Sugar Break - Review by Rachel Cee

I began Sugar Break by Maged Zaher, knowing nothing about the author because I hadn’t read the back, I had simply grabbed a handful of chapbooks when the class had been at Ugly Duckling Presse together. After reading a few poems and continuing to the back of the book, I found that the author appears to be from Seattle. I regret to inform Seattle they can eat shit and quit starving people out.

I love this chap book because it explores all the feelings I find I love about recording artist FKA Twigs song “Water Me”. I feel thirsty for someone often even when in what others think are their “relationships” with me and wish for a long lost mutual admiration society I cannot ferret out.  I am constantly in a desert of behind the glass looking at my own life. Maged’s line in his fifth poem of the book “we make skin to skin contact to impose our existence” comes off the page and lands on my brow, deciding to sit there on my forehead, for a few others to see sometimes, like red cheeks, making itself a pair with his line from one of his letters “I could be projecting how much I like you” because I insist on repeating my own stupidity every once in a while in failed attempts at keeping people around.  

The part I found a little confusing was his second poem, about being queer and transgendered. This poem could sound offensive but I am not certain I know the context and I feel that it is a confused poem, I often know what it is to “feel mismatched desires” but again the context could be different. I also wondered in poem three why the book was written by a man, so I suppose those are some of my own feelings of identification or disidentification depending on the authors own actual orientation. I hate explaining myself and prefer to take people on a person to person basis, I have so many conservative people in my life, to admit I will pass when able is something I hate to bring up. I often get very annoying we approve seeming comments from some of the people as well when I am too obviously queer without talking about myself. I have a confusing sexuality, and I still date straight boys sometimes. I have no qualms with myself, but I owe the world nothing and only wish I was allowed moments of lasting courtship. I also wish for his male privilege, or percved privilege. I want to have my own power, I want to be the person in a relationship who has power, I want to be touched and unharmed.

I hate talking, I hate not talking, I hate hearing my own opinion rolling around in my head over and over so many times in a row with commentary, I am still right. I want a new opinion, I want a connection with nothing other than feelings and being told something I have no idea about. I want to know all new things, all useless information from someone else, electricity because our skin is touching. I want my matched up, all appropriate, got the things I'll work with, friendship to show up and just tell me things and make my own mind quiet down for awhile. They haven’t yet, so I’ll wait and long, just as this chapbook suggest the author has experienced. Looks like I have a comrade and we are all out there floating, and will be for a length of time unknown.

Poetry by Rachel Cee

hand beaten nail plucks light ting

light ting hand hewn wood block played with hands

hands of a lover I haven't quite understood yet

hands of a father of friends

hands of a parishioner my father loves

brought here by a mother as a gift the first time I saw one

cardamom cedarwood teakwood brown

none of those first ones are african just chocolate--

dark and dusty the little things notes are little too

tinny tinny

tink tink

frequency pitch tone

fret free ping ping ping plink

Peotry New York Week One - Review By Rachel Cee

This week for my five events required I went to The reading at the DIA in Chelsea featuring  Franck Andre Jamme, Norma Cole, and Peter Gizzi, the Alice Notley reading, the Jorie Graham reading, and the Maxine Hong Kingston reading. I also attended an open mic on Tuesday w Sharief Hobley, saw DJ Omega, and will attend Tribeca film festival Sunday and attended two films and the interactive exhibits on the 19th. I also interned at Poets House and proof read a children's book. It was a great first week! 

Western Interpretation Poem by Rachel Cee

western interpretation

sex

inspiration

wine chugging

made you snap your

fingers

fire light

moon    light                        talking

moon light

moonlight

wine

more wine

whiskey

i forgot the whiskey

always whiskey

more sex

writing

hangover

My Struggle With Memoirs: - Review by Sean Contris

My Struggle With Memoirs:

Or brief reviews of Billie Holliday’s “Lady Sings The Blues” Joe Brainard’s “I Remember” and my first impressions of Karl Ove Knausgaard’s “My Struggle.”

