As Aesop Rock lays down “rapping is my radio, graffiti is my TV” on the hyperactive “No Jumper Cables”, one can only agree with this platform, the aggressive dedication and risk-taking that has always been Definitive Jux’s trademark and has turned out to be their niche in the rap world. Murs, The Perceptionists, S.A. Smash, and “special surprise guests” will be lighting up the Logan Square Auditorium on Sunday, April 25 at 7 pm.


Back to the Top

All Night Long, published 3/12/04 in Citylink
All Night Radio has been around a while—as such, their sound comes from everywhere...and nowhere.
Alan Jacobson explores this wildly fertile station.

No slavish imitators, no ironic updating by uber-clever wiseasses, All Night Radio’s impressive Split Stereo Frequency is a dense platter of time-released psychedelic goodness.

In other words, this album would be comfortable sharing tea after changing things around a bit and plucking “A Rose for Emily”. Meaning: All Night Radio skips through the jellybean fields with a basket of sounds of the old and recontextualizes them, extracting freshness and inspiration rather then merely reflecting and defensively acting up like bellbottomed monkeys.

Not content to cloister themselves in the past-humping artistic isolation we’ll just refer to as Cell 44...all right, I’ll kill the damned Zombies Odessey and Oracle references now except to mention that this duo of bards share an obvious affection for that brave and singular album—one where a group was given such artistic freedom that they not only were freed to record one of the best records of an incredibly fecund period, but they also boldly misspelled the title wedged into cover art similarly loud to Split Stereo Frequency’s.

Dave Scherb (vocals, guitar, pedal steel guitar, keyboards, sound effects) and Jimi Hey (vocals, drums, bass, glockenspeil, tambourine, percussion, additional sounds) became acquainted appropriately as musical fans first, when Hey spun Rhode Island psychedelicizers, Six Finger Satellite, continuously on his late-night radio show.

They threw themselves into Bee Venom and then the wonderful, plaudit-drenched Beachwood Sparks, whose first album ranks as easily one of the best of the Nineties. These musical gadabouts have also done the Yoo-Hoo popup act in groups as diverse as The Rapture, Tristeza, and the weirdest of the weird in psychedelic rock and Kinks love, The Lilys.

All Night Radio’s adoration of chamber pop is obvious from the opening moments of “Daylight Till Dawn”. Harpsichords, keyboards, well-planned drum fills, choral bits, and a lovely voice to rival Colin Blunstone’s express “I wanna wake up in the morning...” and then it’s either “to have you with me” or “heavy with me”. Since no lyrics are provided in the super-psyched booklet and the vocals are so thickly tracked and mixed, the listener is left like a child to engage a part of the brain that contemporary rock rarely does and craft his own meaning. Like good art, one is actually allowed to bring what they have to the piece and walk away with a unique product—one effective on levels both musical and personal.

The band often touts their love of psychedelic living—an ethos on proud display in their unique take on Gram Parsons’s “cosmic country” with the Sparks—but they refer to their current sound as more evolved than anything they’ve done before. And it certainly is, as the apt band moniker suggests—even their name prefaces the work, commanding further engagement from the listener. All Night Radio reminds me a bit of a radio show I luckily picked up once in New York City. The smooth Brazilian cool of Astrud Gilberto tripped into the experiment in confrontational a/v loudness that called themselves the Emergency Broadcasting Network via a segue consisting of at least 2 records playing at once—I think it was an exercise routine and some Moog-fascinated record of the early 70’s.

Constant brain activation is All Night Radio’s raison d’etre. On “Fall Down 7”, a dance beat propels the body and the simpler parts of the brain while intermittent horn jabs, keyboards, backwards sax, chimes, and even occasional cheering create nothing short of a place where comfort and inspiration in every level exists.

As this unique tune fades into gongs and a robot voice mentioning the bands name, the listener feels like dancing, writing a book, anything. All Night Radio is the sound of possibilities, of positive potential utterly unleashed. When the fuzz bass and chiming guitars of “You’ll Be on Your Own” flutter in, there is no surprise except at how mind-numbingly, jaw-droppingly good this music is. Well, there is one delightful surprise; I have only mentioned 3 songs. Eight equally lively and complex tunes round out Split Stereo Frequency.

