B.A.L.L.
Bowery
Electric, NYC, May 25, 2013
Concert
review by John Pietaro
Gloomy skies and chilly rain moved in on this
late-May evening, and the East Village was covered by that certain grayness it
was once known for. If you squinted just enough, you could almost avoid the
bistros and hipster joints that now line the Bowery in place of the dive-bars, restaurant
supply houses and dusty bodegas that once were. Remember when there was an
artful edginess to this town, downtown? While most of the creative
community has been priced out of the chromium rentals that have sprung up
everywhere that cool resides,
thankfully there are still pockets of inspiration hidden between the Bowery
Mission and the million-dollar views. Just a block north of where CBGB once
stood, post-Punk NYC commanded the stage: B.A.L.L. reunited for the first time
in 25 years. And at the crossroads of Bowery and Joey Ramone Place, no less.
The Bowery Electric contains a bit of the feel of
CBs, and its basement haunt—where the live music plays—resounds with crackly
amplifiers and stinging cymbals. The dungeon-like exposed brick may be missing
the old LES graffiti, but as the black leather-and-jeans crowd in this tight room
grew in anticipation of the music, it brought you back. The members of B.A.L.L.
had been there then ---in that amazing time and place when the rebel yell of
Punk Rock romanced the liberation of Free Jazz and downtown contemporary
composition. Its off-spring included No Wave and a wide pastiche of alternative
experimental sounds. Kramer, B.A.L.L.’s bassist and a patron saint of this
radical emulsion had studied with improvisational music guru Karl Berger and
listened intently to the catalog of ESP Disk in his youth. By the late 70s and
early 80s he was recording and touring with the likes of Daevid Allen’s NY Gong,
the Chadbournes (with Eugene Chadbourne, John Zorn, and David Licht),
Shockabilly and the Fugs; by ’85 he was a member of the Butthole Surfers. B.A.L.L.
came along shortly thereafter, as well as Bongwater (with Ann Magnuson) and
collaborations with GG Allin, Jad Fair and others. Kramer would, over the next
few years, bring his NoiseNewYork studio to the forefront of this musical mélange
of the cerebral and the rude and his record label Shimmy-Disc would stand as
quite legendary. These days, Kramer’s homebase is Florida where he runs his
Second-Shimmy label, which has released work by Zorn and others as well as
Kramer’s latest take on deconstructed pop, ‘The Brill Building’. He also mixes
and masters the albums of many other artists including, I need to state as a
disclaimer, the debut disc of this writer’s band The Red Microphone, ‘The Red Microphone Speaks!’ (2013).
B.A.L.L.’s front man, vocalist and guitarist Don
Fleming also carries with him a certain pedigree. After working for years in
regional new wave bands, he first came to cult prominence as the voice of the
Velvet Monkeys and then joined Half-Japanese with Jad Fair. Fleming was
inspired by the work of Lou Reed and the origin of the Velvet Monkeys name is
found in a combination of both the Velvet Underground and, yes, the Monkees.
You can hear the Reed inspiration still back there in his searing guitar work
that is just as driven by bluesy R&B runs. However, for the past dozen
years he has worked at the Alan Lomax Archives, these days serving as its
Executive Director.
The band has had two drummers from the start as
Kramer wanted to capture the feel of double drummers that he heard at George
Harrison’s ‘Concert for Bangladesh’ (there it was Ringo and the brilliant Jim
Keltner). Jay Spiegel was a member of the Velvet Monkeys and Half-Japanese before
joining this band, and then after the initial break-up, he left with Fleming to
form the alternative rock band Gumball and also played briefly with Dinosaur Jr
and did some work with Thurston Moore as well.
