(Realize that our current tastes in music are not for the posers or for those worried with tight corners and loud noises and adrenaline. While we do enjoy the finest of the singer/songwriter genre, we do give the benefit of the doubt to shows that make us move, shout and indulge in possibly unsafe practices. As Jim Farber recently wrote in the Daily News: "Over the last few years, just about every band that's earned the hipster's stamp of approval has been sensitive, smart, literate, skilled and fired by about as much testosterone as a neutered poodle." While we love the crooners and melodians and the intellectuals, we understand that live music should be interactive and let loose the tensions of evil urges. We are, after all, in a recession and times are tight).

#1 Screaming Females and JEFF the Brotherhood @ Santos Party House – March 31

PHOTO by LEIA JOSPE; from Nashville CreamThis show was an absolute ripsnorter of a marathon. If rock shows are allowed to be compared to hurricanes, all forgiveness aside, The Santos Party House on the 31^st of March would have been like a shrimp boat adrift in the heat of Katrina. From start to finish, it was a super charge of brute force guitar solos from the Females and southern-sparked, Ramones-esq energy from JEFF. I was actually physically sick, drained and spent – out from work for the three weeks following the show. Coincidence? I think not: clearly an affirmation that my bones were not ready for such holy goodness; an affirmation that without rock and roll of such caliber and ferocity and wildness, our society is dull and depraved, eating away at our joy organs. It was one of those shows were you feel the need to desperately fight for your way towards the stage, just to be closer to the band, closer to the music: small children and screaming shaven head freaks be damned. And as a result, flesh was spilled, elbows thrown, exhaustion spreading like the fever where the only prescription was more guitar, more drum, more, more, more JEFF the Brotherhood!!! It blew my mind that I could be so phsycally beat mid-way through the set, yet as soon as a power chord was struck, again I was in the air, on the ground, yelling with the beat.

Both these bands hark back to the early indie hardcore days, the good old days when bands lived out of their vans as the life of the rock n roller. Back when they believed in the power of sincerity, shock, and three chords (guitarist, Jake Orwell of JEFF, uses only three strings). As the headliner to this show, I am forced to conclude that JEFF the Brotherhood are well on their way to becoming a perfect band. They took the Black Keys song writing and turned it loose with a southern inspired punk energy. Best show of the year!

#2 Japanther for Japan Relief Benefit @ The Fire Proof – April 30

Japanther rallied all night for this one – out in the badlands of Bushwick, in their home court – like a pair of heavyweight prizefighters in a title bought.

As a drum and bass two-piece, there was some melody and some harmonizing in the same sense that there was some harmonizing and melody in Black Flag, but it was the steady and hammering rhythms that pushed the night to such bodacious limits: pure, mad-hell rhythms, consistently rattling off the skins of Ian Vanek and romping out from Matt Reilly’s steady and speedy bass. Their tag team of rhythm grabs you right by the vitals and pulls you into the show, loosening the body of the normal bad angst that comes with such local and intimate settings. With no stage, countless bands would be overcome with the fear, but Japanther took advantage of what they were given, and the place turned into a den of mayhem. All pre-conceived notions of etiquette and responsibility were flung outdoors leaving the small audience, wedged right up next to the band, completely mindless and fully fueled to jump and shout and twist. I found myself pounding Vanek’s crash more than he was.

After forty years of punk, it’s hard to come across originality, but Japanther has somehow found a sort of medium between the Clash, hardcore 80s punk and the new girl-group, garage-pop bands like the Vivian Girls. It is unique, but what makes Japanther rise above the competition, and especially for their live set, is that they capture a strong sense of a Brooklyn community. Sitting behind his drum set, Vanek gives these little speeches/raps before a song about coming together, overcoming this and that, and love. He talks about Bushwick and how its time is now. Usually it would sound horribly corny, from the mouths of your typical indie poser, but because of his incredible stage presence, Vanek comes off as an Otis Redding type performer, begging with the crowd. He gives the impression that he actually loves the crowd. Consistently through the show, he'll yell at photographers to get out of the way of the fans trying to enjoy the show. That's real. It’s similar to the passion Ian MacKaye had in the Washington and Fugazi, or least Vanek makes you believe it. And his audience reacts. They love it – makes them feel loved and apart of something meaningful. That and they make you sweat hard are the reasons why they're number 2. 

#3 Black Taxi @ Bowery Ballroom - Jan. 29

It is something when a local New York band can sell out any space in Manhattan, never mind the Bowery Ballroom… not that the Ballroom is difficult to fill because of lofty proportions, but there’s some added mystery or history to that place that makes things seem more majestic than they are. And the crowd at this show seemed to get swept up in that sway and became suddenly eager, desperate even, for the big funk beat from the men of Black Taxi. There is a certain shared ownership with Black Taxi fans, like the band is their diamond in the rough, or obscure du jour if you will, the band you will name drop at work five years down the line: “Oh yeah, Bowery Ballroom. January 29^th. I was there,” you will say with a cool and confident air. And when Black Taxi finally came on the 29th, the energy levels in the building – while Ezra did his debauchery: Mick Jagger spins, leaps and tongue curls – made it seem as if Black Taxi were the first band since the Strokes to brandish the Lower East Side with such brave music. We all thought Rock ‘n Roll was dead in the finer, cleaner, big city borough that is Manhattan, but Black Taxi is bringing it all back home. The show went on to the wee hours with signature classics like “Up Here For Thinking, Down There for Dancing” and “Shoeshine.” They rocked this house with Deadbeat Darling coming in on the encore for a rousing Beatles cover. 

