Hot Chip Live

Friday night I was lucky enough to catch Hot Chip live at the North Park Observatory. I'd managed to scoop up tickets a week before, and had been looking forward to finally catching this crew live. In the previous incarnation of this blog (Other99), I'd written about them a great many times, from their epochal debut album Coming On Strong to their DJ-Kicks excursion through leftfield dance pop (and even random bumper stickers that appeared throughout the city!). However, I don't think I've yet touched on them here.

When Hot Chip first emerged, they were a crucial group at a crucial time. Seemingly rising from the embers of the mainstream's dalliance with electronica but just before the term "EDM" began to gain traction, they were reticent outsiders at a time when DFA and The Junior Boys were making similar moves at the inflection point between indie pop and the dancefloor.

I've kept up with them ever since, and they've remained a faithful indie dance outfit - perhaps the most steadfast of their era - turning out a sequence first-rate records for well over a decade. As easy as it is to take a group this dependable for granted, they've remained one of my favorite crews throughout their extended tenure. So on Friday night, after a dinner of chicken creole accompanied by the sounds of The Idjut Boys' Night Dubbin', Sari and I hustled down to the Observatory and slipped in for the show.

We arrived just in time to catch the opening strains of Marcus Marr's set, a bumping selection of DFA-shaded electronic disco, pulsing through the inimitable Observatory soundsystem. We watched from the mezzanine - taking in the room and catching up on drinks - while Marr did his thing. There was this moment where an almost nu breaks sequence dropped into the 4/4 pulse... it was without a doubt my favorite moment of his set. After a solid hour of moody dancefloor burners - incredibly crisp and crystal clear - the man signed off promptly to wild cheers from the assembling crowd

While the technicians set up the stage for the headlining band, there was an ace selection of music playing. With a band like Hot Chip, full of connoisseurs and trainspotters end to end, you just know that everything was specially selected. I seem to recall a deejay cut on a Susan Cadogan riddim and maybe something by the Eurythmics, but the tracks that really stood out were the relatively unexpected ones: Fairport Convention's folk talisman Meet On The Ledge and Fleetwood Mac's awesome I Know I'm Not Wrong (from their stone-cold classic double-LP Tusk). A fascinating glimpse behind the curtain, to be sure. We made our way down to the dancefloor as the lights dimmed on the Observatory...

Bright lights shone and the group walked out onstage. Most of the group were posted behind synths - arranged at various angles and heights - with lead singer Alexis Taylor standing perpendicular to the crowd, flanked diagonally by Owen Clarke and Joe Goddard, while Felix Martin loomed in the background. Al Doyle stood at center with his bass and Rob Smoughton wandered back and forth between guitar and percussion, while Sarah James provided live drums in the background.

The band launched into their early hit single Boy From School, Alexis and Joe riding shimmering synth figures on a plaintive melody, operating at an uptempo pace (that they would retain for most of the night) and drawing the room into their singular strains of melancholy dance. I was instantly reminded why this group often suggest a pocket version of prime Underworld, the bright lights and that nagging refrain hanging in the air like a twilight reverie.

Next up, the title track from 2010's One Life Stand brings us into the current decade, with a firm fan favorite. Those rolling italo-disco synth inflections (with an at times almost steel drum timbre) seem to recall not only My Mine's Hypnotic Tango but also early Depeche Mode at their most chipper and bleep-heavy (squint and the backing vocals of the chorus could almost be Martin Gore). Like early DM, with their bubblegum take on Kraftwerk, I love how Hot Chip eschew widescreen sonics for a more intimate, pocketbook style of electronic pop.

Night & Day continued down this path, its staircase bassline throwing wild analogue shapes around the room (it always makes me flash on Random Noise Generation's chaotic house missives) before flowing into the strange Moroder-inflected post-disco of Flutes, riding a free-release cascade of synths - bleeding into every corner of the Observatory's soundscape - and deftly transcending the studio version in the process. By this point, this ragtag bunch clearly had the room in the palm of their collective hands.

