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Harmonious Fusion: Slow Pulp and Sidney Gish Unite in a Musical Adventure on the Arts Quad

The Cornell Concert Commission, off of their success of the JID & Muni Long concert last April has brought two unlikely artists together. Sidney Gish, a girl who rose to Internet Microcelebrity with the song Presumably Dead Arm and Slow Pulp, a band who steamrolled onto the scene with their first feature-length album Moveys. While their sounds are completely different, their message and vibes are hand in hand to a bystander.

I came into the concert with little listening experience to Sidney Gish. I have never heard of her nor her style of music. Because of this I asked around to see what brought people to, what I understood, was an artist who was relatively unknown number-wise. People raved about her lyricism, others thought her one-(wo)man band style of performing was inspiring, and some just enjoyed how human she felt. It seemed that Sidney Gish felt more like a person than an performer, and that was exemplified by her performance. She walked on stage, guitar case in hand, and greeted the fanatics who were at the barricade. As she begins her first song, you can see her mimicking various instruments with her guitar, looping it with a pedal at her feet. Her voice, on top of this garage-feeling sound, feels like a phone call. Soft, well-spoken, and at times, intimate. Sidney Gish did not let down, nor did she do her fanatics wrong.

Slow Pulp, however, was a band that I have been listening to for months. They have a sound that is less like Sidney Gish and more like a local band. It was electric, loud, and sincere. Loosely produced and emotional. Their live performance is the same way. Emily Massey shouts, talks about periods, and gushes her love of Ithaca; Mixing this in with wonderful vocals left me yearning for this duo to return.

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CARTZ

It was a quiet afternoon in March 2021, just a few months after I’d started my college journey that I discovered the musical prowess of Gum.mp3. Just like any other day, I was chained to the confines of my room due to COVID-19 restrictions and my roommate was nowhere to be found.

I allowed Spotify the pleasure of deciding what I’d be listening to as I procrastinated my way through yet another paper.

My Daily Mix sifted through songs I’d heard countless times before and I hummed along, tapping my fingers against my silver-keyboard and bopping my head. 

Shortly after, a new song played.

 “Cartz.” The title read. 

There was a strange green-hued drawing of what looked like a man in a snowsuit. I didn’t understand the cover, nor was I familiar with Gum.mp3 (previously known as Dirty Bird) but I figured I’d bite. I was never one to shy away from a new musical discovery.

The sultry sound of feminine moans behind a fuzzy yet funky rhythm flooded my ears and I immediately saved the song to my likes.

“Let’s dance til we go crazy. 

The night is young and so are we.”

It instantly became my new favorite, encapsulating my unwavering appreciation for monotony/repetition in music. Cartz exposed me to a world of underground garage/drum&bass/DJ/dudes having fun-type of music that I never knew I needed. Unsurprisingly, when my Spotify Wrapped came out, it was my number one streamed song—a whopping 318 listens for the year. Just this past summer, I went to his DJ set in Chicago and he was just as cool as his music sounds.

“Don’t eat me up in this photo!” He exclaimed, grinning so wide his cheeks dug into his eyes as the flash went off. 

 

 

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Minimalism and the Religious Experience

Half-hurriedly walking through the halls of my dorm, flicking through Spotify, I rest my thumb on Steve Reich’s Tehillim. ‘Literally translated, Tehillim means praises in Hebrew’ Reich writes in the composer notes; traditionally, it translates to Psalms. As I strike play on the first movement, Reich’s ecstatic cantillations bless my weary agnostic ears. The soprano sits on top of the minimalist mix, cyclically singing Psalms 19:2-5. Below her rests the percussionists who play two delicately syncopated drumming sequences, one being clapped and the other precisely played on a tom drum. The elaborately asymmetrical patterns interweave and dance around each other as I enter my room and set down my backpack. As I find my own place in the ebb and flow of Tehillim, Reich throws a curveball. On the and-of-one the clarinet and cello enter playing the root with a rich and grounded square-wave-like tone; it’s impossible for this entrance to not bypass your brain entirely and grab hold of your feet. I drum my heel to the chunks of syncopated rhythm I’m able to hold onto before they slip away. The third movement begins. Gently caressed by the vibraphone, it intimately opens itself, briefly travelling into a meditative minor key before resolving. Though Tehillim doesn’t quite reach the atmospheric heights that Music for 18 Musicians does, that isn’t what it sets out to do.  Rather, it takes a deliberately melodic approach in its exploration of Reich’s relationship with Judaism.

As the fourth movement begins, the steadily syncopated drumming patterns nervously pick up in speed, almost like they’re suffering. But this nervousness morphs into a grandiose sound as the piece ends in an all-consuming drone. With the soprano’s voice still echoing in my head I lay down in my bed. Is faith a way to find joy? I think Reich has found a way to prove it does.