It’s a rainy December morning when the members of the politically-charged Antibalas gatherin a chic Manhattan apartment to discuss Security, its first new studio album since George W.Bush’s 2004 re-election. Boasting an active lineup of 12 musicians who hail from such scatteredlocations as Austin, London and most of New York’s boroughs, it has become increasingly difficult to round up the entire troupe and, indeed, between rehearsals, the best place to findthe collective all in one place is onstage.
Representing a number of different backgrounds (Hispanic, African-American,African, Jewish) and a wide spectrum of age (the group boasts members bornin the 1950s, ‘60s, ‘70s, and ‘80s), the musicians sitting together could be anyrandom sampling of New Yorkers placed together like contestants on anepisode of Survivor. But when herded into place for one final group shot, thedozen players snap together like pieces in a puzzle, a firm unit molded in theimage of Fela Kuti’s legendary Afro-beat ensembles.
In an outpost-like corner of Lawrence, KS, Marco Benevento and Joe Russo are preparing for a mid-June performance at the Wakarusa Music Festival. It’s been a busy week for the longtime friends, collectively known as The Benevento-Russo Duo, mostly spent outlining their amphitheater tour with jamband demigods Trey Anastasio, Mike Gordon and Phil Lesh. But tonight The Duo is alone in the hippie-rock wilderness, without its full arsenal of instruments or even its longtime tour manager. Along with my co-host, Benjy Eisen, I’m trying to get Russo to play an acoustic version of his song “Memphis” for Relix’s Cold Turkey podcast.
At first Russo is hesitant, but 15 minutes after bribing him with a bottle of Maker’s Mark whiskey, the drummer is seated behind an acoustic guitar, stumbling through the track off the band’s album Play Pause Stop. Soon Benevento joins in, scatting on humorous covers of songs by The Scorpions, Mr. Big and, yes, Phish (shameless plug: check out the new Relix website for the video podcast of them doing “Divided Sky” from this session). From their frat-boy banter to their dorky grins, Joe and Marco could be any 29-year-olds relaxing late night at a festival, but after the recording stops, the conversation’s tone begins to shift. Young fans emerge from the ether, sheepishly saying, “It’s an honor to meet you” and “I’m psyched to see you on tour with Phil!” Russo shrugs, somewhat unaccustomed to the attention. “People kept mistaking me for Trey,” the shaggy, bespectacled redhead jokes. “So I decided to cut my hair—otherwise it’d be a long summer.” It’s a unique time to be hanging with Russo and Benevento, watching as the two performers age from working-class musicians into tomorrow’s rock stars.
RUBBER SOUL DUO THE BLACK KEYS SPILL THE GOODS ON MAYONNAISE, TAKING PUNCHES INHIGH SCHOOL AND AKRON, OH—A PLACE WHEREEVERYBODY KNOWS THEIR NAMES.
CAUGHT IN A REGRETFUL MOMENT, DAN AUERBACH AND PATRICK CARNEY ARE SITTING ON THE LATTER’S FRONT PORCH ON A SUNNY SUMMER AFTERNOON IN AKRON, OHIO, SHAKING THEIR HEADS. MOMENTARILY, THEY’RE BOTH LOST IN THOUGHT, REMEMBERING ONE OF THE WATERSHED MOMENTS THAT HAVE OCCURRED IN THEIR COLLECTIVE LIFE AS THE BLACK KEYS.
Auerbach’s eyes glaze, as they recall finding themselves faced with the immortal dilemma that seemingly every notable rock band in recent memory has had to at some point go nose to nose with:Whether or not to sell out—or, rather, cash in on its newfound popularity.
Message board dorks and music snobs would universally agree that when the Keys refused a mayonnaise maker’s request to use one of their songs in a U.K. television commercial, they made the right (and noble) decision. But with the luxury of a little distance, the reality is crystal clear to Auerbach and Carney: They were idiots.
Todd Snider wakes up early on a clear Tuesday morning in January. He smokes a little pot and sits down to write some poetry. Daylight streams through the windows of his East Nashville home. Snider walks out the front door in order to better observe the day. Things are normal, in their appropriate place. Of course, if you’re a paranoid, this is always the most dangerous of settings. He notices a flock of doves in the sky and smiles. They break up over his house. One takes a dive, a suicide mission, and heads straight for Snider. Luckily, Snider has quick reflexes. He dodges the bird but is not unshaken. Every day he puts out birdfeed; he claims to get along with most birds just fine. Snider turns around and heads back into his home. He shakes his head, thinking to himself: “I don’t have to stand for this. It’s my fucking yard. That goddamned rogue bird has to fucking go.” The door closes behind him.
It is a normal fall afternoon in upstate New York and Dispatch is sound-checking for an opening spot at Clifton Park, NY’s Northern Lights. Though a nondescript bar with a beer advertisement placed behind its stage, Northern Lights is a comfortable halfway house for bands traveling between New York clubs like Wetlands and Boston venues such as the Paradise and, as such, has nabbed a surprising number of bands on the verge of their big breaks. Technically the Samples are billed as the evening’s opening act, but Dispatch draws the crowd with its catchy ability to mix Sublime’s variation on reggae with Dave Matthews Band’s knack for improvisation.
Dispatch arrived on the live music circuit at an interesting era in music history, a time when file sharing was still new and Napster still mattered. After stirring up some interest on the Northeast frat circuit as the semi-acoustic One Fell Swoop, the trio—Chad Urmston, Brad Corrigan and Pete Francis—plugged in and switched its name to Dispatch. Dispatch’s music spread like wildfire on the internet and the group followed up by swiftly barnstorming clubs and colleges throughout the country. Still without a label, bus or real road crew, Dispatch hired a few friends as ad hoc stagehands, but the group is clearly struggling to keep up with the pace. There seems to be some internal conflict too, but the one thing all three members of the band can agree on is that their recent recording sessions [for 2000’s Who Are We Living For?] were incredibly difficult. “We may never record again,” guitarist Urmston admits.