On Wednesday at the Bottom Lounge All Night Radio support Baltimore singer songwriter (think more Poe at his ouija board than John Waters filming his lip-synching anus) Cass McCombs, a 4AD artist who has mixed with the Oxes and those beloved Palace outfits, now making waves for his mordant sounds de swoon. Between McComb’s darkly debauched romanticism and All Night Radio’s superpsyched soundscapes, and the additional opening of Hank Williams cum post/garage-rockers Pedal Steel Transmission, this should prove to be an ear-tickling night to remember.

All Night Radio open for Cass McCombs Wednesday, March 24, doors and price match at eight. The also highly-touted Pedal Steel Transmission open.


Back to the Top

(I Was Born) A Unicorn

The impossibly inspired preciousness of the Unicorns trots into the Logan Square Auditorium on Sunday, April 4.

All of the beasts obeyed Noah when he admitted them into the ark. All but the unicorn. Confident of his strength he boasted 'I shall swim!'.For forty days and forty nights the rains poured down and the oceans boiled as in a pot and all the heights were flooded. The birds of the air clung onto the ark and when the ark pitched they were all engulfed. But the unicorn kept on swimming. When, however, the birds emerged again they
perched on his horn and he went under -- and that's why there are no more
unicorns now.  A Ukranian Folk Tale.

Tenacious beasts, unicorns can only be tamed by virgins.  I’m not making this up. 

Montreal trio, the Unicorns peddle virtually impenetrably adorable tunes appropriate to their name and mystical inspiration.  Warning: seemingly naive hyperbole to follow; but it’s appropriate to the precious music it describes.  This is the sound of a band on fire with inspired experimentation.  Perhaps they’re still feeling around for their voice.  But the Unicorns are so good at what they are doing, their sound matches their style so delightfully, that what is usually torture in rock, that asininely immature groping for that “sound” ends up being a great experience for the listener.  

How this band came about its name warrants mention because it mirrors the naive inspiration that music this precious simply must have.  Originally a two-man band, Nicholas “neil” Diamonds (who does not understand: Karate, musical notation, sequels, or French) introduced himself to Alden Ginger (height 35 psi, favorite pornography type: bear) because he had showed up to school in a skirt. 

High school being a place where weirdness is a good enough reason to meet up, and being productive weirdoes, the fast friends quickly formed a band called Poor Alexander.  Diamonds and Ginger also would experiment in self-described “crotch rock” group The Stanley Milgrom Project.  Poor Alexander reformed later as Mad Daddy & the Patty Stackers. 

Then, in 2000, Diamonds & Ginger decided to play as a duo.  They had a DIO tape in their boombox, a wildly liberated spirit, and most importantly, enough peanut butter & jelly sandwiches in their kit to distract the audience from the fact that they only had two songs.  They still had no name, though.

Alden had suggested “The Unicorns” as a joke.  When they got to the show, they espied a table filled with political tracts and contraceptive give-aways.  One of the packages had a unicorn on it.  Fate stepped in.  The Unicorns were born.

Diamonds skipped off to film school in Montreal, where he met their current drummer J'aime Tambeur—who, if the official website is to be believed, doubles as a street-hustler.  Just like Tambeur adds flair to the proceedings with solid, expressive sticksmanship, his 808 adds another bit of flavor, yet more otherworldly panache.   Perhaps he’s left the hustler’s life behind, boldly advancing to a sound of future past via his 808, synths, drums, and matching outfits.     

Perhaps I should stop culling information from their website.  But the boldness in silliness (or is it vice versa) is pulled off so deftly, with such panache...a lot like Who Will Cut Our Hair When We’re Gone?  These vintage instrument fanatics have earned the appreciation and backing gigs of the likes of Hot Hot Heat, the Microphones, Daniel Johnston, the Walkmen, and Cat Power.

A great sense of humor pervades the work.  Added to a unique and intelligent way of putting things, the listener realizes that “Tuff Ghost” is not just a great term.  The second tune on the album kicks in with a bold synthesized hum and inspired key riffery (Wurlitzer, Korg, Casio MT 500, Horn Magic, Roland Compuphonic, etc, etc.) I will describe as “moogy”, in as much as it flavors the music, chucking handfuls of spices into the swirling carrot stew of the album.   The tune is a spastic mix of the keys, hyped-up reggae rhythms (thus “Tuff”), and bizarre lyrics on the afterlife.

