Man Man
Murder By Death
Northern Arms
Sat, March 2, 2013
Doors: 7:30 pm / Show: 8:00 pm
Union Transfer
Philadelphia, PA
$20.00 - $22.00
Sold Out
This event is all ages
http://www.utphilly.com/event/194333/
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Man Man
Before the beginning...
Before the world came into existence, all was a chaos, unimaginably limitless and without shape or form. Eon followed eon, particle became mass: then, lo! out of this boundless, shapeless mass something light and transparent rose up and formed the heavens. And from the heavens fell five shapes, loud and heavy and jumbled, and from these rough forms were shaped and sculpted the first firsts: Honus Honus (the High-August-First-Voice), Sergei Sogay (the Divine-Center-of-Four-Strings), Pow Pow (the August-Beat-Divinity), Critter Crat (the Divine-Twang-and-Everything-Else) and Chang Wang (the Other-Twang-and-Wondrous-Everything-Else).
And they set out to fill the yawning void that gripped the earth, and they crammed the emptiness with sounds, of voices and guitars and drums, yes; but also with squeaky toys and pots and spoons and cap guns and chopsticks and old shoes and fruit and stuffed frogs. And such was their exuberant good time, and such was the mess they made, that they did not see their jealous creator, envious of their ingenuity and novelty items, sneaking up on their ebullient pandemonium and casting them out...
Today...
In their lost divinity, Man Man took up residence in Philadelphia, perhaps because of the Sweet Philly sound, Noam Chomsky, the water Sun Ra was drinking, Charles Barkley's elbows, the excellence of the Philly lacrosse team or Rocky or Betsy Ross or John Coltrane. Or maybe it was it's close proximity to south Jersey.
Never you mind. The point is, Man Man keeps on keeping on, filling the blankness with their weird/beautiful, esoteric/heart-rending, profound/hilarious sounds. There is so much lovely commotion to be made, Man Man famously does not break between songs during their live shows, but rather moves, revolving-door fashion, from one song to another, commandeering and discarding any of number of the instruments lying at their feet as the mood strikes and the music dictates.
Comparisons to the usual avant-garde forefathers - Captain Beefheart, Frank Zappa, Tom Waits - persist, but Man Man are decidedly not identity thieving or even overtly referencing these spiritual godfathers in their music, but rather are acting as torchbearers of the unusual, the spontaneous and the plainly fucking funny in an increasingly homogenized world. "I'm just making the songs I know how to write," says Honus. "The one thing I want to clarify is that this is an organic project -- who we are, the kind of lives we lived before we met each other, and the lives we have together. [That's] what makes this band and this music what it is. I would say being broke is one of my biggest influences. That and being in and out of relationships. Those are bigger influences than listening to a Beefheart record."
Indeed, it would be a mistake to write off Man Man as simply "experimental," "psychedelic" or even "jokesy," for they are some, but mostly none, of that. Their music is clearly rooted in rock, blues and pop, and they can really play all those instruments. A long list of the most successful, accessible and accomplished indie rock bands working today - think Arcade Fire, Modest Mouse, Cat Power - have asked Man Man on tour. At a Man Man show, one might see a hipster chaining up a fixie out front, a gaggle of high school kids with a genuine "Lord of the Flies/Peter Pan's Lost Boy's" fire in their eyes, some hippie old-timers, still in it to win it. The scope of their appeal attests to Man Man's genuine abilities and the palpable emotion of the music.
With Rabbit Habits, their Anti- Records debut, and the natural extension of their body of work begun with The Man In A Blue Turban With A Face and continued with Six Demon Bag, Man Man bring their incomparable vision to bear. Successfully capturing the raw spirit and essence of a Man Man live show, Rabbit Habits is the end product of the efforts of a band who are earnestly saying something important, even if you can't always make out the words over the blare of the sousaphone.
Life Fantastic is the first Man Man album with a proper producer behind the boards. And not just any knob-twiddler, either. We're talking Mike Mogis, the Bright Eyes member responsible for the widescreen backdrops of nearly every major Saddle Creek release. The record also features lush string arrangements by fellow Bright Eyes member Nate Walcott.
"The songs were fully-formed entities by the time we got to Mike's studio," says Kattner, "But he was there to say things like, 'Okay, that's a bit (too) much.' He was able to help us carve the beauty out of the chaos we brought. It wasn't whittling down the points; it was sharpening them so they'd puncture even deeper."
The celebrated avant-garde rock outfit Man Man will release their brand new album entitled Life Fantastic this May 10 on Anti-Records. The album opener "Knuckle Down" is available for streaming today on Pitchfork.
