Icy Demons, The Hospital, 7.10.2006

In September, Icy Demons will release one of the more interesting records of the year, the excellently titled Tears of a Clone. Last night, they played at Bloomington venue The Hospital, an unassuming renovated building newly housing a freeformish art collective who also like to put on rock shows. Kickass. The acoustics in the room left a bit to be desired (well, duh), but they did allow me to temporarily disregard what I’d been paying attention to on record and notice other things I’d otherwise miss. For instance, with the benefit of studio recording and mastering, bassist/singer Griffin Rodriquez’s (late of Bablicon) unique voice oscillates between the strangely soulful falsetto of blues-fusion-meister George Duke and the reluctant baritone of XTC’s Andy Partridge (try new track “Mr. Squeezy” (mp3) on as a perfect example), but live last night it was almost completely subsumed to the intriguing clamor being created around him. And the large amounts of empty space and clarity that distinguish Clone and especially 2004 debut Fight Back! that made me want to consider them minimalists was filled last night with the performance’s irresistable maximalist fervor (as well as the fact that every note was bouncing off of the drywall of a recently refinished space meant more for gallery openings than live music).

Rodriquez is backed by a band who switched instruments at least 4 or 5 times, and includes the lightning quick Chris Powell from spaz-rock band Need New Body, a dude on keys and another on this massive vibraphone, and a cellist who looks like she could be Bob Marley’s daughter. Also, Rodriquez, who goes by the name “Blue Hawaii,” was sporting some serious Polyphonic Spree-type garb as well (a stark white dashiki thing and white linen pants) that gave the whole performance the same sort of light-yet-eerie essence that the vibraphone did. The highlight was the third song, an urgent version of the Fight Back’s “Icy Demons” (mp3), which demonstrated that the polyrhythmic interplay between Rodriquez and Powell is the core element of the band. From there the show was a fragmentary, shape-shifting amalgam of highs and lows just like their records, alternately resembling Frank Zappa’s late Sixties fusion experiment Hot Rats as well as 1975’s expansive One Size Fits All (featuring George Duke, no less), with elements of free jazz, reggae, calypso and R&B added for good measure. It’s a combination that could easily end up being a big mess, but one that, both live and digitally, manages somehow to not collapse under its own high ambition.

ELSEWHERE: The New Yorker’s Ben McGrath writes a great piece on NYC hip-hop station Hot 97’s “turf wars”:

“Then, after I got a sandwich and came out of the store—da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da! ” Gravy told me later, mimicking the sound of gunfire. “The only thing I remember is falling, and knowing that I’m shot—just don’t know where. It’s not like, when you get shot, ‘Oh, I got shot here.’ Nah. You know you hit, so your mind frame is—you pumped, your adrenaline is going. I reach my hand over, and I see I’m bleeding. I didn’t see the hole. I can’t see behind my ass.”

AND: Pete takes the awesome side in the awesome v. not awesome Sound Team debate, and produces a well-made video piece on the super-controversial band.

FINALLY: RIP, Syd Barrett. It’ll be tough to find a better send-off than Matthew’s, here.