As good as these musicians were, Prieto was obviously the star. Watching him move effortless across the drum set brought about not only the “How is one person can making all those sounds?” cliché, but rather that the sounds and polyrhythms he’s coaxing from his set somehow all fit together into a composite groove that’s as exploratory as it is infectious. At times Prieto looked like he was barely holding his sticks as he lightly struck the rims and edges of his cymbals, producing a sound like a collection of skittering bugs. At other moments, including a bit of boom-bap during a duet with pianist Valera, he was as loud as the most aggressive amateur banging away at the “Integrity of the Insider” exhibit of Haegue Yang in the Walker’s Medtronic Gallery. A favorite technique for Prieto was to turn the snare off, thus making it another tom, resulting in a palette of four closely-pitched drums that he played like melodically rolling waves.

All that being said, the intimacy and tightness of the sextet made Prieto that much better. One of the best things about seeing good jazz live is to witness the subtle micro-interactions that make up a song, most of which are done on the spot. These are more than just smiles and nods, but rather the bounced back-and-forth of melodic and rhythmic fragments between soloists and members of the rhythmic section that show just how good a group is and how much they’re enjoying their work; this sextet had all of these characteristics in spades.

Before the night’s final song, Prieto grabbed a pair of claves and, after doing a bit of cheeky self-advertisement for Taking the Soul for a Walk, proceeded to wow the crowd one more time with an incredible display of mouth percussion, double- and triple-tonguing his way through myriad sounds and patterns. In a return to the most elemental of musical relationships—the hand and the voice—Prieto produced unbelievable music with the simplest of means, making what he creates with a full drum set and locked-in sextet that much more astonishing.

Darnielle’s voice, a combination of singing, shouting, and preacherly oratory, is the Mountain Goats most recognizable elements, and it cut through the band even at its loudest moments. The group performed songs from a wide range of albums, many from their most recent record, The Life of the World to Come, but also older albums such as Heretic Pride, The Sunset Tree, and even more obscure albums such as Isopanisad Radio Hour and Full Force Galesburg.

Given his more recent exploration of religious themes and imagery—all of the songs on the most recent record take their cues and titles from specific Bible verses—Darnielle is well aware that we all die, and doesn’t shy away from this fact of life. One of the best lyrics of the entire concert is from “Isaiah 45:23,” from the perspective of a terminal cancer patient: “I won’t get better/but someday I’ll be free.” Others take a less individual perspective, referencing an apocalyptic “burning fuselage of my days” on “Psalms 40:2”

Most of the music that serves as these lyrics’ bed, though, didn’t match the morose, grotesque, even violent character of these and other lyrics. Much of it is bright folk-rock-pop that had the tightly-packed crowd moving as much as it could, exuding an optimism that not even the darkest lyrical subjects can overwhelm. And the band can flat-out rock. There were even some moments that I forgot this was a Walker show, like their encore performance of the raucously positive “This Year,” caring little for how aesthetically innovative the words or music might have been and simply the enjoying the abandon that comes with the best rock ‘n’ roll.

One of the things Darnielle and the Mountain Goats are best known for is their lo-fi sound, at least until his more recent albums. There was a nod to that, it seemed, with the choice of keyboard Darnielle used for songs like the darkly ponderous “Ezekiel 7 and the Permanent Efficacy of Grace,” another apocalyptic tale about the necessity of moving forward as the world ends around you. While on The Life of the World to Come, the piano parts are played on what sounds like your standard grand piano, the digital piano sounded slightly thin and tinny, the synthesized equivalent of a spinet. Whether a choice of economy over aesthetics, it just seemed to fit.