Despite being the most densely populated place in all of North America, New York city sure can make an innocent tourist feel mighty lonesome. I’m probably just lonely, but I can’t help but feel that my need for interaction is not being met by the local population and this has left me feeling kind of empty. Perhaps it’s this longing that has lead me down the road of exclusively reading other people’s autobiographies for the past three weeks. In the past two days I finished learning every detail about the life of legendary jazz vocalist Billie Holiday through her autobiography “Lady Sings The Blues.” Following that I immediately picked up the memoirs of the not so legendary but respected New York artist, Joe Brainard titled “I Remember.” Now as I sit here typing this, I find it difficult not to pick up my copy of book one of literary current it book, Karl Ove Knausgaard’s “My Struggle.” So what’s the deal with memoirs? Well unfortunately I can’t really tie any of them together, so I figured I might as well just talk about them all individually.

First up was Billie Holiday’s autobiography “Lady Sings The Blues.” Written as a collaboration between Holiday herself and writer William Dufty, “Lady Sings The Blues” examines the life of one of jazz's greatest vocalists from her birth until about, five years before her death at the age of forty four. While Duffy did ghostwrite the majority of the novel, what one finds here is unquestionably Lady’s own words and her own voice. She tells her life story with a direct bluntness that apparently, was quite controversial at the time, and even had to be censored due to the good Lady’s unlady like language. Holiday recollects in varying degrees of detail her entire life story; from her troubled childhood working as a call girl in a Brooklyn based brothel to hear the music of Louis Armstrong and Bessie Smith, all the way to her run ins with the law and her struggles with drug addiction. Lady whose legacy is so immense that to add anything to it feels like throwing words into a whirlpool and watching them vanish into a vacuum of nothing, is already beyond discussing in terms of her musical ability. Though I must say I prefer the voices of Sarah Vaughn and Nina Simone to that of Holiday’s (a damnable sin in the world of jazz.) With all of that said one of the key things that I believe one can take away from reading Lady’s autobiography is the nature of which she can be considered a tragic figure. Because of the nature of her death (addiction mixed with a lifetime of poor health decisions) Holiday has taken on the image of a tragic figure, but I think to focus on how she died is a great disservice to the real reason why we should think of the great jazz singer as a tragic figure. Holiday’s blunt descriptions of her brutal struggles with racism, class, and a non-understanding judicial system are not only startlingly universal to the underprivileged in society, but continues to be just as profound and as upsetting in a modern context. Holiday’s struggles and hardships directly contributed to her style of emotional singing that allowed her for to the voice that so many were able to, and continue to identify with.

Next I decided to pick up a copy of Joe Brainard’s unique memoir “I Remember.” A brief highly original mesh of poem, novel and autobiography, “I Remember” features Brainard recalling his childhood in the 1940s and 50s beginning every brief section of memory with the words “I remember.” The book is charming, funny and at times moving with a particular emphasis placed on Brainard’s identity as a queer man. Part of what makes “I Remember” so likeable is the way in which it is written. It’s charming style of prose is extraordinarily natural but can still cross the threshold into sounding poetic. There’s a certain childlike innocence to this book, and let’s be real here, it’s just such a brilliant concept that it’s a miracle that no one had thought of it before.

As I said, this review has probably taken me longer to write simply because I am currently entrapped in the world’s current literary sensation, book one of Karl Ove Knausgaard’s epic autobiography “My Struggle.” Though I have gone through 60 pages of the books 4’600, I shall be like any great critic and simply pretend to know what I’m talking about even if I don’t. Thus far, I can only seem to think that Knausgaard is a magician, the 60 pages I have gone through were done in a single sitting, desperately trying to fend off this writing assignment. I sat there thinking to myself just one more page, another sentence, just keep going. This thought was typically followed by me saying to myself “yes strange Norwegian man tell me more about your children that I will never meet and don’t give two cares about.” Yet I still can’t figure just what it is about this book that makes it so absorbing. Ill probably report back in the year that it will likely take me to finish all six volumes of the rather poorly named “My Struggle.”              

Unprofesional Review Poem Week 2 by Rachel Cee

This week I went to an open mic and I got in bar fight over gay people being wrong and then I walked home and got lost and it sucked and I got an expensive taxi and i was grumpy and then it was stupid and i told the guy he was the f word and i yelled a bunch and that ruined it for me i don't know how conservative the dude who owns the place is. thats my review.

Six Word Novel's - Poetry by Rachel Cee

Hurt, hurt, hurt, cry, cry, cry.

I won't go with you until now.