#4 The Press @ Bruar Falls - April 8^th

Prior to their set, frontman Billy Gray of Ben Franklin posed the question to the audience: “How do you follow The Press?” To the laymen this may seem strange as the two are neither The Who nor Jimi Hendrix at Montery, but to those in the know, or to those at Bruar Falls that night, you might sympathize with Mr. Grey. The Press crushed through their set with vengeance; you could feel the electricity rolling off the unorthodox realm that is Bruar Falls. Essentially, a good live act holds the attention of the audience; like any drug or teacher or video game: the more pure and the more intense the degree of focus stimulated, the greater the trip. Naturally, if there were an explosion behind the bar, your attention would still be full throttle on The Press. And it’s not because of any thrilling gimmicks like screaming or smashing guitars; it’s how they slam through their riffs and fills; it’s how they confidently jump around within their grooves. While I am only one man, there is not a tighter band in this city. Enough said. “The Kindly Woodcutter” is a hell of a jam.   

#5 The Beets @ 285 Kent – February 16

It was the cover of “Street Fighting Man” that got me excited about The Beets and this show. “What else can a poor boy do/ But sing for a rock and roll band.” It wasn’t cliché when they did it: they just nailed it, like they understood it. And that really is what music for a young generation is about: bustling around the city with no direction or hope besides your band of brothers taking on the man. Their live show makes you feel apart of that. As a band, The Beets’ recordings are shoddy at best, their sound a pugnacious, witty and disrespect to any and all music within and without the New York scene; their cocky, sneer attitude’s offensive to most, but it is the spirit and drive and maybe even the attitude, much like The Ramones, that is so attractive and alluring. They tour recklessly; they have no doubts about their ambition to lead the next social happening (in an interview with Knocks, Jaun Wauters shared that he hoped to be the next Nirvana); they play with gumption, and they don’t take no guff. While their recordings might seem like cheep hooks through old tape machines, The Beets comprehend that music, or rock, is all in the riff. It is their riffs – extracting and embodying their spirit and drive – that have most of hip Brooklyn running back for more. Wauters’ guitar sound is straight from the gut: just tearing at the vitals and screaming off of his home built acoustic. This band embodies DIY to a T, without all the pretentious bull shit. This show, at the home built, eroding 285 Kent as a perfect background, was pure balls to walls New York punk delivered by what has now been commonly referred to, and rightfully so, as the coolest band in the city. Here's a sample of their new music:

The Beets - Time Brought Age by Addict Music

#6 The Strange Boys @ The Knitting Factory – June 18

Still kicking in the bleak garage rock genre, these four young Texans from Austin, with their twangy, jangly blues, whipped a tired crowd into shape at the Northside festivities a couple of weeks ago. Due to tight quarters, I was stationed right up front at the stage, about five clicks from the lead guitarist’s amp, which was pushing the limits of my inner ear responsibilities – just stinging and roaring guitar licks straight from the threads of highway 61… which was all I could hear for a majority of the show: a real in-depth analysis on the capabilities of Fender amps. Raw power. Expanses of voltage. This dude, Greg Enlow, calmly came out shredding on this sexy and sleek, big, black six-stringer. But he seemed too innocent for the power and size of such a fine machine, like a child sneaking into B. B. King’s closet and fooling around with Lucile. And with his cool shades and snakeskin boots, his music came off as just that: a Tom-foolery version of the blues. Tom Sawyer would be jealous… or enthralled… either way, he’d be there at a Strange Boy’s concert, dangling from the rafters and shaking his tail. On vocals, front man Ryan Sambol, was squawking out his usual lyrics in his trademark howl. His voice, when there was a break from the amp, was strikingly unique: flirting with strange and annoying; in the same aspect that Dylan’s voice is rancid yet profound, Sambol’s makes you cringe yet indulge in it hours on end with pleasure. Judging from their records, Sambol is the true inspiration behind the band’s relative success – he strums acoustics, blows on harps, and throws in occasional nasty slide parts. His demeanor is that of a musician. If he sticks with it, he’d fit into good company over in Austin. But that’s another story. What’s important is that the Strange Boys’ attitude is what pulls them apart from the garage rock, obscurity doldrums. This show made you want to swill beers and pop uppers with the band until the wee-hours. The show packed the raw emotion of Jackass with the soul of the old blues.

#7 The Courtesy Tier @ Pianos - May 26

If Omer Leibovitz started using heroin, he would be the next Link Wray: a mysterious guru lost in the six strings, lost in obscurity, but opening up floodgates for future disciples. Unfortunately for us, the past has happened and heroin is so passé. However, Omer’s playing is a full-throttle electrified jazz, structured with the straights of the blues. It kills. If Brooklyn were into guitar solos, he would be king. Ad the walloping and pounding and immaculate drums of Layton Weedeman and you have yourself The Courtesy Tier, the Brooklyn locals dancing a dark line of a grunge laden, Black Keys rock.  And unfortunately for The Courtesy Tier, Brooklyn is into the soft-core, crooning, spaced-out heartthrobs. The Tier in Brooklyn is like Townes Van Zandt opening for The Beach Boys; it’s like the Sex Pistols playing for the Queen. But on one of those special nights when the right people celebrate the right thing (like the second full-length release from The Courtesy Tier, Resolution), and the right energy collides with the right electrons and a wonderful display of affection and camaraderie and bold declarations for the future of music happens, people leave with a new and inspired appreciation for live sets. People down in front sweat and jive hard. And that’s exactly what happened at Pianos. They burned through intense versions of oldies like “Friend” and “Cold.” While in the past, The Tier might have just sped through their set, with their new album, Resolution, they are stacked  with newer and slower, almost country songs to give their live acts more diversity. This show proved the Tier could shake it up throughout and keep the crowd on their toes. Here's a taste of what the more heated numbers sounded like.

