DENIM SILOS

[1] While contemporary observers may find weaponry metaphor to be corny, tedious or offensive, I wasn’t around in 1968 and will let that title stand without judgment.

The venue known as S1 is located in the basement of a Rite Aid. It took me a couple slow cruises ‘round the block before I spotted a crowd of smokers outside what looked to be a garage entrance and figured it out. I sadly missed the opening act but got there in time to spend 30 or 40 minutes waiting for Eternal Tapestry to start. One person or another would go up and ominously fiddle with an instrument, but in general a light drone kept on from the DJ table and nothing much went down onstage. Then, mystery solved: a slight young fella came rushing into the venue and began tuning a bass. The late bassist - of course. I took a seat on the floor and put earplugs in before ET started, but they fooled me and came out slow and atmospheric-like, with a soft-spoken introduction. Last time I saw them their entire set comprised two heavy longform jams, but tonight they played a series of relatively standard-length songs, with vocals even. Gotta say I like them better in extended instrumental mode although I did appreciate the more subtle dynamics on display tonight - perhaps a nod to the ambient/new agey programming of the evening. Very shortly thereafter, Laraaji took the stage, or lack thereof. He stood behind a long table draped in orange. Two yellow lamps faced away from him and shone on the audience, making him almost impossible to see. This bummed me out ‘cause I thought I was going to get at least a taste of his serene smile. He bowed, plucked, and banged on the zither, massaged blue-lit processed drones out of some kinda touchscreen device, and played a mean thumb piano, all with copious amounts of resonant reverb/delay. Midway through the set he got into some heavy unmic’d bellowing that carried nicely through the concrete-and-plaster environs. The highlights for me and the moments that came closest to living up to the “celestial music” tag were the intense unaccompanied zither pieces. The tones he coaxed out of the instrument with his mallets and hands were much more transcendent when allowed to resonate on their own, without the somewhat over-processed and cloying electronic accompaniment. The songs ran seamlessly one into the next and before ya knew it it was over. Laraaji stepped out from the table and addressed the crowd verbally for the first time: “Om shanti om,” etcetera. I was a little distracted near the end by a wasted rocker bro in a kitten sweatshirt who started eating what smelled like chips and cheap salsa out of a rustling plastic bag. A few minutes later he inexplicably moved on to Indian or Pakistani food. His crew seemed embarrassed but also tacitly in approval of the disrespect he was showing toward the performer, who must have been a little out of their comfort zone. I didn’t expect to see bleached-hair tiny-denim-jacket types at this gig, but I guess no place is safe these days.

— Ian Svenonius, Supernatural Strategies for Making a Rock 'n' Roll Group

— Ian Svenonius, Against Tipping

— Jack Kerouac, Desolation Angels

The Space Lady - Major Tom