Go to prison now, end it.

The woods were a walk, labrynth begin.

Darkness, Colors, Doors, Sounds, Worry, Light. 

How do I know my years?

Eternal Alice, Alice over? Call it.

The little trees root digs deep.

Churning stomachs flop in unison, divers.

Flyers form the line, we remember all. 

Summer Lipogram -Poem by Rachel Cee

Flurry sounds, light gust wind
no whorls that cry and sing
nobody can turn
thinking what you will of it,
and put it down

for a tick and tock of now,
shadow fills our world,
and hard to catch sight of is
cast among all arms of a tall mossy trunk body,
 a body,
 many trunks stand around in a crowd - as humans do
I say this to you,    and call for shouting

thinning out follows
a tiny clock counts inward thoughts
and too soon you wilt, fold,  and fall
It is not a small,
 or cowardly,
 or a nominal thing
only tiring, hot, and  unsatisfactory sad

and tiny actions, going through of motions
strung to our minds starry wants, sophomoric flights of fancy-
minds may call paths run, dog days,
a ball of tar pinus shrub buds,

so slow is lot molding our luck, with significant grin baring tooth
carrying out karma's instruction too fully, too simply, or too stark
too tardy, to stop it now-
and wintry
twinkling bunch of cold stars at the window
that brings to  mind with broad murals of thought this who is , so many big fish, small pond, big plain

all your dog days bring coming back down a long tall stair way
to a narrow trail by running aqua,
is this it, this iron comfort, and sound taboos,
or did you want to stop it as you did?
and his mask looks as yours,
that moon cast back on a shining pool.

Milk Studio Gallery -Review by Rachel Cee

May 10, 2015 I went to Milk Studios gallery and took in the Burt Glinn exhibit on it’s closing day. Milk is a gallery I have been following on Instagram for awhile and they are a former venue for MTV after parties turned studio and gallery. I wanted to see Burt Glinn’s exhibit after stumbling on his work in their Instagram because I thought he looked like an interesting artist that I had never fully explored who seemed exceptionally relevant to today’s political climate and my own personal social justice causes.

Glinn had a lot of work from his time in Cuba, and I really enjoyed a portrait from New Year’s day of a woman with a gun. The exhibit had a large collection of photos of Elizabeth Taylor, there were many photos taken in Spain including a great picture of a girl on a swing in front of a Gaudi, and one from Israel. I took a couple snaps of the portraits he had of Kerouac and Corso, and even a quick one of a photo of a muscle man before my friend and I left.

The ambiance of the gallery was clean and open, the walk down was similar- clean hip streets, the docent was friendly and let us know about an upcoming fashion photographer’s show incorporating 3D aspects that sounded interesting. The gallery was beautiful and the show was well laid out and for a Sunday afternoon the place was relatively quiet. I truly enjoyed my first walk through at Milk Gallery and I plan on returning.

Bernadette Mayor -Review by Rachel Cee

“Money just throws stones at grace” I loved many lines from Bernadette Mayer’s reading A Celebration of Bernadette Mayer at St Mark's Church in the Bowery this past Wednesday May 6, 2015 , but this one just landed right on heart like a cat that jumps on your chest when you are asleep. The full quote I wrote down is “I have caught a desire like

To grace everything placed with flowers like big business men

While on earth everyone dancing

Money just throws stones at grace

What is still and open”

This seems an apt poem for New York and the world, as we all struggle and maneuver for position and beg for even our own personal identity in the big apple.

The short film played during the middle of the reading after the other poets read Bernadette’s work and before Bernadette herself read was the highlight of the evening for myself. I loved the cinematography and her approachable countenance onscreen, the sound and color were excellent for the age of the picture.

Bernadette Mayer herself drew the audience in with her calming voice and a good long read. Subject matter covered tobacco, fables, ritual, herbs, a little murder, and egg whites.The poems kept flowing as Bernadette told us she would read us out of the house, and she did in fact begin to have audience members stand up and walk out one by one around eleven pm. I was still taking notes, this is the last poem I wrote down to my recall.

