The Fletcher Pratt The Inevitable Breakups Jonathan Richman Miso Sharp Things The Hissyfits The Lackloves Kevin Tihista's Red Terror

September 11th (which is no longer a date, but an event) interrupted all possibility of other events for the weeks that followed. One of the events so interrupted was the annual CMJ Music Marathon. Originally scheduled for the weekend of the 15th of September, the Marathon was undoubtedly in serious danger of being canceled altogether; who would know whether Americans would be interested in gathering together for something so esoteric as a celebration of new music in the weeks following this horror? If they rescheduled and held CMJ, would anyone come?

Fortunately, those involved decided it was worth it to try to find out -- so despite increased paranoia and despite the possibility of terrorist attacks in the wake of the US bombing of Afghanistan, New York's music industry types, press and fans converged on lower Manhattan for four days of new faces, new music and new, hitherto-unexplored means of schmoozing.

The logistics of this thing are pretty remarkable: more than forty venues, several hundred bands, umpteen panel discussions, movie showings and other ephemera; the fact that those responsible were able to reschedule everything for the weekend of October 11th is a minor miracle in and of itself. Of course, the schedule had changed somewhat from the original plan, but the shows offered were still a smorgasbord of largely-unexplored opportunity. Your intrepid reporters divvied up the days and got rocking.

Wednesday, October 10th (Daniel Arizona):

Kicking it off on Wednesday night at New York's most famous small stage, The Knitting Factory, the CMJ Marathon was well under way when Racquet took the stage after Circle and Square. With chutzpah and a deceptive coquettishness, these three girls (wearing cheerleader outfits with two tennis racquets stitched on the chest and skirts that hung over torn and frayed stockings) took the stage and proved to all that girls just want to have fun. Jumping back and forth from bass, drums, guitar and keyboards, each member took turns on lead vocal, keeping the mood and song selection decidedly fresh and fun. The guitarist had a throaty, soulful voice and gave the impression that she was bad mama who wouldn't take shit from anyone. The curly, red-headed drummer had a Cyndi Lauper-meets-Betty Boop squeak that was disarmingly effective, and the cute blond had the sardonic, Kim Gordonish air of one who's seen it all before and has had enough. Trust me, Josie and the Pussycats had nothing on these three. From fun dance songs such as "Male Pisces" to raunchier songs like "I Like Them Sloppy", Racquet quickly won the crowd over, even though they weren't incredibly proficient on their instruments. This was what seeing a live show is all about: complete strangers getting on a stage and entertaining you through a sheer act of will -- and occasionally, if you're lucky, talent.

This kind of magic happens every night in this city; one just needs to know where to go. Fortunately, CMJ eliminated the guesswork. Racquet ripped into the sexy rocker "Sun Valley Holiday", a Ramones-style one, four, fiver that it was impossible not to like. The only rub about seeing a really good band at these shows is that you have no idea who they are, and there is a characteristic dearth of press on these folks. Then again, that's why they were here -- and that's why I'm trying to find their albums.

In another outing on a long road of touring and recording (they were leaving for Europe the next day), the Brooklyn-based French Kicks came out and showed everyone that they had put in the time and were ready for that lucrative contract. Singer Nick Stumpf's drumkit was the focal point for the group's sound, with the other three Kicks feeding on the energy produced by Stumpf's brutal assault of the skins. Stumpf's brother Lawrence, who looks surprisingly like the bass player in That Thing You Do, also got in on the act with his plodding Rickenbacker. Add an additional layer of Josh Wise's keyboards and stringy SG, along with Matthew Stinchcomb's emotionally draining Gretsch, and you have great rock band. But wait -- there's more. These guys can also sing. Bravely venturing into triple harmony territory, The French Kicks proved that they could wear several hats at once. Hearing the Kicks live and hearing their album are demonstrably different experiences. The Kicks exude so much energy live that they have a harder time getting the more complicated aspects of their sound across -- an annoyance they don't face on record. Normally cited as a rock band you can sink your teeth into, The French Kicks have much more up their sleeves than you might expect. Punchy beats come and go with each bar. Before you can get your bearings, they've changed the tempo. The French Kicks demand a little more from their audience than do most bands, which is vastly preferable to being played down to. What a relief. See if you can find their latest, Young Lawyer; its Fall-like deconstruction of rock and roll is definitely worth your time.

