A Mechanical Orchestra, Singing Saws & a Sweat-Soaked T-Shirt

6 a.m. Daylight has emerged, and yet a small group of us remained at least partially awake with our minds trying to grasp what had just occurred in front of us in a small apartment in Bed-Stuy. Half of us had never met. The others had arrived at shortly before 4 a.m. with a pair of musicians scheduled to play at both of our apartments separately hours earlier. Julian Koster AKA Music Tapes had ambitiously scheduled a multi-stop late night lullaby tour of New York City starting on Long Island. Falling far beyond schedule, our 1:30 a.m. stop had gone two hours late with yet another stop down the street following us.

At this point the room, which had earlier been quite filled, was occupied by a few tired souls drifting in and out of consciousness. My own anticipation, which had been growing for weeks leading up to the night, had dwindled. In this performance by Music Tapes I had built up the expectation that it might be capable of saving me from a rut during which I was struggling to feel music at a pure emotional level.

I had made preparations leading up to this momentous occasion. My heart was poured out to Koster to convince him to play at a close friend's apartment. My friend, who tends to get carried away with excitement about these things, was bound to try to make this an over the top top event, so I emphasized keeping it intimate and pure of distractions. The intake of music should be the focus. Drinking should be minimal. Anyone with their minds on finding someone with whom to intertwine genitalia needed to go elsewhere. Keep the cameras at moment. Put the cell phones away. Tear down the walls.

At the standard concert, fans tend to set up walls between themselves and the performers they've paid good money to see. Devices such as cameras and smart phones, via which fans seek to capture these moments, hinder the brain from the full attention necessary to construct a resonant experience and vivid memory. We want so bad to tell the world about the cool things we're doing that we can't even engage with exactly what we're bragging about.

I've spent my fair share of time behind these walls, not just consumed by my camera but also behind the judgmental filter of being a writer and critic. It's a disgusting environment, that of the media. Look into any VIP section an you'll find a load of vapid human beings supposed to act as your gateway into new and enticing worlds, but instead they'll be blocked off from any music, consumed by the social aspects of being in a scene. Free booze. Mingling. Judging. As long as they're the first ones to publish photos and a few words lacking substance, they'll get the hits anyway. This is not to say that these people don't love music. All of the people I criticize are totally consumed by passion for music but become lost within all the other bullshit.

Before the arrival of Music Tapes, Saturday night that wall was torn down at least for a few hours. Friends gathered in this apartment  living room watching three sirens take turns wowing the room with a variety of songwriting talents, but it wasn't until Christopher Paul Stelling performed that the final emotional wall came crashing down. As though Stelling was reliving every emotional moment that went into the creation of each of his songs, he dug deeper than I've seen just about anyone, and everyone in the room was channeled into every second. It was heartbreaking. It was draining. It was revitalizing. It was genuine. Rare gems like "Poor Leviathan" and "Like Little Broken Birds" set a mellow, somber mood. And a cover of "Amazing Grace" accompanied with female voices from the crowd spoke with the same amount of soul as it's meant to have.

When he finished, a sweat-drenched Christopher Paul Stelling  looked drained, not just physically but emotionally. Words could not be exchanged because words couldn't do anything justice.

(Stream him album here):

We then waited for the arrival of Music Tapes. We waited. And the we waited some more. Following Stelling's performance, I felt complete. He had restored my ability to feel music the way I had anticipated Music Tapes doing. A phone call alerted us that we were finally minutes away from a very intimate Music Tapes performance. Only a few of us remained, joined by strangers from another place close by. Accompanied by another multi-instrumentalist and a friendly dog named Rudolf, Julian set up a collection of props/additional band members including a robotic orchestra, snowman, and a choir of little plastic Christmas decorations. Switching between saw, a bowed banjo and plastic organ (can't recall proper name), even at 4 a.m. the music hit deep. Members of the small crowd sat politely, occasionally drifting to sleep. What I've always admired about Julian is that his approach to music feels genuine and adventurous, and when they played "The Minister Of Longitude" I had to pinch myself to remind myself that this was really happening.

For one night, there was no seen or need to be seen. No pictures. No walls. Just music in its purest form inhabiting a small space occupied by a number of friends willing and wanting to share in a magical experience that will never be forgotten.

Yes, there's something special about having a pivotal member of Neutral Milk Hotel/Elephant Six play for us, and that little fact will be the one thing that grabs the attention of scenesters, but who cares about affiliations. In the moment that didn't matter. Anyone this talented deserves being championed no matter what.

Share on Facebook

Aug 09, 2010 | Categories: Features, Live Reviews, MP3/Video | Tags: bed stuy, christopher paul stelling, elephant six, julian koster, Music, music tapes, neutral milk hotel | Leave A Comment »