Nova Clutch

Muxtape

You got addicted to Friendster, and then Ringo, toyed with MySpace and gave up when you came round to Facebook. You're holding out, but it seems like Facebook is still going strong without you having joined it. How dare it? Ha! You'll show them.

Don't worry, Muxtape is here for all you old schoolers. Muxtape allows you to have the benefit of sharing those beloved mixtapes you used to make and receive them from others, all with the benefit of not having to stack it all up on your desk. Because they're mp3s grandpa...welcome to the future!

Planet B-Boy

I dragged my beleaguered brother to some culture yesterday. The culture of hip hop – a B-Boy competition following B-Boys from all over the world. We really enjoyed the film, with the two of us almost bursting into spontaneous applause at points, but we caught ourselves at the last moment, remembering that we're British, and we don't do that sort of thing. Internal high-fives ensued.

My favorite moment is here – don't click play if you intend to see the film though, it's a highlight. Ichegeki B-Boys are amazing!

Bedat & Co. and Tourneau party

The only reason we went to the Bedat & Co./Tourneau party last night was because Gilles was playing. And I think the only reason he was playing was because he was in town for the Cielo gig the previous night.

We walked into the large building on 57th Street, a large ominous ticking sound surrounded us. No, we weren't dying, this is Tourneau's go at sound branding, because the ticking reminds you that they are a timepiece behemoth. Or something like that.

Walking into a massive corporate atrium with 40+ feet ceilings, I noticed that the tiny sound coming from the corner of the space was none other than Gilles Peterson "spinning". A thin crowd (any crowd would seem thin in this kind of space) resplendent with jewels and cocktail wear ignored him as we tried to devise ways of introducing ourselves.

Soon a little speech was made and the entertainment started, none other than the brilliant Raven O Master of Ceremonies from The Box. I didn't know that Raven O and his gang ventured out of their lair, but apparently they do for a price. The burlesque and cabaret so brilliant at The Box was out of place and strange in this large atrium and low stage, and the suited crowd looked at each other out of the corner of their eyes and shifted uncomfortably in their shiny shoes. Peep shows, stripping and expletives were apparently not what they were expecting. Where as the vaudeville delights have the perfect milieu in the one hundred year old theater on Chrystie Street, in this situation it was just inappropriate and embarassing. You can take all that is cool but reappropriating it for your brand takes some thought and consideration. And sometimes, that reappropriation just doesn't work. Tourneau should consider hiring these guys next time.

Gil Scott Heron at S.O.B.'s

Good lord, I can't remember the last time I saw Gil Scott Heron, but I do know it was with my friend Marty O. Taking into consideration he has been gone for five years now, no, no, not dead, just off to Brazil. And that's sort of like dead, but different. Anyway, as Marty knows, a man's body can sustain a lot of damage in five years, and last night's performance was proof of that.

Over the years we have heard, true or not, about battles with drugs, loss of teeth and one report of homelessness. As we watched Gil approach the stage we saw a frail man wearing his years heavily and his clothes loosely over a lanky frame. A scruffy, patchy white beard covered his neck and face. As he took the stage and grabbed the mic, we heard a familiar sound, but now his voice delivered round and watery words. Words falling in and falling out. Drifting off, words were further confused by a ham-handed S.O.B. sound man.

But then a monologue began, a stream of consciousness, succinct, crisp, sharp, funny and Gil Scott Heron. The years have taken many things from this man, but they have not taken his mind, his wit or the observations of humanity as seen through his eyes and told through his words. Hell, I can barley recite my social security number and he effortlessly throws out 30 year old verses without missing a beat.

Unlike seeing many other performers age to become shadows of their former selves, this was not a sad night, although I did wonder if I were hearing the live version of "Winter in America" for the last time.

Having to stand in line next to two disturbing white guys singing heavy metal songs at the top of their lungs while playing air guitar and then comparing all time best base lines and base players was bad enough. Despite this and waiting an hour and a half for the show to start while suffering through an S.O.B. appetizer, the concert was a heartwarming homecoming and remembrance of sorts. The band played their hearts out as Gil smiled and twisted his body during instrumental solos. The crowed smiled, awkwardly danced and clapped their hands to some beat beat as they closed their eyes on a journey with their spirited poet.

I wish you could have been there Marty O.

Conjunto Guantanamo in DUMBO

While most people will remember the Summer of 2007 by the insipid, soulless and electronically enhanced song "Umbrella" by Rihanna, mine will be replayed by the sites and sounds of Conjunto Guantanamo. I really don't know where to begin, or end for that matter, because Conjunto Guantanamo lives and moves within a fluid world between the past, present and future, bringing together people, sounds and memories within our neighborhood of DUMBO, Brooklyn. Anchored by conga player Ulises Beato and emancipated by lead singer and percussionist "Chino" Bernardo Ponz, their effortless and heartfelt forays are supported by an ever changing line up of musicians-musicians that can play that tune in two notes.