They dove headfirst into Over And Over, that momentous slab of dancefloor madness, and you just know what's coming from the first note. That glorious repetition - in both the vocals and its grinding bassline - in full force, pumping louder and wilder than I'd every heard it before. Then it hit me: this is the closest a band has gotten to capturing the feeling of killer acid house cuts like Armando's Trance Dance and Steve Poindexter's Born To Freak. Even the terse vocals of the verses feel like the clipped phrasing you'd find in acid, and then there's the immortal chorus: Over and over and over and over, like a monkey with a miniature cymbal, the joy of repetition is really within you. Really, what a wonderful sentiment!

The lone track from Made In The Dark, Ready For The Floor descended next, riding its trademark lopsided groove - that illogical chord progression with those bleeps spilling out over its sides. This one's always reminded me of William Onyeabor's Anything You Sow (a record that I was lucky enough to snap up on my honeymoon!). I Feel Better came next, sounding not unlike some improbable soundclash between Jamie Principle and OMD, with its shimmering vocals and hall-of-mirrors string progresssion driving blank-eyed into the dead of night.

Alexis then introduced a new track, House Of Truth, and the band launched into a deep, introspective groove that reminded me of some of my absolute favorite material they've ever done. I'm thinking specifically of tracks like No Fit State, These Chains and DJ-Kicks/My Piano, with a cycling, moody take on the Reese bassline, similar in spirit to Underworld's (again!) approach in tracks like Dirty Epic. Then without warning, they slipped into a superbly executed cover of Erotic City, proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that the boys are still Down With Prince. An unexpected delight!

Huarache Lights - the evening's lone track from their latest record (Why Make Sense?) - closed out their set in fine style, grooving along at a downright leisurely pace compared to the rest of the band's fiercely uptempo set. Featuring a sample of the vocal ad-lib from First Choice's Let No Man Put Asunder - another peak-period acid signifier - the tune sounded utterly of-the-moment, working through its own internal logic before running down into a looping refrain.

With those closing, unresolved bleeps still hanging in the air, the band slowly began to file offstage. The technicians filtered out once again to tweak the equipment for a spell, synths still shimmering toward silence. Then, the band strolled back out for the encore.

Launching into a hi-nrg rendition of Bruce Springsteen's Dancing In The Dark - taken from their latest EP of the same name - the group clocked their highest BPM workout of the night. Tuning into that whole micro-lineage of dancefloor Springsteen covers - spanning from Blinded By The Light as interpreted by Manfred Mann's Earth Band to Donna Summer's run through Protection and even Frankie Goes To Hollywood's take on Born To Run - Hot Chip rewired Bruce's wistful original into a turbocharged dance into the fire, sequences racing and the crowd swept up once more for the ride.

Dam-Funk @ The Casbah

A month ago today, Dâm-Funk rocked The Casbah. It was the first day of the tour, which I later found out would coincide with the release of his new album Invite The Light. His last solo full-length of new material was also his debut, 2009's massive Toeachizown. Firmly grounded in electronic funk, it used g-funk, r&b and techno - sounds that were crucial in my own musical life - as a launchpad in Searchin' 4 Funk's Future. For me at least, it's been one of the key records in recent memory.

I've kept up with his trajectory since then, including his archival Adolescent Funk compilation as well as collaborations with Steve Arrington and Snoop Dogg. All the while, I've been patiently anticipating another solo record, so I was excited to lay my hands on a copy and hear the direction he's taken his sound since.

We rolled into the venue early in the evening as The Junkyard Band bumped out from the dancefloor. The Cookie Crew DJ's were tearing it up on the decks, spinning a blend of down and dirty electronic funk - a perfect warm up for the evening to come.

Dâm-Funk hit the stage with his live band in tow, kicking into high gear from the jump; I'd almost forgotten how hard live funk could hit. I've seen some footage of him performing live on stage in the past, but this was him taking it to a whole other level. He'd truly polished his game and come into his own as a frontman of this lean and mean three-piece band. Many of the extended, Pacific endless trax from the Toeachizown days had been revamped with lyrics and loosened up with a tensile center of gravity. The band jumped into an updated take on Mirrors - that preview of things to come on his debut - and it still sounded like the futurist optimism of Detroit poured into one ray of elusive sunlight and scattered through a prism into the sky.

