GARFIELD ARTWORKS
Nondescript and two doors down from Kraynicks on Penn Avenue, Garfield Artworks is yet another reminder why I moved here, small independent venues whose cheap ($7) all-ages shows guarantee a reasonable bed time. Initial impressions however were something of a lopsided amusement, and proper fluid intake was a essential. Opener act Salieri’s long, droney riffs could have found no shame in misplacing their vocals and moving on as an all-instrumental outfit, but it was the spectacle of Autumn Leaves which made for some satisfying schadenfreude in an otherwise unbearable unventilated environment. Mercifully their first and last show, the entire fucking universe seemingly working against them, it was probably no fault of Manny The Soundman who by all appearances was doing the best he could with the raw, steaming materials heaped on the stage. It was one of those tragic things where by listening to the impromptu jams between songs it became obvious the players should have performed in a different genre altogether rather than forcing shit through a straw.
Parachutes, the headliner from Iceland, had mistakenly been billed on fliers with Jonsi the lead singer from Sigar Rós as a member. While Iceland’s like any other country in the quantity of shitty music it can produce, there is that one small faction of Múm’s and Sigur Rós’s and SeaBear’s (who I wanted to profile years ago for that redundant little magazine Resonance, always excessively absorbed in some unethical idea of Seattle fashion) that with the right signifiers guarantee some kind of satisfying experience even in a small, dehydrating space. So even with the scary recap of the previous debacle, once it all gelled the next hour or so was a kind of torpid, otherworldly experience with a lovely ensemble and bass player I had a hard time taking my eyes off of.
Parachutes, the headliner from Iceland, had mistakenly been billed on fliers with Jonsi the lead singer from Sigar Rós as a member. While Iceland’s like any other country in the quantity of shitty music it can produce, there is that one small faction of Múm’s and Sigur Rós’s and SeaBear’s (who I wanted to profile years ago for that redundant little magazine Resonance, always excessively absorbed in some unethical idea of Seattle fashion) that with the right signifiers guarantee some kind of satisfying experience even in a small, dehydrating space. So even with the scary recap of the previous debacle, once it all gelled the next hour or so was a kind of torpid, otherworldly experience with a lovely ensemble and bass player I had a hard time taking my eyes off of.
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