She Keeps Bees, Twi The Humble Feather, Patrick Bower

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She Keeps Bees

http://www.myspace.com/shekeepsbees

A young lady singing (while playing guitar) as her own boyfriend plays drums? It could never work - imagine the arguments! Still, full marks to Brooklyn's SKB - Jessica Larrabee and Andy LaPlant - for giving it a go. A little like Jack 'n' Meg (with the self-regard and general air of grim humourlessness removed) "sitting in with" - it's what jazz people do, I saw it on the telly - PJ Harvey, even the Breeders, this is, literally, raunchy ("Give it to me daddy, work me like my back ain't got no bone," - well, excuse me!), a loosely hammering, bluesy howl that sounds like it was as exciting to make as it is to listen to. I wonder if she really does keep bees? The Guardian

Nests isn't an album that hides behind effects pedals or clever song titles - it's just a series of songs sung over frill-less guitar and drums. And that's what makes its quality so impressive. The album hinges entirely on the singing and songwriting of founder Jess Larrabee, and she delivers. I've seen a lot of reviewers try to classify She Keeps Bees as an indie rock album, comparing the music to the White Stripes (which is not inaccurate, I guess), but what it really is is back-to-the-basics alternative blues. There's an indie rock sensibility to it, but the songs themselves are skeletal blues numbers.

Larrabee's voice alone could carry the album; she's a singer of rare talent. However, the guitars and drums, though clearly there to support her singing, are also brilliantly gritty. A self-assured, solid, no-nonsense album, Nests deserves a listen. Radioflyer

The album opens a capella: "Don't follow me honey/ Not the road you want to be on." Then hand claps, a slight blues beat, Larrabee's voice moving hard into the red, reaching deep for a little yelp. Little bits latch on over its two minutes, following along on the unexpected rhythm shift, the melody getting bluesier, harder every second, and then it ushers us into "Wear Red," and holy shit she isn't fooling around. It's meaty, defiant, a big dick-swinging kind of song. You know, the White Stripes if they had heart. Emusic

Twi the Humble Feather

http://www.myspace.com/twithehumblefeather

Twi the Humble Feather is the perfect soundtrack to:

A) moonlit treks through the woods,

B) Christmas nights when mom and dad don’t fight,

C) taking baths in rosewater. Rhythmic and breathy, the music has an organic feel that hushed up Glasslands in Williamsburg November 21.

The acoustic trio focuses on the sound’s ebbs and flows and acts as a live-action tape-loop, repeating soft riffs as they build to a chorus of crescendos that luxuriously slink away into whispers. Twi the Humble Feather don’t tell stories, instead they set the stage with each song connecting to the next with quiet crooning to create an evening of delicately-crafted soundscapes.

Erin Roof (thedelimagazine.com)

Patrick Bower

http://www.myspace.com/deadhandkiller

"Stylishly moody indie folk" - Time Out New York

"Beach Closed finds Bower at long last stretching his legs and fleshing out the songs by stripping them down and in turn, whispering them loudly into your ear." - Alarm Magazine

"lush, bearded folk" - Brooklyn Vegan

Mention Patrick Bower and chances are few will know the name. After all, his recent self-released album Beach Closed is his first solo outing. His story, though, begins ten years ago while still living in Bloomington, IN and later, Indianapolis, fronting the shamefully overlooked Even Homer Nods (later shortened to The Nods). After a botched East Coast tour due to the tour van nearly exploding, he relocated to Brooklyn and shortly thereafter began his current project, The World Without Magic.

In his previous work, Bower distinguished himself by penning memorable melodies, and packing many instruments and sounds into an abbreviated pop setting, but Beach Closed finds Bower at long last stretching his legs and fleshing out the songs by stripping them down and in turn, whispering them loudly into your ear.

From the equally precious and haunting “Glad That You’re Wrong,” featuring the soft female voice of Tam, to the gently rolling “Holy Ground,” where simple slide guitar evokes a less-silly Randy Newman or sober Harry Nilsson, everything coasts along with ease.

“I’m a known dissembler of truth,” Bower warns the listener and, sure enough, the frightening “Take a Picture” takes hold of the speakers with a low Moog rumble pushing the spiritual tome to the forefront. “It’s quiet/and it’s empty,” indeed and it is here that while the heart races it is easiest to breathe deep.

“Somewhere far away/Brittle engine take me there,” (“Little Towns, Little Prayers”) perfectly sums up the common feeling through all these numbers; it isn’t a longing for a lost love or a pining for the one that got away, rather a simple wish to get away from everything altogether, love and loved ones included.

It is this idea that at times, forces the music to be jagged, cutting, and unwelcome, most notably, the abrupt changes in “See Ya When We See Ya,” and the lumber of “Haley, You’re Talking Crazy.” Still, the album shows Bower at his most accessible, American, and exactly where he wants to be: all by himself.
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