As we are bombarded by images of overproduced, over sponsored and over hyped musical acts and idols, it couldn't have been more refreshing to have experience Conjunto Guantanamo on an improvised stage with simple, traditional instruments and an innate, classic style of days gone by. My journey to their discovery was a wonderful path that lead to the making of new friends and reconnection with old ones through luck, happenstance or the grace of some unnamed god. But then again, Cuban music is the music of relationships with friends and community. It is the recognition of the beauty in simplicity or even the mundane. It is about embracing your circumstance and celebrating the good and difficult while recognizing that it is all life.

I discovered classic Cuban music through Cristina Garcia's 1992 novel "Dreaming in Cuban" where she made numerous reference to Beny Moré's music as being the soundtrack of the main character's life. It was only natural that I had to hear for myself what she was so moved by. Although I don't speak Spanish (many of the songs have since been translated for me), the song's beauty and meaning reached out and struck that universal chord that all artists strive to play. Therefore when Conjunto Guantanamo plays a Moré favorite, or something more obscure, I am moved and drawn into their world to experience a moment and place that is timeless and nameless.

You can catch Conjunto Guantanamo at Superfine, 5 Front and ReBar in DUMBO. Then you can watch Chino's ageless face and gold laced smile as his wire frame moves under his cheap suit and straw hat. You can hold your sweating glass and drink in the joy of musicians playing music out of love for music. And you can protect your summer memories from the downpour of "Umbrella".

Beastie Boys at Williamsburg's McCarren Park Pool

Although I don't know you people all that well I am going to share something with you, something that I haven't wanted to admit to myself, let alone to Natasha. I am officially old.

Now don't get me wrong, this is not about mind, spirit or body. After all, I can still pull off a hoodie without looking like a chump or shovel rocks all day without being immobilized for the following four. What I'm talking about here is that last week I ticked off the third and defining box of musically old.

The first tick is that day you wake up to the clock radio playing music from your college days on the oldies station. The second, when you see a current college student wearing a thread bare "vintage" concert tee shirt from a show that you saw drunk out of your gourd 19 years ago. But this, my friends, is a hangover you can't shake off with an Advil or by simply hitting that clock radio's snooze button another 15 times.

So the third tick of musically old. This is when you see a concert that features a hip hop group whose members share the same birth year and longing for credibility and relevance that you do.

Here is my dilemma; how do I offer you all an honest critique of last week's Beastie Boys concert in Williamsburg's McCarren Park Pool in good conscience considering my current state? Would I be reporting to you through clouded nostalgic eyes while commenting on each song that made me smile and pump my fist in the air like I still had hair? Do I tell you that their current work's instrumental material was was an important and mature experimental excursion and exploration of their jazz, R&B and punk roots? No, I will most certainly not, I may be old, but I am not lame. However, I will and without shame, admit that I experienced a chill and a real sense of musical history as those greying lads delivered a heart-felt rendition of No Sleep 'Till Brooklyn" as their final song on a night that marked their first performance in Brooklyn in a carreer that has spanned and influenced the direction of hip hop since 1986. Mock me if you will, but remember that one day you will have to pry "Licensed to Ill" from my cold dead cassette tape player.

Oh, the cheese burger? That's from the Sparky's concession stand at the concert. It gave me the strength and courage to fight for my right to party responsibly.

iPhone

Yes, I know I'm exactly a week too late to be talking about this. But I had no intention of buying one of these. But somehow I ended up with one in my hands. I don't need one, they're really very expensive (Michael pointed out he could have flown to London for the price I paid for it) and I am always at my computer anyway. But all of these points are entirely irrelevant. Because I'm in iPhone heaven.

I'm not going to trumpet its virtues and accolades, that's been done enough, by everyone and his mother (I say his, because from the myriad reviews brimming on the world wide web, this seems to be a male-loved item) and I don't need to add to the testerone-infused pile. I will say that it is all it's lived up to be and more. Although I'm still blushing somewhat about the fact that I bought one, I'm ecstatic. I feel like I am holding the future in my hands, that this is something I never believed I would see in my lifetime. My grandchildren's perhaps, but not mine. This is all very strange for someone that likes things the slow way; slow cooking, hand sewing, and thank you cards by mail. Call me old fashioned, but this Grandma is enjoying her slice of the future, very, very much.