Before the world came into existence, all was a chaos, unimaginably limitless and without shape or form. Eon followed eon, particle became mass: then, lo! out of this boundless, shapeless mass something light and transparent rose up and formed the heavens. And from the heavens fell five shapes, loud and heavy and jumbled, and from these rough forms were shaped and sculpted the first firsts: Honus Honus (the High-August-First-Voice), Sergei Sogay (the Divine-Center-of-Four-Strings), Pow Pow (the August-Beat-Divinity), Critter Crat (the Divine-Twang-and-Everything-Else) and Chang Wang (the Other-Twang-and-Wondrous-Everything-Else).
And they set out to fill the yawning void that gripped the earth, and they crammed the emptiness with sounds, of voices and guitars and drums, yes; but also with squeaky toys and pots and spoons and cap guns and chopsticks and old shoes and fruit and stuffed frogs. And such was their exuberant good time, and such was the mess they made, that they did not see their jealous creator, envious of their ingenuity and novelty items, sneaking up on their ebullient pandemonium and casting them out...
Today...
In their lost divinity, Man Man took up residence in Philadelphia, perhaps because of the Sweet Philly sound, Noam Chomsky, the water Sun Ra was drinking, Charles Barkley's elbows, the excellence of the Philly lacrosse team or Rocky or Betsy Ross or John Coltrane. Or maybe it was it's close proximity to south Jersey.
Never you mind. The point is, Man Man keeps on keeping on, filling the blankness with their weird/beautiful, esoteric/heart-rending, profound/hilarious sounds. There is so much lovely commotion to be made, Man Man famously does not break between songs during their live shows, but rather moves, revolving-door fashion, from one song to another, commandeering and discarding any of number of the instruments lying at their feet as the mood strikes and the music dictates.
Comparisons to the usual avant-garde forefathers - Captain Beefheart, Frank Zappa, Tom Waits - persist, but Man Man are decidedly not identity thieving or even overtly referencing these spiritual godfathers in their music, but rather are acting as torchbearers of the unusual, the spontaneous and the plainly fucking funny in an increasingly homogenized world. "I'm just making the songs I know how to write," says Honus. "The one thing I want to clarify is that this is an organic project -- who we are, the kind of lives we lived before we met each other, and the lives we have together. [That's] what makes this band and this music what it is. I would say being broke is one of my biggest influences. That and being in and out of relationships. Those are bigger influences than listening to a Beefheart record."
Indeed, it would be a mistake to write off Man Man as simply "experimental," "psychedelic" or even "jokesy," for they are some, but mostly none, of that. Their music is clearly rooted in rock, blues and pop, and they can really play all those instruments. A long list of the most successful, accessible and accomplished indie rock bands working today - think Arcade Fire, Modest Mouse, Cat Power - have asked Man Man on tour. At a Man Man show, one might see a hipster chaining up a fixie out front, a gaggle of high school kids with a genuine "Lord of the Flies/Peter Pan's Lost Boy's" fire in their eyes, some hippie old-timers, still in it to win it. The scope of their appeal attests to Man Man's genuine abilities and the palpable emotion of the music.
With Rabbit Habits, their Anti- Records debut, and the natural extension of their body of work begun with The Man In A Blue Turban With A Face and continued with Six Demon Bag, Man Man bring their incomparable vision to bear. Successfully capturing the raw spirit and essence of a Man Man live show, Rabbit Habits is the end product of the efforts of a band who are earnestly saying something important, even if you can't always make out the words over the blare of the sousaphone.
Life Fantastic is the first Man Man album with a proper producer behind the boards. And not just any knob-twiddler, either. We're talking Mike Mogis, the Bright Eyes member responsible for the widescreen backdrops of nearly every major Saddle Creek release. The record also features lush string arrangements by fellow Bright Eyes member Nate Walcott.
"The songs were fully-formed entities by the time we got to Mike's studio," says Kattner, "But he was there to say things like, 'Okay, that's a bit (too) much.' He was able to help us carve the beauty out of the chaos we brought. It wasn't whittling down the points; it was sharpening them so they'd puncture even deeper."
The celebrated avant-garde rock outfit Man Man will release their brand new album entitled Life Fantastic this May 10 on Anti-Records. The album opener "Knuckle Down" is available for streaming today on Pitchfork.
Murder By Death
Indiana's Murder by Death (formerly known as Little Joe Gould) layers the vocal sounds of an old saloon with the haunting strings of a Hungarian folk dance and the hard driving rhythms of pure rock 'n' roll, producing what Stuff magazine has called "lush, orchestrated songs," somehow simultaneously reminiscent of Johnny Cash and Radiohead. Added to that thick and intriguing sound are a series of dark and ironic lyrics, combining the mood and tone of Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds with the narrative force of The Decemberists or a short story by Nathaniel Hawthorne. Adam Turla fills out these sometimes frightening, sometimes beautiful lyrics by conjuring up a cast of character voices, allowing the songs to speak with the force of the characters themselves, and providing the listener with a sense of ensemble unique in rock music.
