Live Review: Glowsun, Lille, France, Jan. 16, 2016


If potheads didn’t exist, it would be necessary to invent them. Who else would have found a treatment for glaucoma?

But one mustn’t paint with broad brushes when describing a social group. Stoner-rock groups, for example, typically try to stupefy or pummel, whereas Glowsun focuses on setting a mood.

At the start of tonight’s set, drummer Fabrice Cornille carefully places a lit stick of incense at the edge of the stage. A fog of dry ice billows into the crowd like a cottony tsunami in slo-mo. Were it not for the long and narrow dance floor in this houseboat-cum-concert hall named La Péniche, one would think it was late at night in a freshman’s dorm room. A tension, so palpable that you could clip it with a roach, has been firmly established.

Glowsun accompanies the mood perfectly. Guitarist Johan Jaccob and bassist Ronan Chiron pluck out the slow, hypnotic opening lines of “Death’s Face” to conjure a soft eeriness; wind chimes and a light play of cymbals accent it, then a riff builds into a vigorous gallop. In fact, most of Glowsun’s work alternates between establishing a creepy vibe and setting that vibe ablaze.

The band’s latest album, Beyond The Wall Of Time, is a major step forward for the French trio. With greater melodic diversity, more prominent drums, a wider sonic palette and a more adept hand at arrangements, the LP adds a polish that enhances the power. For the most part, the song remains the same, but now it’s more expertly executed.

Stripped of the studio noodling, the band delivers an impressively muscular performance live. Although squarely within the realm of stoner metal, Glowsun dials down the doom. And where Harsh Toke chases the exhilarating rush of turbo psychedelia and Earthless that of jam-band freakouts, Glowsun is more controlled. Riffs thump and rhythms thunder, but the group favors the undeniably satisfying payoff of structured compositions built on a strong central motif.

The band cherry-picks from the best of its predecessors: “Dragon Witch” (Acid King brawling with Soundgarden), “Arrow Of Time” (the Melvins fêting Pink Floyd … again) and “Barbarella” (Black Sabbath scoring a porn soundtrack). The external influences are honored, but here in Lille the boys in Glowsun are treated as hometown heroes. The audience reaction tonight is enthusiastic and playful. With the close of the set, the revelers chant the band’s name, howling their pleasure over the power chord thuds to the gut and the stomach-churning rollercoaster of tempo changes.

Fortunately, everyone had on hand the perfect remedy for nausea.

—Eric Bensel

Live Review: NYC Winter Jazz Fest 2016


The 12th annual NYC Winter Jazz Fest is this week, with most of the action happening in Greenwich Village via a marathon series of showcases with more than 100 acts and a dozen different venues. The fest has grown steadily since its inception, and the organized quality of this art extravaganza now draws music seekers young and old with an appetite for cultural experience and a varying interest in jazz. To curate well is the key, and the organizers of the WJF seem to have that part figured out pretty well.

Among many events presented at the WJF are two full nights devoted ECM Records, the European record label guided by Manfred Eicher that’s been presenting improvised music for more than 40 years. While its back catalogue includes countless classic LPs by the likes of Keith Jarrett, Chick Corea and the Art Ensemble Of Chicago, ECM has managed to stay up to date and it’s current roster consists of many notable musicians. Friday night’s ECM presentation included the celebrated Vijay Iyer Trio, keyboard whiz Craig Taborn solo (and in trio), and Israeli trumpeter Avishai Cohen’s current quartet.

Veteran guitar genius David Torn opened the ECM evening, performing an atmospheric solo set that was introspective and inspiring. Torn has been an ECM artist for more than 20 years and is an adventurous musical spirit with focused concentration. Working an electronic gizmo that processed a maelstrom of sound, Torn didn’t even touch the strings of his guitar for the early minutes of his showcase. Twisting knobs and working an array of foot pedals, he played a lengthy instrumental before explaining to the audience, “That was a song about clocks.” It’s not often that I get to reference musique concrète and a whammy bar in the same sentence, but that’s David Torn.