Indeed, long stretches of the show stepped confidently into techno territory. O.B.E. (Out Of Body Experience), from the new album, seemed to recall Underground Resistance circa their masterful Galaxy 2 Galaxy series of records: that same sense of astral jazz exploration - shot through with deep electronic shades and timbres - gliding reckless across the dancefloor. 4 Hero's shimmering synths on their epochal Parallel Universe also come to mind, along with the dubbed-out stomp of The Orb, whose track of (nearly) the same title... well, I've only just now realized what it stood for!

It dawned on me that Damon Riddick just might be the West Coast analog to one Kenny Dixon Jr., crafting a double-gatefold vision of post-electro music that stretches beyond one record or the next to populate a vast mosaic of sound; each of these auteurs seem to be hard at work creating their own musical universe. Coincidentally, they both seem to have edged closer to Prince in their delivery (see Moodymann's Det.riot '67 and Dâm's new record, for example).

There were serious Purple Rain vibes running through the Casbah show, a sense of grandeur that the venue struggled to contain. At one point Dâm launched into a heartfelt paean to some distant lover that had him dropping to his knees, James Brown-style, repeatedly throughout its seemingly interminable (in the best possible sense) run. The tension was undeniable. Another moment found him in the middle of the dancefloor, stretching his keyboard out for the audience to play.

The show ended with an encore consisting of Dâm getting behind the drumkit and running loose-limbed through a selection of stone cold funk classics like Rick James' Mary Jane, Slave's Just A Touch Of Love and Cameo's Candy, connecting his own music with a rich lineage of electronic funk even as he leans bravely toward the future. All 'N All, it was a transcendent experience, in which the small venue transformed into one great pulsing ultraviolet dream.

One Year In The Jungle

The Jungle record came out a year ago today. It's crept up on me in a big way over the course of that year. At first I almost heard past it - pleasant enough, I suppose - but as much as I casually dug the record, I hadn't yet totally succumbed to it's brilliance. Then Sari took me to see them live at The Belly Up last September. In the context of the live show, every corner of that venue teeming with such deeply atmospheric dance music, I was totally drawn into their trip; finally everything made sense. You could feel all manner of young people having their first rave experience to this music, eyes closed, hands in the air and dancing with wild abandon. Immersed in the vibe. It lives on even now?

I know that in my case it all took me back to a youth spent dancing in nightclubs and out in the desert to whatever strains of house and techno I could find in San Diego at the time. Cruising the city streets between work and school and the lab, bumping Stacey Pullen and making beats whenever I had the chance. Lot's of time spent digging in the trenches with my head in the clouds. Downcast but not out. The wild shapes and sonics of that music's synthesized pulse kept a young brother's head up and feet moving forward. And forward. Fast-forward to the present. Now here was a live group on stage conjuring that same atmosphere, sidestepping any familiar rock concert forms to approximate the sound of the deepest of grooves coming off a hot 12" in the club - reworked from scratch backwards in widescreen and bang up to date.

The record itself is fantastic. I was baffled by the veil of silence that seemed to cloak this album in the music press. Any coverage the group did happen to garner seemed to focus on the most superficial aspects of their profile. Much has been made of the crew's mysterious nature, for example, but growing up as I did on crews like Drexciya and UR (operating in the shadows at all times), in Jungle's case it just seemed to be some cats who wanted to let the music speak for itself. And speak for itself it certainly does. Yet when all of the 2014 end-of-year polls rolled around, I couldn't find it even mentioned in a single list that I checked! What gives?

This was without a doubt my favorite album of the year, and one of a handful of occurrences that made me want to return to writing about music. I planned to fire this site up in late October just to talk about the record, but various real world concerns pushed that plan up until January. Then, as the year wore on and I got back in groove of writing once again, it just never seemed to be the right time. I caught them live again a few weeks ago, and realized just the other day that it had been a year since Jungle first dropped... so what better time than now?

