By Tom Lynch

Credit: Stephen Salyer

Local chamber pop group Singing in the Abbey successfully pours minimalist classical piano through an alt-pop filter. The result, moody and at times even gothic, is a soundtrack to shadows in an old castle—Annie Higgins’ deep vocals and piano playing are surrounded by a string section and scattered percussion as the melodies dip and weave. The release of the band’s debut record, “Wake Up, Sardis!” is celebrated this Thursday at Subterranean, a room that, especially with its balcony, seems fit for this sort of haunting. “Thom Yorke and Julie Andrews’ bastard child,” the band describes itself, and if that’s not enough to get your interest piqued I don’t know what is.

“My intention was not to form a band, it mainly was to get these songs layered with strings,” Higgins says of the record, which is nearly four years in the making. “From the beginning the vision was, I guess, I started out wanting to layer the paino with the strings, but as I spend time with the girls, it became about what their individual strengths were. Arrangements-wise, it became less of them trying to support the piano and more [towards] the strings having their own individual identity. Musically, you want to work with that—highlight what they’re doing, instead of focusing them as a support of what you’re doing.” Read the rest of this entry »

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People have traditions, and certainly this local band has theirs, once again heading home for their annual year-end hometown jam during a three-day Chicago residence at The Vic Theatre and The Aragon Ballroom. Though Umphrey’s McGee have much in common with other groups within the jam-band community (ever-changing set lists, open-taping policies), the music they make clearly comes from a somewhat different place—instead of simply being Dead or Phish copycats, they seem to borrow from more progressive sounds, 1960s rock and jazz. An example of this is the inclusion of Vince Guaraldi’s iconic “Linus and Lucy” among the handful of covers included on their sets. Well over a decade into their careers the band has evolved into an accomplished group with incredible musical chops. They never stopped including covers on their setlist—favorites include guitar-heavy version of The Beatles’ “I Am The Walrus” and The Who’s “Baba O’ Riley” with recognizable elements from the original recordings while also showcasing the band’s improvisational skills, which in their case comes in spades. (Ernest Barteldes)

Aragon Ballroom (with Prefuse 73), 1106 West Lawrence, (773)561-9500. $65.

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It might seem odd that an Ohio-based jam band would repeatedly be invited to perform in reggae-obsessed Negril, Jamaica. However, upon hearingEkoostic Hookah’s psychedelic improvisational music, one immediately gets it. After all, the sound they make goes perfectly with the inexpensive ganja most visitors, er, sample during visits to the small Caribbean nation that gave us Peter Tosh and Bob Marley—who incidentally both advocated legalizing cannabis in their native land. Formed in 1991 by vocalist/keyboardist Dave Katz, guitarist Steve Sweney, bassist Cliff Starbuck, guitarist/vocalist John Mullins and drummer Eric Lanese (who joined in ‘93) after jamming together at open-mic nights, Ekoostic Hookah has become one of the most beloved bands in the national jam-band scene. They set themselves apart from the fray with their carefully arranged three-part harmonies and very open mind when it comes to music: in their sets you get a little bit of everything, ranging from jazz, folk music and lots of experimentation. (Ernest Barteldes)

December 12, Martyrs’, 3855 N. Lincoln, (773)404-9494, at 10pm. $15.

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What genre could you fit these serial-festival-participants into? Simply calling them an instrumental jam band wouldn’t do, as they do keep a tight structure to their music while allowing a lot of improvisation to happen during their packed live sets (which, by the way, fans are free to record, trade and post online as long as no money changes hands). Are they an electronic band? Maybe, unless you notice their strong jazz-funk tendencies. Regardless if you can place them in a niche or not, the fact is that they are highly eclectic artists—their music could easily be played in a dance club (an example of this is “Bellwether,” a tune played around a vocoder and plenty of guitar), a trendy lounge or even a more upscale jazz club. But the real thrill is to catch them live—especially if you are lucky enough to catch one of their “thematic gigs,” like the time they dressed up to resemble rock stars who died at 27 (Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain) for a show called “The 27 Conspiracy,” which featured reworked covers of Nirvana, The Doors and The Jimi Hendrix Experience. (Ernest Barteldes)

