All Combinations took the stage, but were never clearly visible, due to their playing stances and TT's lack of lighting. The guitarist and bassist immediately assumed shoe-gaze position for the first song . a rollicking opener coupled syncopated snare rolls with Telecaster chord stabs. The band quickly downshifted into what was to become standard operating procedure: downcast-yet-major-key. The keyboardist's lead vocals were generally unintelligible. Molly stood off to the side, and when not singing she nodded like a sign-language interpreter during a musical interlude. Next came a long opus that crescendoed into a wall of build . build . build . noise! signaling the first signs of life from the guitarist and bassist, moving their picking hands so fast as to become a blur of motion and sound. This slamming acme of sound sank back to standard All Combinations cruising altitude. After the second song, the girl darted offstage, never to be seen again until later, when she helped remove gear. The mallet-cymbal wash of the fourth song gave way to the group's most impressive fit of psychedelic noise yet, which the group sustained well until the payoff's seismically charged whoum's from the guitarist and bassist coupled with larger than life drum accents. This song was the apex of All Combinations. set, provoking one slightly inebriated super-fan into convulsions. Each member seemed to be on their own trip until the drums took the lead, playing what seemed to be at times more like riffs than standard drum beats.
Banana Hands is a two-man instrumental outfit comprised of John O.Malley and Ryan Lavery. Lavery four-counts and so starts Banana Hands. sound, coming from a different, far more violent dimension. The assault on the guitar was palpable: O.Malley beats the hell out of it. The head of the guitar sprouts unclipped strings that wave around as he stalks the stage around the imposing Lavery, who hit just as hard. His four-piece kit features an extremely well-used and well-stocked stick caddy - broken sticks fly like a college hockey game.
The incendiary sound of Banana Hands provides the listener with a chance to divine the distinction between .loud,. and .wicked loud.. It's a cool experience to see the delay-effected, octave-happy guitar go off adventuring, then stride over to the drums to rejoin at a glance; throwing out seamless synch waves as they perfectly nail three tight hits, only to go off again on another tangent. By the sixth song, however, the incessant guitar assault and waves of noise seemed to be overloading the audience, the volume-blown east side of the club (where the guitar stack was) was as barren as the Sahara.. The sound of the guitar was loud and dry enough to make the molars ache, and did somewhat detract from the set on the whole.
In sharp contrast to the spare lineup which preceded the set, Joe
Turner and his Seven Levels (actually six as they were minus
keyboardist Joel Simches) filled TT's stage. The eclectic aura of this
band is a full sensory experience: Turner in his t-shirt and sandals,
Ajda Snyder in her tube-top and miniskirt, Carolyn Corella in her
tuxedo shirt (complete with cufflinks). The stage came ablaze with
something unheard for the past two hours, an actual melodic
song. Seated behind the drums, Turner sang hooky melodies and provided
banter, both aspects that had been lacking in the seemingly mute first
two bands.
The strong songsmanship of the group was clear after the first two
songs. At times, it appeared the group was trying to cram too much
sound in the package of the song. While Snyder's breathy flute playing
occasionally accented some songs, TT's seemed woefully ill prepared to
deal with a flautist amongst rockers; several songs were punctuated by
bad feedback from Snyder's microphone. Cello was featured prominently
on the fifth tune. Turner gives a lively, punchy performance although
at times he seems to strain on the vocals. While this is clearly .Joe
Turner and the Seven Levels,. it may be nice to hear more vocals from
other members. The band had a fairly static appearance which was not
exactly in keeping with the liveliness of the parts that they were
playing. The front-line musicians were minimally mobile and the female
instrumentalist/singer appeared to be in a state of perpetual sullen
concentration. It was quite difficult to see past the front five to
the drums and keyboards, though Turner's head and hands appeared every
so often. The keyboardist was virtually invisible and sometimes not
entirely audible. While his organ tones were welcome, they only became
apparent towards the end of each song.
Each song in this set was infectious and every hook set in the
listeners. ear like a skilled fisherman lands a marlin. The final song
was a triumph, their groovy song-oriented sound fused and gelled to a
level previously unseen in the already-impressive set. Egged on by
Turner's big-finish vocals and a searing lead, the Levels got into the
kairos of the moment, rocking around like it wasn.t 11:56 PM on a
Sunday night.
-C.D. DiGuardia; photos by Johnny Arguedas