Jungle quietly inhabits a place all its own on the sonic spectrum, seemingly formed from a single slab of onyx and then submerged in quicksilver. The songs within seem constructed from pure atmosphere rather than any formal structure or notation. You want to reach out and grasp at its amorphous surfaces even as they seem to slip and slide just out of reach. Its beats threaten to crumble to the touch, often seeming to stagger sideways even as they commence to propel the grooves ever forward. The soundscape seems a blur, smeared against distant lights on the horizon, until you squint to notice the intricate details found within. Worlds within worlds, a dream within a dream.

In a sense, its methodology reminds me of Dâm-Funk's Toeachizown in the way they both seems to spool out widescreen sonic vistas sourced in some half-remembered dream. Drawing both on years of his own g-funk sorcery and the atmospheric boogie of his youth (things like Mtume's Juicy Fruit and Kleeer's Tonight), Dâm-Funk wove moods and grooves from the deepest recesses of machine funk and stretched them across five LPs - a sprawling canvas of two hours and twenty minutes - to create a monument to these dreamtime soundscapes, previously essayed only in fleeting glimpses on b-sides and the odd album cut, resulting in a stone cold slab of perfection.

Jungle's sound itself is different, and the record's length far shorter, but it seems to spring from the same drive to build a world of its own from some dream half-remembered. The experience of listening to this record is like nothing so much as that moment when you absorb your surroundings for the first time in a strange new city: it seems wholly distinct and yet there's nearly always something that will make you say deja vu. A cul de sac or stretch of road, a building or bit of hillside that almost feels like some mirror image of home. This record embodies that feeling, coming on like some solarized vision of the world you've known.

On one hand, its tempting to compare Jungle to groups like Hot Chip and The Junior Boys - and maybe that's not a bad thumbnail on the face of it - but those groups always seemed to be coming at dance music from an indie mindset, much like Scritti Politti or Orange Juice did in their day. Neither does Jungle's music truly sound like any of those groups. You'll also often hear allusions to neo soul when describing the group's sound, but that's a red herring as well. This music is soulful, no doubt, but its sound seems to spring from somewhere else entirely. Like Escort and The Sunburst Band, this is post-disco dance music through and through. The only trouble is, Jungle don't really sound like those groups either.

What the record immediately made me flash on were the spaciest passages of the Metro Area LP, especially its lush second side (Soft Hoop and Caught Up, in particular). Those tactile, spongy basslines, the sense of longing stitched between the glistening lines, and that same overwhelming sense of four-dimensional ATMOSPHERE. Loping grooves half-lit in neon, a lone streetlamp and the moonlight. Jungle operate in a similar dubbed out terrain, even as they extrapolate it out into a cinematic scope that makes the most sense in big rooms or under the open night sky. It's perfect that this came out on an imprint like XL, with its well-documented roots in rave culture.

The other comparison that I would make, appropriately enough, is Chicago's Jungle Wonz. A collaboration between Marshall Jefferson and Harry Dennis (also of The It), Jungle Wonz dealt in ambient house before the phrase had even been coined. Records like The Jungle, Time Marches On and Bird In A Gilded Cage fused three-dimensional bass pulses, lush cascading synthesizers, environmental sounds and dreamlike vocals to establish a mood of endless longing. Where Harry Dennis was a street poet, expressing his ideas in spoken word, Jungle trade in fragile falsetto (I'm occasionally reminded of the Fine Young Cannibals' Roland Gift).

Marvin Gaye's Trouble Man OST, a recurring Parallax favorite, is the third and final comparison I could make. That may seem to contradict my earlier dismissal of the neo soul tag, but bear with me. What I hear in Jungle is a similarity in atmosphere to instrumentals like "T" Plays It Cool and "T" Stands For Trouble; an atmosphere that threatens to overwhelm the songs themselves even as it's kept in check by beats and synthesizers tapping out a steady pulse. Chords press on in the face of a hard life, the odds stacked against at all times. One is reminded of Bobby Bland's immortal words: Ain't no love when you're living in the city.

Album opener The Heat, with environmental sounds of the street bleeding into the mix, illustrates this point perfectly. Right on time, backed by the beach... still gon' bring the heat. An organ runs resolute beneath the beat, pressing forward as a falsetto intones pure longing. Distant sirens run throughout. Something strummed, not an instrument but pure atmosphere strummed from some combination of sources. Or formed, perhaps, from the depths of some machine? Conjured from thin air, even. That amorphous sense of sound permeates the whole of this record, cloaking its every corner in a veil of illusion.

