Pitchfork

All photos by Casey McKinney.

Shy Child [Webster Hall; 7 p.m.]




The Cake Shop revved Silver Apples' "Oscillations" immediately after 120 Days' Tuesday set. The next day at Webster Hall, we got entropic NYC synth/drum duo Shy Child, whose opener "The Noise Won't Stop" continued the Apples' rattle and late-1960s racket-- albeit well aware of the sad fact that electroclash did exist a few years ago in Williamsburg. Was I the only one who heard some Rapture vocalisms from singing keyboardist Pete Cafarella? Quick fact: He's also in Supersystem.

Whatever-- the people wanted disco. Brighter spotlights and a crowd's collectively bigger smiles welcomed a cowbell's entrance, while the rat-a-tat/whirl-whirl formula grew pretty standardized until a guest saxophonist appeared from the shadows. At one point Cafarella jokingly announced the show as a "dinner set"-- and that he and his drummer compatriot planned to get dinner afterwards. If that's really the case, it's too damn bad because then they missed an absolutely brilliant effort by my favorite NYC crew not named Excepter.

Gang Gang Dance [Webster Hall; 8 p.m.]




What can I say? I've always loved Gang Gang Dance's ability to create real-time collage-- those celebratory switches from a split kaleidoscope soundtracked by Punjabi MC to blood-soaked terror. Take that, Girl Talk. But hell, when did Liz Bougatsos become the city's most captivating front woman? We're talking serious avant-diva action! Injecting some vibrancy into Webster Hall's vast air, she donned a Ghostface Killah t-shirt as dress (fashionable torn shoulder showing), strange weight-lifter pajama pants, and boots. The band's second-best fashion move: Tim Dewitt's high back drums. The quartet opened on an Enya atmospheric tip before digging into God's Money's refracted, cat-and-mouse punk-dub: A slithery beast of fainting steam, tumbling calypso, wicked Björkian balladeering, slinky Greek musicals, and Hot 97 (Brian DeGraw = Timbaland).

Malajube [Mercury Lounge; 9 p.m.]




On a night that felt like –40 degrees, Montreal's Malajube brought the hot rock. The new album, Trompe-L'oeil, is a sweet pop trill; live, I heard Drive Like Jehu (no kidding) tucked inside the fair-trade vocals. You can tell they come from the north: Malajube have the thickest heads of hair ever, the kind where faux hawks occur unintentionally. The five Canadians were wearing a palette of t-shirts, bouncing and sweating through "Le Crabe" et al "for the benefit of [our] ears" while I drank Blue Moons, wondered about the connection between Quebec and keyboards, and realized the especially funny keyboardist/guitarist (pretending to use his guitar as a hammer, etc.) reminded me of the guy on "SNL" who plays the Falconer. Befitting the overall Sassy vibe, girls to my right squealed when the set reached a foaming finale. The last band I saw at the Mercury Lounge who brought the pop so mightily were Malajube's neighbors, Sunset Rubdown.

Wizardzz [Pussycat Lounge; 1 a.m., or so...]






I had every intention of catching Blue Cheer at the Knitting Factory-- my second reunion show in as many nights, god help me-- but the Load/Cock Rock Disco showcase was, as I should've suspected, running behind schedule. Seriously, noise rockers are the biggest procrastinators. But, wanting to check out Brian Gibson's other non-Lighting Bolt band, I opted to accept the fluctuating schedule and overlong laptop drum-n-mace and bask in Wizardzz's glow.

The Pussycat's the ideal noise-show hovel: The second floor of a strip joint, it's outfitted with dirty carpet, a catwalk (perfect for laptops!), a lap dance couch (perfect for laptops!), stars on the walls, a Smog chandelier, black light, mirrors...felt like I was in the church of Quintron. Most of the bands played too long, but when Wizardzz-- Gibson and Bug Sized Mind's Rich Porter-- started smoking immediately following "Welcome to the TerrorDome", they kicked it all professional-like in their silky-ass outfits, never speaking to the audience, just getting down to shredding. The duo's debut, Hidden City of Taurmond, had hints of this sort of thing, so I was pleased to witness them nailing that swampy, psyched Ornette Coleman dervish, especially in a stripper funhouse of color. While I was nodding my head, thinking of Barkley's Barnyard Critters, and trying to figure out Porter's pedal situation, they ended in mid-stride, before anyone expected it. Perfect.

Heading down the stairs and onto the street (where a bunch of guys in suits milled about, though it was close to 2 a.m.), I suddenly felt revitalized, liked I could watch noise nonstop for another ten hours.