Next up was the curiously-named Dr. Israel and Seven. Three guys took the stage and started in on a greatest rock and roll riffathon. The guitarist had long dredlocks that he flung all over the place with each bent string and multi-scaled fretboard run. Armed with and array of effects pedals and some rather fetching black leather chaps, he looked like one of those guys you see in amplifier ads in guitar-porno magazines -- a throwback to one of rock's more-embarrassing bygone eras. To be fair, the kid could play the guitar like he was ringing a bell. Eventually, the doctor was IN. Similarly coiffed, the Doctor came on as a rap/reggae/ska/world music guru with attitude. With songs like "Get the Fuck Up" and "African Children", Dr. Israel preached brotherly love and the need for society to get involved with what's going on in the world. Our war with Afghanistan and the death of civilians also was high on the doctor's prescription for pacifism. The band's finest moment came with their stirring reggae rendition of the Clash's "Armaggedon Time". The white kid on the bass was really getting down with his bad self, and one was heartened to see that a band could actually perform politically-motivated music and not be Rage Against the Machine or any other similarly annoying group. Thank you, Dr. Israel.

Ending Wednesday night's show was another familiar New York band, Skeleton Key, best known for their 1997 release, Fantastic Spikes Through Balloon. Clanging through one metallic rock song after another, Skeleton Key blasted every note as if it was their last. These guys have yet to record their masterpiece, but it sounds like they aren't too far off. Between their white jumpsuits and their wild stage antics, there was never a dull moment.

Thursday, October 11th (Brett McCallon):

I had already decided that the most fruitful approach for me would be to stick to the Lower East Side. For those of you unfamiliar with Manhattan, this is the most recent area of the island to make the transition from "seedy" to "hipper-than-hip". The streets are filled with a combination of the ethnic restaurants and businesses that have been in the area for decades, juxtaposed with hipster bars, vintage clothing shops and places so specialized that they only serve grilled cheese (really). In the midst of all of this one could find fully one third of the venues hosting CMJ events, all situated within blocks of each other.

Thursday is, as one might expect, not quite as happening as Friday and Saturday nights, but there was still a great deal going on. I made my way to Arlene's Grocery, a sizeable bar with a small concert area attached. The first band, Clyde, had already hit the stage, and were generating a significant noise level in a relatively small space. The lineup was guitar/bass/drums/lead singer, and what they were producing from the stage sounded like an interesting melding of old and new-metal. Old, because the lead singer was aping both the thousand-yard stare and the vocal tics of Ozzy Osbourne. New, because they seemed willing to pull pretty much any trick in the book to make their sound as MTV-ready as possible.

The song on which I came in was (and I never thought I would need this adjective again) "grunge". I really thought for a moment that Clyde were an Alice In Chains cover band. The bass was low and fuzzy, the guitar sounded tuned-down, the drums were thick and kind of syrupy, and the vocal delivery was over-the-top with Eddie Vedderisms. I noticed, as that song ended, that the guy who was taping the band was wearing a Slipknot t-shirt, which seemed to say a lot about both this band and its nascent fanbase. They played their first single next; I didn't catch the title, but the chorus repeated "I'm leaving" a lot. It featured sung verses and a rapped chorus, thus following the band's pattern of dipping briefly into every possible loud rock style. By the time I was ready to leave, I had to admit that Clyde had grown on me. I wouldn't go out of my way to see them again, but I wouldn't be annoyed if they opened for someone I liked.

I headed next to the Mercury Lounge, a venue I depend on to see most of the brand-new bands who are making their first real forays into New York. I have seen a number of fantastic concerts here, and I hoped that the bands they had booked for this night would not make me rethink my general good feelings about the place. I walked in just as the opener, Kevin Tihista's Red Terror, hit the stage. The Red Terror consisted of former Triple Fast Action bassist Tihista, a red guitar and a record player, and he made the whole thing work much better than it had any right to.

