The Bowery Presents
The Kills

The Kills

Algiers

Fri, July 21, 2017

Doors: 8:00 pm / Show: 9:00 pm

Brooklyn Steel

Brooklyn, NY

$35

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This event is 16 and over

The Kills
The Kills
Over their almost decade-and-a-half career, multi-faceted rock minimalists The Kills have released only four records, each one a restless, reckless enigmatic art statement that bristled with tension, anxiety, sex, unstudied cool and winking ennui. Yet not one of them sounded like the previous one. "In an effort to not repeat ourselves, the path of least resistance has never been ours. Change is uneasy. Art should be uneasy," says Alison Mosshart, sitting at a long wooden table in her rented house above Los Angeles' Griffith Park, where she's been residing for a month, right next door to her musical partner Jamie Hince.

This is where the two friends-cum-soulmates finished their long-awaited fifth album, 'Ash & Ice,' due for release June 3, 2016 (Domino). Unlike earlier albums, which have largely been written and recorded at Key Club Studio in Benton Harbor, Michigan, this one had a rather vagabond, as well as protracted, existence with the main bulk of recording taking place in a rented house in LA (using both Key Club's and Jamie's own mobile units) and at the world famous Electric Lady Studios in NYC. Begun three years ago, the project was derailed when Hince broke a finger. The first doctor he saw gave him a shot of cortisone, which caused a painful reaction giving the guitarist sleepless nights, undue misery and the loss of a tendon in his hand. "He couldn't play guitar," Mosshart says, "He began buying all these funny instruments that you would only need one hand to play." But the idea that he would never play again was unendurable, and Hince consulted another doctor. Five operations later, with time out for rehabilitation, Hince was ready to get back to work, but only after learning how to play guitar in a way that didn't include the previously important finger. It was during the guitarist's 18 month long recuperation that he first starting sketching out what would become the songs for the album, including the song that gave the album its title.

"One of the first songs that he brought for the record was called 'Ash & Ice,' and we loved the title," Mosshart says. "I guess he was sitting at some bar or some party or someone's house, people were ashing into a glass of ice, that end of the night thing." In Hince's recollection, he was the ash-icer. "I had a drink, and I just threw my cigarette in this glass of ice, and it was just as simple as that. I liked the idea of it being these two opposite souls. I liked it being the idea of someone with a joint in one hand and a drink in the other." Mosshart likes the connotations as well. "I loved it because it's opposing ideas, because it's black and white and hot and cold and all these things. It is all sides of everything and at the end of it, maybe it's nothing but a memory, a cigarette in a glass of ice." The song itself underwent a change of title, to "Let it Drop" but the name remained for the album title.

Mosshart for her part didn't languish during her partner's recovery from surgery. She made a record with The Dead Weather, her side band with Jack White, as well as doing some serious painting. She'd always been painting backstage while The Kills were on tour -- the prerequisite was it had to fit into her suitcase. But after moving to Nashville a few years ago, she moved into a formal studio space, which allowed her to work on bigger canvases, leading to her first solo show at New York's Joseph Gross Gallery last summer. Titled "Fire Power," it featured 127 paintings, drawings, mixed media, and tapestries. That was not to say she ignored the band. During the past few years she admits to having penned somewhere around 120 songs. But writing has never been a problem for Mosshart, who composes quickly and fearlessly, rarely overthinking, just letting the songs move through her, inspired by an overheard conversation, a mood, a person, or just the sound her turn indicator makes while she is guiding her muscle car through traffic. What takes the most time is writing separately and turning it into a cohesive whole. Mosshart expounds, "If 'Ash & Ice' were a painting, it would be incredibly complex. It would be one that looked like it had been painted over and over and over and over. It would be so thick off the wall, it would be coming through the frame."

Explaining their unique and often-misinterpreted relationship, Hince says, "I still get this feeling that it's us against the world. I would take a bullet for that girl. I think she's absolutely fantastic, and I have no friendship like that with anyone else. When she has a passion for something it's just all or nothing. And I absolutely love that. We're creative and driven, and we're also competitive, and I think that's important as well. We're like two little fascists trying to be communists....I think we have mostly a healthy competitiveness. Sometimes we've fallen out over things. Sometimes you have to really struggle with somebody to get to where you're meant to be. I think in music you've got to be really careful about trying to get along. Compromise is the biggest enemy of any artist, and working in synchronicity is disastrous to a creative endeavor."

"I wouldn't say we fight actually," counters Mosshart. "It's like creative fighting. My songs will be so different than what he's coming up with, and The Kills is really the combination of those two things. That makes it really interesting to us."