The pacing throughout is perfect. Absolutely perfect! Accelerate comes on like some downcast permutation of The Heat. Can I get the car to jump start, please?, intoned in desperation. Everything just seemed to happen at once. Sentiments that I've understood well, and I suspect you have too. I just can't push on any further, won't you cut me a break just this once? Sari told me that it always makes her think of me. That woman knows me too well!

Those guitars that creep in during the tune's second half seem to recall the mood of Roxy Music's Avalon, only heard from within a dream. The masterful Crumbler seems to channel that same vibe through the prism of Love Inc.'s Life's A Gas - shot through with that same sense of ambient bliss - even as those great churning synth figures rev like an engine beneath the whole thing, rushing and overflowing before sinking into the ether again.

This record is above all a mood piece, but there's a couple relentless club burners hiding in its depths. Julia builds up from skeletal verses into the all-out assault of its chorus, tension ever escalating. Busy Earnin', which seems to be the biggest single so far, for some reason always makes me think of the opening sequence in Rocky II, in which Rocky Balboa and Apollo Creed are rushed to the hospital after the big fight. Its sentiments do seem to capture the prevailing mood of today. Feeling like nothing so much climbing out from some abyss, every beat - every step - taking you closer to the surface, those horns (not horns) climax in a fury.

Platoon follows, once again illustrating the absolutely perfect sense of flow and pacing in this record. A downcast mirror image of Busy Earnin', it pushes forward on a low key Reese bassline and some siren song that could be vocal or synthetic in origin... or perhaps something else entirely. The driving pulse of its buildup ever unfurling into gentle pools of texture before eddying into another glimpse of the divine. That's the secret of this record: even as it reaches for the epic, it manages to never come off as forced or bombastic, everything remains undercut by a sense of longing. Dread even. Each step may take you closer to where you're going but then the destination seems to be moving too.

There's this whole other aspect to this record that seems to key into that same headspace that much of the greatest trip hop did. Drops' crawling beat staggers along, barely keeping together. Textures unfurl gently, the creaking of a door somehow worked into the rhythm. Barely keeping on. Indeed, as the record staggers toward its denouement, this spirit really does seem to tip over into dread. Son Of A Gun seems to struggle to press on, threatening to collapse at any moment, often cutting the beat to retreat into its gloomy refrain.

The flipside of the coin: no matter how bleak this record may turn on you, there's always a glimmer of hope hiding somewhere between the lines. Lucky I Got What I Want seems to have an almost zen-like acceptance of the passing of time, submitting to the way of the world. It's elegaic refrain simply asks Don't you forget about me, before ultimately drifting into the ether. Lemonade Lake slips quietly into view like something from Warp's Artificial Intelligence series, unassuming keys playing out right there in plainsight, before exploding into lustrous moonlight. Sequences run up and down the spectrum as this river of pure sound, lush as you could possibly imagine, flows steady beneath. This is the sound of the night's own internal logic working itself out, however it may transpire. The record ends on an electronic hymn, and then silence.


One day, out of the blue Sari noticed that a group called Jungle were playing at the North Park Observatory. But was it the same group? It seemed unclear. Being such a die-hard fan, she sprung for the tickets anyway. It turned out to be the same Jungle after all, and we would get to see them once more. Before the show, a DJ warmed up the crowd. I heard him spin The Bottle from outside the club. We made our way inside. Without the presence of an opening act, Jungle took the stage.

The group began to fill the venue with the Morricone-meets-Get Carter-meets-Moroder inflections of Smoking Pixels, the record's lone instrumental. With the group's casual, eerie whistling, the room filled with anticipation. Massive lamps cast their figures as stark silhouettes against dazzling colors shining down from the rafters. I was reminded of the time I saw The Secret Machines perform at Soma back in the day (Fall 2004, if memory serves), where they had these massive lamps blasting white light into the crowd from behind the band. The effect made it feel as if you were in the closing scene of Heat. Jungle's seemed to recall American Gigolo, or even Drive, cloaking the room in that same sumptuous palette.