Fable

When men play they always take care of their hearts

Bring a bushel

They swallowed the smoke and exhaled it from their noses

What did the rose do

Romance

The boy went through the streets yelling

Plant this thing of our on this sloping thing

He has a child

Portable stereo system

They sweated and swam in the early morning

All in motion

The audience slowly dissipated and I milled about the poet for a while before leaving, the night was a good night, and I had nothing I could think of to say. Overall I found the performance intriguing and I would love to see Bernadette Mayer read again

Lilith Velkor at Rudy’s Barber Shop -review by Rachel Cee

5/7/15.

On Thursday I went to a concert at Rudy’s Barbershop basement which was a venue just at the water's edge by Williamsburg Bridge. I entered the venue after being stuck in traffic and having a friend pee out the side of the car on the way there, to see a crowd of neo emos sitting in barber’s chairs. everyone was wearing plaid, except my friend who plays drums who was wearing no shirt at all. It was an above average basement show, the lighting was extra soft and classy. Someone named Kim had signed the mirror with lipstick, and through an open door in the back on could see a small row boat in the storage area. There was a keg, free and free refreshments was a definitely giving this show an extra star already. The band played their set and I didn't want to get stuck as the fifth wheel or holding a high hat under the kick drum so I left a little early and went home with the roommates. My camera had no room for pictures and all I took was one blurry Instagram photo of the sidewall.  All in all I give Lilith Velkor at Rudy’s Barbershop on Lag Baomer 3 out of 5 stars.

Open Mic at The Path Cafe: Review by Jessie Branch

On Thursdays, The Path Café of the West Village holds an open mic. A few open mics in NYC are scheduled using a lottery, so a performer may arrive early to sign up but still wind up playing close to last. At The Path, performers sign up as they arrive and thus are guaranteed a good spot if they show up a bit earlier. I decided to play two songs; one original and one blues cover of an old favorite by Janis Joplin (Trouble in Mind). I signed up as number 20 and was told I’d be playing at around 8 PM.

            Before the performances began, my expectations were low. I have been at my fair share of open mics and it is usually a group of individuals relatively new to performing, playing simple songs that are slightly under-practiced. As soon as the first performer went onstage, however, I knew this open mic would be different. Each performer, save a few, had a unique sound and had clearly practiced and/or taken lessons for their instrument. One thing that differentiates people who are talented musically from people who play truly moving music is the clear emotion that goes into the latter. There are so many people who are talented at playing various instruments, who have beautiful voices, and who can cover songs effectively. It is much more rare, and more memorable, to find someone who plays music from their heart without holding back any of their feelings. To do this takes a person who is not afraid of sharing their emotions with strangers, a person who feels things very strongly, and a person who can effectively write these feelings into music.

            One of my favorite performances of the evening was a musician named David Rothschild (davidrothschildmusic.com). David played two original pieces that were simple acoustic guitar matched with lovely vocals. Other musicians seemed to be playing lots of sad four-chord acoustic pieces that, in all honesty, have been done before. One thing that caught me off guard about David was his phrasing and how uniquely he used internal rhyme in his lyrics. His songs were truly heartfelt, original, and absolutely heart-wrenching. Another group that I enjoyed were an unnamed Australian duo. A man played a snare and a tom and had a few symbols, while a woman played piano and sang, or hit a cowbell and sang. Their music was heavily percussive with a very desert inspired feel. The woman’s voice was enchanting, she had excellent control and a great range. It was refreshing to see this minimalist style done so successfully.

            All in all, it was a great evening. The person who runs the open mic actually asked me to come next Sunday and play a full half-hour set! So if you want to come see some great live music, come to The Path Café on Christopher St. Sunday, May 17th from 5-8 PM. 

A Bernadette Mayer Celebration

Celebratory reading and book launch at St. Mark's Church via The Poetry Project, May 6, 2015
Review written and edited by Peter Buller

The luminous poetry of Bernadette Mayer unfolds one's sensation as a prism opens light into a rainbow. For the same reasons, Mayer's work proves difficult to digest into any interpretive web. At times her work plays with form akin to Gertrude Stein's continuous prose. Elsewhere she weaves mythological references into her work, or writes stream-of-consciousness biographical poems of deceptive simplicity. All her poetry bears her distinct voice, a light touch of humour and sincerity that feels like "[living] forever... in a pastel portrait." How other poets should replicate the whimsy of her style, especially since Mayer does so with such confidence, raises a question for poetry readers everywhere; and it is heartwarming to see The Poetry Project once again offer an answer.

