Alberta Cross & The Felice Brothers: I’m No Longer CMJaded

I probably shouldn’t have left work two hours early on a day that was actually kind of busy, but I had the chance to share a cab ride across town towards the Bowery Presents office – a company expensed cab ride at that. There was a little CMJ happy hour party about to take place, and frankly, I felt like it was the perfect way to start redeeming myself for an extremely poor CMJ performance. Having been sick all week, I had only managed to see one or two bands each night; you know its bad when the first day of CMJ coincides with your birthday and you’re ending the night at 9:30 with a shot of Nyquil.

They had already started their brief acoustic set, but at first I could barely even hear Alberta Cross playing in the conference room. The place was hauntingly hushed. People sat crossed-legged on the floor circling the makeshift set up – a couple guitars, keys, and a garbage can plus Poland Spring water jug drum set. I immediately began to wilt as I listened to the opening notes of “Low Man” – honestly one of the most beautifully painful songs ever written. It destroys me. It gives meaning to the word heartstring. I realized I probably shouldn’t make a scene, but I felt like I could start crying any second. I eventually recovered from my full body chills as they launched into their last of four songs, “Old Man Chicago.” Pissed that I missed the first two, I was comforted by the thought of their 10pm set later that night. Part Neil Young, part My Morning Jacket, part just plain awesome, Alberta Cross are worth your time. The ballads are equally as good as the rockers, and it never hurts to have a song with your name in the title. I think I’m in love.

Against my better judgment I decided I may as well start drinking. Yeah, it’s only 5pm but I feel like celebrating the fact that I’m not at my desk. Having never before heard the Felice Brothers, I didn’t know whether to be excited or not. All bullshit aside, this was one of the best performances I’ve seen all year. It was real, it was raw, it was unbelievably fun. These guys know how to infect you with a good time – throw in an accordion and you’re good to go. A Friday afternoon hoedown on the LES. “C’mon white people, clap your hands!” they hollered. I never clap my hands in unison, but even I had to oblige.

Foot-stomping, raucous Americana born somewhere in the Catskills . . . I knew I couldn’t possibly be drunk after just one beverage - this band is seriously intoxicating. Half deranged and crazy-eyed, the percussionist actually frightened me into taking a step back. His eyes may be closed when he’s crooning, but put a stick in his hand and he’s off to the races – a wicked gaze, it penetrates. I wonder what the fuck those eyes have seen. He was stomping his foot so damn hard on the floor I couldn’t help but wonder if the offices below had been warned. They mentioned that they used to spend their days playing in subway stations, hence the admitted thrill of being above ground. The music is dirty, and to be honest, so were they. The room reeked of body odor, but in a way it was appropriate.

You never know what you’re missing most of the time until it is thrown in your face. True passion isn’t something you witness in music every day; the Felice Brothers have some weird light that manages to glow through the layer of dirt caked on their skin and sound. At times it was if the brothers were singing to one another – the fraternal bond was ever apparent. Three are actual blood brothers; they must have found the bassist (named Christmas?) somewhere along the way. I could imagine them all seated around a campfire in the mountains singing tunes for the sheer pleasure of hearing each other’s voices. Young as they may be, it seemed like they have been through so much together. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt so close to the musicians I was watching; the whole event was intimate in the truest sense of the word.