The Observatory show was, if anything, even better than the one at The Belly Up. Their stage show had graduated in scale without sacrificing any of its intimacy. Passages in the songs opened up into new avenues. There was a point, in Drops I believe, when the sequencers took over and began spinning fractals out into space. Sari had it pegged as sounding like Tangerine Dream circa Thief. The group encored with Time, the record's latest single, its endless cascading waves of sound - bass resonating on three separate planes, each morphing into the other - a perfect note to close on. It turned out that this was the final date of their North American tour.

I can't think of a moment in my life in which, had this music existed at the time, I wouldn't have been blown away. It seems to exist in a space all its own, hovering just out of reach between any number of sonic possibilities that I've called home. Indeed, as we started to file out of the Observatory, a thought that had been materializing in the back of my mind for months finally came into focus: this is exactly the sort of record that Larry Levan would have caned at The Paradise Garage.

The DJ played Water Get No Enemy as we walked out into the streets.

Click Click (Chrome .45)

I've already gone on record about The English Beat's debut album, I Just Can't Stop It, ensconced as it comfortably in The Parallax 100. It's an LP that I have no qualms about calling one of the great pop records of all time, right up there with The Beatles. This is a band that I grew up on in the eighties, with splinter groups like General Public, Fine Young Cannibals and the Ranking Roger solo records peppering my listening habits through the nineties well into the present day. Even when I was plumbing the depths of electronic music, subsisting on a strict diet of beats and beats alone, the 2 Men A Drum Machine And A Trumpet 12" (with that crucial Derrick May remix on the flip) was never far from the turntable.

Last Saturday found Sari and I cruising up the 5 as the sun settled on the horizon, a special English Beat mix (that I'd made earlier that week as a sort of primer) pulsing out the soundsystem, just the two of us heading up the coast to catch The Beat live at The Belly Up Tavern. On arrival in Solana Beach, just as dusk began to fall, we pulled into a Mexican joint down the street from the venue in order to hook up with Kayli and LeValley and grab a bite to eat.

A half hour later we walked through the doors of The Belly Up, where the opening DJ was spinning a selection of reggae cuts to nice up the dance. Tunes like Horace Andy's I Feel Good All Over and Dandy Livingstone's Rudy, A Message To You (foundational sixties ska later covered by The Specials) filled the room and made it clear that this was the perfect venue for this music. The Belly Up is like some fantasy collision of all the best Pablo Cruise record sleeves and those gorgeous sets from Robert Altman's Popeye motion picture (speaking of Altman, the first show that I caught at the Belly Up was King Sunny Adé & His African Beats some years back). Neon lights illuminate the building's vaulted celings, exposed rafters stretch out rustic and warm over a loose assortment of rooms centered around the main stage. Put simply, it's like the nightclub in Club Paradise. We made our way through the main room, grabbing some drinks along the way, and found a spot more or less at the center of the room where we waited for the opening act to take the stage.

I hadn't yet heard Viernes 13 before the band began to play, but was instantly won over by their blazing ska moves that seemed to recall nothing so much as Sublime's Paddle Out shot through a Chicano prism (think Once Upon A Time In Mexico as much as Los Lobos), sounding like Byron Lee & The Dragonaires' Frankenstein Ska if it were played by The Plugz circa the Repo Man soundtrack. It was all incredibly vibey, and very L.A.

I ducked into the back where their people had set up a merchandise table and grabbed a shirt immediately - taking note of the CDs for sale - and threw it on over the shirt I was already wearing. Consider me a fan! I later grabbed both of their CDs on my way out - you don't want to have to keep track of media on the dancefloor - and the man was even nice enough to throw a split EP into the deal. I've been rocking all three this week. I couldn't find an image of the shirt I bought (there were three to choose from) anywhere on the net, so I snapped a picture here. I thought it was a really lovely design:

I'd like to return to this crew in the near future, once I've fully absorbed their records and lived with their music awhile, as I think they're truly on to something special here. In the meantime, Viernes 13 will be back in San Diego on Friday, May 29th, playing at The Hideout, so you know where I'll be. Don't sleep!

