Sun, Apr 5 at 7:00 PM

Theadoore / Or Best Offer / Other People's Feelings

$11.91 - $22.47 (includes all fees)
Up to $10.86 for members

Sunday April 5 * doors at 7, music at 7:30 * $10-20

Theadoore’s first album Fool’s Errand is an indie rock romp with an experimental streak. Chock full of wayward melodies and ions, the album is steeped in honesty and awkwardness. Theadoore, based in New York City, is the brainchild of Grace Ward, who writes, performs and mixes all of the music, sometimes accompanied by a full band at live shows. The band evokes a vaguely 2000s eclecticism—think Cat Power or Joanna Newsom—which is bolstered by the jangly guitars of bygone twee bands. The album's dynamism is certainly a product of Ward's symbiotic relationship with their guitar, a duet that ebbs and flows through unison and dissonance. (post-trash.com)

“I found this on the ground / and I thought of you,” hums Grace Schmidhauser as the first track unfurls on Or Best Offer’s debut album. It’s a deceptively sophisticated mission statement and a perfect introduction to the band’s universe, one where the mundane suggests the holy, where moments of intimacy become tokens of the cosmic. The experimental rock duo made up of primary songwriter, vocalist and guitarist Schmidhauser, and drummer and synthesist Brian Culligan, work with a sense of ceaseless wonder and invention, moving between instruments and technique with fluidity and intuition. But the humble consolation suggested by the band’s name belies what is actually a remarkably uncompromising sound, one given to sudden bursts of raw electric energy and total abstraction. Based, intermittently, between Brooklyn, Providence, and Chicago, the duo has found increasing notoriety for their arresting live performances, which project immersive electronics against muscular, cathartic performance.

Other People' Feelings - new project from Ivan Liptak and Jon DeHart - Esoteric projections forming sidewinder extrapolations on mixed media polyhedral breakbeats and fissures. Looming large DC style, an arthritic lamentation forecasts digging it until it perturbates unknowingly. “At least unbeknownst to me,” cry seventy Marys elegantly. “Unbeknownst to me…”


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