Oak Cliff, 3.31.2024

Easter Sunday. Sleepytime Gorilla Museum was playing at Trees. We headed for The Wild Detectives to hear Trio du Sang -- guitarist Gregg Prickett's band with violinist Andrew May (Sounds Modern) and percussionist Bobby Fajardo -- play their first gig since the start of the pandemic, on a bill with a shadowy Houston duo called Ak'chamel.

On the way in, was pleased to encounter guitarist-photog-raconteur and all-around fine fella Paul Quigg, who just turned 70. Inside, I ran into drummer-philosopher Gerard Bendiks, who's now been collaborating with trumpeter Chris Curiel as Swirve for a couple of decades -- the last 15 years in tandem with the Mad Swirl poets' open mic. A couple of distinctive Oak Cliff characters who give the neighborhood its distinctive character.

Trio du Sang played a short but exquisitely paced opening set, performing their numbers back to back so no one could interrupt their flow with applause until the very end. May played an electrified 5-string violin -- I forgot to ask but I imagine he had an added low C below the bottom G -- with a ferocious attack and virtuoso chops, his sound redolent of gypsy jazz as well as Paganini. Fajardo played a simple array -- darbuka, frame drum, a couple of cymbals and a hi-hat, with a kick pedal for the box he was sitting on, which highlighted his silver shoes (this is entertainment, after all). Prickett played an amplified nylon-string, picking with fingernails, using extended techniques as well as playing propulsive rhythm and cleanly executed lines.

While the trio's sound is informed by May and Prickett's classical backgrounds, this was highly visceral acoustic music ("because that's all I've got," Prickett modestly said). Quite stirring as well, watching the nonverbals between May and Prickett, or feeling the groove when the guitarist's right hand locked in with Fajardo. Prickett's Mingus-influenced jazz ensemble Monks of Saturnalia remains on hiatus for the time being, but he has guitar duos with Paul Quigg and Jonathan Horne that we'll hopefully be hearing from soon.

Ak'chamel was something entirely other. When the time came, they donned their homemade costumes -- redolent of African and Native American, as well as Arabian traditional garb -- and transformed the corner of the bookstore into ritual ceremonial space. The taller musician controlled their pre-recorded loops using a huge pedalboard, and started out playing Chinese musette. The other musician played a floor tom (which he struck with great force) and hi-hat. At times, they both produced guttural vocalizations that reminded me of electronic Tuvan throat singing; sometimes the drummer sang unintelligibly through a megaphone. 

The horn player strapped on a Fender bass, and for awhile they came across like a primordial doom metal band. Ak'chamel operates in a space where the technical details of music lose relevance, and their hypnotic sound carries the listener away like a fever dream. The two dueted on wooden flutes, then there was an interval where the drummer uttered bloodcurdling shrieks through the megaphone, while his collaborator scraped away at the bass with a short bow. 

There was humor in their performance, too, as when the taller one picked up a can of some beverage to take a drink under his costume, or when he ventured into the audience to confront individual members. (I was one of them; later, out of costume, he smilingly told me, "I really got in your shit." All in good fun, I said, although I admitted that I couldn't recall another time when I was so happy not to be on LSD.) For their finale, the drummer stripped off the outer layer of his costume, strapped on a 3-stringed electric instrument, and they launched into what could only be described as a mutant surf-rock number. We left feeling mightily entertained, and at least stirred, if not shaken.