Kevin Tihista is, judging by the set I heard, a very talented singer/songwriter, which leads to natural questions concerning the nonexistent status of his backing band. Is this guy just a real asshole once you get to know him? Does he beat the rhythm guitarist when he misses a cue? Is he the musical equivalent of the Unabomber? He bore a passing resemblance to both Gallagher brothers (Liam facially, Noel vocally), so it's possible that he's just perfectionist that nobody can work with. Otherwise, I can't figure out why musicians wouldn't be flocking to play with this guy. His songs reminded me somewhat of Michael Penn's early output, which in my esteem counts as high praise. "Out of sight/Out of mind/That doesn't work with a love as big as mine." The lyrics were excellent, and the melodies were nuanced and gorgeous. His is a distinctly new-millennium approach to the singer-songwriter business. It reminded me of a Momus concert, which usually involves more capering and superior technology, but no accompanying musicians. "Sucker" sounded something like one of Neil Young's more tender ballads, with the same touch of country on the edges; his voice during this piece sounded more like Jimmy Dale Gilmore. The show-stopper, if such a mellow, stripped-down affair can be said to have one, was "Lose the Dress", a song of up-front sensuality, during which he actually fired off a small pyrotechnic device. The effect was to make his set seem even warmer and closer than before, making a joke out of arena-sized rock pretensions. His set was too short to fully explore his talents, but if he has an album, I'd recommend you go and find it.

Next up were the Sharp Things, though I had to make sure it wasn't Godspeed You Black Emperor in disguise. The band consisted of nine members: two guitarists, bass, drums, piano, cello and two violins. Despite this extensive lineup, the music they played was very traditional. By traditional, I mean Billy Joel. The lead singer bore more than a passing resemblance to John Belushi, and as much as I appreciate seeing a non-model looking guy fronting a band, both his vocal stylings and his band's music were too old-school bar rock for my taste. The Sharp Things reminded me of the kind of too-large backing band that classic-rock guys tour with once they get huge, and their effect was similar: too little variation to justify the extensive instrumentation.

A short cab ride later, I was inside the Knitting Factory, about to see a familiar face I needed now more than ever before. The Knitting Factory is situated about a mile north of the former World Trade Center, below Canal Street, in a part of town where the strange and unpleasant smell that appeared on September 11th still permeates the air. It seemed fitting that it was here that the life-affirmation that is Jonathan Richman would be making his first New York appearance since the disaster. I once read an article in which the author noted that he knew plenty of people who had never seen Jonathan Richman, but no one who had only seen him once. Seeing one of his shows is a quasi-religious experience, a moment in time in which cynical truths are made paper tigers, a time of joy and innocence and real connection with the performer and the rest of the audience. It was this feeling that I was looking for. I somehow felt Jonathan might be able to erase everything that had happened in the last month. No, more -- I felt, as I always did when seeing Jonathan, that he might be able to remove every single bad moment of my entire life, remake the world such that we would all be perpetually six years old, constantly amazed at how great life is. He didn't disappoint. He opened with "Springtime in New York," playing it with no amplification whatsoever, the crowd utterly silent, enraptured. His set consisted, as always, of favorites and newer material chosen seemingly at random. His ever-present drummer, Tommy, constantly watched for cues that a new song was starting and which one it would be. Sing-alongs ensued on everything from "Vampire Girls" to "You Can't Talk To The Dude." You could actually see those who had never seen this man before actively succumbing to the childlike joy of his worldview. As invariably happens at these shows, every single person walked out of the Knitting Factory with a sappy smile on his or her face, and I went to sleep that night knowing that the world was a significantly better place than it had been a couple of hours before.

