The latest event in musician/artist Benjamin G. Scott’s guerrilla curatorial series Blind Spot ended up being one of the most memorable gigs I’ve attended in the city. Though ordinarily focused on visual art openings in unassuming public spaces such as subway stations, bathrooms, and parks, Scott’s project provided the perfect platform for this evening of outdoor programming that blurred the already shaky boundary between performance and sound art. As dusk settled in, a modest crowd gathered on Weehawken, a street known for its bygone buildings and its place in waterfront gay culture as well as being the shortest in Manhattan (it comprises a single block bounded by Christopher to the south and W 10th to the north).

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BENJAMIN G. SCOTT knelt over a large cardboard sheet in the middle of the sidewalk with a boxcutter and tape measure, marking and cutting the material into squares at a scrambling yet deliberate pace. Adding an extra layer was the playback via small bluetooth speaker of what was ostensibly the audio of a previous instance of the same action. The two timelines, past and present, unfolded in tandem, sometimes clashing and other times syncing up in a satisfying way. It eventually became clear that the objective was to build a cubic box out of individual panels and packing tape, inside of which Scott placed the speaker before sealing it in. It seems that practice indeed makes perfect, because this time the assembly was completed more quickly; the last few minutes were spent listening to the rest of the recording, slightly muffled from within its new container. Though I do love the raw simplicity of cardboard sounds (Partly Zombish’s August Cake and the Cardboard Sessions tape comes to mind) and the immediacy of manual process, this awkward coda was my favorite part.

SHOTS were joined by the legendary YAN JUN for the second time, following a set at Providence’s Apartment 13 gallery back in 2023. The pairing is a no-brainer based on their respective bodies of work, and if their first collaboration was proof of concept, the remarkable synergy on display on this cool, cloudy night was a realization of full potential. Daniel DiMaggio and John Friberg, two-thirds of the trio, extended their usual location-spanning setup to every nook and cranny of the block: a small speaker affixed to the awning of the historic Market House remnant at 6 Weehawken squawked out birdsong and emergency sirens, Nakajima-esque gadgets whirred under trees and between parked cars, mystery feedback sliced through the air this way and that. Friberg posted up with a pile of electronics behind a beached carriage bicycle, while DiMaggio was more mobile, at one point rounding the corner onto Christopher to tug at the gate chain of an abandoned storefront. Yan was also always on the move, setting up his chair at various places on the opposite end of the street to vocalize and make hand gestures. It was a joy to amble around the haphazard network of miniature events. A highlight was seeing a small crowd crouched around something on the ground and wandering over to reveal an upside-down coffee cup vibrating on a motor—and then it was over, and we were on to the next wonder. The decentralization ensured that no two attendees had the same experience, even though everyone witnessed the same performance. Beyond the superficial similarities of Shots’ and Yan’s approaches, the unifying essence that also served as bedrock for this open-ended meeting is their shared intentionality. No matter how random and/or inscrutable an incident might appear, it was meant to be so. Such purposefulness produces a fascinating energy, an energy that joined disparate parts into a single web of sound, etc. I’ll be thinking about this one for a long time.

If you’re as picky as I am, the state of weirdo venues in New York leaves a lot to be desired. Most gigs I’ve attended have either been at overloud, underlit, beer-soaked bars or underloud, overlit, too-clean galleries, both of which have financial advantages for those who take up the often thankless task of booking. Then there are the rent-outs, unrelated sites that make their digs available for use on evenings and weekends, inevitably with hefty overhead. And there’s always the option of someone’s cramped studio or a risky outdoor post-up. But scattered few and far between are the truly dedicated spaces, which tend to not last very long (an exception being the Living Gallery, alive and kicking since 2012). All of this is why it’s so exciting to have something like INTERCOMM. Their manifesto does the job of explaining what it’s all about (the only thing it fails to convey is how cool the in-house reading library is). The show last night could have been mediocre and I probably still would have had a great time, but it ended up being one of the most kickass bills I’ve been witness to in a while. Let’s get into it.

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SPAGHETTI HUMAN BEING, a young Tokyo-based artist gracing NYC with their presence until summer, kicked it off with a high-octane laptop set that gleefully fucked the boundaries between computer music, so-called “deconstructed club”, and extreme dance music like gabber and industrial hardcore. Armed with only a controller, SHB bounced and writhed around the stage area as both preloaded sample tracks and live-processed glitch noise tore through the PA at ear-splitting volume. The mercurial mix of blast and beat immediately had the energy in the room surging, and even though it went on just a bit too long, no one could deny that it was a fitting start to the night.