Indeed, a morbid fascination with death, decay, ghosts, and the like fills this freakiest of freakpop albums.  During the utterly bizarre spazmo-dance tune, the gruesome and tasty “Jellybones”, the Unicorns begin chanting “Jelly/Jelly/Jelly/Jelly...”  The album suddenly coalesces as not only a tightly-packed multi-tracked piece, but as work of a band skilled enough to know --and toy with-- its antecedents.

Only old friends can chime their hatred to each other and plausibly skip off into a future of camaraderie.  This is what the Unicorns manage on the brilliant “Child Star” off the persistently perky and singularly rosy-visored Who Will Cut Our Hair When We’re Gone? On “I Was Born A Unicorn”, one chimes “I write the songs”.  “I write the songs”, the other angrily chirps.  “You say I’m doing it wrong”, counters the first.  “You ARE doing it wrong”, confirms the latter.   Multitextured statements all, thias particular song includes self-consciously cheeky, yet ironically powerful emotional insight, even defiance: “I was born a Unicorn/I could have sworn you believed in me/Then how come all the other unicorns are dead?”

Who Will Cut Our Hair When We’re Gone? Begins and ends with death.  The first tune has the boys describing in words and sound effects the ways they “don’t wanna die” while the last song describes an actual death, accompanied by contrasting carnival music reminiscent of Of Montreal.  The album ends cruelly with:  “I’ve said my goodbyes/and now I’m ready to (cough) d...”

An album this proudly weird is bound to be met with skepticism, if not outright hostility.  While enthusiastically spinning this for a dear friend, I was met with: “I don’t know if I can take this”.  I laughed; maybe you can’t.  “Don’t they know that Elephant 6 is dead?”  Maybe they don’t and that’s a good thing.  “This is I dunno, kinda ‘gay’”.  Yeah, like The Gay Parade?  Like back when twee didn’t just mean annoying?  Like when a group of friends got together and decided to make boldly individualistic music which ran forward, yet adorned itself with heaps of inspiration, flourishes, and homage to possibly the rock’s best era?  “Just give it time”, I said.    Like all decent art, Who Will Cut Our Hair When We’re Gone? Reveals itself slowly and lasts a long, long time—existing in a world outside of our own, a magical, mystical, virginal world...the enchanted cove of the unicorn.

Live, like They Might Be Giants (another great duo with a tape player who also grew), the Unicorns are wacky fun personified, but in a really fantastic way.  They have just released a seven-inch via Suicide Squeeze Records, featuring the new songs "2014" and "Emasculate the Masculine". You can pick one up direct through the Suicide Squeeze website or at Sunday’s show, where local garage rockers, The Ponys and Vancouver post-rockers, The Beans open.  Doors are at 8:30 and the show is $12.

http://www.suicidesqueeze.net

http://www.alien8recordings.com

http://www.theunicorns.net

http://www.pitchforkmedia.com/interviews/u/unicorns-04/

The Old Grey Whistle Test DVD!!

Take a wonderful trip through preferred music of the best British critics of the 70’s.

Picture this: the prettiest of pretty goth-punk bands obliterates their instruments.  Just killing everything on stage.  An admirer seated on a stool in the foreground tries to maintain her composure, at once highly appreciative, mildly annoyed, and extremely amused: "That was the Dam...It must me rebem...ahem!...It MUST be remembered that the ghost of the Who still haunts these studios (laughs). The Damned with "Smash It Up" and "Just Can't Be Happy Today" (dryly frowns, winks)...looked like they were having a rather good time, though, didn't it?"  This from punk era supercrit, Ann Nightingale, that sympathetic older sister--the one that helps the punks come down off some particularly poisonous junk--describing the Damned's destructive performance in equal parts admiration and somewhat invidious wisdom.

The Old Grey Whistle Test was a TV series that ran solidly from 1971 through 1986 as a showcase for the most serious of Britain's rock scribes. The raison d'etre was summed up by the strange title choice: one that would not age and should be confusing enough for people to not know what it was--in this case, an historical term describing how Tin Pan Alley composers tested their new tunes on the elder deliverymen: if they were whistling, for example, "Ain't She Sweet" by second run-through, then the sheet music would sell. The second criterion was to have the host be someone who knew music and would not have to consult notes during an interview with someone with whom only an ass would have to do so, like John Lennon.  Also, in that there was a series of rock journalists running the show, and no strict “personality”, then the show would naturally have to be about the music, and not about some washed up former showman getting a second wind for his or her career.