The Mark Turner Quartet followed Torn’s performance, and saxophonist Turner led his evocative jazz band through a set of new compositions as well as material from their 2014 ECM release Lathe Of Heaven. Accompanying Turner was ECM stable-mate Avishai Cohen, bassist Joe Morton and the amazing Marcus Gilmore on drums. As ever, Turner is one to watch.

Meanwhile, over at (le) Poisson Rouge (on Bleecker Street), the Sex Mob celebrated itself and 20 years of canny improvisation, clever humor and cover tunes that you know and love. Led by slide trumpeter/master of ceremonies Steven Bernstein, the Mob titillated the crowd with their unique New York values and muscular musicianship. Drummer Kenny Wollesen was amazing, and his rhythm partner Tony Scherr was rock solid, while altoist Briggan Krauss was a perfect counterpoint to Bernstein’s outlandish trumpet stylings. WJF organizer Adam Schatz presented the band by saying, “Sex Mob makes every day like a Bar Mitzvah.” How can one argue with that? Brooklyn’s own party-hearty Red Baraat followed the Sex Mob set, bringing their North Indian Bhangra/rock/jazz/funk concoction to a roomful of appreciative, dancing converts.

Another standout who must be mentioned is keyboardist Marc Cary’s Indigenous People, who played at the New School Jazz venue on West 13th. Blending electronic keyboards with a front line of horns, reeds, violin and vocalist as well as a rhythm section featuring one drummer and two bassists, Cary led his diverse group through an ecstatic set of original compositions, as well as an adaptation of poet Langston Hughes’ immortal poem, “Harlem (A Dream Deferred)” that had the crowd mesmerized and moving. Add to all this a surprise special show featuring the contemporary jazz trio, the Bad Plus, and you know the 2016 NYC WJF is already being considered a total success. Stay tuned.

—Mitch Myers

Live Review: Pneu, Paris, France, Nov. 29, 2015


The greatest fear at a rock show used to be a wayward elbow in the mosh pit or, at worst, a group of skinheads itching for a fight. Now, you have to worry about goddamn terrorists with Kalashnikovs and suicide vests.

Just two harrowing weeks ago, a coordinated team of dickless bullies murdered 130 people here in Paris, including nearly 90 concert goers at the Bataclan club. How should civilized people react to such barbarism?

Antonin Artaud wrote that no one has ever painted, sculpted or invented for any objective other than to forge a path out of hell. So perhaps we should fight fire not with fire, but with art.

Tonight, in this reeling city, Pneu takes its cue from Artaud and responds to the spray of bullets with a spray of notes. This inventive spazzcore duo from Tours, France—one-fourth of the rock collective La Colonie de Vacances—conjures sonic razor blades flying about in a blender, but choreographed down the most minute slice.

Pneu is math rock that doesn’t bother to carry the one. The all-instrumental, guitar/drums combo starts and stops on a centime, but—while the music is tightly controlled and precise—the primary goal is the euphoria of unbridled expression. Speed metal, noise, hardcore and occasionally stoner sludge converge in a chaotic thrill ride. Wisely, the fracas never descends into cacophonous skronk.

Yes, “Grill Your Eyes” is attention deficit disorder plugged into a Marshall stack, an indiscriminant spunk splatter of cymbal crashes, snare snaps and hardcore riffing. But the deliberate “Gin Tonique Abordable,” which owes much to the middle break in Nirvana’s “Drain You,” builds with the patience of a slowly boiling kettle. Eventually, it delivers a satisfying payoff that depletes the listener as much as it does the musicians.

In fact, Pneu sets up its gear in a way to maximize this communion with its audience. Inspired by kindred spirit Lightning Bolt, the duo places its equipment in the center of the dance floor, wordlessly inviting the audience to form a huddle. The intent is clear: the pair removes the barrier separating performers from spectators, to ride the rollercoaster side-by-side, to share in the rush.

