Live Review: Il Sogno Del Marinaio, Paris, France, Oct. 8, 2016


He has wondered whether he is a ball-hog or a tugboat. His first collaborator speculated that he is chalk, a dartboard, that his sex is disease, that he is a stop sign. But his current bandmates simply call him “Il Capitano Watt.”

Legendary bassist Mike Watt is not just a captain but a stylistic seafarer. Long inspired by the giants of other art forms (Dante, Bosch, Joyce) as well as those of his adopted métier (Coltrane, Who, Sonic Youth), Watt navigates from artistic port to artistic port. This son of a navy shipman draws heavily on maritime imagery in his work—he composed his first punk opera (1997’s Contemplating The Engine Room) around the theme of naval life. He refers to the tour van as the boat in which the black gang sails. An anchor pendant dangles from his neck, and an anchor inlay adorns his bass fretboard.

But his present project takes the metaphor 20,000 leagues deeper into the sea.

Il Sogno Del Marinaio (Italian for “the sailor’s dream”) matches Watt with guitarist Stefano Pilia and drummer Andrea Belfi in a combo whose jazzy post-rock charts a fascinating course through both calm and troubled waters. The trio dips into the sonic palette of Watt’s many bands, past and present. One hears the jangly indie punk of the Minutemen and fIREHOSE along with the mathy garage abstractions of the Missingmen.

Tonight, the group performed its Canto Secondo album in its entirety (although not sequentially). The difference between the record and this live performance is analogous to that between gazing up at Géricault’s Le Radeau de la Méduse painting and actually being on a flimsy raft tossed on the waves. The restraint of the studio has been tossed overboard.

The angular stutter rhythms of “Il Sogno del Fienile” evoke the choppiness of a whitewater outing. The chill jazz of “Skinny Cat” feels like a pleasant afternoon of gentle sailing. The breathtaking “Us In Their Land” could be a powerboat racing to shore or a pirate ship capsizing in an angry storm. At times, the listener floats peaceably on the waves and at times is thrown violently against a bulkhead.

At the close of the set, Watt yells to the crowd, “Start your own band!” This tireless collaborator and icon of the DIY ethic encourages one and all to contribute to the millennia-old human conversation that is art.

To his shipmates, Watt is indeed the captain. But to the rest of us, he’s an everyman genius.

—Eric Bensel

Live Review: Hazel, Seattle, WA, Oct. 1, 2016


Nothing screams (or rather, insistently tells you—screaming would just be so rude for Stumptown) “Portland punk” more than the intro to Hazel’s new Tales From The Grease Trap Volume 4 installment on Cavity Search Records—a live document of two typical hometown shows from the band’s 1993 heyday. The first of these—recorded at the legendary-but-tiny X-Ray Cafe, a gig I attended (although I haven’t been able to locate my flannel-and-baseball-capped younger self in the black-and-white cover photo just yet) before splitting for two years in New York City—features an intro from whomever was emceeing that night, imploring the capacity-plus sardine-tight crowd to “respect everyone’s personal space and be good to one another.” Having been born in Long Beach, Calif., and raised on SoCal punk (think—would you expect such sentiment from infamous misanthropes such as Henry Rollins or TSOL’s Jack Grisham?), it took me a while to even consider bands like Hazel, or its running mates Heatmiser, Pond, 30.06, Sprinkler and Crackerbash, even remotely “punk.” They certainly weren’t “grunge.” Mostly what they were was noisy guitar pop, played quickly and loudly in small venues in front of a certain stripe of misfit who hadn’t been a Homecoming King and probably didn’t serve as Student Body President, either. It was all Perfectly Portland and redolent of an era in which record stores were still a hub for fans, radio was still a tool for musical discovery and regional “scenes” like Seattle, Portland, Chapel Hill and Chicago capable of arriving whole-cloth with their own sounds, look and aesthetic. Portland’s was, and to a certain extent remains (even today), “nice.” If perhaps more than a bit left of the dial.

