If the words Crossing Brooklyn Ferry were thrown into a friendly conversation, many would think of the timeless Whitman poem that illuminated a common human condition through the guise of a ferry trip. But Aaron and Bryce Dessner’s recent collaboration with the Brooklyn Academy of Music in a three-night independent music festival has birthed a fresh new meaning for that three-word title, this time bringing to mind a communal music experience within the framework of BAM’s century-old Peter Jay Sharp Building.
Over the course of three evenings, the Dessner’s fashioned an audible “tasting menu” that ranged from experimental chamber music to tried-and-true indie rock fixtures. Names like Sharon Van Etten, St. Vincent, and Beirut sparkled off the lineup page like the McRib on a McDonald’s Menu board. It was an event that promised excitement and novel sounds, but one question remained: How would BAM fare as a venue for a festival like this? How would a location known for avant garde theater and arthouse film deal with a scenario most often relegated to detached outdoor locations, where intoxicated youths are never too far from dropping beers or dropping trou’?
The answer was given as I made my way through the facade of the Lafayette Avenue institution on Thursday evening. A very helpful attendant greeted me in the doorway, directing me to where I could get my neon-red all access band, and when the adhesive tabs were joined and a lineup card placed in my hand, decisions became simple: left door, right door, or escalator? Left for the cinemas, right for the opera house, and escalator for the cafe. A simplicity of choice and overall ease of movement that made attending this festival like being in a six flags for flannel-wearing, NPR-listening adults. Going from performance to performance was as easy as going from room to room in a home, making the only concern whether or not to stop for that next Brooklyn Lager.
I began my immersion into Crossing Brooklyn Ferry with the selection of 9 short films being screened at BAMRose. The program was an interesting blend of narrative, DIY, and experimental filmmaking, and featured the work of some high-profile names such as Joseph Gordon-Levitt, Jonas Mekas, and Tunde Adebimpe of TVOTR. Su Friedrich’s Practice Makes Perfect and Michael Brown’s Mobile Part 4 stood out as the strongest offerings, Friedrich’s being an 11-minute short documentary looking into a West African drumming class at Brooklyn’s I.S. 292. The students in the film glow with youthful charm and enthusiasm for the drums, captivating the audience with their talented playing and humor. Mobile Part 4 on the other hand, screams experimental, being for the most part a visual collision of wooden sticks and string across a black background, with occasional interference by a bearded man. The mystery of what is being created drives the film forward until it is revealed that the mess of sticks and string is actually a mobile being constructed of natural and everyday items.
From the cinemas, it was only a short walk to the Howard Gilman Opera House where Sharon Van Etten was gearing up for her set. The singer, whom I had the pleasure of seeing in February, ran through a top-notch selection of tracks from her most recent release, Tramp, filling the in-between time with her playful and uniquely adorable wit. I was even more impressed when she scolded a rude, overly-obnoxious audience member with the words, “Hey, stop giving me shit.” Co-curator of Crossing Brooklyn Ferry and helpful fellow musician to Van Etten, Aaron Dessner, later joined her on stage.
The Walkmen followed up as the headliners of the opening night, performing a high-energy set of tunes from their upcoming May 29th release, Heaven, along with some classics. In their trademark business casual attire, the five-piece indie godfathers had the previously-tame audience jumping out of their seats with driving rhythms and static, ringing guitar riffs. Hamilton Leithauser’s yearning vocals had equal draw whether fronting a full band or riding on top of the mellow timbres of a solo, acoustic guitar, and when I left the theater my ears were blessed with that lingering buzz that one gets from a truly powerful, “knobs up to eleven” kind of performance.
I made an effort to come early Friday evening to get a taste of the happenings in the BAMCafe. I’d never been to the upstairs section and was pleasantly surprised by the mile-high ceilings and the lineup of massive, cathedral-esque round-top windows, creating an oasis of natural light in the late afternoon hours. And as the day turned to evening, its lighted arches and sparse, open spacing gave way to a deluge of inviting fluorescency. Ava Luna started off my listening in the Cafe with their fresh brand of intelligent R&B, blending soul-tinged vocals and grimy basslines with an emphasis on experimental arrangements and use of negative space. Sinkane, the new side project of Yeasayer’s Ahmed Gallab, followed with a lively set of afrocentric pop rock, doused in equal helpings of echo, wah wah, and tropical vibes.
In the Opera house, Tyondai Braxton presented some of the most eccentric dance music I’ve heard up to date; music that from my observation can only be described as “stream-of-consciousness electronica.” Sitting indian-style in front of his midi controller and sampling devices, the brooklyn-based composer/musician seemed endearingly childlike as he layered nondescript, occasionally non-melodious sounds over abstract, oddly-timed rhythms, creating musical palettes that were at times jarring but nonetheless mind-opening. The Antlers followed with a dose of atmospheric and ethereally-reverberated dream pop that seemed to be swimming out to the audience within a flood of blue light.
In an effort to hit every inch of the venue, I chose to sit in the balcony for the Friday headliner, St. Vincent – a decision I regret in hindsight. The stunningly talented performer came out guns blasting, performing high-octane versions of tracks from Actor and Strange Mercy and looking like the product of Barbie’s “under-the-rug” affair with Edward Scissorhands. Her voice, being sweet as silk, was brilliantly contrasted by her “rock through a mechanized meat-grinder” guitar tone and outlandish, almost robotic arrangements. This coupled with her mechanical backwards stutter-step during solos made Annie Clark look like the perfected bionic woman, capturing the best of what is both human and machine. Fritz Lang would be proud.
And I assume that you’re wondering why I regretted sitting in the balcony section? Look below and then put yourself in my shoes. Also, correct me if I’m wrong, but I think the guy behind St. Vincent in the second photo is acting funnily inappropriate.
I did not get to see as much as I would have liked on the final evening of Crossing Brooklyn Ferry, and I feel some sadness for missing the likes of Caveman, My Brightest Diamond, and the many other wonderful Saturday acts. But I did have the unique pleasure of watching the phenomenal Beirut close out the three-day show, and I’m not lying when I say that I’ve never seen a more fitting end.
There is an inherent melancholia in Zach Condon’s voice that nestles so perfectly within the sometimes weeping, sometimes soaring harmonized melodies of his brass accompaniment, spawning a quality and texture that entices nostalgia for a faraway city or place that you’ve actually never even been to. Coupling the brightness of Mariachi and Southwestern ethnic music with the slow-paced, reflectiveness of a funeral dirge, Beirut’s music effectively makes you a patron at a death procession for an entity that you can’t place or even comprehend.
Flooded with this inexplainable musically-inspired emotion, I associated my americanized version of “saudade” with the end of an exciting wave of fresh, live music. But like this often mistranslated Portuguese word, my “saudade” did not come without its necessary sprinkling of happiness; a happiness drawn from seeing a 150-year old New York cultural institution helping and welcoming the Brooklyn independent music scene into maturity, like a parent having that first beer with their growing child.
Words by Jon Mennella
Photo credits to Stephanie Berger, Rebecca Greenfield, and Mike Benigno