Fans are packed in so close they can smell the musicians’ sweat and ache with their fatigue. The venue is pitch-black, save for an upward-pointing spotlight beneath the drum kit. The vibe is that of a group of friends snuggling around a campfire, telling horror stories.

But Paris has had its fill of horror recently. Tonight, the miracle of artistic creation delivered us from evil.


—Eric Bensel

Live Review: Jon Spencer Blues Explosion, Paris, France, Nov. 4, 2015


Kids today care as much about the blues as Fox News does about the blacks.

The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion was therefore lucky to have emerged in the big-tent ’90s, when audiences would embrace both unhinged experimentation (example: metal/rap hybrids, electronica) and unabashed retro (swing revival), when the melodramatically earnest (emo punk) could thrive alongside ironi-rock (Beck). And all of it was considered “alternative.”

JSBX embodied much, if not all, of the above.

But more than 20 years after the trio first dragged punk kicking and puking into the Delta, the blues are no longer de rigueur. Even torch bearers the White Stripes, for whom Spencer and Co. paved the way by bestowing hipster cred to the genre, have disbanded. Fortunately, there are bands whose careers outlive their genre’s shelf-life. And there are clubs for them to play in that embrace both the quaint and the avant-garde.

The venue for tonight’s show, Paris’ La Gaîté lyrique, is a self-described cultural crossroads for the digital era. It features a grandiose façade worthy of a Loire Valley chateau, yet the interior is fitted with touch screens and Tron décor.

An appropriate choice for the gig, since JSBX has always had one foot in the cotton field and one in the arcade room. 
The trio opens with “Betty Vs The NYPD”: a high-energy number that encapsulates much of the Spencer ethos. The song is raucous, chest-beating, and cartoonishly sincere. Many more such tunes from the band’s latest LP, Freedom Tower—No Wave Dance Party 2015, follow: “Funeral,” “Do The Get Down,” “White Jesus,” “Tales Of Old New York: The Rock Box” and a deliciously sharp rendition of “Wax Dummy.”

Blues purists may whine that Spencer’s shtick (I lost count of the number of times he yelled his trademark non-sequitur “Blues Explosion!!” between and within songs) is flippant, sarcastic, and blasphemous. Sure, the group has added rap, electronic knob-twiddling and even a goddamn theremin to its arsenal, but it has actually done a great service to the blues. It honors the genre by reimagining it in its own image, filtering the blues of its self-indulgent soul-searching yet retaining the beauty of its raw passion. You only imitate what you love.

Late in the show, Spencer finishes his theremin hand jive (writhing and gesticulating like he’s feeling up the Invisible Woman) and heads back to the mic. He channels the late, great James Brown, dramatically tossing off a towel draped over his shoulders by a stage hand, in an obvious riff on the Godfather of Soul’s famous “cape act.” Now, as then, it is all a bit of fun. Energy, emotion—entertainment.

More than 350 years ago in this very town, French playwright Molière wrote, “I wonder if the main rule above all other rules isn’t simply to please.” JSBX exemplifies this rule. The blues are traditionally a vehicle to vent pain, but—fuck, the genre came up with one sexy groove.

So quitcha bitchin’, and just shake ya ass.

—Eric Bensel

Live Review: Grimes, Seattle, WA, Oct. 28, 2015


It’s almost Halloween, and so far, fall 2015 has turned into the Season of the Witch(house); Grimes’ time to shine as the world readies itself for her first full-length in three years, a much-anticipated Event Release in a year chock full of them.

And so, the Big Questions spill forth:

Will any of the early singles (which Grimes—nee Claire Boucher—herself has discredited to some extent, saying that early versions of the record which may or may not have included songs such as polarizing EDM track “Go” either “sucked” or were “depressing”) be included on her fourth/forthcoming album, Art Angels (4AD)? Or would it be a separate affair, governed only by Grimes’ unerring ear and instinct for the zeitgeist and, more to the point, whatever she was feeling artistically at the moment it was being recorded?