Hazel was one of the standard-bearers of the Portlandia indie-rock scene, back in the day. Leader Pete Krebs had the songwriting chops and all the right relationships (he was tight with the late Elliott Smith but also friendly with just about every other artist instrumental in shaping Portland indie music at the time), openly gay drummer Jody Bleyle was the band’s lifeline to the queercore scene simultaneously brewing in Olympia (she would later go on to join Team Dresch with Donna Dresch and form/lead the Candy Ass label), Brady Smith cut an energetic figure as the band’s bassist, and then there was Fred Nemo, a full band member whose job description (much like Bez from Happy Mondays) was simply “dancer” and who often staked a spot center stage at the band’s gigs, climbing atop equipment, swinging large props around in the air and generally providing non-sequiturs of chaotic activity while the band earnestly pursued its short blasts of jagged pop. Hazel didn’t break up so much as it just stopped playing—an ill-fated European tour saw the band essentially disintegrate on the road—so when Seattle’s Macefield Music Festival (named after the spirit of noted Ballard neighborhood resident Edith Macefield, the Oregon-born real-estate holdout whose tiny home in Seattle formed the basis of the animated feature Up) phoned them to see whether they’d be interested in reforming, all it took was a quick calendar check for all four original members to quickly arrive at “yes.”

Hazel’s first show together in more than two decades came on the second day of the festival, a typically blustery Seattle fall afternoon in which rain came down in buckets for more than half of the group’s outdoor set. But for Hazel’s rabid fans (and new converts) in attendance, the weather could just as easily have been a 110-degree afternoon or a snowstorm for all it mattered. Hazel almost quite literally teleported in from the past—its hourlong set containing songs from both of its Sub Pop albums, Toreador Of Love and Are You Going To Eat That?—with the band betraying little rust or even that any time had passed in the intervening years since sharing a stage together. The group blasted through an ambitious set marked by its double-time pop (“J. Hell,” “Shiva,” “Day Glo,” “Big Fatty,” the baseball-themed “Boog,” “Lazy H” and electric Wipers cover “Tragedy”) and trademark intertwined vocals, with Krebs and Bleyle bouncing off of one another a la John Doe and Exene circa Wild Gift as their songs of relationships, insecurity and resolution resonated just as strongly today as they did back in Portland’s nascent blast-off phase. The band’s core trio sounded lean and tight, while Nemo worked his bizarro-world magic in much the same manner as when I last saw them, balancing full water pitchers atop his head, duct-taping himself to a chair, donning a dress and whipping both mic and landline telephone around like a slightly deranged Roger Daltrey (if Daltrey had been born about a foot taller, with a beard and little sense of rhythm). By the time Hazel wrapped up business with lovely closer “Truly,” its infectious blues had distracted from the fact that the sun was back out, the rain had stopped, and the crowd was totally theirs for the taking.

The band was headed back to Portland for a pair of shows in its hometown, and Krebs is due to be inducted into Oregon’s Music Hall Of Fame (along with Fernando Viciconte and veteran pedal-steel player Paul Brainard) later this month. He has a compilation of his solo work coming out and a new solo record in the hopper as well. I walked away from this show happy to have my old friends back in the fold (if even temporarily) and in such amazingly fine form. Hazel was never one of its era’s most successful bands, but from a purely PDX point of view, it was absolutely one of its best.

—Corey duBrowa

Live Review: Radar Men From The Moon, Paris, France, Sept. 15, 2016


Pants-pissing futurists and backseat philosophers dread the imminent technological singularity for the existential threat it supposedly poses to humanity. We bold, however, say “meh.”

Dutch visionaries Radar Men From The Moon just may be the canary in that post-human coal mine. As recently as 2014’s Strange Wave Galore LP, the all-instrumental quartet engaged largely in gritty space rock. The group restricted its keyboards to sci-fi atmospherics that accented the hard-driving psych metal and timid bleeps that recreated Ms. Pac-Man’s queefs.

But the first two installments of the group’s Subversive triptych rewrite the source code. The synths have commandeered the band’s guidance system, driving the songs forward rather than merely draping them with a frilly overcoat. Guitar, bass and drums are now more measured.

In Paris’ suffocating Espace B club, the controlled experiment plays out with considerably less reserve.

“You Filled the House With Merciless Sand” and “Splendor Of The Wicked,” both rather tame on the new Subversive II record, are tonight punishing attacks of industrial boogie. “Habitual,” from Subversive I, experiments with a feather-light minimalism that flirts with both surf and krautrock. Although played with robotic precision, the songs still feel as if they are performed rather than programmed. The repeated motifs and white-noise squalls do result in a thick drone but not one that is dehumanizing or overly hypnotic. Tony Lathouwers plays a kit composed of electronic and acoustic drums; his sharp snaps intertwine like bionics in flesh, the digital seemingly mocking the analog.