Although lo-fi has become its own category of experimentation, the more traditionally experimental side of the night was presented by its opener, Final Fantasy (aka Owen Pallett). I’m a complete sucker for real-time digital looping, and Pallett uses the technique masterfully, recording highly intricate melody lines on keyboard and violin that danced polyphonically through the Cedar’s sound system. Pallett employed much more than loops, with octave transformations, distortions, delays, and other processing effects that heightened the power of his violin. Using a slight delay, he created the illusion of double-time pizzicato, while another time, he made a col legno intro (playing with the wood of the bow instead of the string) even more eerie through the use of a jittery echo. As opposed to Darnielle, Pallett’s warm, rich tenor voice often got lost in the swirling cascades of sound, becoming another instrumental voice. (Comparisons to Andrew Bird are unavoidable, and the two worked together on Pallett’s Pays to Please EP.) Pallett also joined Darnielle for a number of songs, including “Genesis 30:3,” about the “alternative living arrangements” of making a family with three instead of two, and “Orange Ball of Hate.” Before playing this last song, off  of 1994’s Zopilote Machine, Darnielle happily remarked that its gray hair had been shed with the infusion of Pallett’s musical voice.

In the midst of Darnielle’s solo set, a voice from the crowd called for him to do a backflip. Not missing a beat, Darnielle launched into a childhood story about trying to execute the maneuver on his parents bed when no one was looking. For him, not seeing it is the key: unseen, its perfection can never be questioned. The devoted fans who stayed and sang through Darnielle’s second encore, a communal re-telling of the Hold Steady’s “Positive Jam,” could’ve cared less about perfection; they were overjoyed simply to have seen.

Gu∂nadóttir opened the night, with a quirky, shoeless bounce to her step that was reflected in her 3 songs. The first was for solo cello, as long tones gently morphed into digitally-processed responses; an entire cello ensemble eventually unfurled.  (This ensemble, however, was interrupted by someone wanting to Gmail chat with her; 6 beeps total marked her performance, and her scrambling to close windows after the piece finished clearly showed that such aleatoric intrusions were not intended.) As she added musicians for the rest of her set, they all expertly blended timbres, with the rasp of her cello melding with the synth and trumpet lines of Eiríkur Orri Ólafsson, resulting in soothing, almost gauzy harmonies and soundscapes.

A few of the same musicians performed with Sin Fang Bous, the experimental project of Seabear’s Sindri Már Sigfússon. Whereas Gu∂nadóttir’s set was dreamy in a sort of floating-along-the-clouds way, Sigfússon created a world that was close enough to daily life (evinced by the very pop-oriented nature of the songs) but just askew enough to keep a listener on her toes (unexpected syncopations, extended guitar techniques, vocal distortions, and opaque lyrics). One lyric in particular, “looking at me through broken eyes,” summarized his stage presence: never before have I seen a more vacant look on someone’s face while performing. Most of the songs simply petered out, punctuated by a slightly practiced-sounding “Thank you.” The last song was the exception, which finished with a huge buildup over Sigfússon’s wordless falsetto vocals.

múm took the stage abruptly after Sigfússon’s set. Two of the members came out, sat down at the Steinway, and performed “Ladies of the New Century,” from their latest record, Sing Along to Songs You Don’t Know. (The majority of their set was culled from there.) A bunch of the same musicians who performed earlier in the evening took the stage as part of múm, including Hildur Gu∂nadóttir. Elements from earlier in the night marked múm’s performance, for better and for worse. There were some incredible musical moments, with wonderfully-matched harmonies throughout the group, especially from Gu∂nadóttir and fellow vocalist-instrumentalist Sigurlaug Gísladóttir. There were also more of the mesmerizingly blended timbres, this time spread throughout melodica, cello, violin, synth, trumpet, piano, and guitar. I quickly stopped listening to the lyrics, though. At times the words were thought provoking, as on “Show Me,” with a desire to “show me the way you worship little things,” but for the most part I found the lyrics a bit inane. Turning off that part of my brain allowed me to bathe in their soundscapes and really appreciate the best part of the show, which was their utter happiness in performing. They even did a bit of audience interaction: Dana the band’s monitor person held up fluorescent signs akin to a bouncing ball during “Sing Along,” expressing the band’s love for this particular crowd. Such joy and exuberance seems capable of melting even the coldest Minnesota—or Icelandic—winter.

