Well worth the effort, Mr. Chasny

Mad Planet was Mad Planet. You can’t ever escape the effervescence that is Milwaukee; the smoke hangs thick in the air, and you’ve missed it. We came early to acclimate ourselves to the area, get a good parking spot and such. It is a Saturday night and the coldest one of the season to boot, so the logical decision is to get some colder beers at a bar close by. Under the auspice of a giant mouse trap, that I try not to dictate the motif of the night, we shot a couple friendly games of pool and shove off into the Ten-forty-five Sea. Smoke some sticks, open some doors and pay a door man. The bar side of Mad Planet was as to be expected: Usual musical underbelly at the bar, the night has already been awash with crust punks trying to find a party, calloused tender who you know or glass remains empty, with her distant eyes and look of reprise hoping it was two a.m. already. Black Greco-Roman plaster on the stage side of the wall as we discuss work, who said what on their way out the door, job openings and the type of banter that’s common while waiting for some people to throw their hat in the ring, or to set foot on the stage, to try to impress us. The opening act was Wooden Robot, a clearly local band that had their charm. Sipping on the PBR I thought about how played out the accordion was in wake of all the Beirut, Neutral Milk Hotel, just any of the South-Western acts that are keying in on folk, old-world, traditionalists. But with a singing saw and an engaging guitar wielder, who almost distractingly/endearingly resembled Devendra Banhardt, they kept my attention. The band was lead by middle-aged ex-punk on hand drum, his between song banter was trying to say the least: stories about his doctor, Dr. WeedMan and The Blunt Clinic. That shit is just making the up-hill battle of an opening act even worse, and to quote a friend your just going to die on that hill. All and all, though, their form of instrumental jam’s was good enough, even though the drums and bass had to follow, beat for beat, and where applicable, note for note with the guitar, to help shift my mindset from this pseudo-punk, roller disco-esque scene into what was about to happen next. As Mick Turner, of Dirty Three fame, set up his set I know I was a bout to be in for a rare treat. He was billing himself as an art show but a happenstance is what was about to occur. He projected his art work, jangle kid wavering hand, that is common if not timeless from Australian painters. They were fantastic in the set of locations of subjects as colors changed and the reality the paintings people lived shifted between coastal towns and beaches of cities near to all out hearts to dark, repressed shallow hells that make us down the aforementioned beers. His trade mark brand of close drone forced us to make the trip with him, up and down the mountains. Guitar loop heavy he eboe’d, cello bow’d, and rag n’ tumble melodica’d his way through four or five long intertwined songs with help on drums from his friend and communal band mate Jim White. Ethereal is about the only way I can put this into words. Ethereal man, ethereal. Ben Chasny, with Elisa Ambrogio in tow, was in the midst of it all. As Turner ended, he removed his sheet and hit stage right as Senor Chasny just stepped up on stage, grabbed the acoustic guitar and started his set with no break. Pure showmanship, beautiful. He played three songs solo, letting his voice ubiquitously fill the room. His deep, and romantic country timbre of his voice, the only singing voice of the night, was in rare form and he nailed a perfect Johnny Cash cover. He also did my favorite musician thing, and proved to us he was mortal by butchering, if not eviscerating one of his songs to the point of no return. A point he actually took and built up a psychic wall between himself and us to regain his composure. At nine minuets and some odd seconds in, we received the last bit of eye contact. But, as we all need some times, he started to assemble his support group to get us up to the Six Organs of Admittance. Elisa hit the stage, plugged in her Fender, missing the b-string of course, and geared up for the next jam. Elisa, as we all know, is the guitar expressionist master-mind behind Magik Markers. As Ben started the next, small country cut, Elisa let loose with her slide and guitar making music that contains buzzwords such as, but not limited to: Explosive, Imaginative, Transient, Guttural and oh so many more. The theme of night moved into restlessness, longing to join this world that the two lovers were creating. Another song passed in this manor, and I wish I could say more, but the combination of the two took me to a place reminiscent of how I can’t remember my first viewing of Suicide Club as I was wrapped up and locked inside my own head. The final song of the night called on Mick and Jim to come back up. It was livid with that echo-ey complacentness provided by the acoustic and screaming guitars, simple pseudo random drumings, and a melodica. It was so good, that I can even excuse the burgeoning, knit skirt wearing, young hipster who almost ruined it by being there for the scene, trying to get laid, and not even caring about the music. But that to, added the final element, ensuring that I had not died and was being lifted, but that it was real and witnessable.