Deerhunter at The Bowery Ballroom

With Deerhunter it’s binary: love or hate. I fall into the former category, as they are my enduring current favorite musical obsession. Weird, dark and dirty-wonderful, they require a listen at full volume – on 11 – although I imagine my neighbors would prefer I left this particular band to the solipsism of my iPod.

B indulged me, and we went to go check out their live show at the Bowery Ballroom last night (and unfortunately missed SPOON’s free outdoor show due to competing events - New York has so many amazing outdoor concerts in the summer it’s pure insanity).

Atlanta-based noise rockers and Pitchfork darlings, this quintet has sparked a fair amount of controversy. A loose meld of distorted vocals and jangley guitars, they inspire the repeat button in iTunes. Did I mention distortion? I was deliriously happy that they played my OCD triumvirate of ‘Cryptograms’, ‘Octet’ and ‘Wash Off’, plus a whacked version of ‘Strange Lights’.

Lead singer Bradford Cox did an odd strip-tease throughout the show that started with anti-Garanimals mismatched prints, morphed into a sequined butterfly number and ended in a 70’s disco dress. He then closed the show post-encore with a 10-minute soliloquy akin to overhearing someone’s therapy session. Huh.

They will be rocking the South Street Seaport along with Battles at the end of August. Rather than the requisite clandestine wine I usually sneak in, that’s a show that warrants Xanex cocktails in a hip flask.

Manu Chao at Prospect Park

My father rather wistfully got me a wicker picnic basket, complete with its own cloth napkins and salt and pepper shakers two years ago. This would have been an ideal gift if I lived in the same country as him, and didn't have to then lug it home on a plane with me, amongst my other English gifts and purchases. I couldn't carry it that journey (because of all my Topshop shopping) and my friend Karen graciously brought it over the next time she had a job in New York.

So at the opportunity of having a picnic in the park to listen to Manu Chao live, I insisted we bring the picnic basket with us, you know, for Karen. Michael grumbled the whole way there (it was heavy with all the food, china plates, rosé in a thermos) that it was absolutely unnecessary. I insisted he was just upset that he didn't have the E Type Jaguar to put it in. It would have sweetened the deal a little, but the F Train had to suffice for now.

Manu Chao tends to conjure the image of backpackers milling around English bars in Thailand, and thus a slight wincing feeling in me. But that's ok when you're sitting in the park with a picnic in Thailand-like weather. I'm not sure I would have felt the same standing in line for hours on a day when the heat nears the 100° mark. Quite honestly, it just felt like we were listening to the Clandestino CD with a canned crowd in the background, but no matter. Perhaps it would have been different if we were in the canned crowd. We were too busy tucking into grilled flank steak sandwiches with homemade aioli, arugula and ciabatta and some orzo salad and some lovely dark and stormies that Jen made. We finished it off with some delicious nectarine cakes , Manu Chao bouncing around in the background.

Panasonic Retro Piano Painted Headphones

I think you may have to get these
to go with this.

It'll just finish off the outfit and I know you like your music accessories. I'm not normally into the faux stuff, but I think these work well enough stylistically, and you would definitely carry them off nicely.

Thanks Charlie, for the tip. Photograph courtesy of Audiocubes.

Datarock at Studio B

We got in the cab and when asked where we were going, both pulled out scraps of paper with the address scribbled on. "Somewhere on Banker St" we mumbled whilst fumbling for the address in the dark and we were asked in return for the name of the venue. "Studio B, yes I know it. It's 259 Banker Street. I take people there all the time, it's a big party place these days, everyone knows about it."

Chastized and slightly confused, we were dropped at the infamous Studio B which was kind of empty, with a few people standing still on the dancefloor and Lo-Fi-Fnk playing.

We were there to see Datarock; rock, electronic, spoof and camp all in one. It's Talking Heads meets Röyksopp with a little early Blur thrown in. They were dressed in open, tight red tracksuits and as with Soil & Pimp one of the members acts as an "agitator". So basically he jumps around and gets the crowd going. And that's just fine with me.

Having had the most famous song "Fa-Fa-Fa" mysteriously on my iTunes, I discovered with a Norwegian friend that I actually knew who this obscure Bergen band was. So he introduced me to the rest of the album. It took me a little getting used to, but it really is catchy and now I often find it difficult to fall asleep because I'm humming "I used to dance with my daddy, yah" under my breath. It was also one of the best outros I have ever seen; they launched straight into a karaoke of "I've had the time of my life" then stopped after about fifteen seconds, leaving the Greenpoint crowd standing on the dancefloor, stunned that the gig had abruptly stopped, swaying slightly to the Dirty Dancing soundtrack like a bad high school disco. That'll teach you for thinking you're cool for knowing who Datarock is.