The result was arguably the most honest and inspired live music showcase in the history of television. Everyone played it. That is, everyone who happened to be in London on tour while the show was taping. Strangely enough, hometown heroes the Rolling Stones, for example did not play the Whistle Test often since they toured virtually from 1971-1980 and almost exclusively in the United States. Since most of the major activity in the 1970's biz was occurring in the US, The Whistle Test took acts as they were passing through a European leg of a tour. As a result of this seat-of-the-pants style, the performances could not help but be inspired, whether raw or intimate--depending upon the style of a particular artist.

This jammed DVD tracks the history of The Old Grey Whistle Test from its early, stiffer hosts up through laid back enthusiasts like Bob Harris on to the grand dame of the punk era, Ms. Nightingale. Each of the presenters, from intimate Harris through the aloof Nightingale reintroduce their favorite performances with speeches recorded in 2001, words which at times become absolutely poetic with emotion and appreciation.

Piano geniuses, Elton John and Randy Newman each play alone in stark contrast to Glam rock's excesses. The Edgar Winter Group's 14 minute expansion of their monster hit, "Frankenstein," whose countless solos actually include one on a sub mixer, elaborates wonderfully on this elliptical masterpiece.

Roxy Music, the best band of the 1970's, reins in and satirizes glam's absurdist conformity with a fittingly tongue-in-cheek performance of that "danceable solution to teenage revolution".  “Do the Strand” ends magnificently on a disco/Nazi salute as the warped outfit (speaking of which, seeing the heavily balding Brian Eno in sequined spandex topped with ostrich feathers is worth the price of admission alone) headed by the dazzlingly sophisticated visionary Bryan Ferry finishes their ironic flirtations with a fame they'd only flirt with in their career.

One of the commentators notes that the show was often about just two things: honest musicianship and denim.  This introduces Bruce Springsteen nicely. In a fiery 1975 performance of "Rosalita," the utter generosity of THE working class hero is underscored brilliantly. First, he and Clarence Clemons trade guitar and sax lines as well as dance steps. Then Bruce exchanges spit with a few French kissers escaped from the front rows. It's everything cliché about rock, everything tired and shopworn. But with Springsteen's brilliant honesty, this reappropriation is nothing but a pure pleasure to watch.

Utterly talented weirdoes chosen by rock geniuses, the creative control of the men and women who put The Whistle Test together comes across nicely in their choice of artists. Iggy Pop proves that he's "the chairman of the Bored", Tom Waits relates "Tom Traubert's Blues", and then two critics relate the professional and the personal in the business as they re-introduce Captain Beefheart's masterful "Upon the My O My" performance. One relates a story of how Don Glen Vliet (the Captain) was selling vacuum cleaners door to door in California and found Aldous Huxley's door. As the old man opened the door, Vliet remarked: "Sir, this sucks." The second critic patiently waits to relate how his daughters loved "Abba Zabba" (from the perfect Safe as Milk album) so much that The Captain recorded a solo acoustic version just for them.

Another favored pick is The Specials' "Message to Rudi," a dead-on performance of the only two-tone era ska song you'll ever need. For reggae, the Wailers appear when Peter Tosh was still in the band and they were still just The Wailers, before they were reconfigured with Bob Marley in front.

For the punk-leaning choices, XTC, The Talking Heads, and the Police all play their edgiest material from their when their very first albums had come out. Like the Damned, the mini-concerts are just smashing.  Partridge, Byrne, Sting (when he was less so) all lose their shit. These are people who were hungry to make it on one of the most respected and watched music programs in the history of British television.

There is well over two hours of music. Once that’s over, a nice bonus comes in the rather spotty. Keith Richards and Mick Jagger individually prove what dicks they are. Bruce Springsteen displays the down-to-earth honesty and love of music he's made synonymous with the shouts of “The Boss!”  Elton John and Bernie Taupin bitch about fame. And John Lennon spends 17 glorious minutes chatting about his green card, Harry Nilsson, the Rock and Roll album, a Beatles reunion, Yoko, his mistakes, and even performs an impromptu jeer for England in the form a true Old Grey Whistle Test, "We'll Meet Again."