Would high-profile personality profiles of the sort penned by the New Yorker or New York Times truly capture the dilemma she was facing—an artist with something to say, at the top of her game, trying to make the most of her Pinnacle Moment to transform from DIY noise-art kid to fully-formed pop artist, albeit one with a mean eccentric streak—or would they simply create more hype than could possibly be delivered? (Or worse yet, play to all the time-honored pop-music clichés and diminish her immense potential by pushing her forward as merely the latest from Central Casting to do battle with the Biz Borg.)

And what’s with all this much-balleyhooed focus on “IRL” instrumentation, as signaled by the guitars that form the churning analog bed beneath the album’s insanely catchy first single, “Flesh Without Blood?”

You want to root for her. But it’s unclear whether rooting for her means that an altogether individual work such as 2012’s “Oblivion” makes it to the top of something like Pitchfork’s “200 Best Tracks Of The Decade So Far” (perhaps the most pop-sounding composition about a harrowing brush with sexual assault ever recorded), or if Going for Grimes is more akin to wishing her an unexpected, lightning-strike hit single that grants her a lifetime’s worth of artistic and economic independence?

A world of false choices.

One sure way to tell whether any of this teapot tempest is real or not is to watch the artist experiencing just such a period play live. That way, you can draw your own totally subjective conclusion (free from the bothersome influence of the media or the mosquito-hum nudging of the internets to color your view): Can she deliver the goods onstage, or no?

Last night’s show here in Seattle—one of the first dates on her Rhinestone Cowgirls tour, in support of the new LP—went quite some way in affirming her myriad gifts with a shouty “Hells, yes.” This version of Boucher’s alter ego bears a strong resemblance to the one I saw in NYC a few years ago, but with some key evolutionary signifiers: This one has dancers, fierce grrls dressed in flight suits bumping and grinding in a somewhat coordinated fashion, but not one that you’d confuse with the Hollywood polish of Left Shark vs. Right Shark. This Grimes will proudly tell you, in her totally discombobulated but charming between-song banter (littered with f-bombs, contradictions and self-deprecating asides), that she is “proud” to play “Go” and “Phone Sex,” songs she created in partnership with her red-hot producer friend/fellow Canadian Mike “Blood Diamonds” Diamond. Today’s iteration is totally OK giggling to a packed house that she “hit the wrong button” in firing up her onstage rig just prior to rebooting “Oblivion,” then killing it with a degree of execution her live show hasn’t really demonstrated before.

In other words, Grimes is a work in progress. A glorious mess. An artist who reminds me as much of people like Prince or even Michael Stipe—bloody-minded independents not given to explaining themselves or their art, creating aural moodboards with the same passion and determination as their radio-ready pop—as she does Bikini Kill, Joanna Newsom or any of the other points of reference that are frequently mentioned in the same breath as Boucher.

Watching her bounce around onstage at the Showbox last night was somewhat akin to watching age-group soccer – the ball flies off in one direction, and 20 kids tear after it, more thrilled and focused on the chase than on any sort of game-winning strategy. This is Grimes, writ large – an artist so enamored of the sound, of the pursuit of what she’s hearing in her head, that any attempt to channel her art into something “au courant” or explainable to anyone other than Boucher is to kill the spirit of it, utterly. From her opening track – “Circumambient,” one of the highlights from 2012’s Oblivion – to new cuts getting worked out right before our eyes such as “Venus Fly” and “Kill vs. Maim” (her “encore” that wasn’t really an encore because leaving and coming back onstage “just feels fake, right?”), Grimes is in charge of this shit. Even if (and especially when) she isn’t, exactly.

I, for one, can’t wait to see how she develops. It’s not going to fit into anyone’s preconceived notions of greatness for her. Boucher is going to follow her muse down a flurry of one-way streets, dead ends, and rock-strewn roads. And we’re still gonna dig the hell out of it every step of the way.

—Corey duBrowa

Live Review: Raw Power (A Tribute To Iggy And The Stooges), Seattle, WA, Aug. 23, 2015


“Radio burnin’ up above/Beautiful baby, feed my love.” (“1970”)

Wither thou, radio?