Numerous writers and publishers joined their voices in celebration of Mayer's latest book, Eating the Colors Of A Lineup Of Words: The First Books of Bernadette Mayer (Station Hill Press, 2015). Some appreciated Mayer's work as friends and colleagues of her work, such as Lee Ann Brown and Laynie Browne. Their readings resonated with how "endless thoughts go by" in Mayer's biographical work. Others were fellow writers like Peter Gizzi, who acknowledged the influence of her voice on the form of her work. Before reading "At Half-Inch Intervals," Gizzi remarked that he doesn't "know if she has a broken heart in a fierce world or a fierce heart in a broken world." His comment struck a particular chord with his reading of "The Way to Keep Going in Antarctica," echoing the line of how "nothing outside can cure you, but everything is outside," and that, "if I suffered, what else could I do?" Gizzi identified the vulnerabilities in Mayer's poems, to a stark contrast with readers such as Barbara Epler. President of New Directions Press, Epler's attachment to Mayer's poetry stems from tremendous passion for the lightness of Mayer's work, notably demonstrated in her fantastically-paced reading of "Essay." Epler's tone allowed the humour of Mayer's proclamation that "very few poets can be real farmers" captivate her audience in laughter.

All the readers strongly identified with threads in Mayer's poetry; but can any match her own? No replica will clone the original's work--though in this case, Mayer's poor health may have benefited from her other readers. Although her reading of the interlacing narratives from her 1968 work Stories inspired much to think about, the stride of her piece stumbled as she reread misspoken words and paused to regather her pace. Nevertheless, her perseverance almost carried her reading through the night's entirety. There's no doubting that in better times, she might have read with the same strength and vitality as Alice Notley had several weeks before her. However, in retrospect, Mayer's reading reveals that even after great poets begin to lose their voices, readers will gather in their stead. No physical ailment can prevent a celebration between friends--especially if they're poets too.

Avenue Q

Musical performed at New World Stages, produced by The New Group. May 9, 2015.
Review written and edited by Peter Buller

Children shows promise much for their target audience. Worlds where big red dogs and goofy green aliens join us on zany adventures introduce big cities as vast jungles of entertainment, boring desk jobs as fun interludes, and solemn strangers as people deprived of joy. Moreover, children watching should never doubt that the harsh realities beyond their TV set will never impede their dreams; nor doubt the meaning of their lives. Perhaps in the surreal utopia of shows like PBS' Sesame Street, these conceptualizations of human civilization add up; but someday its younger audiences will grow older and sober up to the cruelty of an indifferent universe. The realization of this proved harsh for Robert Lopez and Jeff Marx, who later soon after would spawn their Broadway-famous debut: Avenue Q, a musical transposing Sesame Street's naïveté on to New York City's cold attitude.

Lopez and Marx's musical flows with a similar bubbling excitement as its spiritual predecessor; yet where Sesame Street offers childlike education, Avenue Q doles out mature social commentary. The musical opens with its colourful cast arguing over whose life sucks the most: one character complains about their failed love life; another elaborates upon their failed career; then cuing the entrance of Gary Coleman with his own financial woes. If Sesame Street is an idealistic drug trip up the stairs to Paradise, Avenue Q is the sobering descent to earth. The former sings educational mnemonics to catchy rhyme schemes as the latter contemplates if "everyone is a little bit racist," or how life would be "if you were gay." Characters break any reservations held against using swear words and discussing "adult" subjects. One scene depicts the protagonist and his love interest engaged in loud sexual intercourse--complete with seizure-inducing party lights, tenants filing complaints with the superintendent, and Coleman cheering as the couple shriek and screw with ecstasy. The contrast jabs at the careful censorship children's programs nominally endorse. Avenue Q delights in the dissonance of its clownish characters cursing with shit and fuck rather than shucks and fiddlesticks. One of its musical numbers even offers an ode to schadenfreude as one character enters homelessness.