They say that a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, and in this case it began with a 6000-mile train trip. To shake up his writing process, Hince decided to book a trip on the infamous Trans-Siberian Express, crossing seven time zones.
"I wanted to go away somewhere on my own and find out what I had in me. I just took my guitar, all my notebooks and a camera. The first thing I wrote was 'Siberian Nights.' I had this vision of the record being this icy, paranoid record as I was traveling through Siberia. But the rest of the songs are more about the emotion, the struggle."

Which is very rare for The Kills. Earlier albums had an air of detachment, an emotional austerity or just a psychic ambivalence about feelings, underpinned by an uneasy self-awareness and a seething, unexpressed anger. The 13 songs on 'Ash & Ice' are more understated, less tempestuous and more affecting because of that, exposing the kind of push-pull you feel when you find yourself in a complicated but all-consuming relationship. "I'm really quite a private person that's found himself in this public world. But I felt this time I had to really lay myself on the line and be vulnerable when I was writing. I certainly didn't want to lay my heart on the line in songs, but the floodgates opened up in me anyway."

As the recording continued, at Jamie's rental house in Los Angeles and then at Electric Lady in Manhattan, the band found the whittling down and perfecting of ideas to be the most complex part of the creative process. Mosshart explains, "A record really is a result of changing ideas over time. To get to one place that's cohesive, and a lot happens from the beginning to the end. When we started this record, all of the songs that I had that I thought were going to be on that, they're buried under a sea of a hundred other songs, but they're all part of it. That's the stuff you don't see. That's what's underneath. Getting to that place and getting your writing up to scratch and your ideas to change. At the end you have the thing, which is this flat disc that just seems so simple to everyone who holds it in their hand or plays it, and they don't have to hear the background noise. And that's fantastic, because that's the magic."

'Ash & Ice,' the resulting 'flat disc' is, says Hince, "the most forward thinking record we've ever tried to make." From the Trans Siberian Railway to the hills of Hollywood and to New York City via London and Nashville, The Kills' epic sonic journey meant discarding not just earlier material but also their own ideas on what it means to be a guitar band. There is a sense with both of them, that the two people who began this album weren't the same as the two that finished it. Hince concludes, "It's a not a retrospective, throwback album by any means. In fact, if anything it's running away from the past. It's a record of now and it's a record for the future."

Jaan Uhelski
February 2016
Algiers
Algiers
In the dark times,
Will there be singing?
Yes, there will be singing,
About the dark times. (Bertolt Brecht)

We won't be led to slaughter.
This is self-genocide.
It's the hand of the people that's getting tenser now,
And when we rise up... (Algiers)

This is the musical response that dark times demand, one that not only shakes its fist but deploys it. Locally-informed global citizens, Algiers refuse to sit idly by while most contemporary artists appear perfectly content to sit out the revolution. Not only do Algiers harbor a purposeful sense of obligation in what they do on their latest resistance record The Underside Of Power, but they recognize the roots and thorns of precedent in said resistance.

"This album was recorded in a political environment that collapses the late 70s economic crisis and the looming onslaught of arch-conservative neoliberalism, via Thatcher and Reagan, into the late 1930s, a world riven by fascist nationalism and white power fantasies in the US and abroad," says bassist Ryan Mahan. Their shared experiences and collective understanding of this rising tide of sinister politics compels them to make music together, to combat the potentially crippling waves of frustration and despair to let out a soulful roar, a call-to-action set to an eclectic, positively electric beat.

The inclination to do otherwise is one worth fighting. Take Algiers frontman Franklin James Fisher, for example. Writing incendiary and even beauteous lyrics from inside a Manhattan nightclub's coat check room, enduring the same damn songs thumping away nightly in the next room for the pleasures of a predominantly white audience, he tends to see the bigger picture as well as its pointillistic details.

"This nightclub is every nightclub in the world, basically. Whatever is being played there, whatever is happening there is happening everywhere else in the world," he says. "It's as if the entire history of music is boiled down to these fifteen artists -- and I use the term loosely," he says with an exasperated, dismissive sneer. With the world burning outside, a generation's obliviously privileged dances to a carbon copied soundtrack.

It speaks volumes that a black man in America with an expensive Master's degree -- and all its overwhelming personal debt -- finds himself picking up shifts at such a place that literally manifests the culture industry's exploitation and commodification of black experience. An aptly unjust fate, Fisher is confined to an enclosed space while others move their feet freely mere steps away from him. "You have to find ways of getting through it without completely losing your mind. Luckily I'm able to escape inside my own head."