You used to be something magical—the original wireless, a transmission from the satellite heart that filled our ears with static, speech and song.

Then you were replaced by the internet—what with all of its torrents, dark-web dumps, “free” this and that, and LOLcats—and suddenly you struck us as antiquated. Less relevant. Quaint, even. “Stuff dad used to prattle on about.”

Thankfully for humanity, institutions such as Seattle’s KEXP-FM still exist: community-supported radio stations free of playlists, payola, robo-DJs and corporate influence. And in an effort for one of our nation’s last remaining bastions of “all music, errywhere” to remain proudly on its own two feet (sort of like radio antennae ears, upside-down), KEXP is relocating to new digs that will sustain the station well into the future and, in doing so, has sponsored a series of benefit gigs intended to raise the capital required to free itself of the few links that still tether it to something as trifling (yet, real) as a “rent payment.” Wilco recently came to town and added a night to its touring itinerary for the sole purpose of raising some of the funds still required to complete the station’s new home. So on this night, four Jet City music heroes lent their capabilities to the cause by playing a one-off gig whose proceeds (private afterparties, etc.) will facilitate moving the station into what will become its permanent site in Seattle Center in 2016.

Mark Arm (Mudhoney shouter and bemused cynic for all seasons), Barrett Martin (Screaming Trees, Skin Yard, Mad Season, Tuatara), Mike McCready (energetic Pearl Jam six-string slinger/Hendrix channeler) and Duff McKagan (former Guns n’ Roses and Velvet Revolver bassist, but more relevantly for Seattleites, ex-Fastbacks drummer and hilarious if only sporadic columnist) spent a hazy summer evening up on the roof of the iconic Pike Place Market making one helluva racket, channeling the angst, anger and aggression of prime Iggy And The Stooges while an appreciative (free) audience of 9,000 grunge holdouts, indie kids, rock n’ roll survivors and tourist types looked on at the spectacle as though it were either a miracle beamed down from above, or final validation of Martians walking among us.

Which—either way you look at it—is what winning looks like in 2015.

McCready essentially bootstrapped the quartet and gave it its musical direction, telling local journos that he had first discovered the Igster at a 1982 party he had attended in which members of Green River (hence, Arm) had been present. “’Search And Destroy’ had the meanest-sounding lead in it. ‘I’m a street-walking cheetah with a heart full of napalm/I’m a runaway son of the nuclear A-bomb!’ Those lyrics say it all about why I love this record!” So: enthusiasm, sloppiness and sheer manic energy were clearly meant to be the order of the day, and on that score, Raw Power delivered in just about every way imaginable.

Perhaps the coolest part of the event was how non-obvious the entire thing was. The Raw Power quartet had a mere four rehearsals under its belt by the time the gig rolled around, and even though bands that the individual members have played in have covered the Stooges before (G’nR raced through a reckless version of “Raw Power;” Mudhoney has messily covered “I Wanna Be Your Dog;” Pearl Jam has taken a turn on “Search And Destroy”), the setlist for the evening was far from a “bust out Iggy’s fan favorites” affair. After opening with a guttersnipe take on “Little Doll” (McKagan taking center stage in a pair of aviator shades and a “In Memory Of I Don’t Remember” black tank top), the band segued quickly into “TV Eye,” “I’ve Got A Right” (with McCready switching from his tortured vintage Strat to a Johnny Thunders-esque double-cut Les Paul Jr., wah-wah’ed into infinity) and a downright sleazy version of “I Need Somebody,” with Arm hilariously/profanely recalling the fuzzy details around how the entire gig was assembled. The four then quickly raced through the rest of their set: “Down On The Street,” “Search And Destroy,” and a killer version of “Loose” to close things out. It was a short, sharp shock to the heart of Seattle, with the patient living to tell the tale over drinks at the bar afterward.

