SOUNDs of sweat by Amos Barshad i t would have taken something close to a set from the reanimated corpse of Lady Bird Johnson to steal the show from Radiohead at this summer’s All Points West, a giant New York-area music festival highlighted by two headlining appearances from the World’s Biggest Band (That Doesn’t Suck). But Girl Talk—the stage name of Gregg Gillis, a frail, sallow-cheeked former biomedical engineer from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania—nearly did it, transcending his daylight slot with toilet-paper-gun wielding foxy cops, a squalling rager of an onstage dance party, and, oh yes, his irresistible ‘roided mash-up confections, the schizophrenic little pop nuggets that Cuisinart a wide swath of recent radio jams. It was precisely the kind of moment that forces a bunch of blissfully unaware kids to stop and ask themselves, “just what the hell is going on here?” By Gillis’s own admission, it’s been a rapid ascent. “Six years ago when I would show up at a bar, and rip Master P remixes on a laptop, people would stare uncomfortably and try to unplug me,” he says. But Gillis has concocted a traveling circus of a live act—arguably the best show in the biz—and has done so by creating an all inclusive atmosphere; just minutes after his Panasonic Toughbook starts pumping, the stage is swarmed by a gyrating mass of newfound best friends. Even (as he often is) stripped to his skivvies, Gillis just becomes a part of the show. It’s the pinnacle of the type of populist live music experience—which borrows equally from the community spirit of hardcore music and the Millsian utilitarianism of rave culture—that a rash of recent electronic- and dance-music influenced acts have introduced into the indie rock landscape. James Murphy, LCD Soundsystem’s burly singer and the man who revitalized New York City’s scene in the early ‘00s with a series of 12-inch releases on his label, DFA, saw the dance music surge coming. On 2002’s “Losing My Edge,” back when LCD Soundsystem was more or less a one man operation, Murphy claims to have been “the first guy playing Daft Punk to the rock kids.” The lyric comes amidst a string of ludicrous cred boosting boasts, and is quickly forgotten. But Murphy proved prophetic nonetheless: six years later, countless acts have attempted to map the genome of the reclusive Frenchmen. Perhaps none as blatantly, or as brilliantly, as the duo Justice (who share more than nationality with their forebearers: Pedro Winter, aka Busy P, who used to manage Daft Punk, owns Ed Banger Records, for which Justice records).
Touring America earlier this year behind Justice and its dominating single “D.A.N.C.E.,” the two brought along a seizure-inducing light show and massive stacks of (assumedly just for show) Marshall amps. But how long can a crowd stay rapt by staring at two people twisting knobs? The duo instead incited giant dance parties, their crushing, skittering synths an undeniable command to move. An army of lesser known acts have similarly been fueling the American electronic music minimovement: Canada’s Crystal Castles, and MSTRKRFT; Sweden’s The Field, and Lindstrom; Australia’s Cut Copy, and The Presets; and Germany’s Boys Noize, and Ellen Allien, to name a few. And while the minimalism of The Field may spawn a different physical reaction than the chopped up sounds of Cut Copy, there is a distinct connection: these acts, raised on weekly club nights and the concept of the mass appeal of techno, share a European understanding of electronic music’s proper place. Like Justice, they are humble facilitators of epic dance parties. The British band Hot Chip’s 2006 sophomore album The Warning—a lush collection of music, driven by intoxicating synths, and topped off by singer Alexis Taylor’s falsetto—is one of the movement’s crowning achievements. And it’s even better live, where in the right spot, and at
And it’s also invigoratingly fly by night. At a performance last year in a side room at the Brooklyn club Studio B, Deacon’s equipment was not cooperating. After some futile jostling, he announced he was going to do “a different kind of show.” He set out a series of instructions. Deacon would count down from five, and once he got to one, the crowd would have to respond with the phrase “my dog is lost in the mist! Would you please help me find him?” A bewildered room did just that, as Deacon
Gillis is a friend, frequent tour mate, and big fan of Deacon and his restless energy. “We’re going to see Dan Deacon performing concerts when he’s 80,” Gillis predicts. They’re perhaps a strange pairing, considering Deacon is almost aggressively odd and Gillis is, after all, playing pop songs. The connection may have something to do with the loving philosophy Gillis espouses, one that fans of Deacon and Gillis and any number of today’s barrier breaking electronic noisemakers can happily nod their heads to: “Every form of art is valid to somebody. I don’t really believe in good or bad taste…it seems like such a waste of time being critical and miserable about other peoples’ music and art. I’d rather spend my effort trying to figure out how to like it.” AB dandeacon.com myspace.com/girltalkmusic lcdsoundsystem.com
Simultaneously, a homegrown electronic music strand has sprung from the well-recognized American tradition of the staunchly DIY. And perhaps no one person epitomizes this strand better than Dan Deacon, a portly, bespectacled Baltimorean who is, against all likelihood, a one-man party wrecking crew. Armed with only a microphone and a doddering patchwork of cords and switches, Deacon reigns supreme over the vaguely illegal venues he loves to play. A Dan Deacon show is an aggressively democratic affair; even when playing official venues, Deacon insists on setting up on the floor, where a swarm of fans nearly blankets him completely.
As Deacon points out, that kind of spontaneity flourishes best in a non-corporate environment. And rather than a shared focus on an electronic music ethos, he explains, it’s that commitment to non-traditional performing spaces that binds him to kindred spirits in fellow avant-electro acts like Video Hippos and Future Islands. “Those bands will never stop playing house shows at weird, risky places, and not because of “cred” or what blogs will write about it,” Deacon explains. “[They won’t stop] because it’s where we all came up from, and they are still the most fun types of shows.” It’s a constant and proud invocation, Deacon points out, of “the reasons why we started doing this in the first place— out of passion and insanity.”
the right venue, one can literally feel the floor undulating with the movements of hopped-up club kids. Hot Chip has spawned a wide array of imitators; as the band’s drum machinist Felix Martin points out, the group has become a consistent “reference point for journalists,” for better or worse. “It’s not a crazy idea that you might want to have a keyboard” as a primary instrument, Martin says. “Five years ago it was more unusual, less cool…[now] everyone has this microKorg keyboard, it’s almost become a joke.”
counted down again and again, stripping away any semblance of detached cool for a healthy dose of childish glee. It was an interactive affair out of grade school drama class, and it was fiercely unique.
