Kansas City Blog

It started around 6 p.m. at Crosstown Station, with the newly minted afrobeat group the Hearts of Darkness. This midtown-West Bottoms-18th Street collective comprises mostly nerdy white dudes funking their asses off. It could be a trainwreck of pleated khakis, bad African shirts and off-kilter blurts from out-of-tune saxes, but instead it’s a riotous, heartfelt and fairly tight dance party featuring seven horns, a rhythm section, auxillary percussionists (the 5’, borderline-ancient cowbell player in a dirty smock; the guy in the navy uniform playing the giant, bead-covered gourd; the badass, older, African-American bongo player), and the Fender Rhodes piano of HoD mastermind Josh Mobley, also of the Pink Socks and the Afterparty.

Grabbing hold of Fela Kuti’s legacy with unflagging earnestness, the Hearts work the eight to 15 minute songs of this most underserved of genres into sweaty, swift nonstop dance jams. The band follows cues from trumpeter Bobby DuSoul and singer-saxophonist Johan Smith, returning to the head, moving to the bridge, hitting the chorus again, etc, at the signal from an upraised fist. All eyes at this show were on one of the newest Hearts, local rapper Les Izmore, shimmying and shouting with an African (Malinese?) flag draped over his shoulders. In one transcendent moment, he stepped to the mic and spat a few bars of rapid-fire verse over the band’s broiling funk. Now if only they’d give him – and any other vocalists (eh, but mainly Les) – more to do. The Hearts’ show is funnest during the call-and-response bits, as on stellar show-closer “Zombie.” Not that they can do that all the time, of course, because the instrumental vamp is basically the whole point of Afrobeat, but it would be nice if Izmore would step up in a more Fela-like role.

By the way, later in the night, I caught up with DuSoul and asked him who the black gentleman on bongos was. He had no idea – the dude just showed up at practice two days ago. Awesome.

During the 7 o’clock hour, I split my time between the Czar Bar for Lights & Siren (cooler and catchier than ever), who played as a four-piece having lost guitarist Tim Braun to an unfortunate, stitches-inducing car accident. I would have caught more than three songs from L&S, but they started late, so I ran over to JP, to continue my solo quest to absorb as much booze and music as possible.

Attendance was definitely starting to pick up. Few tables at JP were unoccupied, and the Czar Bar had been mostly full as well. At JP, Jerome and the Townspeople, a jazz quartet of drums, upright bass, trumpet and a sax player who doubled on oboe (!), laid down smooth, boppy tunes in the corner. I didn’t stay long for that, either, but I had plenty of time to revel in the sweetness of hearing some jazz at this year’s fest – a first, I believe.

At 8, it was over to the Brick for the Gaslights. I wasn’t sure what to expect, because lead singer Abby Henderson was recently diagnosed with breast cancer and has already begun chemo (read her stunning, poignant and hilarious blog Hope Is My Middle Name). Also, the group changed its lineup once again, adding wildcat drummer Ryan Johnson and bassist Erik Voeks, an erstwhile solo artist. Though Abby wore a hat to cover her bald head, there was neither lid nor shackle upon her fiery spirit, and she led her boys through absolutely the best Gaslights show I’ve ever seen, which pretty much equals the best local country-rock show I’ve ever seen. They were cooking with grease, and, most important, they were having fun. The Brick was packed, too, with more than a few people sporting shaved heads, i.e., those of Abby’s support group, which includes her husband and lead guitarist Chris Meck, a natty fedora in place of his shorn locks. Afterwards, Abby fielded compliments outside on the sidewalk – several people told her it was the best G-lights show they’d ever seen – and made the declaration, “It’s Saturday night! It’s bourbon night!” Let’s hope that wild woman made it home safe.

I stuck around at the Brick to see the Rich Boys, who, along with all the other bands set to play there had been relocated from the Mercy Street due to the rain. It was my first time seeing the all-new lineup (only frontman Mitch Rich and guitarist Mike Wild remain), and I was impressed. Though the Boys always knew how to bring it from day one in their stage presence, the new group is tighter and more musical, if not quite as feral. During the Rich Boys set, I enjoyed a couple of free beers, courtesy of Anna Cole from Lights & Siren. Thanks, Anna.

Back at Crosstown Station, It’s Over was bashing out one of its last sets ever – two of the members are going back to school full-time – working in a sweet cover of the Kinks’ “Last of the Steam-Powered Trains.” Upstairs, in the vast Skylight Room, a massive audience assembled to watch the aerial fabric acrobatics of the all-ladies Voler. Aerial fabrics, if you haven’t seen it, is basically a woman doing ballet fifty feet above the floor with one or more limbs strategically entwined in a couple of long, wide ribbons. Considering an aerial fab class practices at my gym, I wasn’t expecting much from this group, but my jaw fell into my drink a couple of times. I mean to say, wow. Watching women in lingerie defy physics with their own physical brawn and a couple of sheets of fabric makes watching rock bands seem like a day at the prairie dog town.

That ante was upped an hour later, downstairs, when Quixotic took over the stage, turning Crosstown Station into a mini Cirque du Soleil. Actually the most Cirque-like aspect of Quixotic is the band of musicians, which cook up an epic, electro-French cabaret stew with the aid of jazz-jam duo Organic Proof who put on actually a pretty solid solo set using drums, synthesizers, samplers and John Brewer’s mighty keytar before Quixotic got going. When the lights and fog came up, an anonymized female dancer clad in white bodysuit and facepaint came out and did an ethereal, ghostlike modern dance routine. More dance numbers – and more gorgeous dancers – would fill the stage. A girl would perform an acrobatic routine in a giant hoop hanging from the rafters, and another member of the endless troupe did her own aerial fabric thing in a giant white silk sling.

It was then that things started to get fuzzy. It was approaching midnight, and I’d been drinking fairly dedicatedly since 6. Those of you who saw me rocking out at Bacon Shoe at the night’s close won’t be surprised at this information. Though I’ve been in touch while writing this with ‘Toine and Lethal D from the Shoe – D says it was the best Bacon Shoe concert ever, by far, because the energy of the room was off the charts – I haven’t had the courage to ask what, exactly, I did toward the end of their performance. I think it involved a megaphone and a pair of sunglasses. I do know that my jeans are bloody filthy today, probably from the Brick’s dirty stage.

But no matter, it was a great evening, and, as always, I wish I’d been able to catch more of the bands. Also, I wish I hadn’t gone to Pancho’s afterward. Next year, I’ll be sure to cook a nice hearty stew before going out to the CMF, that way I’ll have something to chow on when I come home buzzing, exhausted and hungry from a night of fantastic displays of Kansas City talent and insanity.