BLK JKS' Linda Buthelezi. Photo by Justin Schell

“Enjoy the rainbow. It’s not about the pot of gold at the end.” So said guitarist Mpumi Mcata near the opening of  BLK JKS’ 90-minute set at the Cedar Cultural Center. The opening of the 2009 Global Roots Festival (the first year the Cedar’s usual “Nordic Roots” festival has gone global), it’s hard not to hear echoes of Nelson Mandela and the idea of the “rainbow nation” as an idealized post-Apartheid South Africa in the Jo’Burg group, “a rainbow nation,” in his words, “at peace with itself and the world.”  Anybody who has followed South Africa over the past 10 years—or at least has seen District 9—knows how complicated such an idea has become.

While this kind of politics only briefly appeared during their set—more on that later—the packed house at the Cedar was treated to a bewildering mix of genres, with roots in music from Soweto to Kingston to London and all points in between. Their roots seem to be in prog rock, with the band’s long, winding guitar and bass lines and on-the-fly shifts in mixed meters, while at other times I felt like I was listening to a spontaneous dub record, especially with the processed drum sounds and vocals. (In a 2008 cover story, Fader described them as “afrogothic,” a neologism that only hints at the variety of styles and influences churning beneath BLK JKS’s surface.)

There was lots of obvious communication between Mcata and the rest of the members of the group— Tshepang Ramoba on drums, Molefi Makananise on bass, and lead singer and guitarist Linda Buthelezi—as they seemed to figure out their path through the songs as they played them. Their positions on-stage, in a straight line instead of the usual drummer-in-back hierarchy, lent itself both to this ease of communication as well as no one musician occupying the center of attention. All this led to sometimes startlingly different versions of songs like “Molatatladi,” “Summertime,” and “Tselane.” This last song was especially striking, a slow, almost dirge-like song at times, with a long buildup that seemed to match the eerie nature of its subject, a folk tale-cum-bedtime story about the ogre Dingwe kidnapping little girls.

Buthelezi and Ramoba seem to be foils for each other, the latter’s frenetic energy and churning drums seemed sometimes at odds with the almost disaffected singing of Buthelezi. For much of the time, Buthelezi looked suspicious of those in the first couple rows. By the end of the show, however, he had shed this stoicism, as he threw guitars and mics to the ground, pecking the entire body of the guitar and twiddling knobs to bring forth ever weirder sounds from his amps.

The group’s audience-demanded encore started out as the most politically-engaged moment of the show, with shout outs to Steve Biko and African Youth organizing in 1974. In fact, it was the most straight-ahead song, with much less of the rhythmic elasticity that marked the rest of the set. (Mcata did say it was a popular political rally song, but I couldn’t recognize it or catch the title over the wash of distortion that crowded his words.) As the minutes went by, dreads, sticks, and microphones, guitars, and cymbals flailed in an incredible, Acid Mothers Temple/Boredoms-worthy freak out, an incredible release of all the built-up energy of the previous 80 minutes. While this might not have been the usual pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, both the path and the end BLK JKS painted at the Cedar were thoroughly enjoyed by both the band and audience.

The boyish, blond-mopped Micachu shared the Cedar’s stage with Marc Pell and Raisa Khan, Pell on drums and Khan multitasking on laptop, auxiliary percussion, and keyboards. They not only looked young, they were young, all in the early 20s. (This was one of the few shows I’ve been to recently where I felt old.)

Most of Jewellry, the group’s debut album, is danceable as hell, while at the same time intellectually satisfying on an headphone-close listen. There are very few songs that sound similar on Jewellry, each a testament to timbral and sonic subtlety. These sounds are spread out in all parts of the stereo spectrum, and Micachu’s voice effortlessly dips into and out of the digital washes behind it. Such detail is due in part, no doubt, to the masterful presence of Matthew Herbert. And this combination also make it impossible to sit still on songs like “Vulture,” “Lips,” “Golden Phone,” and the Pee Wee Herman-channeling “Calculator.”

