A Book of Bells

Concert Reviews • Wednesday July 16th, 2008 • 12:00 am

All the identifying information for this show is cumbersome, and much more detailed than what is needed to post a goddamn letter. I even considered throwing in the zip code, for good measure. There is a reason for this, though. We need to add context to this event. Let us break it down, yes? A glossary of sorts:

Chicago, IL: A large Midwestern city, in both square miles and the average citizen’s waistline, due to the long winters and the meat-packing industry (industry accounts for city size, and both winters and sausages apply to waistlines).

Lincoln Square: A charming, somewhat Eastern European neighborhood on Chicago’s north side. It is both ‘charming’ and only ‘somewhat’ ethnic, as it has recently succumbed to yuppification. It is still a mainstay for Germans, Hungarians, and Slavic folk, but the butchers have removed the vivisected pig’s heads from the display windows, as they freak out the Starbucks clientele. They have, however, left up the endearing ropes of sausages as a paste of blood, entrails and possibly brains shoved into a translucent membrane of intestinal lining twisted at regular intervals like a balloon animal is still – somehow- ‘charming.’

Folk Festival/Old Town School of Music: Both Chicago institutions, the latter hosting the former. The Old Town is a venue, school, music store and concert promoter all rolled into one, famous for attracting international acts of note, as well as domestic performers of proven caliber.

Staff Stage: Like it sounds: if you both teach at Old Town and have your own musical project – a 100% correlation – you get to throw down your goods here.

All of this introductory fluff to introduce A Book of Bells, a name that they may not even retain, this being their debut performance. Let us not, however, confuse the newness of the outfit with inexperience – both Frank Rosaly and Toby Summerfield are monsters of the Chicago Indie/Jazz scene, poised to fill the void of Ken Vandermark and Don Caballero, should space ever be available in this relatively small, peculiar and exclusive sub-genres of the art-rock diaspora.

It is a day show, a festival atmosphere, albeit slightly smug – there are beers in plastic cups, but they are microbrewed IPA’s. There are strollers and activities for the kids, but they involve learning how to dance to 7/8 Bulgarian folk rhythms. There is no Budweiser, There are no generator-powered Moon Walks, there are no overflowing porta-potties. It is entirely un-punk-rock, and as I’m getting on a bit, I am totally okay with this.

Book of Bells is music crafted with me in mind, and so I shall unabashedly call it superb. It is math infected indie rock with a conscious nod to melody. The background wash, all strains of major scale pop sensibility, are shaken with vicious brain-spraining rhythmic vortexes, only to then spit the listener back out into the whirlpool, a temporary reprieve from dear Davy Jones, and it is a cerebral roller coaster. It’s accessible as well – the fact that Dorky Dads are dancing with their children along side this fully reigned wild mother fucking stallion of a band points to control and mastery- these guys manipulate their dymamics so cleanly, even babies from the 7/8 Bulgarian dance tent are wandering over to check it out.

The set is short – four songs only – but the crowd is pleased, and I am satisfied with this brief peek into what I hope evolves into albums, live recordings, whatever. This little bastard child born from an orgy of indie rock, jazz, math and melody deserves a shot at entering the greater stream of musical consciousness, even and especially for those who usually stick to Bud in a Can and Monster Truck Pulls. I don’t know if the Hungarian butchers and liquor vendors ever intended this neighborhood to host such NPR-listening, self-satisfied folly – the festival, not the band - but if this outfit gets to put on its boots and start kickin’ ass and takin’ names because of it, I’m all for it.

Tagged as: Chicago