Fresh Air – Ringer Park, Allston – June 21

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Free Pizza

Intellectual punk, a la Television, Richard Hell. Very good… Even shirtless.

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Homeshopper

Bibles are corporations, which are people. Dave droning on and on, why can’t he just play sax? I’m so bored. I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about. Something about comas. Now he wants to spend money on a funeral.

Then they play, and of course, it’s sublime. Dave’s hoarse, airy nothings, Steve’s golden alto egg noodles. As Dave again waxes on death. Now it’s peaceful, echoing caves by the sea. Long held cicada note. Fluttering like a hummingbird. As the birds course through the rocks and hills of the park.

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IAN

IAN is a woman led trio, with good, slow, soft heavy rhythms, punch and pop, soaring melodies. They’ve got touches of ginger and cider vinegar. Waves of warm island water. Traces of heavy metal stomp. They have the start stop motion of a sports car going through traffic. They can get grand and sonorous, anthemic and arena-like, but this is low key power pop at root.

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Rob Noyes

Classic finger picking, Leo Kottke style. Takes the train through country hills. Slow locomotion motion. Then, light and happy, bouncing a child on his knee. Grand, mystical chords. Light and down home. Very good drama and tension. Balance of dark and dreamy, a country daydream.

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Frank Hurricaine

Cracker Man holy cosmic vibes.

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Pancho Kidd & Wes Buckley

Pancho plays by the trees in the breeze on the hill. It’s a pastoral scene, and the music is mellow and romantic. Pancho gets deep into the heads of strange characters, and you laugh and cry. You can tell his love for Neil Young. The songs roll along like peaceful meadows, but with an undertow of darkness. Songs about narcissists, cancer patients, hopeless victims of hopeless love. His rhythms, as he stands with guitar in hand, are lanky, lithe, and graceful, a tall oak thrown by wind.

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Keith Fullerton Whitman

Pleasant buzz to start. Bats in the evening are speaking through stars. It’s just wild electronic whizz bang scream, starting low, getting louder. Organ tones in a church. Plastic horns blown by children at a parade. Now, prog tones squirreling in. A grand, sonorous wall. Dramatic progression of dark intervals. Noise, destruction and bomb blasts. Kettle drum beats, and shifting tides of synesthetic color. Glacial reflections on the ice. The sound tucked into the urban neighborhood, under the trees, by a baseball field.

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