Concert review: Moosehound at the Boiler Room in Denton (July 10)

by Andrea Bunton of My Denton Music

The evening's line-up on July 10 dug a groove so deep, I think the Boiler Room was a foot lower underground by the show's end. Between the pop rock stylings of Andrew Tinker and Nelo, Dave Matthew's Austin cousin, howled Moosehound, a daring exhibition of experimental jazz/rock fusion and an exercise in adapting one's aural perception to fully grasp the message being transmitted. Their placement among three bands emphasizing song format above experimentation made their presence as the "exception to the rule" overtly unique, and I questioned the ability of the crowd to switch gears just as quickly. It was my own fault, really, for forgetting that this is Denton, where one won't find a better venue to accept individualism in all genres of music.

Like I said, how you receive this kind of methodical divergence from your regular playlist all depends on your ability to reshape your perception. As a whole, it is a great white wall of sound to be sure, but before you get swallowed up by it, the trick is to break it down into relatable parts in a way you can't do with a shark or a tsunami (unless you have a harpoon, or a big boat, respectively). In other words, if you are overwhelmed by the sense of entanglement you could feel from taking on Moosehound's tunes as whole entities, find the end of the string. As soon as you untangle the knot and follow the weave, you'll come to view a tapestry instead, and each of the members is a thread to follow.

They came out swinging and never let up; doing so would have bred an uncertainty that is contagious and deadly to this kind of music. Steve Pruitt's insistent drumming drove a hard bargain that sold the sound with its confident handling of transitions that shifted gears so suddenly, the rest of us passengers were left hazily wondering when we even had the time to switch tracks. The groove never suffered as a result of such changes however, but seemed to manipulate into varying forms of itself before returning to its original state.

Over a Brazilian-derived rhythm, Phil Aelony let his guitar illuminate his character. His solo was contemplative and understated, but kept the strength demanded from all the rhythm section players with bold effects patches. He kept this same vibe every time he was spotlighted, with each well-timed ending leaving the listener compelled to keep following his motion. Justin Stanton (keyboards) blended into Aelony's sound, taking opportunities when available to contribute an idiomatic run. My one complaint was that I couldn't hear Stanton as well as the others in general, but his patched sounds did cut through, and to downplay the instinctual response of his fingers would be a crime. His hands moved with the same deftness as those of Brian Donohoe (tenor saxophone), who immediately made me think of Bob Berg plugged into an electrical outlet ("Chomazome", anyone?). Aelony and Donohoe flanked each side of the stage, with a zealous Stanton linking the two in both sound and position. They continuously recharged each other's ideas, keeping the listener's attention alternating between all of them.

Although Wes Stevenson was a substitute, the group was in absolutely no way hurting for bassists. Moosehound stayed true to itself thanks to the well-played co-option of a musician who could fit so well into such a distinctive format. His intuition kept up impressively with that which was circulating collectively amongst the regular band members. When Pruitt dropped down and gave him the opportunity, Stevenson would take up the groove with enthusiastic vigor, spinning compelling rhythmic lines that connected seamlessly to the overall form. He as well used a seldom-heard patch on his showcased solo, converting his bass into an entirely undocumented animal, one that moved with a motion that made me forget its original species and just gawk at the evolution. The crowd response was huge.

The melodies were there, but just as in older forms of jazz, they tended to take a backseat to the individual outpouring. Donohoe spearheaded the more memorable of the character pieces such as "Ant People", in which he employed a trebly electronic effect on his horn that dried the air while forging aggressively ahead in fiery distortion. They must have been ants from our state. In contrast, the third tune (I didn't catch the name) washed over the audience, filling all the space in liquidity. Aelony's glass slide across the fretboard emulated the tinny quality of Pruitt's cymbals that plunged the listener underwater before a Drum and Bass groove shot us ahead into ever-cooling depths. These enhanced musical environments were structured to support some merciless shredding, and the imagery they induced was a pleasurable addition.

My advice: Be awake. Well, okay, be either awake enough to listen, or drunk enough to slip into a misty trance. I found both states in the crowd to be the most at ease with Moosehound's frequently shifting modes. Kudos to Brian Donohoe and Steve Pruitt's inception of an experimental group that amasses empathetic talent, the collaboration of which engenders a fluidly coherent conceptualization.