Friday, October 12th (Brett McCallon):

I started this night with a mission: I was going to see as many bands as possible in as many venues as possible. Once again, I headed for Arlene's Grocery, where the centerpiece of my evening, the Rainbow Quartz label showcase, was being held. I wasn't familiar with most of the names on the bill, but my decision had been made based on two primary factors: a) The Fletcher Pratt would be playing there at 10:00; b) I love The Fletcher Pratt.

I arrived as the showcase began, hobnobbed with the guys from the Fletcher Pratt and prepared to be impressed. First up was the Grip Weeds, a band that set the demi-retro feel for the evening. They performed in front of an enormous American flag, de rigeur in NYC in these tense days, but it proved somewhat disconcerting in light of the fact that both the band's sound and their look was 100% British Invasion. Vests and patterned turtlenecks abounded, hair was shoulder-length, guitar tones were clean, and the drummer sang most of the songs. The lead guitarist, who was the only woman in the band, stood out as the group's most accomplished musician, blending searing Yardbirds-style licks with an individualistic style that suited the band's update of an older sound to a "T". They eventually moved into Pink Floyd lyric territory, though the spacey images were nicely grounded by the Pete Townsend-style windmillery of the rhythm guitarist and some Indian inflections on the guitar solo. Overall, the band was solid and enjoyable.

As the Grip Weeds' set ran down, I headed off to the Luna Lounge, where I had decided to see a band based solely on the fact that I liked their name. The Inevitable Breakups are a power-pop outfit with punkish aspirations -- and if that isn't Weezer enough for you, two of the band members wear horn-rim glasses. They play a brand of music that has always been impossible for me not to like. Given their name, you can guess at the lyrical content of their songs, which they flew through on the wings of snappy drums and bass and the one-four-five barre chord progression that never seems to run out of steam. Their choruses included lines like "I want to hurt you," but you could tell by their demeanor that this was an empty threat; these guys seem more likely to curl up in a sweater with a kitten and mint tea than plot revenge on a lover who jilted them. The standout track was, without doubt, "Justine, My Little Rock and Roll Machine". At least, that's how the chorus went; I can't be positive that is the real title. The song sounded exactly like you would imagine, and it rocked politely but effectively.

I hurried off to my next engagement, which was to be held at "The Den at Two Boots". If I had reflected for even a moment, I might have remembered that Two Boots is the name of a popular pizza chain, and thus been better prepared for the venue I would be visiting. The Den is a small space downstairs from a combination pizza parlor and video rental store. The phrase "only in New York" springs to mind. I arrived as the first act, Miso, prepared to play for about twenty of their friends. They lagged a bit behind the scheduled start time, and I began to get agitated. What if I missed the Fletcher Pratt? I began to think that I, as the rock critic, should be able to dictate when the show would start and stop. I entertained delusions of power and glory. I wonder if this is how it felt to be...dare I say it...Robert Christgau? I slapped some sense into myself as the band cranked up. I was skeptical; the guy behind the drums was wearing a Michael Meyers mask. I firmly believed a lack of visibility and oxygen deprivation would combine to force him to remove it after the first song, but he persevered, and I eventually grew to respect him more for it. Miso was very downtown. They were downtown New York like the Velvets or Sonic Youth. They snarled, they squealed, but it was all tightly controlled, all very directed, all very cool. The two guitarist guys sang, predominantly in a falsetto they might want to reconsider. Their tones of voice and the terrible acoustics meant that all lyrical content was pretty-well lost, but the sound was loud, nasty, and very good. From what I could nose out, this band is unsigned. Some A&R person should get on the ball.

Back to Arlene's Grocery, where I caught the tail end of the Lackloves' set. More retro was there to be had, but this time less of an outward sort, and more of a subtle, referential sort. The band had great harmonies, and a satisfying thread of country running through most of the songs I heard. "Do You Miss Me" introduced a '50s ballad feel to the guitar and melody, with some chord changes coming straight out of "Earth Angel". The song finished brilliantly with a two-line nod to "Norwegian Wood" that seemed to come out of nowhere, but in retrospect was hiding in the background all along.

