Live Review: CMJ Day Three

Finally worked out that sleeping with a pillow over one's head blocks out New York noise pollution and, hey presto! A decent night's sleep. Finding out Knitting Factory is a short walk from Airbnb apartment also puts a smile on this dial. Once inside, the bouncer confirms that live music is on in the back room and put our wristbands in place 'cause there's free beer for an hour (or, as we've worked out by now, $1 beers as one must always tip the waiter unless one wishes to be ignored for as long as possible when next thirsty). We try pumpkin beer, which is interesting but probably not ideal if you've just brushed your teeth. 

American venues are awesome, with most featuring shelves upon which to place your beverages everywhere - even around the mixing desk in this instance. Ben Abraham opens with an acoustic version of Kate Bush's Cloudbusting that highlights the glorious lyrics we've never really given our full attention to before. "Nothing says Thursday afternoon like kooky British pop covers," Abraham points out. There are lots of toddlers here (okay, only two, but that's more than we've spied at any other CMJ show to date). He sings a song based on 'NY Girl Of My Dreams', a true story about a friend of Abraham who was wooed by an illustrator after he saw her on the subway, drew her and posted this illustration on his website in order to track her down. There are cheers of recognition when Abraham introduces Speak as his next song. His banter is more endearing than he gives himself credit for and Abraham closes with the soaring Songbird. He's got everything, his time will come.

We head up the road to Rough Trade, via a shop completely devoted to hot sauce (note to self: return here when there's more time to

 explore). John Grant is scheduled, but they're running heaps behind and so we wander through the record store, open the door into the impressively large live venue and find Ezra Furman onstage with his band The Boy-Friends. When not blasting out the brass, saxophonist Tim Sandusky captures air in the fingertips of his spare hand to create a visual display of notes. Furman is dressed in his finery: burgundy pencil skirt, floral T-shirt and pearls. Furman's cover of LCD Soundsystem's I Can Change is sparkling with a wistful undertone. Furman expresses his frustration over the fact that he's tried to find out what Paul Baribeau thinks of his cover of The Mall, but to no avail. Clapping eyes on the sound guy, who rests his face in one palm and looks disinterested, we're reminded there really is something next-level about The New York Hipster. 

Goddamnit, we've gotta head off down the road to The Living Room for Marlon Williams since all his previous CMJ shows have been subject to gnarly clashes; John Grant will just have to wait until next time. While trying to navigate the direction the numbers these 'North' streets travel in - after falling victim, once more, to global roams failure to pinpoint exact locations on the map app - we hear Williams' voice ringing out up high from a rooftop. Fortunately, after hurriedly mounting the venue's endless stairs we discover he's only just sound-checking. Plus, there are free NY pizza slices for us to consume. Williams looks relaxed on the fairy-lit rooftop surrounded by deck chairs and even a game of quoits or something similar. He opens with Hello Miss Lonesome and this dusk time slot is heavenly. We learn his mum's here, which is pretty damn adorable. The haunting Strange Things transfixes this small-but-captive audience and Williams supplies a rare treat, performing an Elvis song he's "never played before", Crying In The Chapel. 

Rising superstar alert: so rumour has it a representative for Jimmy Fallon will be present at Williams' next gig, which is part of the Sofar Sounds series that take place in living rooms around town. Watch this space and then (very possibly) your small screens down the track. 

We're in our Williamsburg 'hood, the phone battery's drained as is the back-up charger so it's back home for a quick charge. Then Mercury Lounge beckons for a repeat dose of Yak. And, yep! The same employee who made it into this scribe's Day 1 review, due to her appalling treatment of punters, is once again manning the venue's front desk. This scribe tentatively holds out CMJ accreditation lanyard. And guess what happens? She barks, "EXCUSE ME!? I need to see your badge!" Which is already presented on the end of said lanyard. "I need to see the side with your name on it!" She yells. There's a moment of silent fear before she hollers, "THANK you!" as if she's asked me the same question repeatedly her time's being wasted.

For the second night on the trot, Yak play music as if their lives depend on it. Frontman Oliver Burslem demands, "Can we turn these lights down? I feel like I'm at a fookin' 

hospital!" He is barefoot, but his plimsoles are on the floor of the stage nearby. And his trousers are ironed to define razor-precision front pleats. The minute Burslem spies a camera pointing his way, he stares straight down the lens for the money shot. Drummer Elliot Rawson ogles the crowd steadily like a goal keeper warning the opposition not to even attempt a goal. Yep, it wasn't just a one-off, Yak are all that and they're battle ready. 

So The Maccabees are next up in Mercury Lounge, but British India are just around the corner at Parkside Lounge so patriotism wins out. They're setting up when we arrive and it's immediately obvious someone's missing. 

Immigration alert: British India's drummer Matt O'Gorman sadly didn't make it through customs for reasons as-yet-unkown. 

Luckily, Manny Bourakis (formerly of The Galvatrons and The Inches) is on hand to thrash the skins but, as great as he is, O'Gorman's patterns vary a lot within each song so his absence is (understandably) noticeable if you've seen British India before. Still, the boys do an upstanding job interspersing songs from their very beginnings (Black & White Radio) with more recent classics such as the plaintive I Can Make You Love Me and pulsating Wrong Direction. Then we meet a seven-foot, ex-basketballer expat from Frankston (of all places) in the crowd and the rest is a bit of a blur.