FADE IN:
Ext. BROOKLYN, NEW YORK 2010 – NIGHT
Int. COZY NEIGHBORHOOD PUB
GIRL perches atop a leather tufted lounger with brass nailhead trim, legs tucked under her, engrossed in an antiquarian collection of Virginia Wolfe’s Letters. A fire crackles beside her, casting a warm and dynamic glow in the dim bar. A motley crew of young professor look-alikes, supposed working class, and musicians comprise its patronage. Flannel, vintage corduroy blazers, and skinny jeans abound. Classic hipster bar. The wall behind her hosts an oversize library of faded vintage books, and crouched in it’s shadow, she gazes intently at her own text resting in one hand, and fondles a half glass of wine in the other.
The steady beat of a base drum seeps in low and slowly amplifies. GIRL rests book atop the antique chest before her, serving as a makeshift coffee table, and walks out of the frame.
Camera follows her as she saunters through the shadowy tavern, past the ruddy dandies and hipsters, the dust filled bocce ball court, and down a sturdy wooden stairwell. Base drum intensifies as she descends the staircase.
Int. DARK, BARE BASEMENT.
Beer-sipping musicphiles scatter across a dark den. Their hazy eyes peering eagerly at a stage surrounded by half paneled Victorian walls. Dim ceiling lights illuminate THE CAULFIELD SISTERS, who have just begun their set. The stage is crude, but the accented walls somehow create a time machine back to the days of high-school, when the cool kids threw that huge party at their parents’ house while they were away that one summer. The feeling is intimate, youthful, and exclusive. Very punk rock.
Cindy Wheeler, lead singer and guitarist of the trio, dons an egg-shell blue Epiphone Casino (a la John Lennon) which hangs fashionably from her lean neck via a sparkly black guitar strap. Her style is impeccable, which isn’t too shocking considering she co-owns Beacon’s Closet, supplier of offbeat fashion to Brooklyn’s hip and edgy. Her stage presence is a mixture of charming humility and witty bite, but despite her candor with the audience, there is still a slightly demure and mysterious way about her. The leggy anti-rockstar’s reserved confidence is indicative of the band’s musical style, which I would describe as more composed girl rock, a New England version of Hole, very much my cup of tea. She certainly has a way with the audience, who appeared to have come especially for her. Considering that Caulfield Sisters dates back to 2000 (two of the members go back even further as member of Pee Shy) and have been playing semi frequent gigs in Manhattan and Brooklyn ever since, I’m sure most of them are. This band should be bigger than it is; they’re quite good, but they give off the impression that they’re either too busy or too down to earth to pursue fame. They appear completely content playing small Brooklyn venues for their dedicated fans and friends, which is great unless you live anywhere else.
While Wheeler’s dreamy voice does lend that signature subdued sweetness to the Caulfield Sisters sound, the unexpected bit of edge they bring to their brand of indie pop is the only point of commonality between them and the headliner. Loose Limbs is a two-year-old band that bowled me over with their style of simplistic balls-out rock n’ roll. Percussion heavy, and fast and steady, they take you for a phonic ride. Michael Petersen’s stripped down drum set (i.e., a snare, a floor tom, and a crash cymbal) renders their sound perfectly punchy and gritty, while Corrine Caouette’s vocals pierce you like a pissed off Cyndi Lauper. I’d liken them to a less abrasive Marnie Stern, but with a spirit and soul that is hands down no-frills rock n’ roll. They just don’t make ‘em like that anymore. On stage, they appear so city chic and imposingly cool that you get the feeling the trio probably constituted that very exclusive group of kids who skipped class to smoke pot and listen to records – and they probably did. But their image is somewhat deceiving. Their smiley dispositions and down-to-earth off-stage demeanor, seemingly attributed to their Midwestern roots, make them all the more charming and likable a band. Their songs play with tension masterfully, and the each member adds a distinctively “badass” element to their sound, which is what makes their music so captivating and dynamic. “Red Hands” delivers so much attitude that it should be the soundtrack to any break-up with an asshole guy. The chorus is a genius tirade that everyone has wanted to hurl at an unsuspecting ex at least once: "I caught you red handed, now you'll be out in the cold/ I bet the next time that you're tempted, you'll be a little less bold/ Gonna call up your mother, make her wish she never bothered/ Gonna tell everybody, you're gonna die alone." Everything about the delivery of these lines, from its cadence to its powerfully feminine tone, is perfection. Meanwhile, the instrumentation creates a menacing urgency that is just cocky and audacious enough to carry the vocals. They finished their impressive set with the slightly ghoulish “Tomcat,” a grating cross between hardcore garage punk and noise rock, and a pleasantly surprising way to end the night. I have to say, I love this band. It’s difficult to hypothesize where they will go, but I’m hoping they don’t stop what they are doing.
GIRL slowly ascends the sturdy wooden stairwell. The basement is still teeming with young bodies housing old souls. With each step, she abandons that verboten high school memory and enters back into the 19th century, but she’s had enough of the past. As quickly as it takes to exit a time machine disguised as an intimate neighborhood pub, she’s back to the present.
