The last two days of CMJ went by in a manic 48 hours uninterrupted for me by any real type of sleep, so I feel it's fitting to mash them together into one long mega-post.

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Is CMJ over yet? Seriously, is it? Because yesterday sucked so much it made me want to hide under the covers until this shit storm blows over our fair city.

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My feet still hurt a lot from Tuesday, so I decided to try a new strategy: pick a showcase that looks decent and stay there all night. You're guaranteed see at least a couple of good bands that way, with a chance that the ones you haven't heard of will be good too. 

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I decided to start my first night of CMJ off with a local band I'd seen before and liked, but which had never really managed to garner the buzz they deserve: The Unsacred Hearts. Unfortunately, their showcase was running late so I saw Saadi instead before running off to try to catch Die! Die! Die! This band was a little too mellow for my taste but it was a pleasant, female-fronted affair with pop harmonies and a vaguely tropical flavor to some songs. Extra points for using a xylophone and a triangle. The one song that stuck in my head afterwards was the last one, a Dylan (via Joan Baez) cover, "Daddy, You Been on My Mind." Singer Saadi Al Bashra (ex-Looker) used live loops of her own voice to make pretty, haunting harmonies with herself.

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Craig Murphey was an amazing guy. Constantly smiling, laughing, and making jokes or funny faces, he could turn any gathering into a ridiculously fun party, and any frown upside down. I was just getting to know him when his life was cut short by a tragic bicycle accident in October of 2007.  In memory of Craig, the New York City Coalition Against Hunger and WHANAP established the Craig Murphey Fellowship Fund to create a fellowship for an individual to continue the important work that Craig did. On Saturday, October 17 at Hope Lounge (10 Hope St. betw. Roebling & Havemeyer Sts. in Brooklyn), a hummus cook-off and, subsequently, a party, will celebrate Craig's life and help raise money for the Craig Murphey Fellowship Fund.

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Last night, Built to Spill played for over an hour to a sizeable crowd of their fans at Webster Hall. Between-song banter was minimal to non-existent; besides a few "thank yous" prompted by loud cheering, the band focused its energy on rocking.

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After staying up well past sunrise Saturday night, I roused myself in time to see the Boredoms in all their glory. One of the more ambitious acts of the festival, BOADRUM featured nine drummers led by the Japanese art rockers in a composition that ebbed and flowed for well over an hour. A rack of guitars played with drumsticks added another visually and sonically dramatic element, the first teasing plunks eventually giving way to a satisfying bashing. There were loud parts and quiet parts, chants and shouts, metered silences and choreographed chaos. Seeing all those drummers arrayed around Yamatsuka Eye intently watching his every move was pretty arresting, if not quite as cool as their 77- and 88-drummer configurations of previous years, and it was a rad surprise when a fleet of helpers rolled another drummer in through the audience on a platform. In a rare dick move, ATP staff started breaking the band's equipment down before they'd finished, as they'd gone over their allotted time.

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How many licks does it take 'til you get to the center of your soft, porous brain? Day two raised the stakes with a marathon stretch of music, Asian inspired hot dogs and substance abuse. The clever pixies behind ATP knew we'd all be feeling fragile in the morning, so they had Sufjan Stevens ease us into consciousness with his heartbreakingly pretty Seven Swans EP. I sipped my Vitamin water, got lost in his dreamy eyes, and tried to ignore all the Christian overtones in the lyrics.

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As I write this, I'm sitting in a parlor lit by dingy chandeliers at 3:17 a.m. Bodies are strewn about on various couches, possibly too gone to enjoy the tuneful serenade of several drunks molesting a raised grand piano. Plastic foliage stands guard as stiffly as it did on its approximate purchase date of Christmas Day 1961, and fake Chinese pottery ensures beyond a shadow of a doubt that all kitsch-related bases are covered. The atmosphere is comparable to a college radio station orientation kegger with fantastical talent-buying powers, held in a cavernous funeral home. In short: a little weird.

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Bless your heart, Tim Harrington. Is there anything you won't do to make me smile? I was feeling down last night, wanting nothing more than to crawl under my bed and hide there forever, but your jolly gyrations were enough to bring me back from the precipice. Which is good, as there's not really enough space for a person under my futon.  

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