The Courtesy Tier - Set Things Right.mp3 Download at rapidlibrary mp3 music

#8 Spring Standards @ Momo's, Austin, TX. SxSW - March 20

This show is unique for the countdown. There was no head banging or stage dives at this show – no police escorts; perhaps because it was nearing noon when The Standards took the stage, and perhaps because it was Bloody Mary time, re-coop and get saddled up time for the rest of SxSW. But most importantly, their music has a country quality. It wasn’t about loud noises and insane feedback: The Spring Standards’ set was all about the melodies and harmonies. And they nailed it, wailing out a big beat and crooning lyrics to the warming audience. Their set, as a Fleet Foxes or Grizzly Bear set would be like, was all about hitting the right note at the exact right moment: A country slide filling in on a bridge here, a bopping banjo filling in the quiet there… And as the set continued, the Standards increased the intensity, still keeping it country, but giving it more of a two step with a fast kicking acoustic on rhythm. They turned a yawning crowd into an eager crowd. While there were only a handful of intense listeners at this show, The Standards just kept the music coming strong, belting it out on those high notes and stomping their boots with the beats.  And as an impressive gimmick, the four piece band would be switching instruments throughout the set: drums, guitars, keys, banjos and on down the line. Great band to kick of SxSW for Brooklyn. 

#9.  Sic Alps w/ Ty Segall @ Death By Audio – June 24

photo by Andrew St. ClairA San Fran and Brooklyn connection has been in operation at Death By Audio and other indie rock underground meccas spread thick around the borough of Kings. The Sic Alps are in cahoots with bands like Thee Oh Sees and The Fresh and Onlys, bands out on the West Coast creating an original, surfy and grungy sort of pop – light enough to dance too, yet mean enough for the punks to tolerate. The songs are quick but poignant, less spacey and more prompt than a certain Panda Bear, and concerned mostly with songwriting. It is something close to what many a young ‘un yearn to call a musical movement: something that is underground; nearly – but not quite – inbred; and less delusional yet more inspiring than the mass fed weirdness like Gaga and friends. It is a “cool” scene. But despite your sneering reservations, the music that night was solid. Special guest, Ty Segull, another heavy hitter out west, filled in on drums, an occasional guitar riff when technology was willing, and melodic Lil’ John/surfer dude type vocal fillers. From behind the curtains an older gentleman looking like he were pulled off the acid test bus, either that or a tormented warped tour stage tech wailed on a distorted and feedback laden guitar. His efforts gave the often harsh and piercing Death By Audio soundscape a full and layered sound, much more tactful than many trigger happy guitarists in the area. And frontman, Mike Donovan, played an acoustic with added effects while singing through dual mikes, giving off the Sic Alps’ classic, echoey sound. The crowd was not the involved type, but more of a watchful and inquisitive type – like a judge. Perhaps it is the wafts of a fresh rivalry heating up, the old East Coast/West Coast love/hate affair. But despite the critics, there was an air of excitement in the eroded basement, like things could be on the up swing for tasteful rock ‘n’ roll.   

words by Sam Houghton

Combined with the shoddy sound over at Bruar Falls and the lo-fi purges coming out of the German Measles, this show is likely to get out of hand. It’s going to be loud so if that isn’t your thing, you might want to check out those soft, Florida punks Surfer Blood over at The Knitting Factory. But if you are into real, from the streets, arty punk, you’ll find some nasty/Lou Reed melodies hidden beneath the heavy reverb of the Measles. The numbers are all marching anthems that should lead to some serious moshing. Think of a more dragging Mission of Burma (“Reach for my Revolver”): sloppy rock with a sweeping and dipping bass, layers of noisy guitars and a sort of off kilter, mumbling yet resilient singing. 

They play at 10 PM Friday night at Bruar Falls

words by Sam Houghton

In case you were wondering, the exclamation point isn’t some cheap, cliché gimmick in the title Gunfight! Back in the beginning, punk bands survived solely on their spirit and drive – an idealistic ethos. To make the argument that Patti Smith was a talented singer or that Greg Ginn was a technically gifted guitarist sounds like a couple of young stoners arguing in a middle school bathroom. We’ve all been there. But we’ve also all grown up and realized that instead of sheer talent, punk rock is about gumption. It’s about lighting off M80s in toilets. It’s about sticking your finger up to the man. And if you’ve been lucky enough to have witnessed Gunfight! you’d know that about half way through “Empties,” you’re neck would be soar and your head a sweaty mess and your tongue wagging loose because the band is kicking it so fast and so hard. If you’re smart enough to have listened to their debut EP opener “All You Need” you’d hear that unique sound of someone burping into a mic before ripping into a wild number. Gunfight! is a band of mischievous bandits with enough punk spirit to keep the dream alive. The exclamation point represents that punk attitude, like a salute and a warning in one!

They Play the Trash Bar on Saturday at 10:00 PM

Check out an unabashed interview we did with them about a year ago

Words By Sam Houghton

I think of slow-mo motorcycle races when I hear The Wicked Tomorrow. “Frenemy,” their heavily promoted single, could easily be plugged as the soundtrack for some ESPN special on NASCAR, not for any hick political motivations, but because The Wicked Tomorrow is particularly bad ass and could very well be incorporated beneficially with burning rubber. Their style is classic New York City: tight leather; hard heel-kicking boots; shrill guitars; and a lo-fi punk/traditional rock and roll vibe. Singer and guitarist, Ian Jacobs, gets his chops from New York’s Jon Spencer (Heavy Trash, The Jon Spencer Blues Expelsion), crooning like an especially nasally and drawling Elvis. But his guitar is what gives Tomorrow their signature swaggerific raunch. Live, he powers away with a few tuned-in bass strings low on his guitar, while at the same time ripping into riffs on the higher, regular guitar strings. With Michelle Feliciano’s heavy bumping on the skins, the results are very Black Keys esq: loaded on rhythm and an occasional quick, high note filler at the breaks. And while it is traditional rock with very simple chord progressions, the music bleeds with reverb and power. You can hear the tubes chugging with electricity with Jacobs’ riffs.