For a music fan, especially one not dismissive of the Seventies, this disc is an endless delight. This is some of the best music of its time performed by some of the era's best performers at their peak. Also something of a “Rock 101”, each and every clip is chosen and re-introduced by some the brightest rock minds who are very generous with not only the back story, but also little bits from the original introductions and interviews. I think one of them sums it up best when at the end of Edgar Winter's truly inspired prog rockathon, he breathlessly utters: "amazing."

Rent Thee A Music Video

Here's a list for ya's: gift ideas or just great renters for those rock nerd moments in your life.

11. Twist (Ron Mann, 2002)

Where else could you witness: a poodleskirter flipping her beau over her shoulder while keeping the beat? A man doing a split through another’s legs? The Watusi? The Froog? Hank Ballard (writer) and Chubby Checker (popularizer) chatting on the biggest craze of them all, “The Twist”? First-hand accounts of how Dick Clark hired bodyuguards for his stable of honky dancers, after they had stolen dance moves from Harlem? This tasteful documentary not only offers dance lessons, but it features charming footage of the dance craze days. A treat for nostalgics and the curious alike.

10. Staring at the Sea – the Images – The Cure (various)

A collection of innovative and constantly entertaining videos from one of the most unique, inspired, and adorable acts of the eighties.

9. School of Rock (Richard Linklater, 2003)

Singular director Richard Linklater and Mike White (he of Chuck and Buck) collaborated on this absolutely charming kid’s picture; this will make your grandmother and grandaughter bow to the power of rock while patronizing none. Amazing.

8. High Fidelity (Stephen Frears, 2000)

A fine movie from an excellent book. Rare. Cleverly explores rock addiction and is responsible for thrusting Jack Black on an unsuspecting world. God bless ‘em.

7. The Kids Are All Right – The Who

From the mid sixties through the mid seventies, the Who were architects and then crafters of the most overblown rock from their own great ideas. The fount of mod, powerpop, the rock opera, and that good ol’ “maximum R&B” displayed through a seemingly never-ending scruffily assembled string of inspired performances. This is a perfect survey—more rock surveys should be like it. 1970’s Live at the Isle of Wight is great, too.

6. The Old Grey Whistle Test (various)

Back in the early 20^th century, Tin Pan Alley composers tested their songs on elderly milkmen and the like. If one of them whistled the tune after the second play-through, it would be a success and would move sheet music, the “single” of the time.

This is the crème de la crème of the British musical variety show that borrowed this phrase for no discernable reason. Over 3 hypnotic hours of live performances from Randy Newman, Captain Beefheart, The Damned, Blondie, The Specials, Bruce Springsteen, and countless others chosen and re-presented by the original cast of music critics, not personalities, who made the show so great by doing that in the first place.

5. This is Spinal Tap/A Mighty Wind (Rob Reiner, 1984/Christopher Guest, 2003)

Oh, so funny. So very, very, very funny. Both of these send-ups on the most overserious, yet often accidentally amusing, pop genres are relentlessly clever. A feel of love and sense of knowledge of the music helps bring these films over genuinely and guilt-free for all parties concerned.

4. Stop Making Sense – The Talking Heads (Jonathon Demme, 1984)

Holy dear god. Jonathon Demme made good films. Possibly the best American band at the time; by 1983, David Byrne had shared his Talking Heads with Brian Eno on some landmark albums. Here, Byrne decided to mix it up with a bright filmmaker. The staging and performance are unparalleled and translate perfectly to film. Just amazing.

3. Gimme Shelter – The Rolling Stones (Albert Maysles, 1970)

Brilliant crapheads caught live. Horror with no easy answers. Marvelous concert footage interspliced with some of the most chillingly greedy and selfish behavior ever captured on film. Witness the 60’s come to a close at bloody, greedy, stinking Altamont. Ike & Tina’s performance ain’t bad either…and just why didn’t the Jefferson Airplane drummer fail to stop pounding while Paul Kantner received a beating? The mind sways.

2. Rock ‘n’ Roll High School – The Ramones (Allan Arkush, 1979)

A hail to the flood of rocksploitation flicks that our very own number one inspired (I am certain Deliverance director John Boorman wishes he could forget The Spencer Davis Group’s 1967 vehicle, The Ghost Goes Gear). Very John Waters/Paul Bartel (who also stars), we find our hero, Riff Randall, a girl-rocker stuck in a school that does not permit rock…that is until the Ramones blow the shit up. Look out for flying fun!