Drummer/percussionist David Licht, another veteran
of the downtown experience, served as the “other” through most of the original
B.A.L.L. years. A founding member of the Klezmatics, Licht was also the pulse
of Shockabilly and then Bongwater, but he is also noted for work with Ned
Rothenberg, John Zorn and Tom Cora. Licht had worked very closely with Kramer
on numerous projects so when B.A.L.L. came to be it was natural that he would
be immediately engaged for it; he left the band in ’88 as things began to fall
apart. It was disappointing that for this reunion show, Licht was not present. However
Bob Bert of Sonic Youth and Pussy Galore fame was a fitting substitute and
walloped the old numbers into a throbbing heartbeat along with Spiegel.
B.A.L.L. has always been known for its sense of
parody and wicked humor. None of the old theatrical antics were present at the
Bowery Electric but the musical sneer was unmistakable. The ensemble took to
the stage and launched off into this material (which, as rumor has it, they’d
only prepared for the night before), with a glint in the eye. The audience
erupted and those down front pounded the stage. The band laughed and shouted
over the rumble of double drumming and snaking guitar and bass lines. Fleming’s
voice bellowed warmly whenever Kramer’s bass met his range and then improvised
new counter-points. In the lives of band mates on the road, anything is
possible and the hardships of the Business have withered away many a union. But
there was no indication of old animosity as Fleming came to the lip of the
stage, in reach of the mixed-age group dressed in Bowery black. Kramer popped
up and down on as the musical heights rang through the club, pointing the neck
of his vintage Hofner violin bass to the hot lights and disco ball hovering
just above. Strapless, as always, he seems to at once embrace his instrument
and dance around it.
A welcome sound was B.A.L.L.’s signature guitar and
bass duo leads; during points when the rhythm would break and Fleming would embark
on a swirling buzzsaw guitar solo, he was joined seconds into it by fluid bass improv
raked over distortion. Here’s where the band differs from most others of their
generation, of any generation. The ingredients of post-Modernism will simply
not go away and seemed to thrive on the feedback, primal screams and garage
rock façade. Think back to Television and then to Richard Hell’s Voidoids and
then to the work of its thrilling, inventive guitarist Robert Quine as he became
part of the experimental tapestry beyond. At their best B.A.L.L. seemed to encapsulate
all of this at once. At this reunion show there were few points of free play
and I must admit I longed for more. As the tension would build in the music,
the piece would come to its conclusion, even when there surely was room to take
it further out. But no complaints here as the band was living in the moment and
offered up “single” versions which filled the house and loomed over the
shouting, waving audience like a sparkling storm cloud. There were no dull
moments and from my spot on the stairwell that led into the main crowd area,
the air was electric.
Some of the old material heard included their cover
of Ringo Starr’s “It Don’t Come Easy”, sang by Spiegel, but as always, the
B.A.L.L. version was world’s away. The lyric, there in the dark of a damp
Bowery night spot in 2013 seemed to speak of the band’s journey and with it,
all of us who remember the time and place. They shouted through “The Ballad of
Little Richard”, with all of its jagged rhythmic obstacles carefully navigated.
And then when they would lean on a groove and the bass line would tease the
audience with a discofied throb, the house rocked on as if listening to a hit
blaring out of the latest MP3 collection, arms flowing overhead, butts swaying,
bottles of Bud aloft.
The stage lights appeared to grow hot as Fleming
left a guitar solo midstream and placed his ax down at the foot of an amplifier,
He snuck away as his instrument emitted a whirling feedback, growing
progressively louder. The two drummers exploded into a dual (perhaps duel) solo statement, with tom-tom
accents, cymbal bursts, rim-shots and ratamacues shooting back and forth and back
again. Kramer’s fuzz bass moaned over them and then was placed on the stage
with the grinding feedback moaning and growling underneath, now matching and
embellishing Fleming’s guitar wail, and he too ran into the “wings”. The
drummers pounded on, evoking a kind of savage ‘Rich vs Roach’ vision as crash cymbals waved violently and threw
the spotlights’ glare around the hall. Culminating in a series of angry
sixteenth notes racing faster and faster and then a final accented boom and
they too were off. The air thickened with the fading sounds of audio noise and
ear drum ringing as the music claimed the night.
And the street.
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