But this ensemble feel is not only the result of Turla's vocal playfulness, but of the cohesive playing of the band itself. Sarah Balliet channels her Kentucky bluegrass roots through the skilled hands of a concert cellist, playing point and counterpoint to the lyrics and guitars with magnificent grace and style. Matt Armstrong's bass guitar provides the rhythmic framework of the band, but also takes the lead with surprising frequency, guiding Murder by Death into driving highs and brooding lows. And Alex Schrodt's drumsticks almost dance across the skins, giving the band what the Chicago Reader called "a rhythm section Nick Cave or The Faint would die for." The result is a fascinating slice of American Gothic, replete with trail rides, whiskey shots and Old Scratch himself.
But this ensemble feel is not only the result of Turla's vocal playfulness, but of the cohesive playing of the band itself. Sarah Balliet channels her Kentucky bluegrass roots through the skilled hands of a concert cellist, playing point and counterpoint to the lyrics and guitars with magnificent grace and style. Matt Armstrong's bass guitar provides the rhythmic framework of the band, but also takes the lead with surprising frequency, guiding Murder by Death into driving highs and brooding lows. And Alex Schrodt's drumsticks almost dance across the skins, giving the band what the Chicago Reader called "a rhythm section Nick Cave or The Faint would die for." The result is a fascinating slice of American Gothic, replete with trail rides, whiskey shots and Old Scratch himself.
Northern Arms
A BATTALION OF THROATS
A Brief Synopsis of Northern Arms
Nearing the end of my third year as station director for WNLW Pittsburgh I received an envelope with a Philadelphia return address from an outfit calling themselves Northern Arms. This was late fall of 2006. Inside I found an unlabeled cassette tape as well as a short letter explaining that upon hearing a recent three hour program on our station in which the show was divided equally between the history of sacred harp music and the scarcely catalogued tradition of shaker hymns, the gentlemen of the group, who I later learned were only two, felt that I may find their music suitable for programming.
Unfortunately, there was no longer a cassette player in existence on WNLW premises on which I could review any work. Groups had ceased using the format some time ago and so all compatible equipment had been dismantled or donated elsewhere. I ended up setting the envelope aside for nearly a month until a week after Christmas when I took a ride to the suburb of Lower Burell where my younger brother Lou was living in a rented room on Wayne Street. In those days he was the owner of a spent Honda with a tape deck in working order. And so we sat after his shift that night in the near vacant lot of Wildlife Lanes and hit the play button while drinking coffee and staring at the numerous splits and chips in the windshield.
My introduction to Northern Arms began with a faint hiss that was soon overcome by a single organ note followed by what sounded like an executioner’s drum being slowly beaten with a two by four accompanied by the sparse strumming of nylon strings. And then there were voices; throats would be a better description, a battalion of throats that rang forth in a stark resonance that seemed to flood the vehicle like an oily wave. There were certainly traces of religious influence in the unified howl and the pulsing simplicity of the instrumentation. And yet it wasn’t gospel. There was no joy in the choral attack and the speed of delivery was akin to that of a funeral dirge. Upon later reflection I began to recognize a construction of layers made present in each piece that I feel now could be justly compared to the annual running of the salmon; a time when the species exit the ocean and swim to the upper reaches of rivers where countless numbers are impaled mid journey by hovering talon or probing claw. As the tape wore on I became increasingly aware of an aquatic hush, barely audible, lurking beneath the surface; an ethereal rising that seemed to enter mid-piece and swell accordingly, not unlike the migration of those gill-bearing travelers from oceans deep to the violent rapids. And above it all there remained this choir of groans and declaration, of conviction without sentiment. An ensemble of voice bearing no signs of sadness, only traces of guilt, and the will to endure by any means necessary.
When back in Pittsburg my attempt to make contact with those calling themselves Northern Arms proved unsuccessful. I was on board for airing the songs, provided they could send a file or compact disc as opposed to the original tape. Yet when I dialed the number on the cassette I received nothing more than a short recording informing me that the line had been disconnected. I sent a letter to the address given and heard nothing in reply. Not word one. Then comes the middle of August 2012 when I receive a forwarded envelope at home. WNLW closed its doors due to lack of funding in early 2009. Any hard mail sent to the former station, which isn’t often, is automatically directed to me. It was a letter from Northern Arms. They wished to thank me for the kind words I had sent five years ago and proposed that I write a brief biography of the group. A request I found odd as my knowledge of the gentleman is made up of nothing more than the few recording’s they sent that November as well as what I could gather from a friend in Mount Lebanon who tells me he caught a New Year’s Eve show they performed some years ago in Philadelphia. He spoke of homemade contraptions in place of percussion and lighting so dim that at times all that could be seen upon the stage were teeth. And yes, he assured me the choir was still intact. When I inquired as to their appearance, his answer was that to him they looked like ministers that had nowhere to sleep.
