Secret Machines

It's just 8:15 on Saturday night in Williamsburg, but the carnival that is N. 6th St. is well under way. The sidewalk outside Sea, the new Planet Thai wannabe with ocean-blue lighting and decor straight from the meatpacking district, is overcrowded. Almost everyone is wearing clothes that can be best described as premium vintage. I step out of the sidewalk and into the street, not knowing how much stranger things are going to be.

There are fruit plushies being photographed outside Galapagos. One guy is shirtless and in a banana costume. There's also somebody dressed as a pumpkin and a dude whose outfit is primarily green balloons (it takes a moment to realize that he's supposed to be grapes). A woman walking by turns to her companion, "Galapagos. Must be Ecuadorian."

In between Sea and Galapagos is Isa, the boutique that pisses me off every time I walk down this street. Tonight, Isa is using its huge glass windows to show off a handmade t-shirt that says RIP Tupac, which I guess qualifies as retro now that people are mourning Jam Master Jay. There are four wooden chairs outside, and I see a Paper media kit (wow, really cheap ads!) on one of them.

A few months ago, some friends and I saw recycled t-shirts in Isa with fairly clever slogans like Destroy Electroclash and Strokes Shmokes. When we learned they were $88 each we left, stunned at how obscene this was even for Isa. The next day, we bought iron-on letters and recreated the t-shirts exactly, but on nicer fabric. Total cost of materials for each one: less than $5. They had a tagline too: "Only $88 at Isa!"

Isa, in an $88 nutshell, sums up how the New York rock "scene" is overheating. Just like Silicon Alley in 1999, a few people have made bank and a few others have a chance at some real dollars. But there are already a surplus of dumbfucks who want $88 for something only worth $5.

The band I've come to see at Northsix tonight are an exception. They are in many ways the anti-Isa. Secret Machines are the city's best live band, and not just because these three Texas boys play harder than anybody in New York, which they do. Their head-trippy sets will have you thinking Pink Floyd and the Flaming Lips, but in between all the spastic jamming, the furious drumming, spacey piano sounds and guitar noises are some of the prettiest ballads you'll ever hear. Brandon Curtis' deep but gentle voice holds together melodies that at times sound like Queen, David Bowie, Wilco and Grandaddy. It's like hearing a lullaby inside a tornado. Given all the straight-edge-looking kids at Northsix, it's also psychedelic music for drug virgins.

"When we're onstage, it's a good time not to worry about the bills or work," drummer Josh Garza says. "That moment, you can be high or straight. Either way, we're going to take you far out. You can come with us however you want to."

When Secret Machines go onstage, the house lights go off. One fan has his cigarette lighter in the air, but it's otherwise pitch-black at 12:30 when Brandon starts playing piano. The tinkling sounds like childhood, and the tempo gradually gets faster. Then the floodlights the band bring to their shows are turned on, and the tension builds, and the band does not disappoint. Songs start slow and soft, then become slow and hard, then become faster and harder, until all three guys are playing so intensely that they look like they could collapse at any second. For 30 minutes, Secret Machines take the crowd higher and higher, and then bring them down, and then transport them again, right until the very end when the band decides to fucking KO everybody.

During this last minute, you know things have to end soon because Secret Machines are playing as if they want to light up the entire world, and this fury simply can't last much longer. Brandon is bouncing off his chair, and his fingers are landing on the piano with such force that you fear for their well-being. His brother, Ben, the only one standing up, has been there all along, but it's almost like he was gone and reappears. Ben's got a somewhat bemused look on his face, and he's playing guitar like his plasma has turned into rocket fuel. Ben is standing in between Brandon and Josh, who's now pounding the fuck out of his drums, moving his arms straight up and down like he's hammering a nail with an anvil.

Then it just ends. The lights go out, Secret Machines say thanks, and nobody complains that the set was just half an hour, because, really, what could follow that last minute? By the time people stop clapping, Secret Machines are back at the merchandise table, wet from sweat.

Here's another nice anti-Isa element of Secret Machines: Earlier that night, when the band and I are looking for a place to talk, Brandon wonders if there's some backstage place we can go. This is the band's second time headlining Northsix, and they still don't know. (They didn't go to the green room when they played a sold-out Bowery Ballroom show with Interpol either.) I tell them yes, but we end up just sitting by the front bar.

I ask about Secret Machines' CMJ showcase at Luxx, when the club's equipment overheated and the band had to end their set early. They say they were disappointed, of course, but that's how things go sometimes, and Luxx has always been really nice. They're almost kind of jovial when they tell the story.

"After the second time we lost power, it just happened a minute or two before the climactic ending, the climax," Josh says. "You know what I'm talking about."

"We were about to make it happen," Brandon says.

So, basically, the club didn't have enough power to handle you?

"Who does, really?" Josh says, and they all laugh.

Almost everything these guys tell me sounds half-joking, but they turn serious when I ask why they left Texas in 2000, and how things have gone in New York.

"There's a lot of energy and inspiration here," Brandon says. "It's been here a long time. People take from it whatever they want, but the city has been good to us."

Even if they haven't been backstage and have to line up for the bathroom before their set just like everybody else, they've been drinking margaritas all night and are having a good time. Their gratitude and optimism are impressive, considering the CMJ debacle and that the band is now homeless, sometimes sleeping in their van, and practice for a few hours at low volumes whenever a pal will have them.

My friend Maude has entered the conversation, and the discussion gets a little strange, and somehow we start talking about Interpol's fancy threads, and Ben says, "You know what? Are we here to talk about Interpol's wardrobe? Because I can go somewhere else right now."

I think he's kidding, but I see his point. Because if Interpol are Sea, and Fischerspooner are Isa, and the Moldy Peaches are those fruit costumes at Galapagos, the Secret Machines are still just three DIY guys from Texas, happy to have a place to play.

"This is one of the few places where there's kind of room for everything," Josh says. "It doesn't matter what you do. If you stick with it and you're determined, you can have a little area of town, a little corner, you can do your thing. If you're lucky it will expand. If you're not lucky, you can still do it. And that's the beauty of New York."

Secret Machines play Fri., Dec. 13, at Tonic. 107 Norfolk St. (betw. Delancey & Rivington Sts.), 212-358-7501.