Unfortunately, neither of these elements were really on view at the Cedar, the band’s first date on their first US tour. The level of detail on Jewellry wasn’t there during the live show, which can mostly be chalked up to the live atmosphere,  which doesn’t easily allow for the kinds of details possible on record. There were some moments that showed why the band should play these songs live, such as the intricate percussion duets between Pell and Khan (played on everything from garbage can lid cymbals to cowbells to bottles) and the explosive bass of “Floor” that seemed to catch everybody by surprise. And it was entertaining just to watch Micachu, whether it be her vocal delivery or the variety of instruments she played, which included a Frankenstein-ish acoustic bedecked with adaptations, a seemingly constantly de/untuned electric, and what looked like a home-made (anti-)Auto-Tune contraption. While her stage presence itself is nothing extraordinary, she has a wonderful, if unintentional, sneer while delivering her lyrics, lyrics that are opaque enough already without the accent.

It didn’t help that the audience was one of the stiffest I’ve ever seen at a show, at the Cedar or anywhere else. It wasn’t until the very last song that they started whoopin’ it up with joyful responses to “Golden Phone.” I was expecting a twitchy mass of spastically dancing hipsters, but few obliged.

Nothing about Micachu & The Shapes is all that new, whatever Pitchfork might say; shades of Deerhoof, Aphex Twin, Sonic Youth, Harry Partch (who is appropriately, if unexpectedly, thanked in the liner notes), Brainiac and numerous other pop/avant-garde acts all echo in Micachu’s overtones. That doesn’t mean, of course, that the show was a drag or Jewellry is any less impressive. Let’s just hope that the audiences on the rest of their tour will be a bit more effusive in their appreciation.

I’d like to introduce myself.  My name is Mark McCloughan and I’m working as an Intern in Performing Arts forthe Summer.  While the summer may seem like a rather quiet time here at the Walker, with only a few events on the calendar(Momentum and Music and Movies in the Park), we’re already busily anticipating next season. 

One of the events I’m looking forward to next season is Micachu and the Shapes.  Playing at the Cedar Cultural Center on September 23, this concert is guaranteed to be fascinating.  One of my jobs so far has been to research press for promotional purposes, so I’ve been reading a lot of stories about this band recently.  There seem to be a few major trends that music journalists and bloggers are picking up on.  The first:

Photo by jystewart

Some bloggers and critics (meaning there’s a mention in every single article you will read about this band) have picked up on the face that one of the tracks on Jewellery, the band’s debut album, prominently features the sound of a dying vacuum cleaner.  While my research neither confirms nor denies whether or not this rare and delicate instrument will make an appearance at this show, Micachu’s art-school pedigree means that this show probably won’t feature a traditional guitar-drums-voice setup.  This brings us to the second point about the band many critics have picked up on:

Photo by kmeron

Mica Levi (Micachu’s real name) has been called an art school prodigy by some (meaning all) critics.  While this isn’t uncommon for an up-and-coming experimental pop musician, Mica’s rather ridiculous list of accomplishments definitely earn her the prodigy label.  Born in 1987, at the ripe old age of 22 she has nonetheless managed to do the following:

• graduate
• release a pair of well-recieved singles
• release a critically acclaimed debut album produced by Matthew Herbert, the famous electronic musician whose current project is a record made entirely from sounds sampled during the lifetime of a single pig (more information at This is a Pig, where Herbert will be chronicling the project)
• compose an orchestral piece for the London Symphony Orchestra
• Tour widely

Levi is remarkably humble about her accomplishments, and in most interviews I’ve read with her she seems to be almost giddy at the fact that she is receiving worldwide acclaim for playing a vacuum cleaner (among other things).  Putting aside my extreme jealousy and violent sense of underachievment, I must say that I am happy for her.  Really, I am.  Aren’t you?

