Dunia and Aram w/ Artsouca 7/27/23 Cafe 9

 Dunia and Aram are a NYC-based couple that have been playing music together for over 20 years. Their guitarist collaborater was the main focus of Artsouca. Along with the couple and a female drummer, Artsouca bowled through several genres. African, prog, krautrock, the music focused on the fluid lines of the guitarist. I heard Pat Metheny, Habib Koite, even some lithe Jan Akkerman (from Focus) in these guitar centric jams. All guitarists kneel at the altar of Hendrix, this guy played a slinky strut Afro-version of Voodoo Chile with Dunia capably handling the vocal duty.

Dunia said she was from the Bronx. Her dreads and the reggae undertones implied island descent, but she had little in the way of Jamaican accent. For Artsouca, she played percussion and sang, but when the same four people morphed into D and A, she moved to guitarro. Aram played a standup low profile electric bass, you could tell he was versed in the low end of dub and reggae. The drummer was a big woman who I happened upon while she was doing a pre-set toke. “You’re late for work” I remarked, as she took her place behind the kit. Nice set of island inflected jams were played to a sparse crowd. Their take on Billie Holiday’s Strange Fruit lacked cohesion, but a nice reading of Joni Mitchell’s Blue was welcome. With building after building of yuppie condos sprouting in the vicinity, I find it hard to believe that more people would not walk to attend this show.

Peter Stampfel 7/1/23 Neverending Books

 Wow, where to start. This show was billed as 7/1 7pm , 7/2 9pm. Which could either mean two concerts, one twenty six hour concert, or a recurring typo. Given that the artist is 90, I went with typo. Peter Stampfel is founder of counter-culture folk collective The Holy Modal Rounders. Denizens of the early 60s Greenwich Village, THMR were on the scene as a nascent Bob Dylan graced The Gaslight. Political protests against the Vietnam war and reams of LSD seemed to ensue. Alliance with Ed Sanders and Tuli Kupferberg led to the formation of The Fugs. Often cited as the first “underground” band, The Fugs shunned political correctness and instrument-playing prowess for irreverent atonal chaos serving as the house band to many an Allen Ginsberg proto-rave. Fast forward 70 years, and my interest is piqued. Bashing the wisdom of putting on any show at this motley beleaguered attempt at a “bookstore”, is nothing new here. Ragtag collection of discarded office chairs, musty Nancy Drew paperbacks, and one lonely used copy of a Graham Parker record, exude sadness rather than charm. We arrive late to view Stampfel onstage with ukulele and a spiral notebook of visual clues. His “singing” is labored and punctuated with guttural growls. The uke “playing” is also debatable, one might assume that 70 years of performance might allow him to hone his craft. The real instrument seemed to be the reams of LSD. Stampfel routinely started cackling, or launching into Tourette’s-ish moherfuckinfucks throughout the performance. The notebook attempted to steer the proceeding. One passage had him expounding about “love everything that happens to you” while another had him tackling the “bad-guy” song genre with a Stagger Lee lilt. He tried one song where he strung together a rapid fire of fiddle tune names and asked the audience to spot the imposter. Apparently, Bonny Bloody Sword has yet to be penned. The audience was sneaking sideways glances as if to ask “are you seeing this?” We left early, so the verdict as to whether the show was 2 or 26 hours long is still a mystery. As we exit, the guy at the door says that Stampfel’s voice is shot and he’s really stoned. What is unclear, is the timing of when these conditions came on. I am still processing the notion of witnessing an acid-ravaged anti-musician nonagenarian.