Benjamin Lozovsky

Better Than: Assyrian Muzik

The joys of, private, unheralded CMJ events: free drinks, no lines, no crowding, and no pressure to challenge yourself and connect with a new artist. It's a luxury seldom afforded in a world of door quotas, fire-code violations, and leaps of faith.

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Benjamin Lozovsky

Flaming Lips leader Wayne Coyne dreams weird and hard and big. What often starts off as a whimsical vision might just end up as a new world record (for the most live concerts in 24 hours) or a limited-edition vinyl release infused with the blood of other artists (as was the case for 2011's The Flaming Lips and Heady Fwends). The Lips have an impressive track record of following through on their shenanigans, and that devotion to being endlessly irreverent and self-indulgent (in the most nurturing way) has helped them build a cult-like army of followers. The band has consistently grown creatively, too, its music morphing from scuzzy buzz-bin warmth to orchestral pop masterpieces to hard-edged, highly adventurous psych rock explorations. The band's most recent work, Heady Fwends, was made with people who spanned the gamut of popular music—Yoko Ono, Prefuse 73, Ke$ha.

Few personalities are more outsized than Coyne's; when he talks, he uses what seem to be the most directly vague terms imaginable. It comes off almost like a brain-fried hippie having a conversation with a sped-up incarnation of the Dali Lama, but the trains of thought converge into a force of charisma and authority. Coyne has made a scholarly pursuit out of an obsession with examining trivialities—the little things—in the most grandiose way possible.

But he may have met his match in comedian and faux pundit Stephen Colbert. Coyne and the Flaming Lips appear tonight on The Colbert Report, getting interviewed in a decommissioned space shuttle and performing aboard The U.S.S. Intrepid as the headliner of StePhest Colbchella '012 Rocktaugustfest, an over-the-top take on the music festival. During the taping of the event last Friday, the Voice sat down with Coyne to talk about the band's upcoming 30th anniversary, human skulls filled with blood and new music, and an accidental game of telephone that might just have turned into a LSD-filled night.

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Benjamin Lozovsky

Wayne Coyne (left) and Stephen Colbert. See more photos from Colbchella here.

Colbchella: fun., Grizzly Bear, Santigold, Flaming Lips
U.S.S. Intrepid
Friday, August 10

Better than: All the world wars and Woodstocks combined.

Don't you ever question America's might. We do things bigger and crazier than other countries—and then we televise it. And while Stephen Colbert didn't officially endorse that message, he concurs. On Friday night, he took over the U.S.S. Intrepid for a nautical, turret-blazing salute to US military, industrial, and Indie rock superiority.

In dire response to the proliferation of "half-naked, patchouli-soaked, white guy dreadlock festivals," Colbert concocted Stephest Colbchella '012 Rocktaugustfest as an assertion of his fundamental conservative values and reverence of corporate sponsorship ("Pepsi, the official drink of my throat"). Colbert brought acts like The Flaming Lips, Santigold, Grizzly Bear and fun. to support his ultimate (if satirical) political goal: Self-aggrandizement and narcissistic back patting.

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Benjamin Lozovsky

2:54 w/Widowspeak, The Denzels, Indian Rebound
Mercury Lounge
Monday, June 11

Better than: A Buffy The Vampire Slayer marathon.

There aren't nearly as many female serial killers as male one out prowling for victims, at least among the notorious ones. And while the sister duo Hannah and Colette Thurlow, founding members of rising British band 2:54, are by all accounts well-balanced in temperament and harmonious with the world, there are some allusive signs.

They did take their name from the Melvins song "A History of Bad Men"—specifically the moment in the song when the drums get drastically heavy, even barbaric. And throughout their caliginous, muscular, anthemic self-titled full-length, the two hand over the keys and let their dark passenger drive—dwelling largely in cavernous shadows, howling and chugging aggressively through the night, maybe mourning a freshly eviscerated former lover, maybe just singing the blues.

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Benjamin Lozovsky

Waka Flocka Flame is fully enjoying his moment. The Atlanta, Georgia rapper's party-pandering, floor-stomping assault has been a mainstay in the club since his quick rise in 2009 as a protégé of Gucci Mane, and with his second full-length release—Triple F Life: Friends, Fans and Family, due out in June—his party-rap takeover will most likely become even stronger. Need more proof? At a Spin-sponsored party (he's the latest issue's cover star), surrounded by taxidermy and baroque splendor, Flocka Flame turned the posh, tapestry-filled Bowery Hotel into a sweaty, foundation-shaking, crowd-surfing mess.

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Benjamin Lozovsky

Kwes w/CHLLNGR, Beacon
Cameo Gallery
Monday, March 19

Better than: A four-day SXSW hangover.