This show brought back memories of going to ska parties back in the late nineties, when a friend's older brother was in a band (the name of which escapes me at the moment). Our crew would be chilling in the back, fish out of water more in tune with breakbeats and 303s than the sort of sounds taking place on stage, but it was a lot of fun nonetheless. Come to think of it, another friend of mine was actually in that same band as well, and he was heavy into third wave ska and the swing revival. I remember one time we bonded over a mutual love for Artie Shaw, Duke Ellington and the OG two-tone bands.

Which brings us to The English Beat. Dave Wakeling is the only original member in the current touring lineup of the group (hasn't he lived in Southern California since the late nineties?), so I was curious how they would sound in the 21st century. Certain questions were running through my mind in the weeks leading up to the show. Who would be toasting Ranking Roger's parts? Would they play any General Public material? How would the new drummer handle Everett Morton's phenomenal work on the original records (the debut LP has some of my favorite drumming ever)? Would it all be too much to live up to?

After the MC hyped and teased the crowd for the better part of an hour, The Beat took the stage, opening with Rough Rider, and any doubts I may have had just drifted off into the ether on the back of its mellow, churning groove. This is one of my favorite moments from one of my favorite albums of all time, so hearing it live in good form was a bit of a rush. The band was tight and seemed to be having a blast while King Schascha strut his way around the stage, toasting on the mic in fine style.

Twist & Crawl was a definite highlight, submerging the club deep into the darkness after opening with some of the group's brightest numbers. New drummer Nucci Cantrell turned in solid work on the kit, even slipping into a breakbeat from time to time. The drumming wasn't quite as meticulous as Everett Morton's clockwork precision (the very foundation of the twisting rhythmic engine deep within the heart of The Beat), but it was no slouch either (and keep in mind that I'm comparing him to one of my favorite drummers of all time here), providing ample propulsion for the band's infectious loose-limbed riddims.

Needless to say, we danced like maniacs throughout the whole show. They even lit up the disco ball for I Confess and Too Nice To Talk To! I was surprised that they didn't play Doors Of Your Heart (in fact, nothing at all from Wha'ppen), but the songs from Special Beat Service were some of the biggest moments of the night. Save It For Later got a huge response from the crowd, while Ackee 1 2 3 might have been my favorite tune of the evening, its off-kilter (and seemingly sped-up) rhythms super fun to dance to (their label wasn't called Go-Feet for nothing)!

I'd somehow never noticed before that Soul Salvation seems to be the blueprint for large swathes of the Fine Young Cannibals sound. On the other hand, I've often wondered whether Steele and Cox were listening closely to Elvis Costello's Get Happy when mapping out their new group's trajectory. Maybe it's just the similar approach of new wave cats tackling Northern soul, who knows? At any rate, the other group to come out of The English Beat's breakup, General Public, got checked not once but twice. Early on in the show, The Beat did a rendition of The Staple Singers' I'll Take You There, which was covered by the newly reformed (at the time) GP for the Threesome soundtrack. Later, toward the end of the show, the band broke into Tenderness to a rapturous response from the crowd.

Dave even took lead vocals for Ranking Full Stop, and I could have imagined this, but I thought I saw him shake his head when he sang my name is ranking full stop. That was funny. I almost wasn't expecting the band to play that one, but it came off really well... before they slipped seamlessly into Mirror In The Bathroom! It was a serious double-take moment and definitely the climax of the whole night as that deep, chugging bassline seemed to cause the whole room to sink into the floor, dancing figures etched in neon as the band played on and on.

Quik Is The Name

Just a week ago I was lucky enough to catch the Warren G and DJ Quik show at the North Park Observatory. The hook was that they were performing the Regulate...G-Funk Era and Quik Is The Name records, respectively. I meant to get to this sooner on here for a few quick words, but the week ended up bearing down on me before I could get any thoughts down on (virtual) paper.