If you only see one avant-pop concert by a band of 22-year-old art school wunderkinds this season, see this one.  You can find more information about the show at the Walker’s Calendar.

If you want a taste of what you’ll hear at the show, you can listen to some of the band’s songs at their myspace - Golden Phone is my personal favorite.

What often makes Monk’s piano playing so incredible is his almost infinitely malleable sense of time, how he could stretch and pull apart the rhythm of a song to its very seams yet remain firmly in the pocket. Moran and the rest of the rhythm section—Tarus Mateen on bass and Nasheet Waits on drums—transferred this concept to the entire section and took it as the foundation for all of their interpretations, resulting in a skillful and subtle pushing and pulling of time that always kept each other—and the audience—on their toes.

For the most part, unfortunately, the work’s visual elements lacked the subtlety that marked so much of the evening’s music. For instance, at one point Moran cut back and forth between live video of the band and fractured collages of 1959 newspapers, which didn’t leave much to the imagination. An exception, however, was a digitally-weathered, almost stop-motion slideshow of Moran’s studio, as he described his musical history, one intertwined with Monk’s own. (He was introduced to Monk’s music when he learned about a plane crash that killed a family friend and it was this music that made him want to take the piano seriously.) The half photograph, half-sketch images not only blurred the lines between these two different life stories, but also the process of influence that In My Mind foregrounds both as representation and end result.

In the end, I found that the evening’s best moments actually had very little to do with the work’s visuals, one which was intentional and the other which most likely wasn’t.

The first was the work’s opening, with Moran walking on stage and donning headphones. Soon the opening notes of “Thelonious,” the first song on the original record (The Thelonious Monk Orchestra at Town Hall), dimly fill the hall; it was like the audience was in Moran’s mind, overhearing the explorations and results of his working through the past as he vacillated between doubling and embellishing Monk’s piano lines.

The second was near the middle of the performance, after the performers had walked off stage following a particularly pointed comparison between Monk’s slave grandparents and his own beating at the hands of police. Recorded music accompanying the visuals made Nasheet Waits’ snare rattle with sympathetic vibrations. This normally annoying occurrence—a snare that the drummer forgot to switch off ruining a particularly intimate moment—actually crystallized In My Mind nicely, the music from the past serving as a catalyst, both literally and figuratively, for the creation of something new.

(Like my colleague Mark, I’d also like to thank Michelè and everyone involved at the Walker for giving me the opportunity to write about this year’s concerts. I’m excitedly anticipating another slate of impressive concerts next year.)

So, why the dearth of Monk in my record collection? Strangely, I think it’s because his genius was so singular, in fact, that it never really evolved. The specific qualities one could identify from a Monk performance or composition in the late 40’s stayed constant through the remaining years of his life and career with astounding consistency. Compare how far Mingus or Miles Davis or Coltrane moved in a similar period and Monk’s resilience against the demands of time is revealing. For example, a reduction of Miles’ career into five-year chunks shows us an artist who skipped from The Birth of the Cool to Walkin’ to Kind of Blue to E.S.P. to In a Silent Way. That’s a load of ground to cover and that kind of insatiable exploratory impulse is what makes Miles, Miles. What made Monk, Monk was a consistent eccentricity that remained regardless of the milieu into which it was thrust. So, his solo work is as pure as I need it to be and all other permutations are unnecessary.

(Plus…shhh…don’t tell anyone but I’m not that much of a bop fan.)