So far, I had enjoyed every band I had seen, and the next band was pretty unlikely to disappoint me. I have waxed rhapsodic over the Fletcher Pratt and their tremendous first album, Nine By Nine as often as my editor will let me, so I am tremendously gratified to have another excuse to plug them. In a night full of pleasant surprises, they were the best. They exceeded even my high expectations, ripping through tracks I had grown to love like "Spin Label", "Electrocute" and "Living In The House" as though they had written them on the spot, delivering each line like a revelation. The bass guitar wasn't very loud, though I think this might simply be another facet of their live approach. Just as is the case on the album, the treble tones of the guitars was amped up to an ear-splitting degree that gives the songs an aura of late-'60s garage recordings, despite their unique newness. They unveiled several new tracks that made it clear that their next album should be as good as their first. Dear God, do they rock.

(A side note: I was congratulating Joe Leone, the band's drummer, on their tremendous performance, when I saw Joe Lavis, the Pratt's bass player, talking to a person who looked eerily like Patti Smith. He was calling her "mom". I mentioned this to Joe, who said, "Yeah, that's Patti Smith. She's his mom." How cool is that?)

I made my way East, to a club I had hitherto never frequented, Meow Mix. I soon realized that the probable reason I had never visited is that the place was pretty clearly a lesbian bar. I felt kind of strange, because it seemed that the rock kids had largely displaced the regular clientele; most of the bar's regulars (I am having to make stereotypical assumptions here. Mea culpa) seemed to be hanging out downstairs, waiting for the bands to finish. I hoped we weren't being too much of a pain in the ass, and settled in to catch the last few tracks by Shiny Mama. The lead singer for this group neither looked nor sounded like she would be fronting a down-and-dirty punk band, but somehow the whole thing worked. She exuded a palpable diva presence, coming off like a vastly more in-your-face Debbie Harry. Unfortunately, I only saw the tail end of their show, though what I saw made me want to catch them again.

There was palpable excitement in the crowd as the next band took the stage. The Hissyfits are a three-piece punk combo of the old-school Ramones mold -- that is, if the Ramones were fronted by two stunning women. These girls had the wry seductiveness thing down pat: they were both dressed in short black skirts, the bass player had "Lover" written on her socks, and the guitarist was adorned both with a shirt that read "Precious", and a Magic Marker message on her arm that read "Fuck the pain away". They sang about how dumb people from LA were, how dumb boys were to dump them, and how dumb it was that someone closed the punk rock club. It was great. I'd see them again anytime. I guess it didn't hurt that they were really hot.

I finished off the evening with a trip to the hinterlands of Brooklyn, a wasteland on the East River where I found a line of hipsters waiting to get into the Lunatarium. This place consisted of a huge, empty building with a freight elevator that took party people up about eight floors. They exited into an enormous and well-decorated space with a DJ stage, antique wheelchairs hanging from the ceiling, and a panoramic view of Manhattan. I stuck around for a while, but by the time DJ Spooky came on, I was too tired to care. I'm getting old. So ended my adventures with the magical CMJ press pass, the nearest thing to the golden Willy Wonka ticket I'm ever likely to come across.

Saturday, October 13th (Daniel Arizona):

Unleashing one modest pop song after another was the order of the day for the Salteens. In The Luna Lounge's back room, the five band members were all smiles and melodies. I was reminded of the good-time attitude that was so prevalent when I saw The Apples in Stereo last year. The Salteens lack the Apples' vocal flair, but they do remind one with their shots of trumpet and keyboards that music doesn't necessarily have to be tragic or angry to be good. The audience applauded mightily after each song the band played; it was not just the perfunctory acknowledgement that other bands so often receive. I believe that New Yorkers were in need of a good time, and the Salteens provided just that. The bassist was a sprightly little woman whose bass was bigger than she was, and she did much to set the tone for the other band members by plucking one upbeat bassline after another. The ebullient lead singer reminded me of Leif Garrett for some reason; it was probably because he was smiling so much.