Musical numbers immerse the audience in a fantastic multimedia performance; though not every musical number in Avenue Q delivers. "The Internet Is for Porn" stands out as the latter. Most skits draw morals from independent scenes, tuning them into catchy show pieces. "Everyone Is a Little Bit Racist" handily connects its characters' prejudice to liberating commentary on racism. Narrative context intensifies the show's clever showmanship with compelling subtext. In contrast, "The Internet Is for Porn" offers no reason for its audience to follow along beyond the regurgitation of its message. As a result, one feels more inclined to join the furious Kate Monster--who wanted to teach children of the internet's utility--than empathize with a porn-addicted Cookie Monster.

Still, clever writing and media installations prevent the musical from growing stale. One such occasion features a counting game of night stands zooming out to reveal a hotel bedroom and a couple making love on a one night stand. The witty pun inspired giggling fits throughout the audience, drawing away their attention as stagehands changed the set. Although this sleight of hand proved clever, the visibility of the actors felt decidedly less intuitive. Being able to view actors puppeteer the characters breaks one's suspension of disbelief, frequently robbing one of the synaesthetic performance transpiring onstage. Visibility of the puppeteers could have illuminated the ridiculousness of its predecessor's childhood dreams by revealing the lifelessness of their puppets. How "authentic" can a character's dream be without a human voice and hand to guide their actions? An interesting query for those invested in experimental theatre; however, its implementation in Avenue Q smacks of tackiness. Casting Elizabeth Ann Berg and Jason Jacoby to voice characters often held by other actors comments more on the production's understaffed nature than anything. That Lopez and Marx allowed such a discrepancy on the show's Broadway run only worsens the matter.

Despite its flaws, Avenue Q's thematic goals remain strong. Numerous attempts have been made to satirize the outrageous idealism children's media endorses. Unlike SNL's unapologetic satire, Avenue Q maintains love for the targets of its punchlines. SNL's puppets strike one as harsh caricatures, transforming Sesame Street's outlandish cast into stuffy hipsters and post-college losers. Avenue Q manages both without venom for its characters. Those sparks of humanity in Princeton's romantic fumbles, coupled with his futile search for purpose, deepen his character beyond mere caricature. Lopez and Marx's cynical glaze never deigns to narcissistic pessimism. Instead, they bounce along life's winding roads with childlike gaiety. For even in the twilight of our idols, loves and dreams have their place--if only "for now."

Starbucks Clover Brew system - Review by Andrew Davis

Coffee, a small fruit that has been enjoyed by mankind for thousands of years, just got an update. Starbuck's new coffeemaker, the Clover brewing system, is a completely new way to brew America's favorite brew.

The Clover brewing system first hit the market in 2006 and comes from the utilitarian named Coffee Equipment Company. The magic of the system comes from its renovative new brewing method which combines  brewing methods from a french press and a vacuum pot system in order to achieve a very flavorful cup of coffee.

The only downside to this method is the restrictively high price tag. Is the high price tag worth what essentially amounts to a cup of coffee? Starbucks chairman Howard Schultz thinks so, declaring "In my over 25 years at Starbucks, the Clover machine unquestionably delivers the best cup of brewed coffee I have ever tasted".  

still unconvinced of the magical properties of the brewing system, I set off in search of a cup of clover Coffee

On May sixth, 2015, I strolled into a Starbucks that had a Clover system (not all shops are equipped with one yet) and ordered a small cup (not quite a tall cup at only 8.8oz) of whole bean West Java Preanger for 14.50. Thats right, for a cup of coffee that's three oz below small, you pay seven times more than a regular tall brewed coffee. But after taking my first sip, I can honestly say that it's the best damn cup of coffee i've ever had in my entire life. Actually, its so good, its kinda bad. Its bad because I began to think if I would be able to endure any other cup of brewed coffee ever again. I thought back to the cheap coffee maker I had at home and wondered if all the simple pleasures of brewing my own coffee at my own home were over, spoiled by the Clover. I thought about my kids (which I dont even have) and felt sorry for them in the same way that my parents must feel sorry for me when they think about a time before cell phones and the ridiculous bills that come with a new necessity item. The Clover brewing system is truly revolutionary  for it finally settles the argument of which is the best way to make brewed coffee. Hands down.  