Jason Moran apparently doesn’t share my take on Monk. In My Mind: Monk at Town Hall 1959 was a multimedia reconsideration of the titular concert – a concert that featured Monk as part of a tentet. The players in The Big Bandwagon, assembled by Moran, were certainly capable (I especially enjoyed the jocular trombone of Isaac Smith) of interpreting Monk’s odd melodies while also paying tribute to some of Monk’s specific arrangements. Moran clued the audience into these tributes by playing recordings of Monk’s deliberative process during rehearsal. It was interesting to hear the man speak for himself and then have Moran’s band express his wishes across fifty years of history. (It’s important to note that the Big Bandwagon resisted the lures of re-creation. That is, their aim wasn’t to replicate the 1959 concert but to revisit it with contemporary perspective, most evidently in the playing of drummer Nasheet Watts who wasn’t afraid to pepper his breaks with Latin rhythms from the 1960’s or James Brown funk from the 1970’s.) It was precisely the kind of historic transformation that multimedia and performative theory can hardily promote.

But, these high-minded performance strategies also require subjects that can absorb, maintain and even thrive upon an excess of attention. For me, the question remains whether Monk, the musical genius, requires our re-visitations. He was/is complete whether we we pay attention or not.  

(I would like to thank Philip Bither, Michele Steinwald and everyone who made possible this past season of music at the Walker Art Center. Thanks also to those who maintain this space at Walker Blogs. I’ve truly enjoyed blogging these various performances and appreciate the opportunity. For those interested, in the next week or so I intend to post an entry that will consider music programming at institutions like the Walker…you may consider it a meta-post if you want but I hope it won’t be as dull as that sounds. Thanks again, everybody.)

Not only do they need to tailor it for the Walker’s stage, but since it’s a world premiere, those final details are innumerable: Does Cynthia throw the record here? Are the slides in the right order? Can the mike stand be steady? Not to mention other, bigger questions.

Fans know Cynthia Hopkins to be quite the spinner of tall tales – but people who haven’t seen the trilogy’s first two installments will get all the back story they need in the second part of the show, which Cynthia and crew were running through here. This final installment promises to bring an extra dimension to the trilogy – not just with all of the intergalactic space travel (yes, there is flying), but with Hopkins laying bare her own true (we presume) story. As she says as one point, it’s all part of “an elaborate plan.”

Above are views from the front and side of the stage. Those roughly door-sized panels are held up with long bungees, to define a smaller, intimate stage. During the first part of the show, they are dropped down,  creating a shiny black void for the outer-space setting.

Below is Jeff Sugg working backstage – sort of. He and Jim Findlay, the design/tech geniuses behind all of Cynthia’s shows, are actually visible for part of the show (when the panels up above are not raised), working their magic behind a shiny clear sheet of plastic. A transparent take on the Wizard of Oz, if you will. At certain junctures, they leave the computers and control boards and come forward as performers, to boot.

Below: This crazed craft project is one of the many ways that Findlay and Sugg mix high- and low-tech. It’s a tiny model of, as Jim says, “the earth 50 million years from now” (or maybe that’s billion), with some new and no doubt highly evolved improvements. Attached to that wood strip in the center is a mini-camera that can do tracking shots over the landscape, which are projected onto a really cool curved screen hanging high over the main stage. If you look for it, I think this might be visible during the show, in back with Jeff and Jim and all their gear.

Overall, there’s an intriguing mix in this show between homespun design and expansive elegance. I’m eager to see how it all comes together on Thursday night.

Photo by Cameron Wittig

Tune into 89.3 The Current at 4pm to hear Walker performing arts curator Philip Bither and The Current’s Mary Lucia announce the lineup for Rock the Garden on June 20 – this festival has become one of summer’s coveted tickets. Speaking of tickets, they go on sale tomorrow too, but Walker and MPR members get first dibs. If you’re looking for an excuse to join, this is as good as it gets. Oh wait, it gets better: Your ticket is free if you contribute at $60 or more; tickets for you and a friend are free if you renew or joining at $150 or more. As you listen to Mary and Philip playing songs from the bands, check out images from Rock the Garden last year – and picture yourself this June, soaking up sun and great sounds in our grassy back yard.