They kick off the Northside Festival early on Thursday evening, 5:30 ish, at Spike Hill. It’s Free. Knocks' favorites The Courtesy Tier and The Yesway will also be performing later in the evening.

words by William Lea 

It was around midnight when I walked into The Drink at 228 Manhattan Avenue over by Grand street in Williamsburg. I was late. In back of the bar I saw Emile Blondel at the piano in the corner. Jon Pratt was on the congas. Lathan Hardy was playing sax. The bar was neither full nor empty.“What’ll you have?” the bar tender, some hairy, young guy, asked me. I got some sort of Black Ale and turned to listen to the tunes.

Blondel has played with symphonies in concert halls across the United States and France. He’s also established himself as a jazz and collaborative pianist. Beyond that though, Blondel has an ear for innovative music that defies genre. When I heard that Blondel was playing with Jon Pratt and Lathan Hardy, I was curious which direction the trio would lean. The band seemed to have formed in response to Hardy’s ongoing invitation to bring music to the bar.

There was something Egyptian about the way Hardy was playing and the drums were right in with it. The piano was hard to hear as Blondel played quietly. Hardy’s sax line was like a lonely traveler with a long way to go across a windstorm tattered desert. The sax spilled the tears while the drums picked the feet up and dropped them slowly. Blondel was the tiny grains of sand, dusty, blowing over everything. The music grew quieter and then was over.

Pratt is a multi-talented composer, producer and instrumentalist. He told me he had just recently returned from a musical residency in Brazil. Asked how he liked it: “Great, man! Amazing! Drums for miles… 

A few moments later I ran into the piano player, Blondel. He explained that they were in fact done with their set but were starting a monthly gig here at the drink.

“Man, I guess I missed it pretty much. The end sounded great though.” My beer was just about gone. I’d shown up too late and blown the article. I hadn’t seen enough to write about. “I’m probably gonna take off in a sec,” I said.

“You wanta join me in the backyard for a minute before you go?” He pulled a lighter out of a breast pocket and shook it at me.

We went through the back door into a small dark hallway. Two guys were standing there with large old whiskey bottles full of water. It was unclear what they were doing with them. They also had a bowl of water, two strips of sheet metal, some chunks of Styrofoam and metal poles about five feet long and an inch thick.

We tried to go by them but the door that lead to the back yard was locked. “Backyard’s closed now,” one of the guys said to us. He was a sturdy, bearded fellow. His companion was taller and bearded. He was shaking the bottle of water to his ear. The taller gentleman held a bowl full of water, his fingers gliding along the edge, around and around.

“What are you guys doing with that stuff?” Emile asked.

“You just gotta listen and hear for yourself,” the guy with the bowl of water said.

“I’m trying to have a sort of- objects-jam back here on an ongoing basis,” the guy with the bottle said as Lathan Hardy appeared at the door. “I want it to be like… there might be just one person back here scratching away at something, there might be five people back here groovin’, there might be 20 and it’s okay. Just use whatever you got and make some different sounds!"       

Emile took two small objects out of his hoody pockets and began to tap a beat. My friend, Amos, began to stomp to it and clap. The guy with the bowl started tapping on it with something. The bottles were put down and the two strips of sheet metal were picked up and wobbled. Styrofoam was dragged against the wall. Fisher began to sing, just long notes, in a falsetto. Hardy started rapping and soon changed to a mumbling scat. I’d taken out my handful of pocket change and begun shaking it in my palms. The shorter bearded fellow took some metal poles closer to the door that lead to the bar and began rubbing Styrofoam against them on the ground. I began to help Fisher with the singing, throwing out little phrases and melodies. Hardy was working himself up on the scat. We had a nice sound going. The door from the bar opened and a short man with a black beard and glasses entered with a tall, leggy brunette. He looked at the man with the Styrofoam and the metal pole on the ground. His eyebrows shot up above his glasses rims.

 “Jesus, Jim, what are you doing?” he said, looking down. The brunette’s lip curled like Elvis’, her eyes wide as they took in the bizarre scene.

“What are you doing?” the bearded fellow replied over his Styrofoam rubbings.

“Are you high?” Black Beard asked. “How high are you?” The music was the reply and soon Black Beard and his girl disappeared back through the door. Someone started blowing over the top of a bottle, making that sound like a tugboat. Hardy was still mumble-rapping passionately. The volume seemed to be growing. The door from the bar opened again and I glimpsed a man and a woman coming in to the shadowy, dark hall of cacophony. Many of us were knocking on the wall at that point. Jon Pratt came in and started tapping out a great syncopation. Hardy peaked just as I put my change away and started clanging two bottles and a bowl together. I knocked the bowl off of the small box it was on. Water spilled and the bowl landed flat on the top edge, unbroken. The bearded fellow who had introduced the jam’s concept picked it up and poured some water from one of the bottles into it. Then he took a chunk of Styrofoam and began making a noise like a turntable being scratched. I started freestyle rapping in a nonsensical way for a bit before going back to singing long, falsetto notes with Fisher. Hardy danced and clapped, gesticulated and shouted out.

I stopped singing as we worked it up into a fever pitch. Pratt was able to do things on the wall with his rhythm that made my beat seem more expressive than I intended. I kept doing the same thing but it seemed to change in a good way. Then I started changing it. I began to sing, more, long, falsetto notes. They seemed to work well with the loud-for-quiet thing we had going on. Melody emerged over the beat with Pratt accenting. We went into a repetition of the musical line but all with our own variations. We all stopped at the same moment and laughed. The thing had just brought itself to a perfect close.

I’d come in search of live, improvised music and I’d found it. The true knocks from the underground often can’t be heard until you stop straining to hear them. They will always be there, though, lurking just behind some back door in a dingy hallway that never sees the light of day.

