Although I'm not a balding, nostalgic metalhead and I'm too old to be a peevish punk, I found myself at the I-Rock anyway after receiving an invitation from Gary Jibilian to check out his new duo Jibilian/Glass.
Exploited Youth•Mad City Pleasure Zone• Jibilian/Glass • Violet Skin
at The I-ROCK, Feb 3, 2001
Worship My Stick
Although I’m not a balding, nostalgic metalhead and I’m too old to be a peevish punk, I found myself at the I-Rock anyway after recieving an invitation from Gary Jibilian to check out his new duo Jibilian/Glass.
“Fans of King Crimson, Gordian Knot and Dixie Dregs will love this music, but to be honest, every single person who hears these tunes genuinely loves it, “ Jibilian crowed immodestly in a recent e-mail. I was intrigued by the prospect of seeing anyone live up to that claim.
I’ve been a staunch fan of King Crimson since their reformation in 1980 with studio legend Tony Levin holding down the bottom end with an instrument called a Chapman Stick; an eight (sometimes 10 or 12) stringed instrument played by fingertapping bass and treble strings simultaneously with both hands. The spectacle of sound created by this particular incarnation of Crimson was something I’d honestly never heard before or since.
Now Gary Jibilian, collaborating with Drummer Todd Glass (both currently working with the Thornetta Davis Group) would be Stick-ing it to Detroit audiences with a hybrid created by Ned Steinberger and Emmett Chapman; the NS/Stick.
Exploited Youth
I’d settled down to a conspicuous table in the middle of the room while the first act trudged through their set. Exploited Youth is the latest musical dalliance of Rory Steele, a charismatic veteren of the so-called “original” scene. But I didn’t hear anything particularly original emanating from the stage at this point. At least it didn’t pique my interest enough to tear me away from writing background. At least not until he busted a string.
It wasn’t long after I pulled out my Steno when a friend of the band (whom I only remember as 'Chicago') approached to ask what I was writing and offered to fill me in. (Writing seems to be a magnet for attention in a bar with live music, a coincidence that isn’t lost on me - or my therapist) Chicago told me that one of his friends knew some music big-whig in L.A. who’d expressed interest in Rory and wanted him to come out to the coast. If I had a dollar for every time I’d heard that I could afford to write music reviews. Nevertheless, I listened respectfully to his sincere attempt to promote Exploited Youth.
Fearless, bold and charming, Rory Steele limped up to my table in a full leg cast with a smile on his face and a beer in his hand. Chicago introduced us and I asked him how he’d broken his leg.
“Working for a living, “ Rory said with a sardonic grin.
“So tell him about the band,” urged Chicago, pointing at me. Rory looked confused.
“We suck!” he said without an ounce of self-consciousness or remorse. His refusal to take any of this music business seriously was disarming. “Think Muddy Waters meets Nirvana!” Rory said, describing Exploited Youth. You couldn’t help but like this guy so I bought him a beer.
Though I didn’t really get a good feel for his music, I sincerely hope Rory Steele exploits that golden opportunity in L.A., if not for the music, then for the movies; the guy’s a real character and I'd pay to see him act.
Mad City Pleasure Zone
While I chatted up Rory’s sister-in-law, Mad City Pleasure Zone took control of the stage with a mix of reggae and ska that shocked the otherwise indifferent crowd to attention. The fast and funky mix of offbeat island rhythms whipped the crowd into a chair-dancing frenzy and appreciative whoops and hollers followed. Enough said, they came, they conquered and they were gone before I could coax Amy into telling me what got her off... musically speaking, of course.
Jibilian / Glass
Finally the moment had arrived. After hearing the night’s offerings so far I could only guess that Jibilian/Glass would be decidedly different, if only for the presence of The Stick (add reverb here) - still a musical curiosity in it’s third decade.
I had no idea what I was about to hear, having failed several times to successfully download an MP3 from Jibilian’s website (www.garyjibilian.com). And I didn’t know what he looked like either. Was he the long-hair, guitar-whiz looking guy sitting to my right? The staid looking German fellow with the close cropped hair and impeccable suit? Maybe he was that balding guy with glasses sitting in front of me. I didn’t know what to expect and the anticipation was gnawing at me. What did a Stick Player look like? The only thing I had to go on was Tony Levin, the bald bottom-ender extrordinaire whose done more to popularize the Chapman Stick than any other musician with whom I'm aware.
