Citysol is an annual 4-day long event promoting urban sustainability and alternative energy, or as they explain it “four days of solar-powered music, art, comedy and more to entertain and enlighten New Yorkers about urban sustainability.” They explain it better than I do. They’ve probably given it more thought.
I’m a sustainability buff, so I thought I’d show up a little early and check out the pavilions. The festival is ironically situated in a Getty Station parking lot, sandwiched between the FDR above and the East River below. The river provides a breathtaking view. The FDR does not.
Booths offer free drink coupons for switching your energy bill to wind power (I didn’t know that was even possible) or writing a letter promoting solar energy to Garry A. Brown, chairman of the Public Service Commission. I write a letter. I don’t think my landlord would appreciate paying the extra 9% a month. She’s a lovely lady but she doesn’t strike me as a conservationist.
The openers are billed as Slim Dixon and Friends but the skinny guy who I assume is Slim introduces them as The Wayfarers. “We just decided on a name last night.” 1950s piano-driven rock and roll ala Jerry Lee Lewis gives way to country-fried 60s harmonica switches to 90s alternative. These guys are good musicians but they have three very different songwriters. With more time, maybe they’ll find a way to merge their disparate styles into a cohesive sound. I wonder if they’ll stick with the name.
Apollo Heights are next. The name of their album is “White Music for Black People”. Didn’t rock and roll begin as black music co-opted by white people? So is this black people co-opting white music co-opting black music? Does it really matter? Aren’t we all just people who love music?
Let’s hug it out.
I can see where comparisons might be drawn to TV on the Radio (who they recently toured with), but these guys are less beat-driven and more atmospheric. It’s shoegaze, filled with dream-like guitarscapes, but not entirely formless. Good stuff. The singer holds out his hands, spiritually, crying out for redemption.
Or maybe he’s praying for more people to show up. It’s been an hour and the crowd is still thin.
I’d expect more people at an event like this but whether because of the day (Thursday), the location (the other end of Stuy-town), or the weather (threats of rain), the people just aren’t coming. The crowd is half made up of joggers and bikers stopping for a breather.
A call of “A-OK to the stage, please.” Maybe they’re busy writing letters to Garry A. Brown? The A-OK Collective touts “a fresh, brand new sound of hip hop” but with a stripped down drum track and call and response lyrics they sound more like an homage to the past. Intelligent, talented, sloppy. They need a live mixer.
The sun is setting and there are no lights. With dusk washing over everything, the band becomes a part of the audience and we become a part of the show. The magic is lost. It’s a Brechtian block party.
The Collective tries to command our attention but it’s a difficult task when they are almost in darkness. Perhaps the solar panels couldn’t generate enough energy to power stage lighting. The irony of a solar energy showcase with no lights does not elude me.
And then there is light; a single light behind the stage, but it’s enough. The show is back on.
Care Bears on Fire. I love that name. I still can’t get over the fact that these girls are twelve years-old. A twelve year-old girl punk band. Sounds like something that Disney might put together.
These girls, however, are not Disney.
And they can really play. The solos are tight, the instrumentation is impressive, they’re actually a pretty tight little garage/punk band. But they’re twelve. Give these girls a few more years and they’ll be huge. As it is, they’re a novelty act. Also, the venue does them little service. I’d love to see these girls own the stage at a dirty, crowded club.
“When’s your next show?”
“We’re going to summer camp!”
Priceless.
