Deny it if we must, the signifiers of impending decrepitude advance, as they have for the generational thousands who preceded and those who will follow. Obscene bulges protrude. Tits sag. Follicles make absurd last stands. The poets know and will weave beauty and pathos into the creeping progression of time. I seek those poets out every now and again, especially those who practice in the combustible sonic arts. So it was, I ventured out to see Austin sludge punks Cruddy at the Cake Shop and stayed for AZITA, that's how it unfolded a few days before my 45th spin. Alone isn’t so bad either; impingements abate for a while, got nothing to do really but stare ahead and listen and think and that’s a treat these days.
Crowd was thin, though, I was a bit taken aback. Even though she’d performed at Secret Project Robot the night before, it’s always seemed like AZITA’s from somewhere else and deserving of a much wider realm. Where is the audience? I wonder, as I stare ahead and listen and think. Twenty years on and Drag City, Matador, Thrill Jockey, In The Red, Sub Pop, K, Merge, et al - and their spawn - have unleashed thousands of records for our cohort in mid-arc, with most of our beloved brethren still breathing fire in a way unimaginable to those of us who suffered the indignities of “We Built This City” and “Abracadabra.” It’s a great thing, but where are the legions? All the same, there she stood, alone but for that electric piano and a clutch of stark narratives, swooping and baying and jamming and revealing neurotic vignettes about confusion, identity, desolation and loss with the gravitas of the ages. There were no pedals, Fender Broncos, clever outfits, fx boxes or band tension to hide behind, just those songs, so you think they’d be good, right? Naw dude, to reference another Casual Victim Pile band I hope accompanies AZITA's next NYC visit, those songs are great. They strike me at work, out of nowhere like lightning bolts...suddenly, zap, a sopranino I am indebted or in the middle of a session, zap, disturbing the air. They’re deep, touching, moving. She brings courage.
I cannot sleep because in the end,
I won’t be done
I frequent Starbucks several times a week and, unavoidably, there’s a piano lady on the monitor during the time of my purchase, with the accompanying cd available at the register next to the overpriced honey glazed almonds. Surely Drag City can get in on this market, cuz not only is the demographic readily available, but isn’t AZITA at least as potent as Norah Jones? But I guess that’s the deal breaker. Disturbing The Air doesn’t reveal how beautiful ugly is, it just conveys the ungainly in a beautiful way, and my guess is most people aren’t up for that kind of real (in the morning anyway, on Route 1, on the way into middle management). Whatevuh. Like an Essra Mohawk bereft of her L.A. connections, austere in her purpose, AZITA is one of those poets and Disturbing The Air strikes me as an intense statement on it all. As far as this 2011 list goes, it’s the 24th seating of a wicked company.
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