The Bravery at Bowery Ballroom

Every now and again I stumble upon a band that really does it for me. The Bravery is one of those. Capable of turning me into an iPod zombie on the morning subway commute, but with a ridiculous smile on my face.

So, I decided to take in the sold-out show last night at the Bowery Ballroom - one of New York's finer live music venues. I found the show via what is quite possibly my new favorite Web 2.0 invention, iConcertcal, which ostensibly loads a local concert listing into iTunes based on your I.P. address and the contents of your music library. Genius and life-changing, really.

New York-based The Bravery look like all those despondent boys you see on the L train, or stand behind on line at Oslo Coffee in Williamsburg. Front-man Sam Endicott stole the show, and is every bit the rock star - including the cultivated Brit-pop look with requisite skinny jeans, studded belt and black-tie-white-shirt-v-neck-sweater combo.

In addition to their heady meld of New Order meets Franz Ferdinand on the self-titled debut disc, the boys doled out a handful of instantly addictive new tunes from their sophomore release, "The Sun & The Moon," due out on 22 May; I'll be running, not walking, to pre-order my copy.

We unfortunately arrived a bit too late to see the opening act "The Head Set," but from the sounds of their MySpace page they were worth checking out, too. Next time.

(photo courtesy of The Bravery's website)

Mr Scruff at Cielo

I have a real problem with straight clubs. I don't like them. I always try and get my friends to go gay dancing, and it happens far too infrequently for my liking. Sure, at a gay club you get the odd guy that is pissed off that you're in their territory, but that happens once in a blue moon. At a straight club, women dancing = woman that is desperate to dance with any man on dance floor and then go home with said man. I hate that. Because I'm taken, I'm not interested and I'm here to see Mr Scruff, not you.

Michele on the other hand didn't mind the attention and the odd straight guy that could dance and simultaneously avoid looking like someone's dad. We bumped into Walter who seems to be a regular at Cielo and Charlie from England. Which was nice. They were the only people in the crowd that weren't from a place that required a bridge or a tunnel to access Manhattan (the Williamsburg Bridge doesn't count).

There were guys wearing turtleneck sweaters and chinos, seeming like they were looking for the water cooler. Is that a Cielo thing, a Thursday in NYC thing or a Mr Scruff thing? I hope it's not a Mr Scruff thing. Come to think of it, it's probably a Meatpacking thing. Which is troublesome as I am off to the Meatpacking again right now and (wince) it's Friday night. Amateur night.

Mr Scruff was already playing when we got into Cielo and he was still playing at 2am when we left. We had to leave because if we hadn't we would have stayed all night and it was a school night. This was typical Mr Scruff stuff, and exactly what I was there to hear. Reggae to jazz to bossanova to funk to I-don't-know-what-they-call-it. I wish Mr Scruff played here more often, and I wish he played at Canal Room and not Cielo. Because Cielo sucks, and to sit down you have to pay for a three bottle minimum at $275 a bottle. Something Stef was willing to do but I was not. But I would be happy to see Mr Scruff, anytime. Even at Cielo.

Giant Step: Soil & Pimp Sessions

I went to see Gilles Peterson at the Hiro Ballroom last week with Michael, Gina and Michele. Stef was suffering from a rather serious bout of man flu, so he had to miss it. And oh, what a night he missed. We saw Tita Lima whose album I thought was not bad, but on stage seemed like some NYU student that got lost on the way from Washington Square Park. You barely noticed her and she had no stage presence.

The Soil & Pimp Sessions however blew our minds. None of us has ever seen anything like them. As Gilles so eloquently put it, they're a bunch of mentalists (see here for "mentalist" reference). They're a jazz band, but they play with such fervor, such unbelievable energy, it's like a Japanese punk rock band picked up some brass instruments and a keyboard by accident. My favorite part was "the agitator" which means a guy that stands on stage and gets the crowd involved and into it. And sometimes he uses a megaphone. I think it is described better in the video that Michele took (she's still getting used to it, so a lot of it is filmed on its side. But you'll get the idea).

Also playing was Taylor McFerrin with whom Gina was particularly enamored. We're going to see him next week at the Canal Room which is owned by our neighbor, Marc.

And speaking of live music, my friend Terje put me on to this itunes plugin which is going to change my life, and probably yours too. It searches through your music library and then tells you which of the artists in your library are playing in your home city in the next few months. So expect reports back from Mr Scruff, Taylor McFerrin, Datarock and RJD2. But not from Pat Benatar, I'll just save that for karaoke.