Language Lessons From The Slip
The Continental Club
Houston, TX
November 8, 2000

by Chris Gardner

Brad Barr, chief melodian/distortion of The Slip, once said of a Boston show, "I thought it created a carbonated beverage feeling - intense bubbling energy but the lid was on."

I wish I had said that.

The Slip shook it up and turned it loose on a cluster of bemused Texans, many of whom dropped in on Wednesday for their first taste.  Tapir Productions organized the evening, which began with Texas' ubiquitous Two High String Band whose hill country bluegrass trilling and high harmonies impressed, as always, but failed entirely to prepare the crowd for what followed.  Most in the throng had never heard anyone speaking Slip.

If music is language, a jam is a conversation.  Straight jazz musicians, polite folks that they are, generally allow each other room to breathe and time to speak, tossing in the occasional, "Mmm Hmm," or , "That's right!" to goad.  "Free jazz" musicians on the other hand are impatient and verbose, babbling incessantly, wandering down tangential alleys haphazardly, responding reflexively to each new thought, and interrupting in punctuated bursts, but somehow they prattle on and eavesdrop on each other's thoughts simultaneously.  To most, free jazz is a foreign language, and even proficient jazz speakers struggle to decode the crowded confabulation when everyone speaks at once.

The Slip speaks Slip.  This trio of multilinguists, whose native language is free jazz, se habla proficient groove, speaks fluent classic rock, has a passable world music vocabulary, and speaks country with a strong Boston accent.  Slip the language, the polyglot that emerges from the cauldron, reflects the influences of and uses the vocabulary of all these pieces.  It must sound like nonsensical blathering to those who don't speak the language.  Do you remember the first time you heard Urdu?

The conversation flies.  Brad, brother and drummer Andrew, and fretless bassman Mark Friedman unfairly exploit their telepathic abilities.  The three throw ideas at each other like banana peels in a food fight.  Themes appear as if by magic, all three comment quickly, and they collectively move on.  They all babble so quickly that it seems impossible that they can really hear anything.  They cram twenty minutes of conversation into three.  Then, as soon as you are certain that they have forgotten entirely what they just said, they return to the original thought with a whole new perspective and turn that nascent thought in just such a way that it casts a new light on everything sandwiched between.  It is both progressive and recursive, and did I mention that it flies?

Munf, which slid out of the Chop Shuey opener erupted into a cacophonous conversation that addressed in surprising depth literally dozens of themes before bursting back into the slink of Munf so abruptly and unexpectedly that it drew startled gasps from the now wowed crowd.  Have you ever known brothers/sisters/friends/spouses who speak to each other without speaking?  Unspoken conversations can speak volumes between these pairs.  A sigh is a complete thought, and a furrowed brow is a short story.  It is much like that with the Slip.  You stand in the room watching these three talking without talking, but you never catch the buzz word or the furrowed brow or the flashed hand signal.  No opaque directions.  Nary a nod or a wink. Every band has signals of some sort.  Be it a growl or a beat or a note or a tilt of the head, they all have them because they all need them.  Well, I thought they all needed them.  I wish it weren't so stale to reference the X-Files here, because it fits.  These guys are creepy.

The Cumulus that opened the second set was a ride in the car with the band.  Every few minutes they burst into frenzied laughter for no apparent reason.  One will respond to the silence with, "That's exactly what I'm talkin' about man," and another will say, "will it work without the siphon?" as you sit quietly agape.

Brad, who generally sings better with his guitar chords than his vocal chords, nonetheless rang through the irresistible closing section of Eube beautifully, and the La Grange teases percolating through the Highlands encore was a choice nod to Houston's own "damn fine trio".

The Slip may have sounded like Obenglobish to some, but the shaking heads hanging from exhausted shoulders that slunk down the sidewalk at 2:00 am all looked converted.  Many thanks to Tapir Productions for another head-jiggling happening.

Cast Your Lot With The Motet
Albuquerque, New Mexico
October 12, 2000
by Don McIver

It takes a lot to get me out anymore.   Call it age.  Call it burn out. Call it whatever you want.   I just don't go out with the frequency I once did.  This is not to say, however, live music is not important.  It is.  I'd just rather bet my money and time on a sure thing than be disappointed.  When I choose to go out, I want a sure thing, a good deal, a show.  I want to be wowed, charmed, entertained.  And the Motet (Dave Watts-drums, Scott Messersmith--percussion, Jans Ingber-percussion and vocals, Michael Tiernan-guitar and vocals, Kurt Reiber-keyboard and vocals, and Steve Vidaic-bass guitar and vocals) are a sure thing.  Every time I see them, I'm thoroughly impressed with how well they play their respective instruments, how well they command a stage, and how quickly they fill a dance floor and keep everyone dancing.  And Thursday, October 12, 2000 was no exception. Headlining at the El Rey theater (a special place where I've seen Phish, Widespread Panic, Blues Traveler, and many other shows) the Motet started surprisingly slowly with a track called Samba."   In all probability they were physically tired, but  fatigue and exhaustion did not matter this night. Albuquerque was ready to dance and party.  The energy of the packed dance floor seemed to swell up and swallow the players.

Hey, let's face it.  At least half the quality of a show, any show, is in the anticipation, energy, and hope of a good crowd.  Call it whatever you want, but there are times when even the most unsophisticated players rise to the level of the audience and blow you away.  As bands get bigger and bigger, the level of anticipation, energy, and hope only grow, so suddenly what was once a bar band is transformed into a headliner, a rock group, etc.  Its almost magical, but the best bands always seem to capitalize on it and run with it. The best bands take all that energy we graciously give them night in and night out and turn it around, take what they need, and let it flow through them and into their instruments and back onto us.

Consisting of great danceable rhythms and fluid changes, the Motet started picking up steam in their first set with Georges>>>Archer, Rhumbata, Osain, Drumz>>>Do What you Want (these are the titles lifted off Dave Watt's set list and, though they maybe a touch archaic, they are what I have since I was too busy dancing to try and get the real names).  They announced a quick break and my date and I hit the beautiful fall evening for a quick stroll downtown to cool off.  By the time we got back, they were just walking out on stage, a quick break as advertised.  The second set picked right up where they left off with Bobo, Nervio, Yemaya, Scribbits>>>Nachez, Belly>>>Lolo>>>Sunu, and an encore of the Beatles, She's so Heavy.

I'm sure many of the same people who I shared the dance floor with on Thursday planned to make the trek to Taos on Friday to see them, but I, after working ten hours and dancing for two went home, comfortable in the fact that I got what I wanted, a show and a good time, and was wowed by the Motet yet again.

Galactic Shakes the Foundations
Fitzgerald's
Houston, TX
by Chris Gardner

"Nobody Pushes Like Stanton"

The faulty fire trap
jounces hither and thither
while the capering crowd
threatens to burst
the threadbare seams of
the comfortably dilapidated venue,
and he's rising from his seat
with that beatific smile
of unhinged madness
and he's honing in on the coming wave-
and he's rushing to the crest
seditiously.
Air rushes out-air rushes in.
...* Spark!

Grab the hoses;
there's a riot goin' on.

Nobody pushes like Stanton.