Three-chord circus: CMJ takes over New York City

The nominal metaphor for last weekend's CMJ (College Music Journal) MusicFest was "Marathon": 1,000 bands in four nights at 50 Manhattan clubs, from all reaches of the college radio dial; 50 panels on assorted radio and music industry topics; competitors from the nation's 500 college radio stations and innumerable record labels and promotions firms. I arrived in New York on Thurs., Oct. 19, with my co-music director at WYBC 1340-AM, expecting to learn what the hell we're supposed to be doing—and to be run ragged by rock. But as exhausting as CMJ was, "marathon" gives too much credit to what was more often a decadent carnival of hacks and hucksters, all over-eager to sell their product to the ears of today's young Americans (and the wallets of tomorrow's moneyed elite ). Thus, the CMJ Four-Ring Circus:

COURTESY WWW.VILLAGEVOICE.COM Le Tigre rocks out, convention-style.

The CMJ sideshow: This wasn't always a bad thing. The best shows I saw were just that—shows. Friday night, the Danielson Family duded up in monogrammed hospital scrubs, the better to preach the healing word of the Lord in stop-start pop songs packed with funkless faux-Motown chorus lines and a drummer doing his praised best to sound like a Casiotone. Afterward, Oneida peeled the blood stains off the walls with the power of hairy Big Rock, shouted out Rob Halford, and knocked their two Farfisas to the ground. Heads were banged. On Thursday, novelty-sunglasses-clad Anti-Pop Consortium rocked the first two hip-hop Mohawks I've ever seen, as they jammed on analog beatboxes and set off sirens (they rapped too, and damn well).

There was a frightening aerobics edge: Gene Defcon's legwarmered keyboardist did jumping jacks while Gene pop-punked about partying; Alison Wolfe from Bratmobile did splits and leg kicks between potty-mouthed diatribes; Le Tigre had two coneheads do the Running Man in time to their grrrl-punk gone boom-bap beat. Even the one jazz set I saw, with the superb free-violinist Mat Maneri, had drummer Randy Peterson scattering drumstick twirls as if they were cheerleader batons.

CMJ suckers (Born Every Minute): People-watching was the best part of the whole shebang, mostly because I'd never seen so many wannabe trendoids in one place at one time. They fronted like New Yorkers without the fashion sense; they acted like music nerds, but were so quiet you could tell they didn't pay to get in.

What did that get us? A white kid in khakis rapping along with "Scenario" while we were in line for the bathroom; a British girl crying out "Maag-neat-oh-phone? Fuck!" upon learning that she had missed Magnetophone, an electronic act that had just put on a lame-o-phone live set a mile away from the line we were standing in (there was a lot of line-standing, and a lot of over-filled clubs turning us away at the door); a punker decked out in fringed leathers, buckled boots, and a "New York Fucking City" tank (tourist) smoking a cigarette while he gyrated to the godawful Future Loop Foundation; a lot of people standing in pairs and chatting over the music. Schmooze or lose.

CMJ snake oil sales: In the few weeks leading up to CMJ, PR companies bombarded us with invites to "private parties" and "late-nights"—basically, events where the promotional robots who call us every week could get us drunk and pretend to be our friends so that we would play their records. These people are, inevitably, "from New Haven too, man. Does Claire Danes still go to school there?" The musicians were no better. DJ Hurricane, ex of the Beastie Boys, played a set consisting of songs from—surprise—his new record, most of them twice.

We managed to avoid the scummiest back-scratching (but man, we missed the AAM party with the Mooney Suzuki and Bright Eyes. And Justin is always so nice on the phone!), but we did get suckered into a visit to the CMJ convention hall. Theirs was promotional crap aplenty: business cards from jagermusic.com, a rock revolution sponsored by Jagermeister; CMJ Artists Services totebags; Musicians on Call kazoos. A pasty-faced "space-rock" band called The Id rented a booth in hopes of getting some attention from somebody, anybody! One exchange: "Are you interested in classic rock music?" "No." I took the free candy and walked off.

CMJ presents various pure-bred dogs jumping through carefully constructed hoops: Don't you know it, emo-kid, punk rocker, beat head? I could've predicted in advance the precise crowd makeup at every show I attended. Scrawny guys and butch girls (Le Tigre and Bratmobile), a lot of uncomfortable, silent white kids (opening night hip-hop party), black-clad fashion victims (anything remotely electronic), color-clad fashion victims (anything remotely indie rock/emo), ugly people in circa-1991 plaid (the free-jazz show).

This is college radio now: divided and conquered, scene by scene, target-market by target-market. Last weekend, they tested micro-genre showcases on us, the better to sell you on tomorrow. Step right up.

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