CONCERT REVIEW: A Lesson on Expectations at CMJ 2012

POSTED: Thursday, October 25, 2012, 11:30 AM

Filed Under: Music Concert Review

Labyrinth Ear. By Nikki Volpicelli

You know what I say about expectations? I say who needs them. Historically, when I make them I never meet them, so I tried really hard to keep my lookout low for this weekend’s CMJ Music Marathon in New York City. CMJ happens every year: It’s a five-day conference for music professionals and the people who love them, offering dozens of panels on everything from music licensing to composing criticisms. On top of that, there are showcases. So many showcases of various genres and stature, set up at different venues across the city. Some are free to the public and some require credentials. It’s overwhelming and best thought out in small doses, like, first: Figure out how to get there. And second: See what happens.

My expectations were as follows: See some new music, see some old friends, find a bed to sleep in or a couch or floor or something, and not get irreversibly lost in Manhattan. Despite cab odyssey that took me to 92nd Street and Second Avenue —instead of my intended destination, 92 Second Ave. — I guess I can safely say that the weekend was successful by those standards. I was also able to take one shower and eat some free rotisserie chicken and I only almost cried like, three times the whole weekend. So it goes.

My weekend starts with a 6 p.m. Mega Bus that turns into a 6:45 p.m. unnamed bus with some pretty rad cosmic seat patterns. By the time I get to Union Station it’s 9 p.m. and too late to pick up my press pass, so I go to a friend’s place to snack on some bird meat and drink some beers. Two hours later we hit up Glasslands Gallery, an old warehouse converted into an art space/music venue with no line and cheap Brooklyn Lager tallboys. The venue is stuffed and I have to teeter on a raised ledge that juts out from the bar, only half confident that I won’t fall overboard. I watch Isaac Delusion, a French psych-pop outfit that plays what my friend dubs “pill music.” The sound is very mellow, cathartic, electronic, like something that would come stock on a first generation iPod.

After the show, I tell my cab driver to route to the Death Grips show at Villian. Once there, I look at line and tell the same cab driver to reroute to Beloved, a bar not affiliated with CMJ that serves strong whiskey drinks. I tap out of the tune fest early, one of the best choices I make that night. That and going home at a reasonable hour (6 a.m.) and sleeping in an actual bed. The next night I wasn’t so lucky.

When you wake up and instead of ordering brunch you order a side of bacon to go with your Bloody Mary you should know you’re not going to have a successful Saturday. But I’m not you, and I think this is a great idea. Fast forward to 7 p.m. and I’m watching Labyrinth Ear at Cameo Gallery in Williamsburg. It’s the back room of a mismatched restaurant that looks a lot like an island hut Hunter S. Thompson would drink at. It’s electric blue all around and just the right energy level I can handle. One guy, Tom, is on keys with his head down, one girl, Emily, is singing and standing mostly still. She thanks the audience again and again for being there. Her voice is enchanting — airy, seductive, playful as her cutesy British personality. Darkly electronic, the duo moves through songs like a pair of ravens. Obviously new to this, they couldn’t be more grateful for the support of this affectionate crowd.

Now it’s 11:30 p.m. and naptime. I’m in fetal position on a couch in an apartment a few blocks away, opening my eyes every once in awhile to see Rachel McAdams play some overzealous career girl who plows into an instantly bland relationship with her co worker. I have never heard of this movie and will never speak of it again it’s so terrible, but damn it feels good to be laying on a couch, watching a movie with people in sweatpants drinking hot chocolate. So good that I think I’ve got my second wind and that I can head into Manhattan to Lit Lounge to check out the mellow-choly girl group, OK Sweetheart. I walk up to the M train but the stop is closed. I hail a cab and give him the address. There’s traffic on the bridge, at least 20 minutes of it, and I’m watching the same 10-second snippets of news repeat over and over again on the cab’s backseat TV screen, where Jimmy Fallon is comparing AOL dial-up to dub step. I’m also watching the meter climb higher and higher. By the time we’re at 92nd and Second it’s at $40. I’ve already whined “are we there yet?” three times, like a bratty backseat baby.

But we we’re not there at all. As alluded to earlier, I’d requested a ride to Lit Lounge, 92 Second Ave., not the Chase Bank on 92nd Street and Second Avenue. I’m 86 streets away from where I want to be, alone, panicking and standing in the middle of the street trying to hail cab two. Finally I get to Lit and I let a friend buy me a drink for all of my troubles. I miss the show and sit too close to the basement speakers, which are blasting The Clash at an unnerving level. I can’t hear my friend talk so I start people watching. I see a guy, about 22-years-old, wearing a button down pinstripe shirt that reaches his ankles. I see fur and baseball caps, red lips and black eyes, pounds of glitter and Dockers in no particular order. Everyone looks cool, like they’re having fun. I would love this place if I had any life in me, but I have no life in me.

I always thought I was street smart. In Philly, I walk with strictly one earbud in, keep my phone in my pocket and only nod my head when strange men try and talk to me. None of this matters where I am now. New York City: It’s more daunting than it is scary, bigger than it is badder, and it’s even harder to maneuver when you’ve killed most of your brain cells before breakfast. If I’m this exhausted and overwhelmed two days into CMJ I can’t imagine how those who’ve been here since Tuesday must feel.

On the way back from the bar, I fall asleep on the subway. Later, I fall asleep on my friend’s couch. In the morning I decide to skip out on my pre-ordered Mega Bus ticket and hitch a ride with my friend who’s driving back to Philly hours earlier, and I fall asleep during that, too. When I come to we’re turning left onto Girard Avenue, Philadelphia, USA, and I can’t be happier.

When I boarded that first Mega Bus Friday night, I was expecting to see a lot more music during CMJ. What I was not expecting to see so much of was the inside of my eye lids. But that’s the thing about expectations: if you make ’em you will almost always inevitably break ’em, no matter how high or low they are. At least that’s what I always say.

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Featuring everything from event roundups to concert reviews and sex talk, City Paper's Critical Mass is a space for off-the-wall coverage of Philly's A&E scene.

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