If you weren’t there, you missed a lot. 

The night started with Karen Meat, local darlings from Des Moines. The plucky ensemble, bathed in blood-red stage light, took to the stage with messy hair and all-black ensembles. Their driven sound was both pleasant and aggressive, synthesizing magical trills as the trio bobbed about and giggled. Singing about the world ending, Arby’s, and pissing people off; Karen Meat was comfortable, conversational, but not sloppy whatsoever. I think my favorite part of the performance was when, at the end, the omnichord was being strummed by a drink.

When DIIV appeared, the stage transformed into a oceanic blue – rather fitting for the headliner (pronounced “dive”). They were enchantingly chill. Effortlessly cool. They would look just as cool hanging out on your couch as on stage. Appearing perfectly disheveled with their slightly oversized clothes, frontman Zachary Cole Smith greeted the audience members shouting, “I love you!” and such; even recognizing a few faces in the crowd.

An alternative playlist staple, their indie rock is dreamy – unfussy, moody, alluring, but still tight. Playing favorites like “Under the Sun” – the song I first discovered them through – the crowd was either banging their heads or glued to the performance in a trance-like stupor. There were a lot of howling fans in the crowd, and Smith kept up the conversation between songs. The band was relaxed and in no rush tuning in between songs; there were a lot of good-natured “f*ck its” to go around.

But between all of the laughs, there was something profoundly acute within their cool-blue sound. Prefacing a track, Smith candidly said it was “about doing drugs, but I don’t do drugs anymore”. “Dopamine” features lyrics alluding to that past:

Shots ringing out, I’m soaking
Eardrums shaking, years start weighin’ me down
Crawling out from a spiral down
Fixing now to mix the white and brown
Passing out, running in place
You’re the sun and I’m your cloud
Burning down, running in place
Got so high I finally felt like myself

But the performance wasn’t grave or weighted down. There was almond milk. Smith took requests multiple times, light-heartedly passing ones that didn’t feel right. The band seemed to be in their own performance-induced nirvana. Someone even ran on stage to dance and was escorted off (disclaimer: you’re not supposed to do that). I was happily stupefied the entire show, and hadn’t even noticed they stayed way past the scheduled end of the concert – 10:00 PM.

At 10:28, Smith announced that the band would be taking a break for some Silk almond milk. He then returned with Colin Caulfield (keyboard and guitar) to do a cover of Alex G’s “Soaker”, something Zachary said they never practiced or performed before. And then everyone got back on stage to play even more.

I didn’t walk out of the theater until 10:40, but I would have stayed if the show went even longer.

Listen to DIIV here:

(like I did obsessively for a long, long time)

The post Mission Creek: DIIV @ Englert Theater 4/7/17 appeared first on KRUI Radio.

The evenings mood was set by haunting performances from Brad Highnam and TALsounds. Highnam, who is from Iowa City, conjured mystical images of expansive places by layering his wailing harmonica and recorder over deep, muttering bass pulses. He was the lone star of the space he created. Then TALsounds took stage right, swiveling around her retinue of instruments, and weaving to her beats while freely singing. Between the droning and distorted dial-up tones, her ultra-pretty voice slithered over the heavy noise, creating the effect of a distorted, electric angelic choir.

Meanwhile, the audience had slowly been multiplying. People noiselessly made their way in, unnoticed until realizing the room has filled out. Everyone stood at appropriate, respectful distances, turning their full attentions to the stage. The venue was filled with an acute intensity that could not be ignored, especially for a crowd so quiet. There was no dancing, singing along, or even much chatter at Gabe’s that night – mostly concentrated faces, crossed arms, and hungry eyes.

And though there was singing and distorted vocals, none of the performers so far had really said a word, introduced themselves, preface their music – really, any direct communication at all. But the sounds being made were not about lyricism and form – rather, the improvised, creation, and atmosphere. The sets unfolded quite organically for electronic noise; not at all like the bop of EDM, but still more alien than traditional instruments. The performance aspects of this show were just as crucial as any other, but these were comprised of one or two people instead of an entire band. What limits a five-piece group, or even just the acoustic, can liberate a hand or two at a soundboard.

Finally, HEXA took the stage. Facing each other, right and left, Lawrence English and Jamie Stewart didn’t appear to be dueling, or even looking for visual cues in each other. With clean, contorted trances, the duo cranked out heavy bass, and began to layer a display that flexed and remolded my imagination.