1. A Hard Day’s Night – The Beatles (Richard Lester, 1964)

The best and brightest band captured at their apex. Amazingly prescient use of most decent music video techniques. Wildly irreverent. A blast of fun and fresh air no matter how many times you watch it. Best rock movie by a country mile. 1970’s Let it Be is great, too.

Also very much worthwhile: Repo Man, Rushmore, Hairspray, Crybaby, and a few others, surprisingly including Josie and the Pussycats (2001). Now get thee to a video store, and rock that living room till yer couch sinks, daddy-o!!

Questions/suggestions/additions/detractions/bribes/monkeys: jacobsonalan@myway.

Jazz in the Lodge

Abbey Chuba is an old-style jazz trio with absurd amounts of spirit.

The Hideout’s a funny place.  You never really know what’s going to turn up there next.  Used to be, long ago, rock ‘n’ rollers filled that little back room, the niceness of the general clientele the only thing making the explosive closeness of that sea of armpits bearable.  When the head-nodders could take no more, they could escape to the front room or step into the surrealistic incongruity of the open outside area, alternately gazing upon the intermittent parade of city vehicles tanking-up down the street and the empty warehouse.

Now that the Hideout hosts mostly smaller shows in aforementioned front bar, I couldn’t be happier.  The cumulative atmospherics of cheap hooch, the odd appearance of half winter lodge/half speakeasy, and the solid sounds--hell, any asshole can tell that it’s chosen by people who love music—well, it all adds up to a wonderful time.  They obviously have to make a profit to stay open, but thanks to the faith the bookers have instilled in the stalwart regulars (the well-deodorized armpits I mentioned above), this should never be a problem.

Cutting to the point (at long last, no?), we have a jazz trio.  I’m going to knock down your preconceptions right now.  Imagine back to the Holiday Inn.  Your folks made you eat that shitty buffet while they pretended the drizzling of tripe, additional thanks to the mustachio ‘n’ tux shirt cheese balls, was jazz the way it was supposed to be.  “Art”.  Fuck, lord no!  I mean, I can’t blame you for disdain—every sense was under siege by that unique onslaught of vacation nonsense, all this after a long, weakening day on the road.  Independent thought: impossible. 

You have my sympathy, but pick up a book, or e-tromp on over to allmusic.com and take a quick look at Nat King Cole.  Bear with me.  Cole pinched out some real Johnny Mathis, corny crap (though the power of “Nature Boy” cannot be resisted), and kind of set the prototype for schmaltz to come.  But his trio sides from the Forties are just glorious.  Bass, guitar, and piano blend, trade, comp, and solo, all amid a deft mixture of entertaining, often cutesy tunes like “Straighten Up and Fly Right” and sharp, fantastic instrumentals like “The Geek”. 

Intimate, inspired, playing off each other and building to a synthesis that is much more than anything a musician is capable of alone, trading Cole’s percussive keys for fine drumming, this also describes Abbey Chuba.  Ethan Semone blurs the fret board, Bob Willems smacks a fine upright, and Hugh Bartling pounds or brushes them skins to provide an excellent set to absorb, whether relaxing and chatting, or staring in disbelief as they shift from a delicious Monk cover to a ridiculously complex original.

And this is a good time.  I repeat:  a good time, between-song banter, no expectation of applause after every solo.  It’s all done for the love of the game and the pretension that can often inappropriately accompany this truly American (democratic) art form is shucked.  Maybe once Abbey Chuba gets a bit more comfortable, and their following becomes huge (which it damned well better), the guitarist--looks, big ol’ guitar, ease with which he coaxes it all reminiscent of Glen Tillbrook--will rise from his seat, Sonny Rollins-style, leap onto the bar, strut over to the dudes talking way too loud during his solo, and kick their drinks in their laps, all the while pulling out an effortless solo.   

These cats are hot.  I got there early—hell, it’s my job, right?—and heard the drummer warming up with a Dave Brubeck quote.  I was forewarned, then, of their rhythmic and time-signature complexities.  But the fun, the expression, the fucking art of the whole thing:  this is what elevates Abbey Chuba to another strata—a plane on which inspiration and the sheer joy of playing just naturally spills out into the audience.

Abbey Chuba (what does that name mean?) plays two sets Monday, July 19th at the Hideout, starting at 9:30