Excepter + Infinity Window at Glasslands
There was a woman who was about 40, tan, well-dressed in a leather jacket and shiny earrings, and standing with a few officious-looking men—also in leather jackets—on the curb outside The Glasslands Gallery in Williamsburg. “Oh, let’s go get a drink,” she sighed as if they just stumbled on the place. That's hard to believe because it’s not exactly the kind of place you stumble on: an unmarked building on a semi-deserted block (despite the outcry of Williamsburg development, there are still semi-deserted blocks at night), only noticeable for the homogenous and uniformly handsome clientele of flannel-clad and ripped-blouse youth murmuring over cigarettes outside. If you’re in front of Glasslands during a show but not part of the audience, then there’s a good chance you’re either injured, lost, committed crimes, or a livery cab driver.
The space—it’s definitely a “space,” not a “venue”—has gotten nicer over the past few months. Inside, it looks like its patrons' outfits: eye-catching, asymmetrical, and a little palimpsestic; some exposed brick walls, some exposed concrete walls, some painted concrete walls, and some wood-looking walls. It’s considered, but appears haphazard.The performers on Saturday night—Excepter, Infinity Window, Stellar Om Source, and Mark McGuire (of Emeralds)—all play indistinct, vibes-oriented, semi-improvisational music that, in the right setting, can be thrilling. Most of the crowd, however, seemed content to talk loudly through the entirety of each set. Admittedly, this happens at a lot of shows. But volatile music demands symbiosis with an audience, and it’s evidently (and understandably) tough for these bands to have a great trip if the crowd isn’t going with them. It’s like going through the motions while praying.
The sourness was exacerbated by the fact that this was a Brooklyn crowd, which talked over bands that were either from Brooklyn (Excepter and Infinity Window) or tied to the scene. Sometimes, the feeling in the room bordered on gross. (Guy to bartender: “Can I get a Shock Top?” Bartender: “Sure.” [Bartender pours beer and puts the cup in front of Cute Girl.] Cute Girl: “I didn’t order that.” Bartender: “Oh, sorry, yeah, I was pouring this for him but I was thinking about you.”)
But the musicians persevered. First up was Excepter, whose greatest feat—and it really is a great feat—is to sound like a band trying to make music but not actually making it. Most people have some kind of primal musical mechanism—even if they clap on the wrong beat, they clap on some beat. So hearing six people play musical instruments for an hour without jelling is a remarkable suppression of instinct and a display of restraint. There were times you could see one of the members about to get into the groove and then actually stop, because grooving professionally is not part of the band's agenda. In that sense, Excepter is a weird kind of comedy and protest band—a band very aware of the bullshit involved in making music and borderline antisocial in its fight against it. Some moments were magic—instantaneous, vanishing, and impossible to describe. But the more discrete elements of the group's set are still worth mentioning: There aren’t many bands that can suggest g-funk while one of the members is actually hitting a large branch with a tambourine.
Infinity Window, a two-man, two-synthesizer group from Brooklyn, is part of an insular scene given to heady, dark new-age. Its music is all about the immersive qualities of unbroken sound—music that blurs. There’s something passively ominous about it—like waking up in the middle of the night feeling submerged and disoriented—and it's not a negative feeling but not too comforting either. There’s something odd about seeing stuff so inert performed live. It's worth hearing loud, for sure, but it's almost antithetical or too public.
Stellar Om Source—a Dutch woman standing behind a compact rig of gadgets—went onstage at about 1:30 a.m., played a brief, pretty, and forgettable set, and then, for reasons nobody seemed to understand nor particularly object to, turned on a chintzy techno beat and start dancing onstage. At that point a woman who introduced herself as “one of the owners” invited everyone to take a shot of vodka, which most people did, and then signaled the DJ to play some commercial hip-hop, which was a startling and effective palate-cleanser after nearly three hours of funk-less music. There were about 15 people there, and the vibe finally felt right.
