I
hate CMJ.
I
hate the crowds. I hate the rush. I hate the lines. And I hate
the feeling that no matter where you are, you are missing something
bigger, something better.
I
also hate how a CMJ badge sometimes gets you nowhere – what
you really need are some enterprising skills and a little luck.
(But that you cannot buy.)
I
hate the whole four-day spectacle.
But
I cannot stay away.
The most important survival tools are a clear head,
steady legs and a bunch of cash for cab fare, because you could
miss Youth Group’s whole set while waiting for the subway.
CMJ venues
are many and widespread, but they tend to favor the east
side around and below Union Square. Trying to keep my main
CMJ night, Thursday, to a chaotic minimum, I started at
the relatively close-by punk paradise, CBGB, which has,
since CMJ, met its date with death.
It was a warm, late summer night. Kids
littered the sidewalk and young boys in bands poured in
an out of the club and its folksy cousin, CB’s 313
Gallery. The party was on the street as much as it was inside.
I learned why the sidewalk was so lively when the burly
man guarding CBGB’s rejected my pretty silver badge.
So I joined the crowd.
I was leaning against a barrier, looking
bemusedly at the scene, when a boy approached me. He asked
if I wanted to see the show inside.
|
|
Obviously.
He promptly undid his neon pink wristband and handed it over
with a grin. Twenty seconds later, I was tucked safely inside
the homey living room surroundings of the 313 Gallery.
Denison
Witmer had just finished what was – according
to my adoring friend – an amazing set. Devin
Davis and company were scheduled next. Four guys soon
took to the small stage. It was lovely and un-crowded,
and we sat up front at a small, candle lit table.
I was, in fact, close enough to spot Devin’s
calculator watch. Like his set, it was awesome.
|
|
| The band
was looking positively trendy, with their shaggy hair,
plastic glasses and jeans. But they nevertheless retained
an endearing nerdiness. Then they start playing. Someone
should have warned me that objects may be scream-ier
than they appear, as Devin Davis’ enthralling
power-pop definitely emphasized the “power. |
|
| Devin
had this instrument: a simple machine comprised of a
stand with a long, slim box attached. His hands quivered
over the box, producing an exquisite, haunting sound.
Despite the little candle in my hands, I got chills.
|
|
|
Their infectious energy breathed life into the sleepy venue.
I didn’t know any of his songs, but it did not matter. Score
1 for CMJ.
CB’s Gallery was fun, but it was time to leave. I consulted
my handy, pocket-sized CMJ map (thanks, Virgin Megastore!) 169
Bar was not that far; only about an inch away, it appeared. So
we walked.
 |
Twenty-five minutes later
we found ourselves in the nondescript bar. It was in the
middle of Chinatown, and still accepting CMJ badges. We
walked into the small, rectangular room to the sight of
several people playing pool and about 25 others gamely watching
the current band, The Ebb and Flow, play. Then the bathroom
exploded and its contents encroached on the pool players.
We moved to the vinyl banquet seating closer to the makeshift,
floor-level stage.
A quick glance at the CMJ guide told
us The Heavenly States were up. They hailed from Oakland,
California. That little fact was enough to make me like
them immediately but a few notes quickly changed my mind.
From their name one could expect music sweetly ethereal,
beautiful harmonies or something- they even had a violin.
But one would be disappointed.
I could see some bopping hipster heads
from my booth seat, but the crowd was dwindling. During
certain Celtic-y songs, they were Flogging Molly-esque,
but in a bad way. The Heavenly States were too loud for
their own good, and I was grateful for my earplugs and their
set’s conclusion.
|
Next. I had seen Cloud Cult two nights prior at Tonic. I’d
been sick that night, and had had to tear myself away from their
performance. But this CMJ night I was (semi) refreshed and (definitely)
ready for another dose of this Minnesotan band’s charming
and emotional brand of indie rock.
During Cloud Cult’s set at Tonic, a girl in dreads had
painted a canvas to the rhythm and flow of their music. No painting
this time, but the adorably quirky leader, Craig Minowa, did perform
barefoot – which was smart, because the hole-in-the-wall
bar was getting quite sweaty.
They started quickly
and without introduction. The pretty male and female vocals
transported me away from the dark, dank bar to somewhere
nicer. Like The Heavenly States, they also used a violin,
but to a different effect. Minowa is so dedicated, and his
vocals so earnest that one cannot help but root for this
band of Midwesterners.
They sang one particularly sweet and
poignant song during their forty-minute set. “Sad
song, about a boy/son who died? Backed by curiously upbeat
music,” read my hastily scribbled notes. After the
emotional song’s end, I approached the merchandise
table for some enlightenment. But when the girl could not
tell me the song title, I left, disappointed.
Brief, but interesting, tangent: A
quick stop at Cloud Cult’s website (www.cloudcult.com)
sheds more light on this mysterious song. In actuality,
it is at least semi-autobiographical, covering the deeply
traumatic loss of Minowa’s two-year-old son.
|
|
The small, crowded space was the perfect, intimate place for
such soul- baring. The sound was not excellent but the music was.
There were all sorts of wires crisscrossing the floor, but no
one seemed to mind- or trip. The crowd was about five people deep
but at 1 a.m., in a little bar in the middle of Chinatown, it
was a testament to Cloud Cult’s, well, cultish following.
With an equally unannounced end, Cloud Cult lay down their instruments
and finished their set. It was a lovely evening but time to go
home. Intrepid CMJ-ers that we are, we had walked to the bar,
but we are merely mortal, and thus jumped into the first cab we
saw.
As I stretched out in the stuffy black vinyl seat
of our car, I reflected on my evening.
I was tired, but I was happy.
And I love CMJ.