BENTLEY ANDERSON brought a more patient, focused presence with some loop-heavy, effects-laden extended guitar drone. I’ve seen the established performer and Decontrol operator around at events before, but we’ve never had the chance to meet. I enjoyed the hypnotic layering of feedback and overtones, most of which was driven by various percussive interaction on the body and pickups. Comparisons to 90s Kiwi legends danced in my head, but Anderson’s approach is more active and immediate. The progression was careful and controlled, never fully boiling over yet always satisfying. Low-key but loud.

Things heated up with an explosive first meeting of KA BAIRD and SAM NEWSOME, two accomplished artists who have made radically different but equally significant splashes in the city’s free music scene. I haven’t had this much fun with an improv set in a long time, and it was clear the musicians were having a blast too. Both made use of so many bells and whistles that in other hands would have been distracting, but in theirs it was dynamic, exciting, and hilarious. I doubled over laughing when Newsome scrambled to swap out his handfuls of plastic tubing for a pile of metal mixing bowls as Baird belted nonsense operatics into their overcooked rig. The frenzy of absurdist interplay culminated in a closing of the conduit, with Baird sticking the mic in the bell of Newsome’s soprano sax as he shredded away with abandon. The applause was almost as loud as the performance—well deserved.

Maine’s id m theft able needs no introduction. For me, it was his inclusion on the bill that made the gig unmissable, and the rest of it being excellent was just the cherry on top. It’s one thing to hear Scott Spear’s virtuosic vocal contortions on his multiple decades’ worth of recordings, but it’s quite another to see him do it firsthand. All those years of honing his craft comes through in Spear’s effortless deployment of both his sprawling tabletop setup and his larynx. Each intense burst of surrealist sound balloons from molecular origins into something huge and harrowing, whether it’s a micro-industrial drum solo with chopsticks or a deafening duet with not one but two of Queen’s most insufferable singles. Concluding with the gloriously anticlimactic plink-plunk of billiard balls spun around a circle of thrift-store cups and mugs, it was everything I could have wanted. Also picked up …l…e…t…t…i…n…g…s…, a triple-tape set of “prepared rain” recordings that I’ve had my eye on for a while (order it and other goodies here).

This was my second time at Triest, the first being the James Emrick / RM Francis gig a few weeks ago. It’s primarily a DIY gallery, and while the bright, cold lighting probably works during the day when there’s also natural light to supplement it, the experience of walking in when it’s dark outside is pretty damn cursed. The vibes warmed up a lot once the fluorescents shut off and a sole yellow lamp lit the small but comfortable space.

STAR is a project most people are at least aware of. Sam Franklin’s enigmatic analog rituals have an unusual crossover appeal: though a lot of the praise I’ve heard has come from friends in the noise sphere, and the releases that haven’t been produced via in-house imprint I Am Elegant have come out on heavy-hitting labels like White Centipede and Hospital, the crowd for this show seemed more on the improv/sound art side of things. (It’s strange to even separate the two, but no one can deny they feel very separate in New York.) I’ve never seen him play and have only heard a few tapes, so I was unsure what to expect setup-wise, and yet I wasn’t surprised by the simplicity: a minimal array of two cassette players (one deck, one Walkman), a stomp controller, and a mixer. The ease with which Franklin operated the system gave the impression that he’s been working with it for some time. The set immediately settled into a freeform drift of overlapping loops and organic feedback, with milestones marked by the addition of a vocal mic and a small melodica. It started to meander once the latter came into the mix, but ended strong with a satisfying final rally cut off by a sudden killswitch flip.

KIERAN DALY, who’s on a mini-tour right now that will conclude with a set with frequent collaborator Sam Weinberg at Figure8 tomorrow, has been making some of the most interesting, and often baffling, improvised (etc.) music in recent years. His recent aptly paired splits with kindred spirits Luciano Maggiore and Ashcircle are great examples of his humbly radical approach. The familiar silhouette of an Epiphone SG set the tone for a memorable solo performance full of stuttering, stumbling monophony. I sometimes feel a bit gaslit by an audience’s stone-faced silence when confronted with some of the more ridiculous strains of experimental music—I was the only one laughing my ass off during the (excellent) RM Francis set—but that was thankfully not the case here. The comedic timing of Daly’s dissonant waddles was perfect, and he even cracked himself up a few times. Even putting aside the hilarity it was an enthralling combo of technicality and clumsiness, all of it intentional. The legacy of Derek Bailey is alive and well; there’s nothing so thrilling as being gathered around a single devotee of the guitar as they push the iconic instrument to its most absurd limits.