. . . And How I learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Mosh

9/11

words by Sam Houghton

Not too long ago rock and roll lost a lot of its steam to ugly violence. Who knows if the aggression was an honest release – a cruel affirmation that society was indeed tightening its wicked grasp on its powerless youth – or if it were just a bunch of bored hooligans excited about masochist tendencies. Either way, the mosh pit during the late eighties punk underground, through grunge at its peak in popularity, and into its lows during the last Woodstock, seemed to eventually become a study in how much blood you could draw from your fellow fan Jackknifing away like a speed junky on a pogo stick. I’m not sure who toned down the mosh pit, maybe indie bands like the Fleet Foxes’ mellow mood slowly rubbed off along the way. But that’s another story all together. What is important, and crucial in understanding the influx of a fine wave of punk bands sprouting up in the Brooklyn underground, is that the mood of the mosh has turned towards a friendlier and less intrusive form of self-expression. Some would venture to say it’s more sensual, almost like a rave, and less like a Black Flag raping. While the intensity is still there, it’s less about angry penetration as it is friendly heavy petting. 

One of these bands goes by the name of Japanther. Still heavily toted as an underground band who play mostly the concrete badlands of Bushwick, Japanter’s steady, bullet quick rhythms are a perfect barrage for head banging, pogo-jumping and fist-pumping. They have also, over their long tenure as band, a steady flow of followers for their shows, essential for moshing.

I came across Japanther on accident, at a Japan relief fundraiser at the Fire Proof way out in the Bushwick boonies. I had heard their name before, probably with the millions of stickers placed around random parts of the world. They were headlining the bill, playing in front of what looked liked the infamous cliché Williamsburgers, too cool to listen to the music never mind move. I say that only because while one of the opening bands were mid set, the lead singer’s mike was turned down too low to hear. There was no soundboard to be seen, never mind engineer anywhere. Half their set went by with the singer about ready to kick his mike stand over, playing guitar to a crowd of awkward fans standing around looking at each other dumbfounded.

I remained at the Fire Proof out of sheer curiosity. The results were a weeks worth of exercise, torn skin from smashing the drummers cymbals, and a new found appreciation for music.

Japanther's music has an 80s and 90s punk flavor, but they have also adapted a sort of indie sound to it. They have often been compared to the lo-fi girl groups like Best Coast or the Dum Dum Girls, which is somewhat correct. Yes, there is a surf quality to their sound, like a Beach Boys lightness. But where many trendy, lo-fi bands stick to poppy structures, Japanther has a definite Clash-like fist pumping bravado to their rhythm. Live, they are at their pinnacle of artistic release, sweating good and driving hard through their set with tenacity - borderline Sex Pistols/Black Flag aggression. Their set up is unique: where must punk bands - or bands for that matter - use the guitar as a prime lead instrument, Japanther's guitar track is more like a steady anchor. Live, they play their guitar riffs through a PA, on a record of some type, repeating a simple progression consistently through each individual song. It's almost like the Beastie Boys using an MC. Only a bass player, Matt Reilly, and drummer, Ian Vanek, are up there on stage, both shouting out the lyrics through a couple of yellow, rotary dial phones turned mikes. What sets this duo apart from many punk bands is their sheer talent at their instruments. They seem to have the drive.  

Essentially, music, and all art for that matter, has always been about self-expression, a release from whatever it is that holds you back. Normally, my body is too slender and vulnerable for the more retro version of moshing… or at least my soul raised with a different strand of aggression glands than past punk expressions. But during the Japanther show, the world seemed in-line; hollering and fist pumping and jumping into random chicks and dudes did more to my psyche than a new spring or drinks could do. And everyone was smiling. When a person was knocked to the ground, a handful of people would be right there, extending a hand to lift them back to their feet. It was a complete loss of self, the ultimate form of release. But, most importantly, there was a sense of happy unity. I urge all to indulge. 

Currently, the band has just begun a short tour of Europe. 

By Michael Scott

I am currently leaning against the bar in the back room of The Knitting Factory. It’s very dark in here and I am perched under the only real light source in this place – an overhead coffee table light (I actually didn’t realize that this place had moved to Brooklyn, my brother used to live right next to the previous iteration so I’d stupidly assumed it hadn’t randomly moved to Brooklyn).

The band takes the stage, with only two members present, each of them on at least three instruments. And if that’s not enough, they bring a painter up with them who begins working on a canvas while they play… should be an interesting show.

Ghost Ghost describes themselves as a freak folk band. There’s no better description. With huge guitar parts and incredibly intricate keyboards, their sound dominates everything around it, washing everything in psychedelic goodness. I am compelled to dance. They start up their second song called “Unreal City”. It starts off with pounding drums and a surf rock bass line. It makes me feel like I’m at Venice Beach, dancing with the waves, drunk on rum. The guitarist/drummer Karl Ward starts singing and his voice reminds me of someone I can’t place, like a person I used to barhop with in a past life. Kevin wails on the keys and they manage to crawl up into places I didn’t know existed in my brain.

They kick into the third song, called “Hide and Seek”, a song protesting the war in Iraq. It’s pretty dreamy and spaced out with vocals that proclaim: “I know you’d tell me to get some sleep/ I just can’t remember where I put my bed.” It’s rather peaceful and the painter, Charlie, works diligently behind them. It’s a strangely beautiful painting, with great swaths of red and pink. I think it might be a raw steak and now he’s filling up the empty space with neon lime green and Kevin just called out: “We came from space! We brought machines… it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

I’ve never been to a show like this.

Kevin is now playing a second set of keyboards while standing on a bench. He’s dual wielding like a madman. I wish I knew the name of this song for future reference. All I know is the last line is “This is not a valentine.” They’re starting up their last song called “Coney Island, You Old Bastard”. They’ve been projecting trippy visuals onto the wall behind them the whole set and now they’re throwing up a flickering image of the Wonder Wheel. I bite my lip a little bit as they manage to express exactly how crummy Coney Island is now.

“Coney Island, you old bastard/ no one’s listening/ so if you wanna say one last thing/ you can.” It raps up a wonderful and strange show.