Set highlight “Masked Disobedience” storms with synth dementia and rhythmic fury then swallows itself into a black hole. It is a wailing cluster-fuck of baroque indulgence. Jorge Luis Borges, el Gran Maestro in such (and most) matters, asserted that the baroque represented the death throes of art, the weight of its aesthetic extravagance collapsing in on itself. If—by extension—the hubris of converting all human activity into digital information spells our collective doom, and RMFTM is that first ray peeking over the eastern horizon, then … bring … it … on.

—Eric Bensel

Live Review: The Damned, York, United Kingdom, Aug. 3, 2016


For some, punk is a lifestyle, an ethos. It can even be a social movement, typically one that rejects reactionary forces.

For others, it’s just an excuse for a bit of good, clean fun.

“Did you get urinated on?” Captain Sensible, guitarist for the Damned, is reminiscing about the debauchery of his band’s glory days in the late ’70s. “Are you here to ask for your money back?”

Victims of golden showers or not, fans of this legendary punk band have no grounds for complaint. Among the founding forefathers of punk, the Damned is the most accomplished musically, the most bracing sonically and the most ambitious creatively. Over the course of 40 years, the group has pioneered punk and goth and perfected pop and psychedelia. Tonight’s set opener “Plan 9 Channel 7” exhibits the full breadth of this versatility: The song blends hard rock and goth punk, with Dave Vanian’s smooth vocals bridging the gap to pop bravura.

A long string of unavoidable hits, many plucked from the classic first and third albums (Damned Damned Damned and Machine Gun Etiquette), follows: including “Love Song,” “Second Time Around,” “One Of The Two,” “Fan Club,” “Noise Noise Noise,” “I Just Can’t Be Happy Today,” “Anti-Pope,” “Neat Neat Neat,” an exquisite rendition of “Melody Lee” and, of course, the irresistible “New Rose.” Covers of Barry Ryan’s “Eloise” and Love’s “Alone Again Or,” along with iconic original “Smash It Up,” are touching yet energetic. The execution throughout the evening’s nearly two hours is impressive: tight, powerful and urgent.

Halfway through barnburner “Ignite,” the band silences its instruments and hands the vocals over to the crowd. The pit hungrily a cappellas the “whoa-oh-ho’s” until the musicians take back the baton and sprint to the finish. The moment underscores the band’s generous relationship with its fans. Where the stage once overflowed with piss, it now gushes with comradery and playful banter.

Occasional technical hiccups (false starts, lights/amps winking out) incite Sensible to blame them on the Anti-Nowhere League. With a smile, he then wonders if such boners would occur if the Damned inspired greater respect: “This wouldn’t happen to Paul Fucking Weller, would it?!”

Perhaps not, but broader recognition doesn’t imply greater skill. These original punks never aspired to greatness. They vented their rage while having a laugh. And yet in the end, they created something approaching genius. For a group that once entitled a live album Mindless, Directionless Energy, its career has indeed been full of sound and fury. But it has rarely signified nothing.

—Eric Bensel

Live Review: The Cosmic Dead, Noyades, Paris, France, July 18, 2016


Rockaeologists, their trowels and hand brooms unveiling secrets buried deep within fossilized turntables, have determined that during its mid-’60s origins, psychedelia initially embraced peaceful, colorful expressions of love and mental awakening. Listeners fed their heads, kissed the sky, then broke on through (to the other side).

Today, however, the genre often strives to pummel the senses rather than awaken them. Perhaps the drugs have changed. The times they certainly a-have.

Tonight’s show—held not in a flowery field in sunny California but instead a poorly ventilated coffin on the fringes of Paris—attests to this radical evolution.

Opening act Noyades offers a deliciously violent take on acid rock. One hears Harsh Toke recreating Hüsker Dü’s Land Speed Record and Japanoise merchants reimagining Hawkwind. The band name is French for “drownings”—an apt description of the Lyonnais trio’s sound and its effect on the crowd. All instrumental, the group’s music is a thrilling, white-knuckled ride through thrash-y hardcore and frenzied metal, all awash in feedback, reverb and squalling guitar solos.

While Noyades feels like a mad dash, headliner the Cosmic Dead is a test of endurance. The Glasgow quartet’s free-form space jamming is a warm mush of psych-metal drone. The performance is driving, ferocious and hypnotic. The keyboards lend an experimental krautrock flair, alternately accenting the band’s robust riffing with spacey sound effects and washing it all down with white noise. The payoff is considerable: One is satisfied and spent, deafened and dumbfounded.