No “I Wanna Be Your Dog.” No “1969.” No “No Fun.” Not even “Raw Power,” ironically enough. Just the Stoogemusic the band loves best, played as loudly and forcefully as possible, kicking out the jams for Seatown’s faithful high above the fishmongers.

The artist known to Ann Arbor, Mich., as James Osterberg, Jr. wouldn’t actually have a close brush with radio until much later in his career (via “Lust For Life” and his pal David Bowie’s take on the Iggy-penned “China Girl,” which finally secured his financial future if not exactly his mental stability); the Stooges were all about proto-punk, a slobbering, drooling mess of a band that would set the stage for the New York Dolls, the entire downtown CBGB scene and the London punk wave that followed, who were all equally inspired by the Stooges’ unique blend of atonal skronk (think: Coltrane’s weirder flights of fancy) and their raw, unschooled barre chords played at max volume through a slippery wah filter. It was a seminal sound but one that radio wouldn’t come anywhere near at the time of its creation—that moment would have to wait for bands like Nirvana to make viable two decades later.

I can’t help but think that a guy who established his bona fides by more or less inventing stage diving, or carving up his bare chest and bleeding on his audience, would have appreciated four fans bringing Seatown traffic to a standstill for an hour by generating a tornado of noise. Turn up the radio, y’all.

—Corey duBrowa

Live Review: Modest Mouse, Bethlehem, PA, July 20, 2015


Driving into Bethlehem, I asked a buddy of mine what he thought we could expect out of Modest Mouse’s live performance, to which he simply responded, “I have no idea, man.” This response wasn’t due to any sort of dislike toward the band, rather the uncertainty that seems to surround them. Between issuing Strangers To Ourselves (the band’s first release in seven years) to very mixed reviews, to hardly ever touring, to their live performances typically being met with either praise or scrutiny, it’s difficult to know what to expect out of Modest Mouse these days. There was no way we could have known that we were about to witness Isaac Brock play his guitar with his teeth for nearly five minutes, or accidentally incite a physical altercation among fans. Because here’s the thing that makes Modest Mouse so wonderful; they’re totally unpredictable.

And so we arrived at the Bethlehem Steel Stacks as two devout Modest Mouse fans, without a clue whether we should be overrun with excitement or worried about being let down.

Before digging deeper into Modest Mouse’s performance, I think it’s important to talk a bit about last night’s opening act, Gene Ween. You know how a lot of times you go to a show and the conversation you’re having with your friends about where you are going to drink this upcoming weekend is far more compelling than the opening act themselves? This wasn’t that kind of show. Former Ween vocalist Aaron Freeman and his band had the crowd’s utmost attention through the entirety of their 45 minute set. His interaction with the crowd was met with plenty of laughter throughout the set’s entirety, most notably after making the statement, “This song is about vagina. Unshaved vagina, that is.” before going into fan favorite “Black Bush.” All in all, Freeman provided a more than solid opening act, which had the crowd dancing, laughing and singing along the whole time. Not an easy feat when opening for Modest Mouse.

It was directly after Freeman’s performance that I noticed something strange. I started looking around at the people in the crowd waiting to see Modest Mouse and I realized how diverse it was. Standing to the left of me was a middle-aged couple, maybe in their 50s, accompanied by no children. To the right of me was a man covered head to toe in tattoos with quite possibly the largest gauges I’ve ever seen in any one’s ears, consistently smoking his vaporizer every minute or so. Behind me there were a group of, uh, let’s call them “college bros” wearing tank tops, khaki shorts and backward baseball caps. A few rows in front of me was an older gentleman carrying his Mohawk-haired toddler on his shoulders. This crowd diversity quickly made me realize that I was about to witness something really, really special.

That’s when Modest Mouse stepped onstage to an overwhelming wall of cheering and shouting.

“Hey, we’re the band tonight. Wait, wait, that can’t be right. I think you’re the band tonight?’ muttered frontman Isaac Brock while pointing into the crowd. After taking a sip from his beer he quickly corrected himself, smiling while pointing out the obvious, “Nope, never mind. I had it right the first time. We’re the band tonight.”