November 27 at The Vic Theatre, 3145 N. Sheffield, (773)472-0366. $21-$24

There are plenty of elements of the stereotypical rock ‘n’ roll ethos that are easy to be completely enamored with: indifference or disdain towards social norms, painful/sweaty stage moves, the abundance of poorly groomed facial hair. But it’s the three elements that I have a negative reaction to—mainly the love affair with marijuana, the extended blues-rock jamming and the windbag for a lead singer—that manifest themselves front and center in The Black Crowes. Something about Chris Robinson strutting around the stage, boasting the most unremarkable voice in music, really pisses me off, as does the process of enduring the band chugging through some generic Stones retread while parading the same-old bluesy riffs as if its fans are really going to have their minds blown hearing them for 900th time. Technical proficiency isn’t The Crowes problem—it’s that, for a supposed soul-rock band, the band is soulless and vapid, fronted by someone who’s still pushing the antiquated stoner-rock persona and who looks more and more like Jason Lee from “Almost Famous” every day. Pass. (Andy Seifert)

November 6 at Riviera Theatre, Broadway and Lawrence, (773)275-6800, at 8pm. $41.50

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The best band at my high school was a stoner blues-rock band by the name of The Lopez 5 (the band’s original name was The Jawa Quintet, but the fellas decided to change it amid hilariously irrational fears that George Lucas would sue them), and one of my most vivid memories is when the band’s lead singer lent a jacket to me for gym class on a damp, cool day and I ended up smelling like patchouli for weeks. Like the jacket, psychedelic blues-rock of the kind Dead Meadow continues to trot out just feels warm to clothe yourself with every once in a while. The D.C. power trio has made a career out of drug-influenced jams and a steady diet of classic-rock riffs, like a Black Sabbath record buried underneath layers of reverb and THC. The band’s last record, “Old Growth,” was more of the same dense instrumentation and strangely sleepy concentration that have defined the band’s career, and despite outward lethargy, there’s a deep, murky, serious element to Jason Simon’s melodies. Dead Meadow proves that jam rock doesn’t have to be a self-righteous drudgery; if they’re perfected and beloved, hard rock riffs and wah-wah grooves—like that awful smell of patchouli that’s forever entwined with stoner rock—can be oh-so-homey. (Andy Seifert)

September 5 at Empty Bottle, 1035 N. Western, (773)276-3600, at 10pm. $8-$12.

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Classic rock retreads aren’t exactly bursting at the seams these days, and even the ones that do have an impenetrable layer of cool to deal with (ahem, Jack White, ahem). But at least we’ve got Portland psych-rock act Viva Voce, a band that takes compelling yet simple riffs, beats and melodies, and layers them to construct a world that’s dense, familiar and fun to digest. The creation of husband/wife duo Anita and Kevin Robinson, Viva Voce’s catalogue sounds carefully crafted one step at a time, each part lovingly produced within the Robinson homestead and able to perfectly mesh with one another, as if, for example, the squealing guitar and the encompassing auxiliary percussion were oh-so in love with each other. But Viva Voce’s mostly a lesson in the appeal of simplicity contrasted with eccentricities. Anita’s solos take you back to some of the blues-rock masters of the past (I was immediately reminded of my 52-year-old Clapton-adoring guitar teacher), and while it wouldn’t take a virtuoso to replicate her riffs, she’s undeniably effective amidst the ever-changing soundscape. Her axe becomes the common narrator in a series of weird, offbeat experiments, unafraid to change its voice as it introduces us to another track. (Andy Seifert)

May 29 at Empty Bottle, 1035 N. Western, (773)276-3600, at 10pm. $12.

