1353 H St. NE
Washington, DC, 20002
Doors 7:00 PM / Show 8:00 PM
This event is all ages
“Rock and roll is sort of my consolation prize for wanting to have been a writer,” says James Alex. It’s a humble admission from the frontman of Philadelphia’s Beach Slang, a fiery punk quartet whose raucous gigs often find the songwriter’s earnest lyrics bellowed back at him. Still, consider it a feat that fans are even able to hear those words from behind the trembling walls of distortion that serve as Beach Slang’s raison d’etre. Everything about Beach Slang is loud, from the guitars to its attitude to Alex’s weathered rasp. Considering that, there’s something almost cheeky about the title of his new project: Quiet Slang. As the name implies, Alex is embracing minimalism, smothering the fuzz in favor of a cello, a piano, and his voice. In October, Quiet Slang released We Were Babies & We Were Dirtbags, an EP comprised of two Beach Slang songs and two covers from The Replacements and Big Star. Consider it an introduction to what Alex calls “chamber pop for outsiders,” because it simply serves as prelude to Everything Matters But No One Is Listening, a collection of 10 Beach Slang covers that comprises Quiet Slang’s debut fulllength. The project’s seeds were planted just six months after Beach Slang’s formation, when Alex was asked to a solo Tiny Desk Concert for NPR. “That was just me, my guitar and a clumsy excuse for charm. But, yeah, the response was beautifully unexpected and really nudged my thinking,” he says. “Even now, at almost every show we play somebody’s like, ‘I got turned onto your band from that NPR thing. You should make a record like that.’” A successful solo tour last year solidified the idea in Alex’s mind, but he says he wasn’t content to make a “campfire record,” elaborating that he “wanted it to have more weight than that.” That’s when he turned to the project’s key influence: The Magnetic Fields’ Stephin Merritt. Merritt’s influence lent itself not only in his heartrending use of cello and piano via his work with the Fields, but also in one of his most famous lyrics. “Why do we keep shrieking/ When we mean soft things?” goes the final lines of “100,000 Fireflies.” “We should be whispering all the time.” “That just always stuck with me,” Alex says, “how quiet can sometimes be more powerful.” He continues, “If Beach Slang is me fawning over The Replacements, Quiet Slang is me head-over-heels for Stephin Merritt.” Though a new Beach Slang record is next up on Alex’s docket, he’s open to the possibility of more Quiet Slang. The project’s sophomore release, he notes, would contain original songs. “I guess I wanted to chase reinterpretation first. I dug the challenge of it. But, yeah, Quiet Slang deserves its own voice.” Regardless of its future, however, he hopes the project can convey one simple thing: “Tenderness. I suppose that sounds overly simplified. But, still, it makes it no less sincere. Look, I’m trying to soften the world a little bit—there’s worse ways to be remembered.”
Abi Reimold of Philadelphia writes dynamic, cathartic songs that are darkly colorful. Rough around the edges in a way that is more honest than careless, Reimold's music has a distinctly human quality with songwriting that builds tension using dissonance both harmonically and lyrically. Reimold's voice rides a range of octaves and emotions, exploring inner worlds by pairing starkly vivid lyrics and storytelling with contoured melodies. Whether performing with a three-piece rock band or using a loop pedal to make a solo performance come alive, Reimold's songs combine the rawness of rock with the thoughtful phrases and introspective poetry rooted in the folk tradition. Reimold's debut full-length was released in January of 2016 on Sad Cactus Records.
“There’s an interplay between restraint and dramatic fireworks, lyrics that beg to be unraveled and embraced, and towering, singular voices around which everything revolves.” --Stereogum
“Part of what makes Wriggling so captivating is Reimold's voice itself—it isn't perfect, it's stirring, it has the same capacity for lullabies as it does for savagery.” --The Fader