Of the two performances, Warren G's show was more the walk down memory lane, but that's no bad thing in the case of a record that so well encapsulates a particular time and place. There was certainly a lot of love in the room, audience and stage locked together in a groove. The crowd seemed to know all the words to the record, and G could get a singalong together at the drop of a hat. He even delved into some extra goodies like In Da Club and The Next Episode (in honor of one Nate Dogg). Closing out the set with Regulate (which opens the original LP) took the show to it's peak: this was the moment the crowd had been waiting for.

This is a tune that really caught me out when I first heard it on the radio all those years ago, seeming to offer a glimpse into vast corridors of shimmering jazz funk that I was only partially aware of at the time. I remember hearing the original Michael McDonald tune on a smooth jazz station around the same time up in the mountains, with the typical surprise that accompanies the recognition of a sample from an unlikely source.

As Warren G closed out his performance of Regulate, a small figure strolled out across the stage and started to work an Emu SP-1200 that had been sitting lonely at the center of the stage. Within moments of G's closing remarks, DJ Quik started rocking the mic and his set jumped off. If Warren G's show had largely been an exercise in nostalgia, DJ Quik's was another matter altogether. This man on stage could have been nineteen, so alive was the musical force he was turning out in the club. The energy level in the venue seemed to triple instantly behind his music's steady bounce, even as some who had come for the earlier set started to trickle toward the exits. Those that remained were ready for Quik to turn this mutha out...

The set was built around his debut LP, Quik Is The Name, but stretched out to include plenty of later material. There was this amazing song that I didn't recognize, built around a slow motion rhythm matrix and bleep loops that recalled the output of early Warp Records. Quik stalked the stage with an ice cold nonchalance, flowing on the mic as easy as breathing: the man's game hasn't slowed down one bit.

Quik mentioned that he lost his original masters of the entire Quik Is The Name record at one point (in the late nineties, if memory serves), and had to rebuild everything from scratch. In some cases, having been in the game longer and acquiring more experience in the studio, he was able to improve on the original and get the sound he was really after. Tha Bombudd, in particular, stood out as a highlight of the show, whereas on the record it always seemed like he was having a bit of a laugh.

The consummate perfectionist throughout, Quik tweaked knobs and punched drums on the fly, getting everything to sound just right. He'd tell the engineer to turn his mic down 20%. The sound itself was stunning: skull snapping snaredrums, deep kicks to the chest and endless, rolling bass, pouring crystal clear from the Observatory's massive soundsystem. Even as he worked the machines and checked the engineers, he kept things loose onstage. This was a funk show, no question: we were witness to a stripped down, street-ready descendant of Parliament and Zapp in action.

Back in the day, Quik's Tonight was my first exposure to Kleeer at a time when Jammin' Z90 was caning The Isley Brother's Between The Sheets and One Way's Cutie Pie in regular rotation between Snoop Doggy Dogg's Gin And Juice and Ice Cube's It Was A Good Day. At the time, I'd assumed these were new songs, so well did they fit with the nascent g-funk sound of the day. This is in large part due to the way large swathes of west coast hip hop sprung directly from that electrofunk continuum, and DJ Quik probably remains the closest in spirit to that original bedrock foundation in sound.

Catching him live, it hit me just how much this music had tuned me into a very specific frequency back in the day, preparing me for where I was headed a few years down the road. Far from being dulled by the passage of time, the music and the man remain sharp and on the edge (where they need to be), keeping that vibe alive and well in the 21st century. DJ Quik came to turn this mutha out... and turn it out he did.

Liquid Swords Live

On a similar note as the Terranova, I just caught the GZA performing Liquid Swords in its entirety last night at the North Park Observatory. The sound was unbelievably heavy, probably the most ear-punishing show I've been to since the Dieselboy tent at Coachella in 2001 (I need to tell you this story sometime), shards of sound rendered as white noise over booming bass charges and skull snapping drums. Killah Priest was even there to rock the mic, acting as Genius' sparring partner for most of the record's guest spots. As a huge fan of Sunz Of Man and Heavy Mental, I was blown away to catch him in the flesh as well (still wish that he'd had a chance to drop Basic Instruction Before Leaving Earth though!).

I'd like to go in for more detail shortly, but I'm still reeling from the experience truth be told! Must expand on this in the future...