Q and Not U + Mary Timony Band + The Boggs

Q and Not U + Mary Timony Band + The Boggs


Q and Not U
Photo credit: Shawn Brackbill
Mary Timony Band
Photo credit: Annette Gallo
The Boggs
Photo credit: Jin Moon

I watched the kid walk purposely to the front of the room and peer over the edge of the stage in study of the tangle of guitar cables and pedals that lay there. It would seem he was trying to decode the sound that barreled out of the PA and ricocheted through the sparse crowd to the back bar, where the two female bartenders gleefully danced in revivalist palm-slapping synchronicity. Invariably, there is always a kid at a rock show, inspired either by curiosity or conceit, who thinks he can break down the sonic product of the music into the sum of its gear — as if the musicians employing the guitars, amps, drums, and such, weren’t much more than another step in the result! The kid leaned nonchalantly against the rise and rested his hand flat on the surface. In contrast, Brooklyn-based band the Boggs were strumming, drumming and whooping with a ferocity that was anything but casual. Lanky singer-songwriter Jason Friedman twitched and spat like a wet cat, while drummer Brad Conroy broke his sticks and chugged like a train close to wreck. Slide-guitarist Ezekiel Healy fueled the fire with his trick-fingered licks and hopped like a rowdy grasshopper. Meanwhile, the fingers of our young surveyor came dangerously close to meeting their demise under the foot of Friedman as he jigged just in front of the monitor speakers. The tension from this potential calamity is a good anecdote for they way the Boggs wed the nostalgic with the contemporary. Their songs are like fissures in sepia-toned portraits of apple pies cooling on the kitchen windowsills of idyllic farms, and of dark bars outfitted with wood floors and weary men with rough hands. The result is alternately raucous, as in the sprawling sing-a-long “Down Below”, or plaintive, as in songs “However” and “Stitches”. In fact, much of the set seemed plucked from their recent release of similar name Stitches, widely circulated in England, but not yet available everywhere stateside. Soon, the crowd thickened with more college boys clad in hooded sweatshirts. They greeted each song and Healy slide-guitar solo with increasing whoops of appreciation. During “Whiskey and Rye”, Friedman’s timeless and heavily slurred ode to wine and women in song, a punk with full-sleeve tattoos pumped his fist. Most surprising for this anachronistic group was the addition of electric guitar, which took the sound from porch stomp to amplified howl. This shift could be linked to the recently announced departure of Friedman to Germany. He hopes to resurface soon with a more electronic variation on the theme — perhaps proving that sometimes you have to leave a place to know just how far you’ve come. Guitarist and songwriter Mary Timony might know a few things about distant places, as much of her solo material has the feeling of fantastical forests heavily accented with talking animals, princes that turn into frogs, and dungeons and dragons. The former Autoclave and Helium frontwoman seems more comfortable inhabiting daydreams, as her appearance on the Bowery Ballroom stage proved to be an awkward and fidgety kind of lark that ended before it could gain momentum. She played only with the accompaniment of a drummer on whom she remained focused for much of the show. They were like two friends spending a weekend afternoon in a garage playing music and making each other giggle. It was a joke I wish she had shared more with the audience — because as her whimsical music videos demonstrate, Timony has a great sense of humor. At one point, she switched on a dinky sample of a rocket taking off and both she and the drummer pointed their hands into the air above them like they too would take off. If only they did. Instead, the mostly young male crowd regarded the spectacle with detached and polite head nodding, perhaps more fascinated with Timony’s baby doll looks than her dallying with the whammy bar of her Fender. It wasn’t hard to guess that the Vox amp with the duct tape sticker reading “I DO NOT CARE FOR THE POLICIES OF THE BUSH REGIME” that occupied the stage all night belonged to member Harris Klahr of Q and Not U. It’s too easy to sum up the DC-based trio up as a product of their metropolitan environment and Dischord pedigree. Instead, let’s break down this political graffiti into its interesting word choice — “I DO NOT CARE FOR” as opposed to the simpler and stronger choice of “I HATE.” Also consider “REGIME” as opposed to more forgiving and perhaps accurate term “ADMINISTRATION.” Semantics, really — but the result is a quirky statement that goes down smooth and finishes strong, maybe with a dash of the self-aware and a twist of youthful earnestness thrown in for good measure. Q and Not U embody this political haiku, with a certain and detectable flair. Often though, the message isn’t as direct, as singer and guitarist Chris Richards has admitted to this same publication that being lyrically vague allows for more freedom of interpretation from the audience. While this can be frustrating to those who follow along at home with lyric sheets in hand, audiences will find that the tireless intensity at which Q and Not U perform is for their benefit. Richards pogos haphazardly around the stage, alternating from guitar to bass mid-song. His deconstructed sweatshirt, puffy hair, and near-falsetto somehow call to mind the intelligent and indulgent prog of “Owner of a Lonely Heart”. Meanwhile, from behind the synths, Klahr sneers in a style reminiscent of another DC perennial, Guy Picciotto, and drummer John Davis steadies with telegraphed high-hat dance beats. The band hit their mark and even improve upon many of the songs off of their second long-player, Different Damage. They start with the urgent “So Many Animal Calls”. At first, the three members use drumsticks to play percussion on the drum kit, not unlike an indie rock version of the musical Stomp. The pace is brisk and fun, and sets the room to dancing. Soon after is “This Are Flashes”, which puts the focus on Klahr’s frantic yowling and employs a creative use of sleigh bells. The audience is delighted after all the instruments drop out and one bell remains — ringing in Richard’s mouth as he playfully hops up and down. Keeping with the elementary school glee club theme of fun noisemakers is the use of wooden percussion bricks and melodica during “Soft Pyramids”. Mid-set allows a breather and the house lights come up for Richards’ plea to unregistered voters and a mild rant about the president — “Where we come from, there’s this guy who lives up the road…and he wasn’t even elected.” Then the band busts into crowd favorite “Line In The Sand ” from No Kill No Beep Beep. But with a performance this solid, it would be hard to take the opposite side from the kids who make the party line sound so good.