David Grollman and Sean Ali comprise the eerie, experimental band Fester – Grollman on percussion and Ali on the upright bass. I attended one of their shows at a Papacookie event held at the large up-town apartment of the illustrious Mr. Jonathan Wood Vincent. After the place had filled up and most of the potluck food had been eaten, the guests were assembled into the living room where Mr. Vincent introduced the show. He thanked everyone for coming and described briefly what Papacookie events are, a continuing series of pot-luck jazz concerts, usually held at Mr. Vincent’s fancy-shmancy apartment with multiple doorman just beyond the Dracula-esque gates in the doorman’s office before the courtyard.

         And with that they were off. Grollman began to beat out an erratic, too-much-coffee staccato kind of beat on the one snare before him. Ali bowed his bass in a creepy manner that at first gave off the impression he was not listening to the drum beat, his eyes closed like a man in a trance.  Soon the bass developed into a strange sort of syncopation. Suddenly Grollman cut the rhythm and began to drag the bottom of one of his sticks against the head of the drum, pressing the skins in. It made the sound like duct tape ripping off the roll. Immediately, Ali dropped his bow and began to pluck the strings of his bass furiously. The momentum was building. The bass line was driven and romping. The drumsticks were dropped and replaced with a set of chopsticks. The head of one was pressed against the head of the drum and the second was dragged against it like the bow against the strings on the bass. The music was becoming more and more unpredictable, like a motor pushed to its limits, roaring to its spattering demise.

         Sean Ali does not consider the duo Jazz. “We don’t follow the rules of Jazz. We just do what we want.” He describes the music as “improvisational.” Fester does, however, fall under most dictionary definitions of Jazz. Ali’s statement is revealing of the riff between truly “out” improve-based Jazz such as Fester, and the old-guard (comprised largely of young people) that make all the money playing variations of “The Girl from Ipanema” and other standards in expensive restaurants where they are more background than the dance-inspiring innovations they once were. Fester is no background music. They aren’t exactly dance-inspiring either. Most people are too scared to move while they play. Their neurotic, nervous energy is alarming.

         Something I was pondering as Grollman, from some hidden nook, produced a small, kiddy bow. It’s disproportion only served to enhance the grotesque performance. He began to use it in the same manner he had used the second chopstick - to bow the first chopstick that pressed into the drum. The effect was a surprisingly louder variation of the earlier, bizarre “whir”. It was beautiful and soulful. Then the bassist began to bow again. Soon he was weaving a small drum cymbal between the strings of his bass at the top of the neck. Then he began to slap and pluck the strings wildly. The cymbal distorted the sound and added a percussive aspect that Grollman was not providing, his percussive instrument now serving more as a string instrument would normally. The music was bopping along. People were nodding their heads. Then, bam, the song was done. There was a strong positive reaction from the crowd.

         The cymbal was removed and replaced with a much larger one toward the middle of the bass, atop the bridge. Like when the chopstick had been replaced with the small bow, the effect here was to take the weird, ear catching sound that had just been delivered and make it twice as weird and ear catching, yet still recognizable as the same effect. A theme seemed to be emerging. Grollman began to attack the snare with the chopsticks in his original erratic style.

         Soon Ali was putting the small cymbal back between the strings at the top of the neck with the large cymbal still at the bottom. They were really crashing down the dirt road in a drunken frenzy at this point but one had he feeling it was one they knew well. Despite the obvious improvisational nature of the performance Grollman and Ali sounded well rehearsed as if they were intentionally channeling the same ancient army of lost soldier’s souls. Though Fester was not amplified, the room was too loud for words.

         Grollman dropped his chopsticks and began to delight the audience with amazing, animal-like noises produced by rubbing and dragging his hands and fingers directly against the drumhead. He took on a desperate quality as he pawed and clawed at the drum like a man buried alive. Ali had been taking a break, leaning on his bass, watching Grollman play with his eyes closed, his head down, chin to chest. Now, from the feet of the audience, Ali proceeded to insert empty beer cans between the strings of his bass above the bridge. Grollman took the smaller of the cymbals and placed it half over the edge of the snare. Then he began to bow the edge of the cymbal. It sounded almost like a Theremin. They brought the energy to a whirring high pitch with beer cans crashing out bass notes… and then it was over.

 Fester is a band that gets you high if you pay attention. “Stick around for the next act!” Clearly pleased with the night, Ali and Grollman told me they had done what they set out to. Fester knows how to take you somewhere in a short amount of time. They don’t get lost in the middle of their songs and drag them out unnecessarily as many jazzy/experimental groups can do. They go for it! They get it and they move on. Definitely something to check out.

Here at Knocks, we are not only concerned with the musician, but also the listener, the first hand explorer making the dive into the deep end of the music world… also known as you. Here is a telling of a night at a random loft-party on the West Side of Queens celebrating the fan in all of us.

By Michael Scott

8:30 PM - I am in a large, all white, one room studio on 63 Woodward Avenue. The open window behind me spews air from the river with reckless abandon, or is that the graveyard wind I feel? Both are near, that’s for certain. Inside, someone is skateboarding. The room takes on a heavy scent, a mixed miasma of weed, tobacco and absolution – all signs of anticipation for a great night.

The Sitting Ducks, a band making its way from New Hampshire, get going on stage, cranking it up to a number beyond all reasoning. It kicks in with this teeth gnashing, body thrashing old school seventies soul thing with an ample serving of funk progression to get people moving. The lead singer/guitarist, Dan Rahilly, uses his voice in a way that would make Jerry Garcia proud and Louis Armstrong feel a strong kinship. He leads the band in a blisteringly intense cover of “Fire On The Mountain,” originally by the Grateful Dead. I’m in love and at a loss for words. Outside, a Sunoco sign begins to flicker, clearly on it’s last legs and unable to withstand the musical barrage the Sitting Ducks are battering it with. They are oblivious to the havoc they are handing over to the oil industry and that’s alright – there’s a fire on the mountain, and I’m willing to bet it’s all this band’s fault. I close my eyes and allow myself to marinate in the screeching guitars and thundering drums. Tonight I will be well seasoned – I can feel it in my tender, meaty bits.