In the background cycled a series of David Lynch’s industrial photos that inspired HEXA in its origins. Something that looked like a microphone with a custom mouthpiece was blown, creating a grating buzzing. Abrasive sounds fazed in and out – what sounded like metal crashing and scraping together, like stone and concrete – and eventually, English moved to the three cymbals on his side of the front stage. He viciously rolled the cymbals with fuzzy mallets. And then Jamie Stewart laid his beat and moved to his own ho-hat and stacked cymbals. These he utilized with drumsticks, with a similar ferocity to match his partner, until the instruments could sing for them no louder.

Thus, amidst their technological creation, they also managed to demonstrate a basic principle of acoustics: I hit things, and they make noise. The duo returned to their respective stations. The sound kept grinding, but mellowed out. Bizzare drones and reverbrations came from what I can only describe as a vibrating contraption in a cup. Everything faded into that deep, pervasive bass at the foundation of the sound. And then Lawrence English made a grateful gesture towards the crowd with his wide-brimmed hat. The noise sputtered, then was at rest.

This was not the easiest performance to listen to. Just as reading poetry isn’t as straightforward and sensible as prose, HEXA’s industrial concept isn’t just about auditory pleasure. But their audio-visual experience created just that – an experience – that pushes how we can perceive and create an environment with sound.

Factory Photographs by HEXA

English will also be return to the stage at Gabe’s tonight with Elysia Crampton, MacMillan and Spengler

The post Mission Creek: HEXA (Xiu Xiu + Lawrence English) @ Gabe’s 4/4/2017 appeared first on KRUI Radio.

What’s more American than corn flakes?

The Fourth of July and Uncle Sam.

What’s more American than baseball?

I am, I am, I am!

I cried very hard and told my mother that I couldn’t sing the song because I wasn’t American. My mother told me I was American and that there was no reason I couldn’t sing the song. I knew that there was a legal document that proved my citizenship, but I couldn’t comprehend that I was an American. I told her I didn’t look like one, that I was an Asian. And this sort of thinking has stayed with me throughout my entire life.

And it wasn’t until recently that I had to think of what it meant to be “Asian” here in America. You see, I am from the continent of Asia, and my parents were Asian (Korean, to be more accurate), but I was adopted when I was less that six months old. But before I could speak I had an American citizenship, and the only thing setting me apart from any other American is that I can never run for presidency. I grew up fishing in Nebraska and petting cattle at 4-H shows. I watch fireworks and wear red white and blue every July. I remember putting my hand over my heart every morning at my Catholic school to say the Pledge of Allegiance. So I am an American, but for some reason I’ve always resorted to calling myself Asian.

But I won’t say I’m Asian-American either; I think that label has a connotation of immigrant parents who sacrificed everything, of a hybrid culture and second generation children who have each foot in two different worlds. I feel like I have my feet, my whole self, in an American bubble looking out to a place everyone assumes I should be in just because of my physical characteristics.

The way we look is so crucial to our identities. If I didn’t have yellow-toned skin, if I didn’t have monolids, if I didn’t have a small frame and “flat face”… I would feel like a tried and true American. But what sets me apart every time I have to distinguish my identity in terms of my nationality, I revert to this idea that I’m just “Asian”, that I can never be an American.

So what can I do? It won’t matter if I change my perception; it won’t matter if I forget everything “Asian” about myself because I would still have people do that weird squinty thing where they pull their eyes. I would still have people ask my why I don’t use chopsticks, or if I really am into tentacle porn.

But there are very small things I can control.

I can change my hair – cut it, dye it, shave it off. I can pierce my nose. I started wearing really weird clothes. And though this doesn’t change any way my race and nationality is perceived, I can feel at least a little more comfortable when I catch a glance of myself in a window. This is the least I can do for myself.

It wasn’t until very recently that I understood the power of clothing, accessories, hair, makeup, styling… I fell in love with clothes because for me, they are more than something for protection or function. For a while, I saw clothing as a costume, but I realized I’ve never been playing dress-up. My outfits aren’t a suit of armor to soften any racist blows against me; It’s not like I’m trying to hide.

If anything, I’m trying not to take myself too seriously anymore. I wouldn’t have shaved half of my head if I was so concerned.

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