Art, at its finest, opens one’s consciousness to new possibilities, broader perspectives. Both bands on tonight’s bill aspired to, and more often than not achieved, this noble goal. Their ancestors from the psychedelic Pleistocene heightened the senses with finesse, while tonight’s performers dulled them with force.

—Eric Bensel

Live Review: Montreal International Jazz Festival


It’s the 37th annual Festival International de Jazz de Montreal. MAGNET’s Mitch Myers translates the action.

Summer greetings from Quebec, Canada. Once again, I’m reporting from the Festival International de Jazz de Montreal. This is the 37th edition of the mammoth music celebration, which is spread over 11 days and nights with more than 350 acts performing on all sorts of stages and venues: indoor and outdoor, paid and free, small and large, day and night. You get the general idea.

I just touched down for a brief visit to the festival, which started on June 29 and runs through Sunday, but in a short time, I found a concentrated dose of sound and lifestyle. The music can range from homegrown to international, vocal to instrumental, mainstream to avant-garde, hardcore jazz to progressive soul, rock, pop, hip hop, blues, world-beat, dance, theatrical and beyond.

On Tuesday evening, I caught an early set by American jazz pianist Kenny Barron, who was honored with the festival’s prestigious Miles Davis Award and hosted three nights of music as part of the fest’s Invitation Series. Barron originally hailed from Philadelphia, back when John Coltrane was still a local wannabe, but he moved to NYC as a teenager, took up with Dizzy Gillespie and evolved into one of the most respected bebop modernists of his time. In classic trio mode with bassist Kiyoshi Kitagawa and drummer Johnathan Blake, Barron played lovely standards, a calypso tune, a Monk composition and some breakneck bebop to boot. These days, Barron is in a class by himself.

From there, I dashed down to the stately Monument-National Theatre to watch Steve Coleman & Five Elements. Coleman, a Chicago-born saxophonist/composer of great renown, led his band of accomplished disciples through a structured set of spontaneous compositions and smart soloing. Coleman has been a leading light in improvised music for decades, and he’s a serious pioneer of concepts and inspiration. At the National, Coleman, trumpeter John Finlayson and guitarist Miles Okazaki played unison lines and etched ruminative instrumental paths over lengthy riffs anchored by bassist Anthony Tidd and drummer Sean Rickman. Heavy stuff, to be sure.

Leaving Coleman’s band before its well-deserved encore, I ran back up the hill to catch Norwegian trumpeter Nils Petter Molvaer. He’s a unique composer/performer, and he played his trumpet through a variety of processed electronic effects, using an atmospheric bed of electro-ambient sounds as his laptop-derived backdrop. Of course, the venue’s light show laid on top of this immersive performance made for a psyche-dreamscape of the highest order. You can’t get much more progressive than Nils Petter Molvaer, and that’s plenty good for me.

Trying to decompress after Molvaer’s presentation, I encountered a free outdoor stage with the dynamic Cambpell Brothers showcasing their wailing trademark of sacred steel guitars. If you’ve never heard of the Campbell Brothers, try to imagine Derek Trucks and Jeff Beck playing twin electric slide guitars at an amped-up church revival prayer meeting. The Campbells were shrewdly invigorating, with their spiritual concept-performance of John Coltrane’s most devout composition, “A Love Supreme.” This was a highflying, supercharged show designed to energize thousands of spectators with booming bass, a big drum solo and loads of screaming guitars jacked up to reach the heavens. Snatches of Sam Cooke’s “A Change Is Gonna Come” filled the air, as did the gospel-derived “Wade In The Water.” Crowd pleasing to say the least, it just goes to show that the Montreal Jazz Festival has a little something for everyone. All you have to do is show up.

Live Review: The Firefly Festival, 2016


Firefly has become the music festival equivalent of Facebook: it used to be just for college kids, and now your parents do it. What was once the strange, frightening realm of 19- and 20-year-olds has evolved into an adult kid/empty-nest-parent bonding experience, like going to a Phillies game. Even Delaware Governor Jack Markell, who’s 55, whooped it up all four days of the fest. “My 20-year-old son gave me a list of bands to check out,” he said to a group of music writers at Friday’s press conference.

This is due in part to the improved infrastructure and amenities, like air-conditioned camping tents and quinoa-slinging food vendors, as well as to the main-streaming of many artists through Buick commercials and social media, and to the explosion of music festivals in general. The event’s meteoric rise over the past five years has attracted attention too. If 90,000 people go to it, it must be good, right?

