ropeadope Records, adequately conveys Hunter's ability to play jazz smooth, traditional, but somehow not safe. This appearance, though, sees him returning to a trio format, which is how he started his solo career 10 years ago. Though brought on by economics, Hunter appreciates the room that a downsized band allows his playing. Tenor saxophonist John Ellis (no relation to tenor saxist David Ellis, who played on Hunter's Prawn Song debut The Charlie Hunter Trio and the trio's Blue Note follow-up Bing Bing Bing) and drummer Derreck Phillips, holdovers from Right Now Move, both have free rein arrangement-wise and complement Hunter's gradual migration toward restraint. Phillips likes to play softly, and the band as a whole has taken to playing slower, more expansive numbers, which Hunter feels he was not given the creative freedom to do during his tenure at Blue Note. When they get funky, they prefer to evoke familiar grooves rather than play them outright. The trio's recording debut, Friends Seen and Unseen, comes out on Ropeadope in May.
Tonic, 107 Norfolk St. (betw. Delancey & Rivington Sts.), 212-358-7501, 10, $15, $12 adv.
?Saby Reyes-Kulkarni
Raymond Scott Orchestrette Like many of the last century's greatest composers, Raymond Scott remains a valued, record-worthy presence, barely 10 years after his death. Few of those composers can be viewed with the same rigid discipline as Scott. Not only was he a decisive composer and anti-improvisational task-master (strange, as his pulses predict the wildest of avant-jazz rhythms), Scott was innovative in terms of instrumentation (the invention of one of the first synthesizers, the use of electronics and theremins, without the period's usual sense of novelty) and musical theory (the use of lullaby as a serious musical course of endeavor).
Yet, despite his ardent positioning and seriousness, he couldn't stop where his music wound up?in cartoon soundtracks, in comedy bins?alongside daffy entertainers like Spike Jones. The temerity of it. Where did he think wildly time-signatured, brightly brassy, doubled-up cross-cutting melodies named "Peter Tambourine," "Confusion Among a Fleet of Taxicabs Upon Meeting with a Fare," "Dinner Music for a Pack of Hungry Cannibals" and "The Sleepwalker Meets:the Huckleberry Duck in an 18th Century Drawing Room" would wind up?
The violinist-inventor-theoretician who never wrote a note became America's finest and furriest quirkster?a presence in film and newsreel, a constant in Warner Brothers Looney Tunes along with Carl Stalling, one of the first commercial advertising sound-trackers for radio and tv, the creator of an all-electronic studio, its "instruments" (an Ondioline, a Karloff, an Electronium) and the American cousin of "musique concrete." His own difficult listening hours can be found on recently re-released Basta label albums like the long-out-of-print 1960 effort by Raymond Scott and the Secret 7, The Unexpected. While one of Secret's stashes came from the voice-manipulated tones of Scott's second wife, Dorothy Collins, the West Coast-inspired jazz instrumentals have long held their history at bay as to who played them. Now it's revealed: Legends like "Toots" Thielemans, Sam "The Man" Taylor, Kenny Burrell and Elvin Jones are all over Scott's original cool-outs.
What modern band would dare to take on Scott's wild-mouse mood musics, rare orchestral works as well as his electronic chill-outs? The Raymond Scott Orchestrette is who?a hardly copy-cat seven-piece band of avant-jazz greats and klezmatics (pianist Wayne Barker who plays for Dame Edna Everage, electric zither player Brian Dewan, who's played with David Byrne) who've wracked their wrists to play "wickedly idiosyncratic" rearrangements of the Scott repertoire on CDs like Pushbutton Parfait. As part of the Merkin Concert Hall's "Zoom: Composers Close Up" series, RSO will be joined by David Garland (vocalist) and a special preview of Mark Lonergan's theatrical work-in-progress, Powerhouse, based on the mind and muzak of Scott. If you want to hear where guys like Zorn and Elfman caught the fever, start here.
Merkin Concert Hall at Kaufman Center, 129 W. 67th St. (betw. B'way & Amsterdam),
212-501-3330, 8, $25.
?A.D. Amorosi
Tribute Band Challenge Who would win in a fight: a Black Sabbath tribute band or a Doors tribute band? Since it's not a fight between their music, the edge would go to the faux Doors, as a fake Jim Morrison would no doubt kick a fake Ozzy's ass. If you scuttle between the Cutting Room (where the Soft Parade are playing at 8 for $15) and the Continental (where Sabbra Cadabra headlines a $10 show) tonight, you might be able to get a definitive answer. Trashtalk the classic rock mock-ups and play both sides against the middle. Cutting Room, 19 W. 24th St. (betw. B'way & 6th Ave.), 212-691-1900, 8, $15. Continental, 25 3rd Ave. (St. Marks Pl.), 212-529-6924, 12, $5-$10.
Native American Auction Finally, a chance to buy those beads back! The Thunderbirds American Indian Dancers are holding their annual fundraising auction. Items up for grabs include jewelry, pottery and assorted handcrafted items. No word on whether firewater will be served. McBurney YMCA, 122 W. 17th St. (betw. 6th & 7th Aves.), 212-741-8715, 6, free.
Sun. 3/28
Grand Nationals Open Karate Tournament Over the last 20 years, this legendary tournament has graced Studio 54 and Madison Square Garden. This afternoon it makes its debut at Peggy Chau's Fight House in Chelsea. Expect to see some serious martial arts, including world champions and film stars, as well as less vicious women and children competing just for the fun of it. 122 W. 27th St. (betw. 6th & 7th Aves.), 212-807-9202, 10, $30.
Radical Upper West Side walking Tour Do you have difficulty seeing the subversion in latte-wielding mommies, graying lawyers, jogging fraternity brothers and Jerry Seinfeld? That's because you haven't yet spent a revolutionary four hours on the Radical Upper West Side Walking Tour. Alright, so maybe Castro eventually had other matters to attend to, and Chomsky fled to (eerily similar) Cambridge, but both called the neighborhood home at one point. If you're lucky, you'll catch a glimpse of Michael Moore ducking into Starbucks for a mid-afternoon pick-me-up. Meet at the traffic island at B'way betw. 71st & 72nd Sts., 718-492-0069, 1, $10.
Catspaw Every Sunday at about 9, this disheveled Flatbush old-man bar becomes home to a thriving country/Americana scene. Bluegrass aces the New Jack Ramblers (featuring members of Blind Pharaohs and Uncle F*cker) play host to some of the best c&w acts from around town and up and down the ole highway. Tonight's special guests are fiery all-female rockabilly trio Catspaw, playing songs from their bizarrely titled, rambunctious new CD, Ancient Bateyed Wallman. Hank's Saloon, 46 3rd Ave. (Atlantic Ave.), Boerum Hill, 718-625-8003, 9, free.
The Zambonis The Zambonis are a hockey band. Does that mean the drummer wears a Jason mask? If the guitarist screws up, does he have to go sit in the sound booth for a couple of songs? Do they cover Soul Asylum? If they beat each other to a bloody, comatose pulp, is it all considered "just a part of the show?" Is everyone in the band either Czech or Canadian? Just wondering. With