All I know is this. The Duo isn’t sexy. By no stretch of the imagination could this random and sometimes alarmingly deliberate sequence of dissonance, jazz, sonic experimentation, vibes and the odd harsh blast of cornet be called sexy. The Rolling Stones, or even their grandchildren, the Chicago Underground Duo is not. Note follows note, chromatic guitar noodle follows chromatic guitar noodle, sensitive brush on the high-hat and snare follows sensitive brush, etc., as clearly as cars follow tarmac. Whatever motivates the peculiar couple of chaps on stage, lost in their own rhythmic splendor and intricately, some might say anally, ordered world, it certainly isn’t the desire to copulate with members of the opposite–or indeed, same–sex. The Duo doesn’t worry about such carnal pleasures.
It’s difficult to know whether they are playing "songs" or improvising straight on the spot and I guess it hardly matters except to historians and critics and whoever else might care to acidly point out that "Four in the Evening" (from the Duo’s new CD Chicago Underground Quartet, where there are indeed four people playing) has been lifted direct from at least six different John Coltrane albums. As has "Three in the Morning" (good joke, chaps).
This evening is treated as an entity within itself, not a series of events: hence, you could claim that the Duo’s version of "Blue Sparks From Her, and the Scent of Lightning" (from last year’s Synesthesia) is particularly askew tonight, but you could equally claim it is a whole different song. There is nothing conventional about the structures here: except the Duo is adhering to a convention far stricter in its own way than the simplest of Ramones melodies. Melodies? Sure, there are traces of melodies to be found within this Tortoise-like band’s dithering yet sometimes surprisingly pleasing sound–Rob Mazurek and Chad Taylor haven’t managed to wipe every iota of enjoyment from their music. They do sometimes come damn close, though. Ultimately, we grow bored and depart in search of something more interesting to occupy our enfeebled imaginations, like counting the various shades of gray on a slab of the sidewalk outside a friendly bus stop. Life is strange, but repeated listening sometimes pays off.