Making the transition from remixer and producer to full-fledged solo artist usually takes a career worth of self-doubt, external prodding and personal development. Just a couple years after reaching prominence as an experimental studio whiz and dutifully tinkering sonic soldier, and having collaborated with the likes of The xx, Micachu, Leftfield, and Damon Albarn, the English musician Kwes bounded quickly for jurisdiction over his ascending musical destiny. His blooming future was evident in his first New York solo show, despite it being a bit ragged around the edges.

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See more photos at the 2012 Winter Jazzfest slideshow.

Winter Jazzfest
Friday-Saturday, January 6-7

Better than: Summer Zydeco Fest (assuming such a terror exists).

After a discordant, twisted reimagining of Jimi Hendrix's "The Wind Cries Mary" by his trio Ceramic Dog, guitarist Marc Ribot slyly reminded the audience at Sullivan Hall Friday what they should be encountering. He then followed with a gut-punching interpretation of Dave Brubeck's "Take Five," leaving the springy melody intact enough to be ravaged by the chugging furor of a runaway train from hell. It was anything but expected.

The hardly discernable rendition of that classic jazz favorite was one of the few examples of looking back at a festival devoted to new ideas and the performers preoccupied with furthering them. At one point, the biggest names in jazz were obsessed with the future, trying to engender new sounds, techniques, and cascades of cross-cultural movement one session at a time. Festival organizers Brice Rosenbloom and Adam Schatz have, for years, put a curatorial emphasis on spotlighting the best musicians still enraptured by such a mind-set, and without the looming, prehistoric shadow of the genre's most discernable legends and venues, the programming had endless room to breathe. Much more than the concertgoers—4,000 of them gladly crammed into and shuffled between the festival's five venues (Le Poisson Rouge, The Bitter End, Kenny's Castaways, Zinc Bar, and Sullivan Hall), which were always bustling, often beyond capacity. Heads and feet dangled off balconies and stools became risers for audience members desperate for a glimpse.

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Common
Highline Ballroom
Monday, December 19

Better than: Holiday store displays involving snow globes and marionettes.

On "The Sixth Sense," a DJ Premier banger and one of the greatest cuts to come out of the second golden age of hip hop, Common chided that "this industry will make you lose intensity."

That was 11 years ago. In the ensuing years, few other conscious-minded MCs have embraced the entertainment industry with the vigor of Chicago's long-standing ghetto poet laureate. He's had lots of character roles in major Hollywood productions and a prominent starring role in a Queen Latifah romantic vehicle involving the weird courtship of a basketball player; he's written a memoir; and he scored a recurring role as a freed slave on a critically acclaimed AMC series.

Yet despite his extra-curricular successes, Common's passionate musical and poetic side remains intact. "The Sixth Sense" was ultimately a grimy yet cerebral love story about hip-hop and the fragile urban culture it has the power to uplift. Out celebrating the release of his ninth studio album, The Dreamer/The Believer, at the Highline Ballroom Monday night, Common was at his finest.

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Benjamin Lozovsky

Alabama Shakes
Lakeside Lounge
Friday, December 10

Better than: Alabama (the band and the state).

The banks of the Mississippi swell and contract in a brutally accelerated pace, not unlike the current cycle of Internet-fueled indie stardom. Channeling the bona fide heart of that fertile waterway's musical heritage, Alabama Shakes have ridden the rapid storm swell; several notable performances at CMJ this past fall placed the group at the center of the discussion on rising talent, landing them an in-studio performance at NPR, an unexpected nod from Paste as the best new band of 2011, and now a recording contract with ATO Records. Hardly two months after settling in the minds of listeners and finding an audience outside of sleepy Athens, Alabama, they returned to New York last week, performing two sold-out shows at Mercury Lounge and even larger venue Brooklyn Bowl.

As great as those shows most probably were, it must have been infinitely more of a treat to see Alabama Shakes tear down the East Village's Lakeside Lounge Saturday evening. Announced by the band hours before, the impromptu free gig at the long-standing Alphabet City dive bar was an iconic slice of discovery and comforting ambience. Which, coincidentally, could also neatly sum up the band's musical approach.

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Benjamin Lozovsky/BFAnyc.com

MGMT
Guggenheim Museum
Thursday, November 10

Better than: A rock show without a reclining Pope sculpture looming above.

During the afterparty for the Guggenheim Museum's annual International Gala Thursday night, held in honor of Maurizio Cattelan and his triumphant retrospective "All," MGMT summoned a drony, hypnotic, and reference-filled examination of the visual artist's career thus far. Walking up the Guggenheim's spiraling ramp and being endlessly taunted by Cattelan's cavorting monstrosities as the band performed new and non-vetted material conjured up a slow-growing feeling of unease that never quite culminated in shock.

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