It turned out to be the guitar-whiz / Dream Theatre-esque fellow with long, bushy brown hair. I couldn’t help the image that formed in my brain. You know the archetype: G.I.T alumnus / private teacher whose digital dexterity is only outdone by the flurry of notes (of almost indistiguishable dynamic) that spew from his chosen, top of the line instrument - proving yet again that the musical instrument can be a useful aid in masturbation. A sinking feeling came over me. I hoped I was wrong.
Jibilian began a funky bass lick with his left hand followed by the treble strings tapped in unison with his right while Glass anchored the whole thing to reality with a battery of equally accomplished drumming. The rhythms morphed into polyrhythms of varying length and complexity then turned themselves inside-out until every modal path and chord inversion was exhausted in the course of seven compositions. And I mean composition, not song unfortunately; the type of progressive compositions that require herculean dexterity, stamina and discipline to reach the end of ... what seemed forever.
The second composition, “Galaxy Rodeo,” sounded supiciously similar to the technical acrobatics of Stu Hamm, involving many of the same country guitar-type licks, slides and yaws only on a stick instead of a bass. Jibilian was whipping off eight fingered arepeggios that could make even the most accomplished guitarist green with envy. Glass was locked in with him every step of the way, like a good dog who’d never abandon you when you in need.
The effect was dramatic in the beginning, just not enough to sustain the interest of a bar crowd. Not enough to make “Joe Bag-o-Donuts” tap his foot or sing along to the chorus (as these were all instrumental compositions he’d have a tough time anyway). In fact, the natives were getting a bit restless with all those notes flying about.
“This song’s called ‘Tango Tingo,’” Jibilian said politely.
“WE DON’T CARE! ” screamed a drunk from a nearby table. “STOP IT! I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE!” I think the fermentation in his brain couldn’t handle so many notes in one sitting (‘neither cast ye pearls before swine - lest a drunk mistake it for a beer nut). A bar is a real bad place for a recital.
Jibilian/Glass would be more suited to the Guitar Center demonstration crowd; Stick-curious peeping toms who can’t wait to get home and flaggelate their strings with a few polyrhythms of their own. There’s a limited audience for such things, but at least there’s an audience which is more than you can say for most of Detroit’s musical fare.
Don’t get me wrong, Gary Jibilian and Todd Glass are both top-flight musicians which are always a pleasure to watch and who are at least attempting to push the musical envelope; a breath of fresh air in an era choking on assimilation and mediocrity. We should all be so brave when considering our own creations.
But they are no King Crimson. Even Robert Fripp knew that Adrian Belew was a necessary addition to pad the crafty angularity of their music for a wider audience. Until Jibilian/Glass marry their technical wizardry with good ‘ole fashioned songwriting they will remain, at best, a musical curiosity for the initiated or at the very least local torch-bearers for the NS/Stick.
But it’s only their first gig as an instrumental duo and even Jibilian admits they’ve ‘only scratched the surface’. Let’s hope, for all our sake, that Jibilian/Glass doesn’t remain stalled in the spectacle of thier own technique because the result could be something really special.
Violet Skin
Shortly after Jibilian/Glass exited to appreciative applause (and the grateful rantings of at least one drunk), Grrl band Violet Skin took over.
While the grrls seemed musically competent, the mix at the I-Rock was doing them no favors; the timbres of the guitars seemed mushed together and the subtle dynamics of vocalist Katie Janness were lost in a wall of electric pulp. I don’t know whether to blame it on the band, the bar, or where I was sitting but the end result was uncomplimentary.
And It didn’t help that the three quarters of the band were stiff as wedding-night virgins; the bassist and rhythm guitarist appeared bored as wood and Janness' self-conscious and sedated. There’s a fine line between understated attitude and pallid indifference; the former results in charismatic charm, the latter is just plain tiresome to watch.
What stood out in Violet Skin was the virile percussive attack of drummer Angie Kaiser. Her rhythmic pounding and athletic stamina were exceptional; I’m guessing the result of years of punk labor in the Detroit trenches. Angie could hold her package in the presence of any drummer I’ve seen in the area. And all this built into a frame that might be five-foot tall on the vey best of days. Who’d have thunk it? A tempest from a teapot.
Although finding a hook in Violet Skin’s set was harder than sucking a clam through the shell with your hands tied behind your back, a song I believed was called “Pez” made a bounding departure from the moody grrl rock that dominated the set. Suddenly every member of the band was present and breaking it down. This song had a rousing effect on the musicians as well as the crowd who finally took notice.
If Violet Skin is able to further harness the power of the subtle dynamics in both their sound and their stage show it would be far more entertaining for everybody.
-30-
E.P.