Pitchfork

All photos by Casey McKinney

The Twilight Sad [Fontana's; 8 p.m.]

CMJ boot camp began on trash night in Chinatown, Metallica's "Master of Puppets" lifting spirits in Fontana's upstairs bar. Meanwhile, in the basement, noisy Glasgow pop group the Twilight Sad tore eardrums: The quartet's self-titled EP's great, but I imagine if I hadn't heard it three dozen times, I would've failed to untangle the melodies from the feedback. They opened with vocalist James Graham wielding a drum stick and smashing cymbals along with the fresh-faced, Campbell Soup-kid drummer. But it was the Daniel Johnston t-shirt wearing guitarist who stole the show with his awkward teenage Kevin Shields impersonation-- all the more charming because he was out of tune. Strumming in a slapdash style, now again sipping from a cup with a Yankees logo on it, he looked bored and utterly fascinated at the same time. Still, despite the white noise hubbub, the general focal point remained the swoony Graham, who another Pitchforker later called the most attractive man alive. Well, he must've been scared of his own beauty because he kept his eyes shut for 75% of the set, issuing romantic utterances about kids on fire in the bedroom, running out of time, the invisible boy, and feeling bitter, so very bitter. Halfway through, amplifier problems led to a slight delay, so a bearded oldster jumped on stage and read, gently, a poem, "Twilight Sad." It was a great calm in the storm, but had me wondering: What came first, the poem or the band? Anyone?

Beach House [Cake Shop; 10:15 p.m.]

Ushering in a different sort of calm, downer Baltimore duo Beach House quietly owned the Cake Shop. The room was packed, leaving eyes to rest on hippies nodding themselves to careful, contented sleep on the bar, while others lined like trees against the wood-paneled wall, swaying. Beneath the field of cricket stars, it felt like we were indeed holed-up at the band's namesake, about to attend a Magnetic Fields/Brightblack Morning Light apple orchard picnic. Musically, the guitar/keys/vocals were Damon & Naomi backed by meteor slides. The male half of the band looks a lot like Devendra Banhart-- I was waiting for him to get up and flail shirtless with henna on his head. Thankfully, they remained subtle and downcast, digging into a "Lovelier Girl" before disappearing like a soft-edged dream.

The Slits [Knitting Factory; 12 a.m.]

A friend pointed out that the Slits more than made up for the Twilight Sad's lack of tuning. True…how long does it take to get those strings aligned? "Girls invented punk rock, not England" filtered from the P.A. before the seven- to eight-person band started playing. Ari Up-- dressed in a dayglo Jah paint-splatter sorta cheerleader outfit–- was insistent on reminding us everything she invented after forming the band in 1976. Or, she spoke in the third person, e.g. "now this is a Slits' bass." Later, her smiling but still annoying refusal to continue playing until the sound person got rid of some monitor boom reminded me why I generally avoid reunions: zero urgency, lack of context. She mentioned their first NYC gig (besides Up, only bassist Tessa Pollitt is an original member) in 1979 on 2nd avenue. Maybe it would've been better then? For our troubles, we heard "Typical Girls", "Shoplifting", and "Newtown", but the background singers couldn't sing and I wondered if eight people making music together have ever sounded so thin. I could concoct something phatter with a match and a Dixie Cup. Trust me.

120 Days [Cake Shop; 2 a.m.]

It's fitting that dudes named after a de Sade text would have me out until 4 a.m. on a school night. There were sound problems here, too, with repeated requests for more drum machine in the monitor. That aside, 120 Days played the best set of day two. (The Strokes boy band that bounced before them stood off to the side smoking cigarettes and peering all Springsteen-like, knowing they'd been beaten, at least this time.) When I saw the quartet in Oslo, it was obvious they were onto something; this late Cake Shop show proved that the fuckers have arrived-- the sound was denser than when it flew outdoors (obviously; there's less space to disappear into) and there was joyful Happy Mondays dancing by the band and audience. As vocalist Ådne Meisfjord noted, "Oh, the girls are dancing." Sure-- of course, the boys were dancing, too.

For his part, Meisfjord stripped down to his undershirt and made like a raver. A wonderfully extended "Come Out (Come Down, Fade Out, Be Gone)" arrived as a finale, complete with pause/breath-catch/skree extension. Around that time, a girl told me she'd traveled all the way from Toronto to catch the band, though she'd seen them in her city a few days earlier. I might not trek that far, but I'd definitely check them out again…maybe at one of the 3,000 other shows they're playing this week.