Not surprisingly, the band began their hefty two-hour set with a few songs off Strangers To Ourselves, which, also not surprisingly, were received with a bit of a mixed response. Sure, people were dancing and enjoying themselves, but it wasn’t until the fourth song in that Brock’s voice was entirely drowned out by a sea of fans screaming his lyrics back at him. “OK, so, we’re gonna play an older one now if that’s all right.” said Brock with a grin on his face like he knew the overwhelming response he was about to receive. As the band began to play “Out Of Gas,” it was clear that it was a turning point for the rest of the set.

The nearly 20-year-old singalong “Out Of Gas” was followed by several other fan favorites, including “Dashboard” and “Bukowski,” to name a couple, both of which were performed beautifully by the nine multi-instrumentalists making up Modest Mouse’s live band. Although having only two original band members left (Brock on guitar and Jeremiah Green on drums), the seven other musicians accompanying the stage (including Brock’s girlfiend Lisa Molinaro on violin) only added to the band’s live performance. Not only was the stage crowded with fantastic musicians, but a plethora of instruments such as trumpets, trombones, a cello, two sets of drums, a synthesizer and a banjo to name a few. It seemed as though every song had the musicians onstage playing a different instrument, making every song all the more pleasurable to watch.

If we’re talking about musicianship we need to talk about Brock. The man is fucking amazing. For all the qualms people have regarding his vocals, there is absolutely no taking away his ability to absolutely shred on guitar. During classic “Doin’ The Cockroach,” Brock began screaming lyrics into his guitar as he was playing. Now, I’ve seen musicians do that before, and while not entirely original, it’s always great to watch. What came next, however, I had never seen. Brock began a scratchy guitar solo, lasting nearly five minutes, the majority of which was played with his teeth. Yes, you read that right. Isaac Brock played his guitar with his teeth for nearly five minutes, and it was nothing short of amazing.

About three-quarters of the way into the set came the highlight of the entire show. The band played “The World At Large,” “Night On The Sun” and mega-hit “Float On” back to back to back. An argument can be made for each of these songs being the best material the band has offered to date, and seeing them performed was a dream come true for any Modest Mouse fan.

In the midst of this wonderfully positive experience came one negative moment. “Have you guys ever been stung by anything?” asked Brock before performing “Tiny Cities Made Of Ashes,” the last song of the set. “I’m only asking because I saw you guys swatting at what looked like bees.” A man in the crowd yelled something back at Brock, to which he responded, “You shouldn’t answer questions anymore. Seriously, don’t answer questions anymore,” in a very obviously joking tone. While Brock’s joking tone seemed very obvious to me as an audience member, it seems as though it wasn’t quite as obvious to others. “Asssshole, asssshole, Asssshole,” chanted members of the crowd at the man who answered Brock’s question about bees. This chant was followed by a physical altercation among the fan that Brock was addressing and another man in the crowd, to which Brock intervened, “Come on. Don’t hurt him. I was joking. I’m the asshole. This is the game I play with the crowd. Come on. Don’t hurt him.” The altercation quickly subdued, and Modest Mouse began their last song.

Not surprisingly, the band was begged by the crowd to return to the stage for an encore through a series of typical chants by the crowd. Upon returning to the stage, Modest Mouse pleased fans with a four-song encore, ending with fan favorite “The Good Times Are Killing Me.” Brock apologized once again for accidentally inciting a fight among fans, thanked the crowd for an amazing time and concluded the incredible experience Modest Mouse put on for their fans.

For all the uncertainty that seems to be surrounding Modest Mouse as of late, one thing became clear. Modest Mouse is a band that provides fans with an unforgettable concert-going experience. As soon as I finish typing this, I am going to purchase a ticket to Philly’s annual Made In America festival, solely so Modest Mouse can melt my brain once again. You should do the same. I promise you won’t regret it.

