"The best advice Matador ever gave us," opined singer-guitarist Thalia Zedek of the band Come, "was just be yourself ... and, uh, it worked!" With that, the gravel-voiced shouter and her band blasted off into an explosion of snarling guitars, equal parts punk noise, blues swagger and mathematic riffing.

For ten years, Matador has plucked fruit from the fringes of rock's sprawling orchard (Cornelius, Teenage Fanclub, Pavement), cultivated phenoms (Liz Phair, Jon Spencer) and come to define indie rock for a generation of young listeners. While some naysayers have chided Matador for dwelling too long amidst guitars during the dancing days of the late Nineties, indie rock purists have complained about recent signings of hip-hop and techno artists. Recently, Matador's distribution deal with the cash-flush major label Capitol Records came to an end -- not that they sound worried. "I'm really glad we're out of the whole major-label thing," says Matador co-owner Gerard Cosloy. "The money was great, but money doesn't buy happiness -- or record sales. We're gonna keep f***ing with people's heads and keep challenging the audience. That's the only reason to do it."

An admirable brand of determination, to be sure, and a rare one in today's world of cookie-cutter radio pop. Matador's survival is noteworthy, and to celebrate their achievement, the label staged three concerts at New York's Irving Plaza on Sept. 23, 24 and 25. With hyper-sardonic comedian David Cross acting as emcee and Heckler-in-Chief, the first night concentrated on new recruits in techno and hip-hop (the Arsonists, a Brooklyn rap collective; Japanese sample-pop auteur Cornelius), while the next two nights focused on the guitar-based, college radio rock that's long been the label's strong suit. This review deals with the second two evenings.

In the guitar rock department, Philadelphia's Bardo Pond led off Saturday night with a feedback-soaked ceremony of noise meditations. On "Walking Stick Man," singer Isabel Sollenberger screamed and moaned like a shell-shocked flower child lost amid streaming coils of bending guitars. Next up was Boston's Come, who led off their tough, bluesy set with a song about betrayal called "New Coat." Sounding like she digs Janis Joplin as much as P.J. Harvey, Zedek cast her evil eye about the room and charged, "You got different clothes / Where did you get those?"

On Friday night, New York's Chavez trafficked in the kind of unruly yet tuneful rock that made Matador famous. Drummer James Lo led the quartet through spiraling instrumental crests and valleys, while singer-guitarist Matt Sweeney alternated between dissonant minor-key arpeggios and roaring rock choruses. But it was Tokyo, Japan's Guitar Wolf, a punk trio clad in black leather, black shades and black pompadors, who really brought down the house. Between the eardrum-shattering feedback and the Japanese accents, it was difficult to discern any English words besides the occasional "Motherf***er!" but with songs this good, words don't matter. Guitar Wolf kicked out irresistible three-chord jams with Ninja precision, on top of offering behind-the-head solos and revival tent hysterics. At one point, drummer Toru took of his biker jacket to reveal his naked chest, but in typical style, he never took off his dark sunglasses.

In the dance music department, the German electronicist Khan performed first on Friday night. He programs hypnotic soul-funk somewhere between the Human League and Stevie Wonder, and his stage antics are approximately fifteen degrees more queeny than Boy George. Aided by the able DJ Snaxx, Khan whipped up jazzy house beats, but the guitar-hungry white kids in the crowd never actually danced.

Brooklyn's Lynnfield Pioneers came next, cranking out sloppy, spirited funk wedded to woefully thin songs such as "Free Popcorn" and "Maximum Sunshine." The Pioneers are sort of the Red Hot Chili Peppers for Brooklyn hipsters, a worthy role for a band, but singer Dan Cook should dispense with his tuneless and tiresome organ spanking (there's some countries in the world where they chop off your hands for treating an instrument that way). Still, one dude in the back was moved to breakdance in fine style. Saturday night's dancey act was Solex, a Dutch trio led by sampler-singer-songwriter Elisabeth Esselink. Blending jungly breakbeats and orchestral airs, Solex are clearly possessed of a unique sensibility, but never quite brought off their complex techno pop as compelling live music.

Before the headlining band took the stage each night, Matador offered a lone singer-songwriter. Friday's was Cat Power's Chan Marshall, whose whispery melancholia was marred by the loud, chatty crowd and the shushing it engendered, but still managed to deliver beguiling ballads from last year's Moon Pix while hiding behind her bangs. On Saturday night, Mary Timony (formerly of the band Helium) was moderately more successful. Playing guitar, piano and violin, Timony offered laments from her record due next spring as well as "Aging Astronauts #2" from Helium's The Magic City. "I count the stars almost every day," she keened. "I see the freaks lost in the Milky Way."

The artist known as Beck was in the house Friday night to see his friends in Pavement, and he couldn't have been disappointed. Rocking with easy confidence, the erstwhile slacker-rock poster-boys chugged through a set's worth of poignant college-age anomie ("Here," "Zurich is Stained"), resignation-filled mid-twenties anomie ("Kennel District," "We Dance") and thoughtful, oh-shit-I'm-an-adult-now anomie ("Spit on a Stranger," "The Hexx"). Stephen Malkmus is such a caustic wit that he can't resist the urge to make fun of his own songs, delivering his lyrics with a wink and a smile. Pavement finished off with Neil Young's "Stupid Girl," and sent everyone home happy.

The incomparable Yo La Tengo played last on Saturday night, augmented by the excellent wind players from Other Dimensions in Music (Daniel Carter, Roy Campbell and Sabeer Mateen). The sextet opened with "Autumn Sweater," a beat-driven pop gem that was elevated by the burbling trumpet and saxophones of O.D.M. (the three players switched horns). It's misleading to assign roles to the members of Yo La Tengo -- who all sing, play guitar and switch off between keyboards and percussion -- but their style of play is as natural and intimate as any fine baseball team after a long season together. Maybe that's why they named themselves Yo La Tengo ("I got it!" in Spanish). When drummer Georgia Hubley and bassist James McNew quietly faded out their ghostly harmonies as guitarist Ira Kaplan strangled a Hendrixian freakout from his axe -- but softly -- they achieved an ensemble poignancy rare in music, let alone rock.

By the time Yo La finished playing Matador's first-ever single ("Everything Flows" by Teenage Fanclub), they welcomed Jon Spencer to the stage and lit into Matador's first-ever hit ("Slack Motherf***er" by Superchunk). Spencer rocked his finest Elvis-meets-James-Brown routine, warbling, shouting, falling to his knees before Ira's guitar mongering and finally exhorting the band to play "a little bit softer now -- Come on!" As he stumbled about and spit out ample "Motherf***er!"s, Spencer perfectly embodied the Matador spirit. The music may exist on the margins of the marketplace, but its essence is trained like an arrow on the heart of rock & roll.

RODD MCLEOD
(September 28, 1999)