Noting the increasing popularity of the festival and the fact that it seems to rain on the third weekend of June every year, I tried planning ahead after the conclusion of Firefly 2015. Since I just crossed the 30 mark and couldn’t bear the thought of sleeping in a squishy tent, I was determined to find a hotel room for Firefly 2016 where I could keep my belongings mud-free and eat miniature boxes of Fruit Loops at the free continental breakfast each morning. When I tried booking a Dover hotel room the Monday after Firefly 2015 for 362 days out, I found all rooms booked within a 30-mile radius. And the actual dates for 2016 hadn’t been officially announced yet. Clearly, the festival is not just a scene for VW-bus driving, shower-shunning, broke college kids anymore.

Like everyone else planning to be at Firefly, I refreshed five times a day during the week leading up to the event. Based on the forecast, I started wondering where I put my poncho from last year. As it turned out, a soggy Thursday night gave way to blue skies and sunshine, low humidity and breezy nights for the remaining days of Firefly, much to the relief of attendees and organizers. All dread that crackling loudspeaker announcing that the rest of the acts have been cancelled for the day due to impending storms, leading to a stampede to the exits and confused, drunk people frantically stumbling around trying to find their friends.

As I walked through the parking lot to the Woodlands on Friday, I witnessed the now-familiar sight of festival-goers streaming over the highway overpass bridge, cars and trucks honking cheerfully as they drove underneath, and planes towing signs for Trojan Groove condoms flying overhead. Adults and teenagers with turtle backpacks, melting body paint, tiny ripped shorts and bandanas were chattering excitedly about the artists they wanted to check out as the musty smell of trampled grass and pot smoke wafted through the sweaty bodies.

Every year, festival organizer Red Frog Events adds new, fun features. This year was no different. After finally making it through the security line, I walked past art installations and photos of Fireflies past. I also noticed that, even though it had rained the night before, a muddy bog didn’t swallow my shoes like in prior years. Since Firefly has established itself as a staple in the Dover, Del., community, permanent infrastructure improvements have been made, including drainage, new pathways and roadways, and two stages, the Coffee House and The Treehouse.

I wandered over to the Coffee House, which was a magical combination of college-campus bar, indie record store and urban-park picnic area. A rotation of smaller acts played throughout the day among lots of chalkboard artwork and several local roasters selling hot java, iced coffee and muffins. The quirky stage reminded me of Tiny House Hunters, with its trapezoid roof and natural wood shingles. During the time I was there, up-and-coming dance-rock duo Powers put the espresso to good use, energizing the crowd with spunky singles like “Beat of My Drum,” which has been featured in Taco Bell promotions.

Across the grounds at the main stage, neo-soul ensemble Fitz And The Tantrums succeeded in tiring everyone out from dancing even before the headliners performed. The six-piece group from Los Angeles played multiple songs off its just-released self-titled album, as well as hits like “Moneygrabber” and “More Than Just A Dream.” To watch this band is to witness masters at their craft, like watching a basketball team where every player is named LeBron James.

As the weekend progressed, it became clear that Firefly was about more than just the music. Festival-goers let their colors fly—literally. The recent event in Orlando compelled many to show their patriotism and support for the LGBT community. Dozens of rainbow and American flags were hoisted, and colorful stickers, scarves and full-body suits were worn proudly. One guy carried around a giant rainbow-striped cutout of a penis with a Go-Pro nestled inside, presumably to record others’ reactions. Most people gave him a thumbs-up and shouts of encouragement.

On Saturday, Firefly veterans Chvrches took to the main stage in front of thousands of happy, burnt faces. “We played here a few years ago at a much smaller stage,” keyboardist Martin Doherty said, acknowledging the band’s rise in popularity. The Glasgow synth-pop trio, led by the diminutive Lauren Mayberry, played favorites like “The Mother We Share” as well as more recent tracks off of last year’s Every Open Eye. Wearing an ivory, billowing skirt, Mayberry floated around stage as her honey-sweet voice soared over the crowd, juxtaposed with the thudding bass and synth behind her.