Salmon are born in the river, and then swim out to sea where they live their adult lives only to return with uncanny precision to the natal waters of their birth. Those who survive the migration will spawn on beds of gravel and perish soon thereafter. And though I write this for Northern Arms, I know nothing of Northern Arms; who they are or where they are headed. Yet Judging solely on the sound of that strained and ghostly chorus, it will be upriver and against the bears all the way.
Jack Hirsch
FORMER DIRECTOR OF OPERATIONS
WNLW, PITTSBURGH
A Brief Synopsis of Northern Arms
Nearing the end of my third year as station director for WNLW Pittsburgh I received an envelope with a Philadelphia return address from an outfit calling themselves Northern Arms. This was late fall of 2006. Inside I found an unlabeled cassette tape as well as a short letter explaining that upon hearing a recent three hour program on our station in which the show was divided equally between the history of sacred harp music and the scarcely catalogued tradition of shaker hymns, the gentlemen of the group, who I later learned were only two, felt that I may find their music suitable for programming.
Unfortunately, there was no longer a cassette player in existence on WNLW premises on which I could review any work. Groups had ceased using the format some time ago and so all compatible equipment had been dismantled or donated elsewhere. I ended up setting the envelope aside for nearly a month until a week after Christmas when I took a ride to the suburb of Lower Burell where my younger brother Lou was living in a rented room on Wayne Street. In those days he was the owner of a spent Honda with a tape deck in working order. And so we sat after his shift that night in the near vacant lot of Wildlife Lanes and hit the play button while drinking coffee and staring at the numerous splits and chips in the windshield.
My introduction to Northern Arms began with a faint hiss that was soon overcome by a single organ note followed by what sounded like an executioner’s drum being slowly beaten with a two by four accompanied by the sparse strumming of nylon strings. And then there were voices; throats would be a better description, a battalion of throats that rang forth in a stark resonance that seemed to flood the vehicle like an oily wave. There were certainly traces of religious influence in the unified howl and the pulsing simplicity of the instrumentation. And yet it wasn’t gospel. There was no joy in the choral attack and the speed of delivery was akin to that of a funeral dirge. Upon later reflection I began to recognize a construction of layers made present in each piece that I feel now could be justly compared to the annual running of the salmon; a time when the species exit the ocean and swim to the upper reaches of rivers where countless numbers are impaled mid journey by hovering talon or probing claw. As the tape wore on I became increasingly aware of an aquatic hush, barely audible, lurking beneath the surface; an ethereal rising that seemed to enter mid-piece and swell accordingly, not unlike the migration of those gill-bearing travelers from oceans deep to the violent rapids. And above it all there remained this choir of groans and declaration, of conviction without sentiment. An ensemble of voice bearing no signs of sadness, only traces of guilt, and the will to endure by any means necessary.
When back in Pittsburg my attempt to make contact with those calling themselves Northern Arms proved unsuccessful. I was on board for airing the songs, provided they could send a file or compact disc as opposed to the original tape. Yet when I dialed the number on the cassette I received nothing more than a short recording informing me that the line had been disconnected. I sent a letter to the address given and heard nothing in reply. Not word one. Then comes the middle of August 2012 when I receive a forwarded envelope at home. WNLW closed its doors due to lack of funding in early 2009. Any hard mail sent to the former station, which isn’t often, is automatically directed to me. It was a letter from Northern Arms. They wished to thank me for the kind words I had sent five years ago and proposed that I write a brief biography of the group. A request I found odd as my knowledge of the gentleman is made up of nothing more than the few recording’s they sent that November as well as what I could gather from a friend in Mount Lebanon who tells me he caught a New Year’s Eve show they performed some years ago in Philadelphia. He spoke of homemade contraptions in place of percussion and lighting so dim that at times all that could be seen upon the stage were teeth. And yes, he assured me the choir was still intact. When I inquired as to their appearance, his answer was that to him they looked like ministers that had nowhere to sleep.
Salmon are born in the river, and then swim out to sea where they live their adult lives only to return with uncanny precision to the natal waters of their birth. Those who survive the migration will spawn on beds of gravel and perish soon thereafter. And though I write this for Northern Arms, I know nothing of Northern Arms; who they are or where they are headed. Yet Judging solely on the sound of that strained and ghostly chorus, it will be upriver and against the bears all the way.
Jack Hirsch
FORMER DIRECTOR OF OPERATIONS
WNLW, PITTSBURGH
Venue Information:
Union Transfer
1024 Spring Garden St.
Philadelphia, PA, 19123
Union Transfer
1024 Spring Garden St.
Philadelphia, PA, 19123
