By Steve Weinstein
By Bryan Bierman
By Lindsey Rhoades
By Chaz Kangas
By Ben Westhoff and Sarah Purkrabek
By Jena Ardell
By Jesse Sendejas Jr.
By Katherine Turman
Perfect moment one: Exiting the trestle space while Arto Lindsay's band is laying down some truly block-rocking bossa nova, then circumnavigating the box (a four-sided chamber with projections playing across the outside and X dealers within) just as British sonic deconstructors Stock, Hausen & Walkman let their own bossa-nova vinyl decelerate to zero rpms. SH&W, whose name conflates the granddaddy of electronic music with a Britpop production committee (and whose latest record consists of "Good Vibrations" played at one rotation per minute), eviscerated the tyranny of the beat with an earsplitting, gut-twisting set of musique sufficiently concrète to inflict serious brain damage.
Autechre's mission was to meet SH&W's arrhythmic challenge and morph it into something vaguely danceable. Perfect moment two: Their set's peak, which suggested that the secret history of rave music begins in the late '50s with a confused bachelor's simultaneous renditions of Babatunde Olatunji's "Drums of Passion" and Perrey-Kingsley's electronic masterpiece, "The In Sounds From Way Out!" Perfect moments three through whatever: Jim O'Rourke's down-home feedback, simultaneous remixes of Autechre's set, the realization that some people can and will dance to anything, Plaid's oddly distorted yet strangely accessible ear candy, and DJ Wally efficiently depleting the show's energy and emptying the room with deafening techno that suddenly sounded more than a little worn around the edges.--Richard Gehr
Other Music's Web site launch party somehow resembled an online session: too much information, too many links, and too much time spent downloading (that is, waiting to pass through the slim portal connecting the two rooms). However, overt references to the Web were mercifully absent. Instead, projected films, dank, rusty beams, and massive sound systems lent the event a murky, ravelike ambience.
Like the Web, the evening began with more chaos than order. Black-clad, face-painted Byzar erected a half-built wall of rumble (world's loudest mimes?). And the pained squeals emerging from Jim O'Rourke's laptop early in his set weren't intentional, judging from the frown on his face and the small mob with flashlights rummaging around behind him, frantically pulling wires. A woman approached O'Rourke, asking, "When is the next act on?" O'Rourke: "Now." Woman: "Who is it?" O'Rourke: "Me."
The confusion got sexier when Arto Lindsay and band swung into Brazilian funk-croon punctuated with DNA-damaged guitar slashes; totally out-of-place, it sounded great. Meanwhile, Stock, Hausen & Walkman orchestrated the shrieks of a billion dying lines of code, stabbing them with mangled samples; appropriately hyperreferential and digital-age, it sounded boring.
Finally, headliners Autechre took control, shaking random data down into intricate patterns of perfect meaning as they shook the room. Live, the British duo with the search-engineoptimized name run a masterfully constructed back-end database on a platform of sequencers and samplers, creating hard-bopping electrodisco that captures the rapture of New Order circa 1983 and beams a scrambled form to the present. But there's a bug in the bass-bin: too much input force-fed through a narrow bottleneck of bandwidth makes the machine language hiccup, generating a lag that's an Autechre trademark. Anticipating where the next slur will trip up the beat is a game both talented and terrible dancers can play. Do the robot to Autechre, find truth in inaccuracy: machines are only human, they make mistakes too!
Again, for a Web parallel, check out the ambitious, high-tech, and glitch-riddled othermusic.com site, still under construction.--Sally Jacob
When Joshua Redman wasn't soloing last Thursday at Florence Gould Hall, he headed into the shadows and did some left-foot, right-foot moves reminiscent of Monk's onstage prancing. Both spectator and cheerleader, the saxophonist observed his new band devising its own identity and rah-rahed its most exemplary fabrications. In the process he brought a bit of informality to a somewhat clinical venue. And perhaps more importantly, his mess-around served as a partial antidote to the self-consciousness that flecked the evening's program.
Most of Redman's work is limber. Much of it is spontaneous. His sixth Warner Bros. record, Timeless Tales (For Changing Times), is especially interactive, fraught with sensitive exchange and clever tunefulness. Several of these attributes were obvious on Thursday. There was ardor: "Dialog" generated a billowing cloud of collectivism that found Josh and crew--pianist Aaron Goldberg, bassist Reuben Rodgers, and drummer Greg Hutchinson--pursuing the ecstatic hosanna Albert Ayler discovered in "Ghosts." And there was precision: Redman proved he was editor enough to sculpt his lines into testimonies that boasted both gossamer wings and boxing gloves. But the band's probing was hindered by an italicized feeling of performance, making parts of the show seem a scripted recitation. Even the set's mightiest moments leaned more toward "gee whiz" than "holy shit."