The Charleston
Tuesday, October 20th, 2009
By: Sam Houghton

Before Carlon came on, there was the typical noise from the Williamsburg punk scene - loud, distorted noise rattling off the cement walls, a foursome of black haired punkers trying as best as they could to get their rocks off... No caution for the quality of noise. No caution over the amount of noise, or music; just balls to the walls, adrenaline soaked hell raising. A real humdinging ho-down. Good fun.

Then Carlon tried their go, appearing on stage like a cunning, shy kid in comparison. At first I don't really notice, only a faint, pleasant sound rippling from the stage riddled with images of farms and smokey Vermont Autumn air: the thick, eerie riff from the slide and the simple drums and the humble harmonizing. The faint sound is almost fragile, like a sneeze would disrupt it, never mind trivia night and the hordes upstairs, but it grips your attention, grabs your ears and cradles your head with its boom. The fragility is the sound of these four New Jersians laboring over the perfection of every note, every guitar riff and deep bass placement. It might not be perfect, but it's damn good. 

They're sound is like The Band, but more folky. It reeks of those outback, homefelt, house parties up in the mountains with lots of whiskey and smiling girls and fires. They make you want to join in with the band, learn how to harmonize or play the banjo, and have a good, honest ho-down.