By Annie Messier
So last night Husband and I headed to Local 121 to see what a “listening party with Tim O’Keefe” and a “live set with the Cosy Collective” was. The basement’s air conditioning felt delicious after the heat of the bar upstairs, but although the DJ was laying down great beats, it looked like a seventh-grade dance: dark, empty floor, a handful of women on one side giggling, and a few guys hanging out by an untended bar. Ahh, but it was only 10:30. We headed upstairs and drank more until the whole bar seemed to get some kind of telepathic message to head back downstairs. Then the fun started. The beat increased, four guys picked up a mix of toys (saxophone, a flute, a bass, and an assortment of electronic goodies with sometimes a guitar), and we were swept up in joy. The world disappeared, displaced by groove. The bass and beats were everywhere, swirling around our heads, rising under our feet. The four guys jammed away, adding layer upon layer like icing on a cake. It was alternately smooth and startling (in a good way), and the foursome showed good chemistry as they each forged their own paths and then met on the next plane (sort of like when you’re ending a yoga class and all chant “om,” starting out in about 18 different keys but ending in one incredible, conjoined harmony). I don’t know much about music, but it seemed to be a mishmash of jazz, psychedelic ambient, blues, groove and general Brian Eno-esque abstractedness. Husband turned to me at one point and joked, “we should have smoked first!” But we wouldn’t have needed the enhancement; it was all laid out for us.
We didn’t stay for the whole show, though, because Cosy Collective took one painful turn that made me feel like we were inside the engine of a Boeing. Everyone else was still enjoying it, but I was taken back 15 years to Sonic Youth, when they’d follow great songs with 40 minutes of feedback. Everyone else would be ecstatic, and I’d be like, “Dammit! When is that sound guy going to fix this!” My delicate ears don’t have the stamina for that much amp, so I convinced Husband to ditch the jam to see what was happening at Trinity Brewhouse. I do want to tell Cosy Collective that it’s not you, it’s me. You were great. Really. I even ran into Gordon Fox at your show (not in the “Hey, how are you?” sense. More like the “Excuse me, miss, I think your elbow is in my drink” sense. But still. How cool is it that the House Majority Leader digs your jam?).
Trinity was the opposite temperature-wise: air conditioned upstairs and quite steamy in the basement. A group called Low Anthem was playing, and damn, they were good too. They were mainly mellow, folksy even, with well-pitched, honest lyrics. The lead singer has a wonderful voice (can I say “pretty”?) that ranged from Nick Drake to Chris Smither and the music was both melodious and moody; bluesy, maybe. I remember liking the lyrics, even finding some of the stories haunting, like Richard Shindell songs. We were invited to share the image of a cigarette leading into a lover’s mouth; the details of a note on the dresser; a young man struggling with war, family and love. Great stuff.
We scooted as soon as the set ended, though. We were sweating our butts off, packed like sardines amid folks who kept screaming in each others’ ears, “It’s #$%^ crowded in here!”. But I’d been tickled to see Michael Moore handling Low Anthem’s sound. I’ll be enjoying his great guitar work with fabulous band ‘the ‘Mericans at the same venue on Friday. I’ll just have to remember to drink more water first.

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