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The night of the 27th
at downtown NYC venue Tonic was short, but interesting. Pagoda front
man Michael Pitt had invited all his friends, an eclectic bunch of
struggling artists, to perform for us while we sat in our white plastic
chairs with raised eyebrows.
First up was drummer
Reece Carr’s prodigal mentor Larry Wright, a phenomenally talented
street performer who’d previously found a taste of fame in his youth
after being discovered playing buckets on the streets of New York.
Playing buckets sounds so one-dimensional and simple; crude even. But
these words are destroyed in the wake of this guy’s talent. Though he
is a veteran from New York’s prestigious High School of the Performing
Arts, it’s quite clear his craft was merely honed there, born from
natural ability, and bred on sidewalks and in subway stations. With the
use of plastic buckets...green, white and the odd orange...and arms
moving so fast they are blurred shadows, Wright produces pounding
African, Latin, rock, jazz and hip hop rhythms. With a cameo from his
wife, also a street performer (though an observable novice), the set
was short but sweet and a nice way to open the show in a cold concrete
room. He warmed us up and left us feeling good about the acts ahead.
The next two acts were
interesting to say the least. Hill Rod Deluxe, fronted by a silver-haired, pony-tailed man who worked on Pagoda’s album, was a bit of a
mess from the off. The drummer had to contend with a drum bass that
wouldn’t stay put, preferring to venture towards the edge of the stage
with every kick he administered. The ‘singer/lead guitarist’ vocals
were strained and his amp was so loud it was hard to make out his
chords. While they mirror the Black Key’s in makeup (a duo on drum and
guitar) the comparison stops there as the sound they strive for falls
flat. I’ll give them an A for effort though. Despite his problems with a
rebellious instrument, the drummer was on point, and the silver-haired
man gets brownie points for pulling out a harmonica and wailing on it
like an old pro.
Spektor Flux followed
with an explosion of loud, strange sounds, disappearing vocals and
buried guitar riffs. During the first five minutes of this psychedelic
reverb, we had no idea this was the act. There was no introduction and
he didn’t speak. He only pulled over a bar table cluttered with strange,
tangled contraptions and started messing about with them. They made a
lot of interesting noises. It wasn’t until he strapped on a guitar to
accompany the contraptions’ noises that we understood. And when it was
quickly over, and Pitt bounded on stage to shake hands and
congratulate, we finally got that that was supposed to be his friend’s
musical expression.
The third and last
artist before we were to be graced by Pagoda’s commanding presence was
singer/songwriter Jamie. Bone-thin and dressed in duds that rang true
to days spent living the existence of a bohemian hobo, Jamie took the
stage and sat at a piano with her back turned to the audience. Stripped
to her tank top after being prompted by a zealous ‘fan/friend’ to take
off her shirt. Her tattooed back was frail and hunched—the perfect
still to capture the emotive wailing that escaped her mouth. PJ Harvey
incarnate, with a pinch of Tori Amos thrown in for good measure, and a
little extra spice. She liked telling people she’s "Rick James bitch"
in-between song. Her set would’ve been almost flawless had it not been for her
switching to acoustic guitar and her protégé taking the seat at the piano—things started to become unpolished. It was obvious that her even
skinnier, would-be twin and kindred soul was nervous and forgot some of
her cues. Jamie was a very cool and nurturing mentor, for she merely
talked to the girl and joked around with the audience while she
strummed her guitar and sang her twisted and misunderstood heart out.
While the first half of the night seemed like amateur hour, all of that was corrected in spades when Pagoda took the stage. Michael
Pitt on guitars, Willie Paredes on bass, Reece Carr on drums and Chris
Hoffman on the cello. Pitt implored us to remove our collective asses
from those cold hard plastic seats and move closer to the stage as his
band wasn’t the sitting audience kind-of-band.
We complied, and were
thankful for it. Pagoda slammed through their “Lesson Learned” journey
from “Death to Birth” as well as the painful examination of an unborn “Fetus” with
all the passionate vigor they could muster. Bass and cello worked
together to invigorate the sounds of monotonous garage rock, keeping it
from becoming familiar and tedious.
It was a marriage made in heaven, it seemed,
after Paredes’ declaration that he wanted to f*** his buddy Hoffman.
Pitt’s rapport with the crowd served him well as he navigated the stage
with expertise. He used everything from a drill to strum his cords to
hopping into the audience to play his riffs body to body against an
unsuspecting fan.
The
band has great chemistry and knows how to work a crowd. You get over
the fact that you’re staring at that kid who played the juicy-lipped,
serial-killer-wannabe opposite Sandra Bullock in Murder By Numbers, or
even that he’s the guy they picked to evoke the persona de Cobain in
the film that brought him together with the man who would prove
instrumental in Pagoda’s polishing and re-emergence into our midst.
Michael Pitt actor is replaced by Michael Pitt rocker, who blends into,
and is complimented by, the ensemble that is Pagoda.
Pitt is completely in his
comfort zone. Once
he hopped off stage however, he was a wash in a sea of well-wishers
that either just wanted to touch him or converse with him for minutes
at a time. He was distracted, wired, and pulled in every direction. Pagoda was released and he was happy. Pagoda is in stores now.
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