The Family in Union Square - Review by philipGtaylor

Union Square
4may2015

“Gonna take a walk down to Union Square;

you never know what you gonna find there.”
---The Velvet Underground

The night was warm and close on the heels of the daylight when I made my way to the steps of Union Square with my mandolin on my back. The scene was so typical of New York that it could have been from a movie: taxi cabs and tour busses crammed the street, car hones blared as a crowd of pedestrians filtered along the sidewalk; The steps leading up to the square were occupied by people sitting, grabbing a piece of rest from the chaotic activity of the city; the raised platform of the square was host to a net-less volleyball game and, further back, an impromptu group of dancers performed a variety of moves as a crowd of spectators looked on. After taking a few seconds to acclimate to this riotous sea of humanity, I spotted the bleached hair of my friend sitting in a circle of people playing guitars; I had found my destination.

I warily approached the group: for the most part, musicians tend to be an welcoming community, but they have a tendency to be put-off by another musician assuming a place in their midst without invitation; also, this group was comprised of young travellers, a group colloquially labeled “street kids”, and although I have spent a great deal of time with street kids over the years and had some of the best experiences of my life in their midst as a young traveller, one cannot always know, at first sight, if the bane of the street scene, Meth, has corroded the kindness and stability of that particular group.

My concern was unfounded; what I encountered was a prime example of what is sometimes referred to as “the travelling family”: a gathering of people who have left their homes and past lives behind, and have gone out into the world with exploration and adventure as their primary purpose. The Family can be found in any major city, usually at a crossroads where performance doesn’t require a city permit, and tourists are likely to be generous with their change. If you play music or dance, juggle or tumble, skate or sing, and above all are kind, open and accepting of differences, you will be welcomed into the Family with open arms. Once you are a part of this group, they will share all they have with you, protect and defend you to the last, (so long as you do the same for them without thought,) and I had the opportunity to be witness to an example of such selflessness that evening.

After introductions were made with welcoming smiles all around, several of us began to jam; two of the guitarists were far and away more skilled musicians than I was, but we managed to find each other’s rhythms, and before long a young woman began to sing along to our instrumental trio; the two guitars furiously picked away at a metallic complex back-and-forth of chords and leading melodies as the singer found harmonies to the blindingly-paced notes, all the while I did my best to find my mandolin’s place among the shifting scales.  This went on for an undeterminable amount of time when a volleyball smacked an onlooker from the Family in the back of the head; the boy, without thinking, flipped “the bird” over his shoulder toward the volleyball group, and that’s when the trouble began.

The young man who had hit the ball came rushing over, shirtless and taught with fury, and began yelling at the boy who had carelessly thrown up his middle finger. The offending boy (who was in reality also a young man, although pale and not physically intimidating) was terrified; the onslaught of verbal abuse coming from the physically intimidating man was full of viciousness and bruised ego. Upon seeing this, one of the fit members of the Family came to the boy’s defense, doing his best to calm the angry man while refusing to be intimidated by the man’s flamboyant aggression and literal “in your face” attitude. The man demanded an apology, saying that if anyone flipped him off, he’d “beat your whole family” (referring to the rest of us). The man’s friends finally managed to ease him away and get him involved with the volleyball game. Some of these stayed behind to apologize to the Family for the man’s intimidation. We all shook hands and told each other there was no harm done, and everyone went back to their occupations, us to our music, and them to their game.

The jam went on, taking many forms and involving many players. Some filtered in an out, occupied by a hacky-sac circle or engrossed in conversation, but we were all participating in the communal event; food and wine were passed freely around the circle, carried along by laughter. I spent the rest of the evening at Union Square filled with joy; here was a group of people who would risk everything to protect their own. This group is not bound together by blood or law, but their connection is stronger than that of many traditional families. They live with so much less than most people have in this country, yet they share all of it with each other. I have been blessed to be a part of this group, and cannot express my gratitude at finding the Family well and strong here in New York City.

Hiatus Kaiyote: The New Avant-Guard - Review by philipGtaylor

Gramercy Theater
3may2015

I went to Gramercy Theater to see Hiatus Kaiyote this last Sunday, not knowing what to expect; although I had heard a few of their songs, I was otherwise completely unfamiliar with the quartet. What I did not expect was the massive turnout; the line of bodies wrapped around the block of the Gramercy Theater and stretched off into the distance, beyond sight. (This is not hyperbole, as my glasses have an outdated prescription.) As Jessie Branch and I waited in line, it became clear what kind of audience Hiatus Kaiyote had drawn in; those around us were all talking about music---  about making music, attending rehearsals, and assignments for Advanced Music Theory class. The Hiatus Kaiyote fans standing in line with us were not just music lovers--- they were musicians, and this fact gets to the heart of what is so spectacular about Hiatus Kaiyote: they are creating a new space of innovative and complex music that ensnares the attention of educated musicians in a generation that is completely surrounded by a flood of catchy, easy-to-memorize songs that don’t challenge the listener.