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Though this Pittsburgh-based jam band no longer keeps the heavy touring schedule it used to after its inception in the late 1980s (mostly due to their members’ successful solo projects), Rusted Root continues to regularly record and perform to their diehard fans, who call themselves Rootheads—a clear reference to The Grateful Dead, who were Rusted Root’s initial influence in the early days. The band has been accused of “selling out” by hardcore jam-band fans since the release of the more pop-flavored “Welcome To My Party” (2002), an assertion that it has basically rejected. Instead, it prefers to take on influences from African drumming, Native American and Latin music and other sounds. As the band explains on the “sounds like” section of its MySpace page, “we never could figure this one out. you tell us and we’ll put it up here”—which pretty much sums up what these musicians are all about. (Ernest Barteldes)

April 10 at Cubby Bear, 1059 W. Addison, (773)327-1662.

This is what happens when no one’s looking and the children get under the sink. A contrarian response to the substantially acclaimed isn’t so uncommon amongst the masses—plenty of people ponder “What’s the big deal?” with Arcade Fire, Deerhunter, even Radiohead—but you wouldn’t believe the uniform response I get when I voice how I dislike avant-garde pop unit Animal Collective. “You just don’t get it,” my friends will say, often followed by “I thought more of you.” “I really thought you would like it, I’m a little disappointed,” one recently said to me. “Fuck you,” was offered once. I’m exaggerating (no I’m not), but you would think after the widespread love explosion following the (official) release of AC’s new—after much publicized leaking—“Merriweather Post Pavilion” any and all detractors would be put to death, publicly stoned with different sizes of bongos. The band’s ninth full-length record—I think it’s number nine, I don’t really care—expands further on the experimental, freak-folky psychedelia with more electronic bits and pieces and various vocal harmonies, essentially adapting “Pet Sounds” (like that’s a big fucking surprise) for the new millennium. Listen, I first got into indie rock in high school in an effort avoid musical “community” and dickfaced drum circles rooted in optimism, and I certainly don’t have any interest in a pairing of the two, and honestly, nor should anyone else. Most hipsters are terribly annoying—those who close their eyes and bob their heads to an assemblage of empty, meaningless noise as part of a “cathartic” and “unifying” experience take it to a new level of hopelessness. (I can think of one kind of Panda Bear I wouldn’t mind succumbing to extinction, har har har. I’m awesome.) Am I nauseated by the scene more than the actual music? Sure, but the music’s not too far from catching up, and that doesn’t matter anyway, because while I used to not hold the band itself accountable for its fans, now, with Animal Collective’s persistence, you pretty much have to. But while “Merriweather Post Pavilion” is the most tolerable thing the band has excreted thus far, nothing Animal Collective ever compiled has struck me as anything more than masturbatory drivel that’s rooted in laziness and self-obsession. I find AC’s breadth of work (work?) boring, sure, but more than anything else, I’m depressed by it, irritated by the creators’ prolific nature and apparent determination to end most of my friendships. The music doesn’t seem present enough for me to actually be offended by it—this isn’t Creed—but if I wanted to hear the sound of someone jerking off into a toilet bowl, I’d just go do it myself and get on with my miserable, pathetic winters day. (Tom Lynch)

January 22 at Metro, 3730 N. Clark, (773)549-0203

Philadelphia trance-fusion jam quartet Disco Biscuits came upon an epiphany one day, presumably in the midst of a bowl that would change stoner rock forever: dude, we’ve got this whole jam band thing down, why not add, like, some electronic noises and bleeps and stuff like that. And voila, a new genre was born—“livetronica,” it was called, otherwise known as “jamtronica,” or, as far as I’m concerned, “shit-tronica.” With legions of diehard, deadhead-loving fans, Disco Biscuits (or the “Bisco”) has apparently persuaded hordes of jam-band lovers that the merging of a few electonica elements with prog-rock’s tried and true formula of twenty minute jam sessions of mind-numbingly boring bass grooves and overly-repetitive jazz riffs merits a new genre. The only thing the Biscuits truly merit—and this applies to a majority of the band’s frat-rock brethren—are a couple of Tylenols or an extremely stiff drink. (Andy Seifert)

January 24 at Congress Theater, 2135 N. Milwaukee, (312)458-9668