The Bowery Presents

Music Hall of Williamsburg upcoming shows

Woods
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The fourth full length by Woods, Songs of Shame, rips deeper with both 90-second and 10-minute forays into skeletal psychedelia. This is not to say the idiosyncratic songwriting style and vocalizing of Jeremy Earl is not present in spades but expanded, colored, and twisted into a tie-dye of soundscapes. Having toured incessantly over the last 12 months as a four piece (Jarvis Taveniere, G. Lucas Crane and Kevin Morby round out the band), many of the songs on Shame benefit from having been road worn, windblown, and deeply grooved. Released on Earl's own Woodsist label (Wavves, Vivian Girls, Crystal Stilts) and on digital formats by the cassette culture poineers, Shrimper Records.

"Songs of Shame performs some sleight-of-hand by sounding private and homespun yet also not just accessible but immediately lovable... has that almost subliminal ability to make one want to move in to listen more closely. And once you've been drawn in for a good listen, it becomes difficult not to want to come back for many more." -Pitchfork

"Tons of great acts played the Woodsist/Todd P. showcase at Mrs. Beas (No Age, Crystal Stilts, The Oh Sees and Blank Dogs just to name a few), but the one that struck the biggest chord with me was this Brooklyn group. Crafting tight and beautifully lighthearted ghostly folkish songs — they are one of the finest bands playing in the unbelievably deep Brooklyn scene. I’ve seen them a bunch, and each time I get more excited about their sound." MTV.com, Buzzworthy
Real Estate
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Real Estate waft in on vibes of hazy summers past. The New Jersey quartet of Martin Courtney IV, Matthew Mondanile III, Etienne Pierre Duguay and Alex Bleeker cut the sleeves short and the pop smooth to shade you from the midday heat. Every song works its way to that part of your consciousness that reveled in the fleeting waves of freedom that eked in once classes broke and the sun lingered a little longer over suburban roofs. And with three quarters of the band holding down Garden State roots its no surprise that a bit of Jersey indie-pop heritage sneaks its way into their sound, lifting the most sun streaked moments from The Feelies and Yo La Tengo and filtering them through the kaleidoscope of memories aimless drives through parched neighborhood streets.

Martin Courtney's songwriting has a way of wrapping up the immediacy of youth with the ennui of age for the perfect shade of bittersweet bliss, mind you though, much heavier on the sweet than the bitter. Add to this Mondanile's (Ducktails/ Predator Vision) shimmering guitar strains full of equal parts sea foam and beer foam, pepper in the boardwalk clatter of Duguay's drums Bleeker's staccato low end and the perfect afternoon is just a lawn chair and boom box away.
Happy Birthday
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Happy Birthday. Take your mother’s hand as she leads you to the table of your friends. You are about to eat musical cake and ice cream and see colors that you’ll dream about in future nights’ sleeps. They are pink and lime green and they are glowing electric and you will soon be happily floating in a pleasure-filled pit of rock and roll.

How did every morsel on Happy Birthday’s debut LP become as memorable as a first-slow-dance song? How did a first listen to the album feel like a 60th time through one of our old favorites? “Eyes Music,” with its upside-down rhythms and staircase harmonies marching across your face like martians. “Subliminal Message,” the ballad that you haven’t believed in since Cyndi Lauper weirdly made you weep in a Chevy Nova. “I Wanna Stay,” a song that you’re in the very center of and where you want to be for a long time. And the instantaneous “Girls FM,” a reminder about why we love the single and the rock trio. Buzzy guitar hammering you into happiness, a beat you can’t shake, and sweet back-up harmonies.

“Everybody’s on the same frequency,” the Happy Birthday kids sing without irony. The Happy Birthday kids care about making good music, and we can get behind them.

Over there is the girl you liked last year, there are several wrapped geo shapes on the table and they are presents for you. Some kid is laughing at you and it makes your nostrils pucker, on the other hand those cool weird kids are here, they are hanging out in the corner. It’s ruthie and kyley and chris, they will play even if you’re not there.

Kyle was King Tuff long before you knew him, having been born with a rocker’s grin in Brattleboro, Vermont. Don’t laugh at Vermont. Kyle’s love for rock came pure as the water melting off the mountains: from his mother’s tit he sucked Ozzy and Prince, and in his diapers he left traces of Sid Vicious. Ouch.

Kyle and his grimey cronies hatched schemes over steaming paper cups of coffee in the cold New England air. Plans for sounds that were immediate and alive, nostalgic in the most present of tenses. Ruthie shadowed with the drumsticks as Kyle tapped out the beats. Chris filled in the dream with puzzles from his “inverted-tuning” guitar, swung great chops with his severe bass.

chris will turn it upside-down, the world is upside down and this music too. kyle will scream in your face, his guitar will too, wake up. ruthie will lay it down, she grew her beat as her toenails formed. it’s bright yellow popcorn and it’s good for you and you like it. “Dance, dance,” those kids cry.

UTERUS, FETUS HEAD, ‘BILI CORD, POP.

Happy birthday.
Wild Nothing
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Wild Nothing is the solo project of Virginia born Jack Tatum, who’s music is the product of an unhealthy obsession with nostalgia. Equal parts teenage wasteland and inexplicable regret, his songs are the kind that could only be made by the young at heart. Unlike the current herd of one-man bedroom bands, Tatum creates complex textural environments that aim for something higher. Melodies that yearn to stay with you. Warped interpretations of Johnny Marr’s guitar work and The Cure’s careful synth arrangements. Dreamy, catchy, and intriguing. Here’s to missing your youth.
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