Jazz breaking news: Mister Barrington recharge Charlie Wright’s
Monday, February 25, 2013
At the last smash of a perforated cymbal and the final silencing of an electronic hum, the lights at Charlie Wright’s rose up on the six pupils and six irises of Mister Barrington’s three band members.
A maniacal world of free-math-post-jazz-funk swiftly metamorphosed into a surreal DJ set of pure disco, while the brain tried to readjust. In the house lights the rather diminutive audience re-emerged blinking and shuffling. This was clearly not the sort of mind (and body) assault at the top of London’s list for a Saturday night, and yet ironically it was a series of dance beats that structured the largely meter-less narrative of the set. The triptych of instrumentalists featured drummer Zach Danziger as the centrepiece – on an illuminated white enamel kit – with bassist Owen Biddle and vocalist/keyboard player Oli Rockberger on either side, communicating with each other at the speed of an American highway.
“Keep the noise down,” joked the nervy London-born Rockberger, as the band settled onto the stage and the crowd began a nervous chorus of ironic whoops and sound effects to welcome them. This British expression of apology and embarrassment for such a poor show was the last moment of timidity in the room. There was no introductory word from Danziger, simply a first crack of the snare that signified the audience and musicians would be led by his wrists and almost demented focus. He began with a triumphant explosion worthy of a final solo, setting the tone for a set that only halted once for a 15-minute breather, and was otherwise a continuous climax.
Biddle remained remarkably calm and entranced throughout the set, a necessary antidote – if only aesthetically – for the audience who may otherwise have hyperventilated. Rockberger is a one-man hybrid of Casey Benjamin and Robert Glasper, whose hysterically expressive face and body were the human manifestation of his synth effects. Transfixing in his intensity, though at times repetitive in his tone, he provided the melodies that suggested form. But these were only hints at what seemed like refrains, but never actually reappeared. Was this a battlefield of man versus machine? Jazz versus dance-pop? Without taking the analogy to morbid proportions, the force of the drummer at the helm did seem to charge through a New York City landscape, breaking down the doors of clubs and trampling and destroying everything within.
Measured debate was clearly never their intention and this musical diatribe was a feat of energy, stamina and creativity: a potentially dogmatic protest piece that shattered eardrums, and left the heart disturbed and beating arhythmically.
– Heidi Goldsmith