Is there Maga for the local music scene?
Here I am, writing a music column that does nothing but celebrate the wonderful sounds coming out of Cambridge and Somerville, and very occasionally Arlington, Medford or someplace on the other side of the Charles River.
Hey, I’ve got a mandate and I accept that. The paper is called Cambridge Day. At the very least, you should expect to find a lot of news about the city. And I’m never at a loss for a good music story in Cambridge or “Greater Cambridge.”
But don’t think for a second that the cultural life of the local music scene is an island. We’re a thread in a larger fabric. Boston enjoys being the cynosure of New England, and Cambridge plays a special role in the arts and cultural ecosystem that exalts and preserves that status for the benefit of “Greater Boston.”
The irony, though, is that if we cut our city away from a global cultural fabric, what makes our city’s cultural contributions unique would begin to diminish as well.
This is all obvious enough to fantastic international programming series such as Global Arts Live, or the music departments of local colleges and universities. They welcome talent from around the world to teach, learn, perform and share in our cosmopolitan vision.
I’d be lying by omission, though, if I didn’t acknowledge a competing mood in the local scene. A disposition that quietly invests more energy into building walls around legacy cultural properties, treating them as status, leverage and commodities, rather than freeing art to speak its truth and beauty.
If the local cultural scene is truly a node in a larger network, we can’t help but feel the impact of decisions being made in Washington, D.C., by the Trump administration. What will that impact look like here? Will it look like what is unfolding at the Kennedy Center, which is in the middle of a politically motivated “shakeup” designed to replace a nonpartisan board with flunkies inspired by the aesthetic sensibility of a man who gold-plates lavatory fixtures?
My guess is that the regressive swing of the pendulum expresses itself in a thousand different and more subtle ways. Grants and stipends that seem out of reach for artists speaking truth to power. Arts programs that founder due to lack of funding. Faculty appointments that favor the “safe” candidate, with no one having the courage to say what “safe” means aloud. Booking outfits that deliver cookie-cutter sounds to our stages. International musicians that never come through Boston because touring the United States has become an expensive, tedious and hostile proposition.
An entire culture, alone, choking on its “greatness.”
And all of us waiting for the properly cinematic moment to intercede with a heroic “No pasarán!” A moment that might never arrive.
Hit this
Saturday: Rebirth Brass Band (Crystal Ballroom, Somerville)
Cold, sloppy weather is a good time for classic comfort food to warm your bones. It’s no different when it comes to music. Let the blue skies and sunshine of the Rebirth Brass Band pull you out of your winter rut. The New Orleans legends have been beloved cultural ambassadors for the Big Easy since 1983, spreading the gospel of sound through their signature mashup of modern funk, jazz, soul and hip-hop. It’s not a party until someone breaks out the tuba.
Tuesday: Raquel Rodriguez (Middle East, Cambridge)
The R&B singer out of Los Angeles is discovering new ways to understand traditional notions such as marriage and motherhood on her latest album “Housewife.” No, this isn’t a wish fulfillment exercise on behalf of the tradwife fantasies of conservative America. This is Raquel Rodriguez owning her own narrative and deciding for herself what a happy and successful woman looks like in 2025. An extended metaphor throughout the album draws a comparison between the “invisible labor” of housewives and independent artists. Unequal pay for equal labor sits well with no one, whether you’re a woman in the workplace or an artist on Spotify with 999 streams.
Feb. 28: Masters of Hawaiian Music (Club Passim, Cambridge)
You’re probably familiar with the particularly Hawaiian sound of a lap steel guitar from countless TV and film scores. The gentle lullaby quality of a slide running up the neck of the instrument conjures up inviting visions of mai tais, luaus and endless surf. But there’s more to the Hawaiian sound than a hasty tourist come-on. Like the flora and fauna of Madagascar, the musical tradition of the 50th state has evolved exquisite forms that could have taken hold only in the dreamy isolation of island life. The eponymous “masters” George Kahumoku Jr., Herb Ohta Jr. and Sonny Lim will enchant on a night of sweet strings and storytelling.
Live: Valentine’s Day, Rockwell-Style
Take your pick. There was no shortage of Valentine’s-themed celebrations over the weekend.
If you took my advice from a previous column (“Performances in alphabetical order is K with me”), you skipped the fancified prix fixe version of V-Day to go hear some live music. The gourmet tables will still be there after the holiday rush has subsided.
The Rockwell was offering a twofer Friday: a comedy appetizer with a musical main course hosted by the theater’s new artistic director (and general manager, and comedian and certified personal trainer) Deby Xiadani, who kept the train chugging along with quick wit and the occasional split.
It was the kind of event in which anything might come out from behind the curtain, as long as it grabs attention for a second and doesn’t cost too much to book. There weren’t any miniature horses or burlesque dancers, but Xiadani’s background in improv shined through with a fast-paced presentation that paired “hot comedy couples” (Brieana Woodward and Al Christakis, Cam Ohh and Zach Stewart) in a series of spoof game show bits.
A special kind of insanity takes hold when the whole world is celebrating these aspirational holidays. What I mean is that everyone wants to be in love, and Valentine’s Day is the day to be with your lover. If you’ve got nobody to share it with, all of a sudden you feel like you’ve fallen short. The same could be said for Thanksgiving, Christmas, Hanukkah, New Year’s Eve, whatever. We’re all supposed to be awash in merry seas of smiling faces, bountiful spreads and omnidirectional affection.
Music is a wonderful balm that provides relief from all sorts of ailments, including the oppressive weight of unfair expectations. The Kayde Hazel Explosion – a kind of updated Jon Spencer Blues Explosion – tore the room to shreds and closer Tyler and The Names set those shreds on fire. Sweet catharsis, a crowd in shambles, no time to think of anything but the here and now.
To whomever booked that pair of bands on Valentine’s Day: I <3 U.
Michael Gutierrez is an author, educator, activist and editor-in-chief at Hump Day News.
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