A shout rang out from the front of the line, signaling the opening of the doors. The mass of young musicians crowded into the theater, filling up the large standing-area with shocking speed. Jessie and I were able to claim our places in the third “row” from the stage, where we impatiently waited out the next 45 minutes for the show to begin.

Phony Ppl, a 5-man band that combined super-funky bass, plucky guitar and backing percussion with two very different vocalists; one vocalist was a melodic singer with an beautifully controlled and smooth falsetto, while the other was a straight-up hip-hop lyricist. The dichotomy of the musical influences made for an energetic and interesting opening band. It was apparent by their demeanor that the band was not accustomed with playing to such a large and enthusiastic crowd,  resulting in an gratefully-delivered performance driven by bolstered appreciation, which endeared them to me. I’m sure you’ll be hearing about Phony Ppl in the upcoming years.

In order to pacify the massive crowd completely filling out the sold-out show, a DJ played from a podium in the back of the theater between sets. I didn’t catch the DJ’s name, but she had serious skill; I did my best to dance and groove along with her beats, but I was forced to reign in my moves after I realized that the people packed in around me were not appreciating being bumped by my gyrating body. The audience was so large that, despite both of us desperately needing to use the restroom, Jessie and I both decided to wait until after the show, as we knew that the next set would begin soon, and we didn’t want to lose our places so close to the stage.

The DJ let her song fade out, the stage-screen went up, and out walked the four members of Hiatus Kaiyote to a deafening roar of applause and cheer. At the beginning of their set, Nai Palm, the leading vocalist and guitarist, was having issues with her instrument, and the first song was aborted. Despite this rough beginning, Nai decided to jump on the keyboard instead, and a new song began, this time fully captivating the audience in the spell woven by the musical communion of the band: Paul Mender ripped his 5-string bass with blinding speed and skill; Perrin Moss’s incredibly complex beats, that changed time-signatures so regularly that I almost didn’t know how to dance along, kept the band grooving together; Simon Mavin played his synthesizer with eerily-beautiful ease, sometimes using his voice to add to the multi-dimensional melodies; in the spotlight, enthralling everyone with her vocal control and range that Ella Fitzgerald would be envious of, Nai Palm wove a glorious spell over it all. For a while, time was forgotten.

What is it about Hiatus Kaiyote that makes them such an incredible band? The answer, like their music, is multi-dimensional and difficult to pin down with words. It has something to do with the lack of conformity to the form of popular music, which is reminiscent of wild and free-moving jazz; there is both beauty and dissonance in the melodic and polyrhythmic songs that feels precious, raw, fragile and yet forcefully fresh; the poetic lyrics take inspiration from unexpected and spiritual sources, including mountain ranges, ceremonial masks, woodsmoke and dreams; there is a sense of going boldly forward into a place where no one had before thought existed. All of this results in an completely original music that takes the listener on vast and wild adventures though the infinite thoughtscape of the mind, blowing one along on wind-currents of stardust that shift from one plane to the next, shifting and dropping one without warning, only to be caught by a warm and enfolding gust at the last minute.

Hiatus Kaiyote is making music that has never been made before. Yes, a critical reviewer could take apart the components of the band to be sectioned off and labeled, and in the end they could point to these isolated parts and say: “This part came from jazz. This piece is electronica. Here we have funk and rock, and here (pointing to the dissected vocal track) we have definite specimens resulting from jazz, blues, opera, and… what we could only describe as animalistic howling.” All that I could to such a sterile and ill-advised experiment is this: these parts have never come together in this way, with such creativity and complexity held together by overflowing passion and raw talent. I would say that the reviewer is missing the point entirely; the purpose is to experience, and Hiatus Kaiyote is the most original and one of the most worth-while musical experiences I have ever had. Their newly released album, Choose Your Weapon, is available for purchase, and I cannot urge you more strongly to go and experience it yourself.