The Holy Childhood had a different agenda. Playing to an almost empty bar in Williamsburg, the Childhood introduced everyone present to their free-form jazz odyssey. The sound man already had the volume up to ear-bleed level when the bassist, baritone saxophonist and the drummer/singer introduced the "crowd" to a whole new world of hurt. As people made their exit during the first song, I felt vaguely sorry for the band, who truly appeared to be into what they were doing. I wondered if this was what Ornette Coleman had to endure so many years ago. Things didn't get any better from this point. Despondently, I made my way back to Manhattan to see what I had missed. Luckily, on the way to see Arnold at Don Hill's, I stumbled across a subway musician hard at work. The guy was an extremely talented guitar player, speedily finger-picking and creating new melodies at will, without ever telegraphing what was coming next. The surrounding crowd, myself included, was very impressed. We don't usually run into many musicians on the subway who are that talented. With spirits thus lifted, I gave him a dollar and caught the L.

I was ignominiously and acrimoniously turned away at the door at Don Hill's by some Communist boot-licker because Brett was on the guest list and I wasn't. I even tried to explain to the guy that a guy who worked for the band's publicist had asked me to come and review them, but no dice. This door guy apparently used to work the Berlin Wall. If the guy Brett spoke to is reading this -- sorry, we tried. Thanks for the free copy Bahama!

Licking my wounds, I hurried over to the lovely Mercury Lounge, and I was glad I did. Champale was starting their set, and had already rallied a huge crowd. Attracting immediate notice was the heavenly woman playing the vibes. Let's just say she was much much cuter than Lionel Hampton. After years of watching bands take the stage, you begin to pick out the wheat from the chaff. There are those who like being in bands and performing, and those who are so incredibly talented that they really shouldn't be doing anything else. Champale gave the latter impression. Playing a mix of rock, country and jazz (they had a great saxophone player sitting in), Champale easily shifted into long jams that mellowed without becoming dull (a difficult exercise in and of itself). The band was in high spirits, and the lead singer -- who reminded me not of Leif Garrett but of Gram Parsons -- joked with the crowd between songs. Many bands don't seem to realize that if the audience likes you, they'll be more receptive to your songs. Acts like Champale and Jonathan Richman understand this and can therefore do no wrong. Highlights of Champale's set included their excellent cover of Big Star's "Stroke it Noel" and a totally unexpected performance -- with David Lowery -- of Camper Van Beethoven's "Oh No" and Cracker's "Big Dipper".

Speaking of David Lowery, the prodigal son of Pitch-a-Tent Records was set to cap off the evening. I've seen Lowery perform at least twelve times, so I was hoping to hear something a little different this time around. Looking ill-at-ease and experiencing technical difficulties with a nettlesome sampler, Lowery tried to be his own one-man-band, and didn't do so well. Instead of playing through his repository of brilliant material on an acoustic guitar, Lowery injected hokey strings and karaoke instrumentation in a well-intentioned attempt to fill out his sound. One of the only highlights of his set was my personal All-Time Favorite Song, "All Her Favorite Fruit", which suffered from an outrageously misplaced sample in the bridge. After a shaky first half, Lowery seemed to settle in a bit, delivering good renditions of "Be My Love", "Heaven Knows I'm Lonely" and a couple of new songs that I hadn't heard before. The last song had a piece of the ol' Lowery magic in its ending chorus: "You are so beautiful/You should be guarded by monkeys". Before the audience could hear what he'd been working on since 1998's Gentleman's Blues, Lowery curtly cut the performance short. You couldn't really blame him. One of the best shows I've ever seen was an acoustic set that Lowery played with Cracker-mate Johnny Hickman at the 40 Watt in Athens. Lowery is definitely better with a little help from his friends. Although he isn't quite an indie rock elder statesman just yet (he's forty), Lowery may be thinking more about producing and fostering new acts than about giving his own genius its full run. Either way, the kids are alright.

Article and photos by Brett McCallon and Daniel Arizona. Our thanks to the folks at CMJ for kindly providing a press pass, so that we only had to scrounge around getting one writer on guest lists.