By Carlos Detres

Stage of Studio B

The story begins in a building — a large building in Greenpoint called Studio B; cavernous, nearly empty, and there’s a girl who strums an acoustic guitar on a wide stage. She’s accompanied by another musician and he’s playing an electric guitar, picking strings, which howl discordantly from the speakers. Her name is Marie Sioux. She sings into the microphone from a seat, eyes closed, and she sounds like the wind if wind was composed of the elements of a voice box — all of these complex parts — but it isn’t the wind. It’s her voice and she carries her music sweetly. This is the first night of L Magazine’s Northside Festival. It’s like SXSW but it’s in north Brooklyn, comprising the refurbished neighborhoods of Williamsburg and Greenpoint.

It’s 2009 and I’m on assignment but it’s not for the Whiskey Dregs. In fact it’s for a music publication called Consequence of Sound. A camera hangs around my neck, rubbing against my press badge. I’m writing about this moment because CoS permitted me to republish my review in the Whiskey Dregs. In June of 2009, barely anyone would let us write about them. I never before fully explored this side of myself as a music reviewer and news contributor but writing for CoS taught me much so here I go.

The weather has held up despite some less than average cool temperatures. And it had been rainy. The press room on North 6th Street provided ambiance; the color green fell over the room from the Heineken adverts posted on the walls. There was free beer — free light Heineken beer that caught my taste buds just right.

I watched other press mill around, talking with each other. The Velvet Underground played from some ancient place in music history, now the soundtrack to this scene. Everyone seemed to know everyone else. I pretended to read from an issue of L Magazine, caressing my camera’s body. I was a stronger among photographers and writers, people well-versed in the music scene of Brooklyn. I couldn’t recognize many band names on the roster and only listed bands who’s provocative titles I wrote on a list of acts to review. This would eventually take me to many different venues throughout this region of Brooklyn; to back rooms of places like Spike Hill or Public Assembly, and the large gait of the Music Hall of Williamsburg.

My friend Mike caught up with me that Saturday. It was raining and I was inside Spike Hill, listening to the closing bars of Emmanuel and the Fear’s set. The rain had tempered my mood and I was feeling that dull lackluster one gets when alone for too long. I snapped photos unnecessarily just to have something to do then I jotted inane sentences into my notepad, hoping the words would inspire a brilliant story but nothing came of it. Instead I wrapped my hand around a can of PBR that had warmed from the heat of my clutches. I was glad to see the familiar face of my friend Mike, smiling; his face wet with rain.

With my demeanor already improved, we strolled around for a while, indifferent to the gray weather. Then we were in the press room, chugging on free beer. We met a couple of girls there, one who was hesitant to have her photo taken, the other was more affable. The friendlier of the two showed us her ID but the face didn’t match the one before us. They invited us to tacos and sangria. Mike and I found a press badge on the way to the restaurant. It was on the floor, wet, and the the first name was of the holder was also Mike. We wiped off the water and he looped the badge around his neck as the sun disappeared from view; entering into darkness.

The green press room on North 6th St.

The four of us drank a few glasses of sangria before I rushed to Union Pool to catch an act. Mike and the two girls would meet me there later. I rushed to the venue, forgetting where it was despite having been a regular about five years before. In my hurried walk, I was distracted by the going-ons in a square where a DJ was playing classic soul and R&B. People from different generations and races had convened, bringing coolers and lawn chairs and danced to the music. It infected me with sublime vibrations, which coursed through my bloodsteam, striking that part of my brain, and mingled with the alcohol until suddenly I found myself dancing with them.

Everyone was in high spirits in that green square. The act I was supposed to report was probably finishing his set at Union Pool but this was the real act. The smiling faces in the dark, infectious grooves reverberated between the surrounding red brick buildings, and envious gazers, trapped outside the small encircling black fence, curiously watched, too shy to join in.

When I found Union Pool, I walked inside a small room. Yellow Christmas lights hugged the edges of the stage, and a bearded man played on his acoustic rickety guitar, his name forgotten in that constellation of memories. He crooned, lulling us into a somber peace. I sat on the floor with his audience, trying to record into my notepad but my fingers and my pen couldn’t translate the dark wooden atmosphere or articulate the collective breathing of bodies, exhaling gratitude onto this lone man on the stage. By the time Mike and our new friends met up with me, I was in a different state. My shoulders had slacked too much to enjoy their company. I was quiet inside but I finished my beer and Mike and I departed from our new friends who we wouldn’t see again.

There was one more venue on my list to visit. Another writer from Consequence of Sound had already claimed the story but I had heard good things about Tune-Yards so I thought I should go in case the other reporter didn’t make it. Luckily she never showed. Mike got in without trouble. The girl at the front barely looked at his badge and waved him in. Glasslands is a great spot. It reminded me of one of those large artists loft spaces in Dumbo, with lovingly assembled carpentry and installation art placed on its walls. Even the bar looked makeshift. There was a second level, which provided a generous view of the stage. Mike and I got our beers and walked up the flight of stairs. We joked, enjoying our buzz until the lights dimmed.

The musician looked focus approaching center stage until she stopped in front of a drum; a ukulele in her hands. She didn’t say much into the mic. She began with a high pitch twang of her instrument, playing a melody and recording the loop into the pedal, which she joined with a stomping beat. I wondered, Who the hell is this? I prepared for boredom but then she began to wail. To anyone walking by, it may have hurt to hear this but being in that room, with her voice and galvanizing music. Mike and looked at each other, jaws open. Holy shit, she was good and by the end, this one-woman band controlled our bodies, grooving to her strange and unique misc; the stomping 4/4 on the floor beat — we all swirled.

Me on the left, Mike on the right just outside of the press room.

Mike and I caught up with Merrill (Tune-Yards) after the show. She was filling the trunk of her car with instruments and told us she had to drive to Canada the next morning, presumably for another gig. We exchanged information since I knew I had to somehow interview her for the Dregs. We were in contact for a while until she signed a one album deal with Beggar’s Banquet. A year later I saw her record in a shop in Williamsburg, polished and more pristine than the homemade copy I had bought from her the previous year. I liked my copy better.

There were a lot of great moments from this festival. A lot of reminders of why I love Brooklyn more than any other borough. The food, the music, the venues, the bars, the people — incomparable. It made me wish Brooklyn was still its own autonomous city; the underdog of its rival, Manhattan, just like its mythical baseball team that had moved west back in the ’50s. This feeling couldn’t have been better personified than by the last act of the festival at Public Assembly.

La Strada had just finished a fine set when I exchanged information with them for an interview when, from behind, a loud screaming guitar havocked the space. There they were…fucking hell, it was the Wild Yaks, guitars chugging and heavy drums blasting like firearms reserved for the coming of the Four Horsemen. I wasn’t sure if any of La Strada’s audience had expected this but the hair of the band’s guitarist flailed on top of his head and he was kicking and moving like a tornado fiesta of rock and roll. It was what I had been looking for — this dangerous musician winding the guitar chord around himself and striking through the audience in insane fervor. Goddam this is why i love Brooklyn. Its balls are always out there for everyone to see and the glitter of Manhattan is across the river where it should stay.

The article this post is based on is here.