9:02 – The half-set cover is finished and despite obnoxious cries for “Free Bird”, they are starting their second song. Once again, I am in love. Listening to them is kind of like being smashed in the face with a pillow soaked in LSD over and over again. Forever. They start to wind down and I desperately need another beer before the next band starts or I will not survive the night.

By now, somebody has set up a ramp and the constant clack of skateboarders accompanies the throwback Cuban jams the DJ is spinning between sets. I’ve discovered there is no soap or toilet paper in the bathroom, and that some lady is setting up in the corner to do tattoos. She is only charging ten dollars, cleanly shaven and her hand looks steady. I am tempted but I’ve made promises to preserve journalistic integrity, so I turn my attention back to the stage where the next band is beginning to set up. They are called Flowers For Reagan and are pretty much the brainchild of Adam Pruss. He’s this lovely young man with a latex eyeball, complete with glistening viscera pinned onto his shirt and a black masquerade mask splattered with white paint. The crowd is eager, but they have an abundance of electrical equipment to set up.

9:30 – Flowers For Reagan open with Adam declaring: “I’m not on ecstasy but I really hope you guys are!” I am not but they hit me like I’m rolling heavy regardless. They’re distorted and droning, the kind of ambient music that makes me think of being in a sensory deprivation tank with a bunch of wild and hungry dolphins. Except someone’s feeding mescaline to the dolphins, and me too, all while a bunch of synths are being relentlessly pounded from the bottom of the tank. My mind begins to blister a bit and I begin sweating heavily. Someone screams out: “You suck!” to which Adam quickly replies: “I suck SO BAD!” I cannot accept either notion. The second song starts up with electronic chirping and a steady guitar line that rapidly melts into a cacophony of screams and heavy reverberations. I badly need another beer.

9:36 – My girlfriend leans in and whispers to me: “I know what they’re trying to do but this isn’t the right space.” Meanwhile the speakers hurl bass at my teeth. Adam injects gigantic pearls of clarity into my veins with only his synth, and I am taken away. He screams but the crowd seems nonplused. Dancing to this music is kind of like dancing to one’s own death rattle as the feedback wails and the pure frenzy of it all reaches its height. The crowd doesn’t seem to feel it. People are skateboarding again – one dude barefoot. I step away as Flowers For Reagan continues to go over the heads of 50% of the people here. I am far too sober but drunk off their abundance of intimacy. I cannot escape it so I choose to drink it in and bask.

10:05 - Ghost Pal, a Brooklyn local group, is about to begin. Oliver Ignati is the force behind this band and he’s truly to be reckoned with. When they kick into their first jam, I am suddenly alone as my girlfriend drapes her sweatshirt over me and hits the dance floor.  Ignati’s vocals draw the crowd in close, and he sounds sweetly innocence despite what he just may be actually singing about. It feels like a revival of something deliciously bluesy with a psychedelic prog-rock tinge. This is Ghost Pal’s first show ever, but despite their innocents, the crowd is dancing like mad. Oliver’s parents are there, and I lean over and say: “Thank you so much for making that man!” The next song is about their heroes: first verse is Brian Wilson; second Sly Stone, and third is Syd Barret. I have to put down my pen and dance.

“Space Race,” a sleezy but beautiful number, is ushered in with a cheer of: “More sax!” It comes booming in with a warbling brass exuberance. As my girlfriend dances on in her cowboy boots, I am dumbfounded by the scope of their sound. It’s huge. The song comes to a close as he says: “That’s a little something we picked up in Russia…”

Following that is another pop inspired romp that quickly reaches a fever pitch. The crowd surges. Even the occasional feedback sounds intentional and awesome. I really can’t say much better about these guys, but that they are quite good and apparently very danceable. Oh and the drummer is blowing my mind. The set finishes up and I’m going to rush off to hug Mr. Ignati.

11:11 – I make a wish (it is for weed.) and start nodding my head to Nelsonvillians.  Jake Harms has an incredible voice and makes me think about early mornings with lots of fog and maybe a little wood smoke. I’ve been running around trying to get my friends to the show so I missed the first song a bit. But the second song is very tasty, to the point where I’m getting disoriented. It’s dark too and I can barely see what I’m writing and my friend just got puke-sick and vanished. All of which is mildly distressing, but Nelsonvillians are groovy, with captivating lyrics and relentless drums… and feedback abound. I love it. They’re playing their last song of the night and I silently promise myself to listen to their album later and write more extensively on it.

11:45 – Evan Shinners and the SUITS just started up. They have someone playing an organ solo that leads into an expansive and technical piano song with a thoroughly dirty guitar part. The song explodes with a vengeance and once again I am moved to dance.

Evan Shinners himself is a suspenders clad, keyboard-demolishing dynamo. His vocals are simultaneously dreamy and viscerally gritty. He has this twang that makes me want to bite my lip and I’m willing to bet the lyrics would make me want to leave town. Oh and he plays harmonica.

Not even vicious feedback can disrupt the next song, with a technical classical piano solo from Evan to start it off. The crowd has become a wildly dancing, undulating mass of limbs and glitter. I was just dancing next to Oliver Ignati of Ghost Pal and didn’t notice. This man I find to be incredibly breathtaking and was blushing beet red just to speak with him earlier. He’s a mastermind. And here I am dancing with him. Evan Shinners and the SUITS are that commanding. At the end of the set, I caught the drummer massaging his wrists with an anguished look. From a distance, I cheer to that. I have now found some incredible citrusy California grown greenery and everything is way too miraculous. Must investigate further…

1:18 – I mostly missed the last band of the night – Shapes. At this point in the evening I’ve been running all over the place, getting people to the train, getting people places to park, cooling down a friend who managed to get arrested (twice) for publicly drinking, etcetera, etcetera.