—Wes Akers

Aarhus Jazz Festival, 2015


Welcome to Aarhus, the second largest city in Denmark, an original settlement for the Vikings more than a thousand years ago, and a home to jazz since the 1950s. The 27th edition of the Aarhus Jazz Festival begins at the end of the Copenhagen Jazz Festival, allowing for some natural crossover, and features some of the finest jazz artists Denmark has to offer.

Monday’s programming was rewarding, as the Nicolaj Hess Nonet had an early show at the Kunsthal Aarhus venue, showcasing Hess’ piano skills as well as his compositional savvy. Using musicians from Denmark and Norway, the sounds were often gentle, leaning into European-classical terrain while incorporating Brazilian, Latin and African rhythms and leaving space for improvisation. The ace rhythm section of Anders “AC” Christensen on bass and Nicolaj’s brother Mikel on drums was augmented by percussion, reeds, brass, guitars and singer Sissel Vera Pettersen, whose wordless vocals added an ethereal quality to the proceedings. Nicolaj and Mikel Hess split their time between Denmark and NYC, so keep an eye out for them stateside.

Interestingly, Monday’s late night Aarhus show featured another large group, the Jakob Bro Tentet featuring poet Peter Laugesen (who makes it 11 people onstage). Jakob Bro is Denmark’s most auspicious guitar player, and much like Nicolaj Hess, he performs in a variety of settings with a number of different players. He also has a recent CD release on the ECM label. Jakob Bro’s Tentet was compelling, featuring two drummers and three bassists—Nicolai Munch-Hansen, the great Thomas Morgan and again, Anders “AC” Christensen. I can’t tell you what Laugesen’s beat-styled poetry was about besides some jazz references, but the band surrounded his spiel with emotive strength, and showcased three saxophonists, alto man Jesper Zeuthen and Americans Andrew D’Angelo and Chris Speed. Bro’s playing was understated and sonically textured, making for a dreamlike evening that was easy to enjoy. You can check out Bro’s amazing Tentet on the album Hymnotic/Salmodisk, which is also available on vinyl, bro.

—Mitch Myers

Copenhagen Jazz Festival, 2015


Shouting Fire! Orchestra In A Crowded Theater
The 37th Edition of the Copenhagen Jazz Festival has just concluded after 10 full days of music and celebration. While the fest is more loyal to authentic jazz than most other large festivals, they still endeared themselves to the masses with pop shows by the likes of Tony Bennett & Lady Gaga, Al Jarreau and Jamie Cullum. Besides other high-profile jazz acts including the Brad Mehldau Trio, singers Dianne Reeves and Lizz Wright, Chick Corea & Herbie Hancock and Brazilian legends Caetano Veloso & Gilberto Gil, the fest’s programming was actually quite progressive.

With more than 100 venues participating all over the city, there was never any trouble finding left-of-the-dial, improvisational and/or free/jazz gigs. That said, Italian pianist Enrico Peiranunzi played at Gustavs Bistro, which harkened back to the days of classic piano bars (like the old Bradley’s in NYC). Other piano legends such as Kenny Barron and Kirk Lightsey appeared, as did modernists like Vijey Iyer and the Bad Plus with guest saxophonist Joshua Redman.

One of the more unusual highlights was undoubtedly the Fire! Orchestra, which played two action packed shows at the Jazzhouse. Led by Swedish power saxophonist Mats Gustafsson, the Fire! Orchestra is a huge, sprawling collective with at least 20 members. The band brings to mind other anarchic jazz armies like Sun Ra’s band or Charlie Haden’s Liberation Music Orchestra. Boasting multiple horn players, guitarists, drummers and singers, Gustafsson led his troops through a wailing, thrashing, high-energy show that kept the Copenhagen audience fully engaged and set everyone’s minds on fire. This frantic mix of Scandinavian musicians epitomized the wild experiences possible at the Copenhagen Jazz Festival. The only question is how to take this band on the road—perhaps Babylon by bus? I repeat, Fire! Orchestra. Listen now.

—Mitch Myers