Fortunately, the multiracial quartet Algiers provides more than mere distraction, but rather a revelatory creative release and wholesale rejection of the globally normative corporate playlist culture. Poke at the seasoned members' bruised flesh, and out come wafting touchpoints as disparate and intriguing as Big Black, Wendy Carlos, John Carpenter, Cybotron, The Four Tops, Portishead, Public Image Limited, Steve Reich, and Nina Simone, to name but a few. Deep echoes of Black Lives Matter and its 20th century forbears gather, surge, and subside in their often soulful work, a form of principled, acute dissent more interested in learning from the past than in evoking nostalgia.

The variety of locales in which the band recorded the genre-resistant The Underside Of Power echoes their present state of diaspora, as a multinational musical cabal with no more than two members living in the same city simultaneously. The group's virtual homelessness exposes them, collectively and individually, to the codified injustices of creeping fascism, the compounding plain-sight provocations of Britain's xenophobia and Trump's America.

"Brexit and the US election taking place at the beginning and towards the end of the process definitely shaped it for better or for worse," says guitarist Lee Tesche.

And while many artists seem uninterested or even afraid to fully engage with these potent topics in song, Algiers has zero qualms about taking a direct approach. "We're fortunate enough now where we're able to openly talk about racist, violent police and murderous state structures," says Mahan. "When we were growing up in the South, these critiques of class and race oppression were largely and sometimes violently suppressed. It's why we take inspiration from the Panthers or the Chicano movement, to name two."

Furthermore, the lack of a singular geographic base of operations only seems to creatively embolden Algiers, who've adapted in brave new ways musically. "Being separate and still wanting to write forced us to really get to grips with modern technology, to bend it to our will," says Mahan. That doesn't mean geography is not important to Algiers. As the band's very name more than implies, they are inspired by the Algerian city at the center of a struggle to overthrow its occupiers, a symbol of dignity and resistance to oppressed people everywhere.

Adding to this Casbah rocking mix of ideas is the relatively recent inclusion of drummer Matt Tong, formerly of Bloc Party. Joining the group for the touring cycle following their prior album, he'd spent time gelling with the original trio as a core component of their simply ferocious live sets to understand and help shape the dynamic. "I was very conscious of being the new guy, working out how to augment the emerging compositions without distracting from them," he says. For a band that seems to revel and thrive in flux, Tong's substantial role in the making of The Underside Of Power worked out well. "For me, what it is to work as a musician has changed drastically since I first started out and Algiers has shown me that there is still so much to master."

Beyond the technical necessities living their respective lives both in and outside of music, Algiers' continued deviation from a more traditional band approach created a more versatile sound, one that better incorporates a collective and respective panoply of influences and styles. "We were determined to push our sound even further than before -- weirder, gentler, catchier, noisier, groovier -- and had hope that we could somehow translate our live energy to record," says Tesche.

Some of this is informed by their choice of collaborators in this process, a crew that includes Adrian Utley [Portishead], Ben Greenberg [Uniform, The Men], Randall Dunn [Sunn 0)))], among others. Pick any track off The Underside of Power and the reference points expand exponentially, a dizzying and thrilling Recommended-If-You-Like list that would consume a series of afternoons.

Featuring a fully-sanctioned sample of slain Black Panther Fred Hampton, the revolutionary "Walk Like A Panther" presents an alternate reality where Adrian Sherwood produced Yeezus instead of Rick Rubin, with Fisher bellowing justifiable threats over a storm of formidable sonics. "Death March" fuses post-punk primacy to the Italo-horror tradition, in an effort to mirror a looming and perpetual sense of modern dread. Elsewhere, the raucous "Cleveland" turns into a full-on demonstration, with names of victims of institutionally sanctioned racial violence like Sandra Bland and Tamir Rice invoked over a neck-snapping electro beat.

The dangerously poppy title track finds a glorious midpoint between Suicide and The Temptations, making for the catchiest expression of outrage this side of the '70s. A molotov cocktail of a single, that particular song represents a potential paradox for Algiers, the maintaining of a renegade righteousness in the midst of a peppy soul tune. "It's more important than ever in this particular time, but it's something we've never shied away from," says Tesche.

The band doesn't concern themselves with that risk. "No matter what your messaging is, you can't control what people will or won't take away from it," says Mahan. "The only thing you can do is put stuff of substance out there."

-Gary Suarez, April 2017
Venue Information:
Brooklyn Steel
319 Frost Street
Brooklyn, NY, 11222