The whole vibe has changed inside. For starters, there is now a mosh pit and a whole slew of statuesque beautiful people towards the back of the room, none of which are moving and there seems to be this bizarre air of Mormon-esque superiority going on. Possibly they came with the band and are therefore much cooler than the rest of us. The air gets stuffy and a bit oppressive and I’ve only made it in enough to hear Shapes’ last song of the night. I once again make a mental note to give them a listen, but for now, as I head home, I am left feeling shell-shocked and disconnected from the outside world. Every band that played deserves serious praise. Maybe it’s the citrus speaking, but these are some of the most talented artists I’ve seen live in a very long while. And whoever managed to get a contract with Brooklyn Brewery was a genius. 

When I think of Brooklyn, I think of a wild wild west (well east) of art, a frontierless expanse of industrial warehouses whose collective countenance warps with the seemingly unending dysmorphic prolificacy of an acid trip. Fortunately, the looks are only the beginning. What is housed by these wild facades? More than you think. Much more.  

In an area where bars and verified music venues are scarce to none, where does one go to hear music? The answer, simpler than you'd guess, is in our basements.  1012 Willoughby , The Freedom Garden and LazerTag are a microscopic segment of the entire DIY nexus. Host to cover-free weekly shows as well as out-of-house curated expositions in larger venues including Cafe Orwell, Fireproof and Xpo 929, these basement mongers are slowly transfusing Brooklyn's music scene. The basements accord with one consummate mission: to create a music first mentality. There, in the literal underground, you will find the sweet absence of clanking plates, rowdy drunks, back-bar ramble and the infamous, inconsolably dour sound man. 

Ahh, now that's real listening room.

I had the pleasure of catching a 1012 Willoughby Presents event hosted at Xpo 929. On entering the space, I immediately noticed a colossal pirana cutout with one lit, X-ed out eyeball. Two traffic cones perched on the double stacked JBL speakers punctuating the stage - the proverbial and literal columns of the new music order. "Caution," they seemed to speak, as if written in the portentous script of our creative ancestors past, "what you are to hear is not the contemporary you sought, rather that which has yet to have the luxury of definition, yet to be formed in culture's conception, the primordial gesture of new aesthetic." 

The first of the four band bill was new-quartet, Eviction Party. The group is comprised of tenor, electric bass, drums, synth and laptop. Sensitively the improvised sections were interspersed with hard edged eruptions that conducted a sea of voraciously nodding heads. The set, oscillating between predeterminate material and extemporizations of that material, was an odyssey of inviolable excitement. As much as they were not afraid of noise they were equally not afraid of space. Often the drums and bass would drop out, teaming the sax and keys/laptop in an expounded modern-hymn. Tactfully and with perfect anonymity, a drum and bass groove would emerge from the improvised rubble, a 'resolution' offering the multifarious attributes of human spontaneity and interest. Coalescing between sounds as akin or distant as metal, hip-hop, Improvisation, improvisation, Jazz, chamber, new music and prog rock, Eviction Party has everything that you've heard yet sounds like nothing you've ever heard. 

As the excitement and sweat droplets began to evaporate, the Daniel Carter Quartet took stage. The drums, bass, guitar constructed a wall of sound, opaque though a weightless presence shrouding the trumpet's pensive warbling. Lulled, the audience began to settle cross-legged, eyes-closed at Carter's feet. At once, Carter gingerly shed his trumpet. I noticed this soprano, alto and tenor lovingly  rested aside, pre-tombed atop their respective cases. Most, typically myself included, would consider an instrument change mid-set as a special taken vanity. However, Carter exchanged his instruments with choreographic genuineness, as seamless and fitting with the music as  if there were four horns. The rhythm section supported carter's wanderings beautifully, not too quick or too late to comment on his direction. The bass player (Elad Muskatel) was with great emotional tact, a compositional employer, digging and shifting the fertile dirt of harmonic ground over which Carter danced. The guitarist (Zach Pruitt ) had an impressive case of tools tenderly laid on his closed guitar case. He attended to his guitar as a surgeon, precise, gentle and steady. The drums (Justin Veloso), avoiding the obvious noise/rock locutions, took the striking consideration to remove the cymbal from his kit and manually pan the sound left to right while rolling with a mallet. The combined roar of the quartet amounted to a cantering debacle with Carter ahead, leading fast on his horn. Hold on to your madness. Drone is the world in which we live or the world is the drone in which we live. Then,  sudden and glorious, space.

Third up was Sistine Criminals. I was too busy dancing with every muscle in my body to write a review. That should be the persuasive enough! 

Pink Brown, the tenor, guitar, drums trio, was billed last on the night of furor. The guitar and horn (Xander Naylor and Johan Andersson) creaselessly linked in dynamics and texture. Whether it was the glassy emissions of feedback, the suction of a reversed melody or heavy distortion, I found myself not being able to distinguish who was playing what. It was marvelous, truly. All the while the drums supported as the entire rhythmic section, thunderous and punctilious, lodging the mewling frontmen with depth and security. The thrill and charge seemingly came from all directions. I felt a disorienting vibration of recklessness, perceiving Perception and subjugating her into a reflective continuum of self, or Self? 

The drummer threw his cymbal on the ground, hitting it where it fell. Suddenly, a drumstick went hurling into the crowd. Unperturbed, the drummer (Max Jaffe) became even more momentous than before, unabated by the sudden disablement. Taking a stick from his own pack, the drummer from Sistine Criminals ran up and handed it to the Pink Brown drummer. What a display of Camaraderie! 

This night's events were exemplary of the 1012 Willoughby dictum, giving a home and community to music that doesn't have one. Whether it be in the packed Bushwick basements of friends or in a gutted out party store hall, 1012 has succeeded in publicizing the newest burgeoning talents Brooklyn has to offer.