By Benjamin Leatherman
By Glenn BurnSilver
By Glenn BurnSilver
By Troy Farah
By Roger Calamaio
By Mark Deming
By Glenn BurnSilver
By Brian Palmer
Most people would agree with the assertion that life is pretty mundane. Lord Byron summed it up perfectly when he said, "When one subtracts from life infancy (which is vegetation), sleep, eating and swilling, buttoning and unbuttoning -- how much remains of downright existence? The summer of a dormouse." We all search for ways to alleviate the excruciating boredom that hovers at the door of each day. Some folks use drugs to distract themselves. Some use music. Some toss the two into a shaker and revel in the resulting cocktail, however short-lived it may be.
One of the by-products of this uniquely human predicament is the music of Philly's bliss-mongers the Disco Biscuits, the Next Big Thing in these gray, post-Phish days of jam-based music, marketed not so much toward the dreadlocked trustafarians, but toward the kind of music lovers who wear big-legged jeans and visors, love glow sticks and Teletubbies, and consider the pacifier to be an essential wardrobe feature. The Disco Biscuits reside somewhere between Phish's patchouli-soaked improvisation and the dotty loopiness of Stereolab.
The Biscuits began by playing improvisational rock jams, but they soon realized the potential of a different niche when keyboardist Aron Magner acquired some new equipment.
"We started listening to more electronic music. I stopped playing rock beats and started doing kicks on every beat," says drummer Sam Altman, demonstrating a techno pulse -- m-ch, m-ch, m-ch -- on a dodgy mobile phone in New Haven. "There's more freedom in it, and it's way more danceable."
Danceability is the key theme when discussing "Bisco," the fan-coined term for the band's music. After all, the goal here is to allow concertgoers to dance until their legs give in, or at least until the E wears off. The band's four principals -- Altman, Magner, guitarist Jon Gutwillig and bassist Marc Brownstein -- call their sound "trance fusion," as they literally fuse electronic trance music with the jam sensibilities of their more hippie-ish progenitors, culminating in gigs that start at 10 p.m. and end when the sun comes up the next day.
"As long as people are still there, we'll keep playing," Altman says. "We're constantly getting the power shut off on us. What clubs don't understand is that it makes the crowd go wild."
It's easy to get lost in a dizzying swirl of dance when individual songs often last longer than most high school class periods. Many nights, you won't even hear the end of a song that begins in the early phases of the show, as the band's set list is a constantly evolving twist on the choose-your-own-adventure theme.
"We play our songs so goddamn long -- we could play nine songs in four hours," explains Altman. "We'll play the beginning of one and the end of another, and then we'll run out of time and have an ending left over, so we'll play that ending some other night. It's a free-for-all."
It's in this fluidity and just outside the boundaries of music -- doodling in the margins, if you will -- that the Biscuits find their sweet spot. Never playing the same song the same way twice, instead they mix and match trance, jungle, jazz and funk influences into their performances. Their grooves are not unlike those doughy biscuits in the Hungry Jack commercials, with layer upon layer stacked together, easily disassembled and rearranged to suit any player's whims. It's musical deconstructionism, and it's what makes the Disco Biscuits remarkable.
Take, for example, their third record, They Missed the Perfume. Recorded in the abandoned half of an electrical power equipment factory in Easton, Pennsylvania (also the home of Crayola), and released, surprisingly enough, on heavy-metal label Megaforce Records (home to the likes of Anthrax and the Skatenigs), the record represents an experimental approach to composition. Rather than follow the traditional path of playing live in the studio, the entire record was "built," so to speak, on a Macintosh computer.
"It's unlike everything we've ever done -- all loops, trying to get the live spirit of our songs across in this new medium," says Altman. "We used sections that we improvise live, trying to capture the improv spirit while trying to keep it composed and electronic at the same time. It was a totally fresh way of looking at the songs." Of course, in creating the record completely out of loops, the band faces the challenge of playing those new tracks live. "I didn't take into account having to fucking play these intricate beats I programmed," Altman adds, laughing.
Tracks from Perfume serve more as a rough blueprint for live gigs, a system that works well for a band in which everything is open to interpretation. This is a group of men who regularly take a piece of classical music, such as Mozart's "Eine Kleine Nachtmusik" or Tchaikovsky's "Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies," and make it their own. "We wanted to play something challenging and new onstage," says Altman. "We thought it would be fun, so we got some sheet music to learn it for a live show, and we'd jam that out. If you stick with playing one type of style and beats all the time, it becomes passé."