Death Cab For Cutie, which headlined Saturday evening, has been delighting indie-rock lovers for almost two decades, releasing eight studio albums and multiple EPs, not to mention frontman Ben Gibbard’s cul-classic collaboration the Postal Service. Over that period of time, Death Cab has garnered critical accolades and commercial success, including multiple Grammy nominations. Despite the fact that its demographic has greyed, hipsters still love Death Cab. These guys’ pleasant and unique brand of pop transcends generations, which is why they’re still enjoying success. This was evident at their well-attended performance at Firefly. As they progressed through their 75-minute set, I was amazed at just how many hits they have produced over the years. “Soul Meets Body,” “Photo Booth,” “I Will Possess Your Heart” … the list goes on. As if to highlight the influence they have over the indie-rock world, Chvrches’Mayberry lent her voice during a cameo in one of their songs. Death Cab punctuated their act with the reverberating, tidal “Trasatlanticism.”

By Sunday afternoon, crowds had thinned a bit, as people began to realize they had to work on Monday and felt the effects of three days of day drinking $12 Bud Lights under an unrelenting sun. While energizing a weary bunch of festival-goers might be a daunting task for some acts, Grouplove was up to the task. Co-lead singer Hannah Hooper bounded onstage in a Poison Ivy-meets-Kurt Cobain ensemble, wearing a tight green body suit with a flannel shirt wrapped around her waist. Vocalist/guitarist Christian Zucconi flanked her, sporting black Converse and a red Hugh Hefner robe. As the band churned out songs like “Shark Attack” and “Tongue Tied,” Zucconi crowd surfed, then threw his guitar six feet in the air and deftly caught it. Both singers darted back and forth onstage like monkeys on Adderall, inciting the crowd to jump and dance.

As the sun began to sink behind the tree line, rekindled punk-pop band Blink-182’s performance transported me back to the days of Total Request Live with Carson Daly, and of being dropped off at Warped Tour by my mom, decked out in tube socks, Vans and a studded belt. Though it’s amusing to listen to 40-year-olds play songs about the angst of youth, they were still entertaining, playing old classics like “What’s My Age Again” and bantering onstage with each other and the crowd.

Just like Facebook has been ingrained into our modern-day social fabric, so too has Firefly become woven into the fabric of Delaware and of the early summers of so many music lovers, young and old. It’s become a place where people can express themselves with swirling body paint and statement attire, and to connect with others through music, whether that’s the stranger next to you at Mumford & Sons, or Dad. It’s also where you can unapologetically revel in nostalgia, no matter if you are remembering your golden years via Earth Wind And Fire or Ludacris. It’s for everyone now. Which means when I’m finished writing this, I’m immediately heading over to and booking my room for next year.

—Maureen Coulter; photos by Theo Wargo of Getty Images


Live Review: Papier Tigre, Paris, France, May 12, 2016


A pantomime horse will not gallop with grace. A Papier Tigre, on the other hand, makes an admirable show of it.

Indeed, disparate parts—be they intended for absurd theatrics or musical compositions—tend to fit together awkwardly. But this post-punk trio from Nantes, France, deconstructs, then reassembles, the rock song to pleasing effect. Imagine a cubist painting set to music. The two guitars and drums conjoin, not clunkily, but Lego-like. One hears each element, each player’s individual contribution, distinctly.

Live, the distinctions are even more pronounced. Seeing Papier Tigre perform is like witnessing Dr. Frankenstein assemble his monster from pilfered limbs. Jagged riffs and sharp, percussive snaps segue into playful, even dance-y refrains. What the Fugazi-esque “Health And Insurance” lacks in cathartic release, it compensates for in the richness of its creativity and the urgency of its dynamics. The band’s precise, layered math rock recalls the soaring emo of Dischord’s most urgent acts and the restless experimentation of Thrill Jockey’s least unlistenable.

A stark exception to the group’s eclecticism is the crunchy minimalism of the nine-minute “A Matter Of Minutes.” Guitarists Eric Pasquereau and Arthur de La Grandière huddle around Pierre-Antoine Parois’ drum kit, and the trio hammers out a repetitive motif that is more Shellac than Don Cab.

This stylistic digression underscores the diversity in their sound. Art punk is a colorful marketplace of ideas, and this band wanders among its stalls with hungry ears and sticky fingers.

Towards the end of the set, Pasquereau busts his high E and then—to entertain the crowd while he restrings—relates an anecdote. Two Tinder users had apparently “liked” one another because their profiles both declared an appreciation for Papier Tigre.

Not exactly music you’d fuck to, but disparate parts can indeed fit together … to pleasing effect.

—Eric Bensel