At 11 PM Saturday night, over 120 hours since I first began my CMJ journey, I stood on a Manhattan subway platform, patiently waiting for the L train. "So, would you do it again next year?" a friend asked. "Ask me again in a month," I told her, unable to muster a reasonable answer between the shrill pitch of the buzzing in my ears and spinning of my head. By this point, I no longer remembered what the inside of my eyelids looked like, I had forgotten the sound of silence, and I probably couldn't even tell you my name were it not printed on the all-access badge in my back pocket -- the laminated card that had come to replace my identity and soul. But I was revitalized by Indian food and coasting on adrenaline. Oh, and triumph.
Four to the floor. The next band was like a spoonful of Robitussin without Poppins and her goddamn sugar -- that garbage is for kids. Undersea Explosion, on the other hand, are men. Rapping on a cowbell, their lead singer didn't play with dance-punk irony, instead looking like he really wanted to make a dent in the thing. Behind him was a vigorous distorted bass and hints of some Sonic Youth discordance, but more apparent was a sludgy grit like the desert rock of Queens of the Stone Age.
By this point I could pretty much taste it but when Bella Watt took the stage they exuded a freshness only a young band could. A male and female vocal trade-off topped atypical grooves spiked with psychedelia and the result was sufficiently hypnotizing, building a measured, spacey atmosphere. The haunting hymnal that was their last song teased some truly poignant moments to come in this band's career.
I couldn't have asked for a better 26th band than Sikamor Rooney. As I crossed the finish line, they whizzed by me, seemingly unaware the race was over. Their rapid-fire country punk sneered and spat with disregard like an unchained beast with rock star swagger. Scathing and snotty like the Black Lips with some of the retro sass of Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, the trio barn-burned through grimy numbers like the Iggy Pop-ish "Dirty Dog" noticeably drunk even though it was only 5:30. Their final song couldn't have been a better finale with a more perfect title, wrapping up my marathon with three fateful, self-explanatory letters that sum it all up: "N. Y. C."
Later that night, for shits and giggles and to flaunt my stamina, I headed to the Music Hall of Williamsburg for final bow, a curtain call. DIY hipster lovebirds Matt & Kim are sweeter than chocolate covered cotton candy and though I came out of there with three cavities, not once did I stop smiling. Seriously, though, my cheeks were sore. Kim punishes the skins at a mile a minute while Matt pounds on screaming synth keys, taking breaks only to tell us in the crowd how "fucking awesome" we all were and to read passages from his favorite book, Letters to E.T. Best stage banter? Without a doubt. Happiest crowd surfers? Mmhmm. A storybook ending to my CMJ epic? I think Matt & Kim and everyone else in the Music Hall said it best: YEA YEAH YEA YEAH YEA YEAH YEA YEAH YEA YEAH YEA YEAH YEA YEAH. - Joe Coscarelli
via The Deli Magazine which has collected my entire 5 day journey HERE
mp3 Matt & Kim Yea Yeah