by LORRAINE CARPENTER

With thousands of bands spread across Manhattan and Brooklyn, panels, workshops and an exhibition hall at the snazzy Lincoln Center, a film festival featuring guests like Borat and Tenacious D, and semi-secret parties on each of its five days and nights, CMJ is the granddaddy of music festivals, one that overshadows Canada’s equivalents with its sheer girth.

But, like other corporatastic institutions of the music industry, CMJ’s ability to break top talent has been in question since the Internet began delivering music in ways no one contemplated at the festival’s inception in 1978. That said, Arcade Fire gained significant momentum at CMJ in 2004, and giving burgeoning bands the opportunity to play multiple shows in New York is nothing to turn up your nose at. And, given time to research the bottomless list of unknown artists in advance (because random show-going will backfire), a good time is pretty much guaranteed, as is a small heap of swag.

CMJ’s namesake is the College Music Journal, a chart-heavy glossy bent on documenting genre and industry trends. On the cover of this month’s issue is Bodog Music, founded by Canadian gambling entrepreneur Calvin Ayre. With dodgy business (and there’s a lot of it floating around this festival) comes bad bandwagon bands, lots of sub-My Chemical Romance tripe. Luckily, the logo on my new Bodog tuque is easily hidden. Other items on offer, and inside the CMJ swag bag, include a Zig Zag “cigarette” tin, a mysterious bearded G.I. Joe head (war on terror joke?), a MySpace keychain with a handy CD-stripping blade, magazines and CDs, among them Public Enemy’s latest. And who should I spy in the registration line-up but Chuck D. Already, awesome.

About 15 minutes later, I’m seated in the front row at a music activism panel, two metres away from Chuck, Steve Earle and the moderator, Janeane Garafalo. Other panels focus on infiltrating the industry, genre-specific issues, legal, tech and internet matters, music media, festival/scene reunions (CBGBs, Lollapalooza and Ozzfest) and, my personal favourite, “Posse Patrol: Hiring and Managing an Entourage.”

Fall-inclusive

On the band front, Wednesday’s bill at Mercury Lounge was typically mismatched, ranging from the downbeat shoegazing of Daylight’s for the Birds to the manic dance party that is Girl Talk, aka supreme mash-up artist Gregg Gillis, who invited a third of the crowd on stage to dance and strip.

As lame as it is to develop homesickness three days into a trip, I made a beeline for Angela Desveaux and Malajube on Thursday. Desveaux got a warm reception at the top of a Thrill Jockey showcase at Tonic, while the crowd went mad for Malajube at Mercury Lounge, albeit partly due to a large local contingent including Dom Castelli of Jailhouse fame (now Malajube’s tour manager) and Pop Montreal’s Dan Seligman. As I left the venue, a small but boisterous Cirque du Soleil army passed by, brandishing large blue Delerium balloons. Probably a coincidental Montreal convergence, possibly a sign that we’re unconsciously working towards burning down the White House again.

Later, back at Mercury, London blues-punks Archie Bronson Outfit put up a good front despite their deathly fatigue. “French” band Nous Non Plus seemed to have their jet lag under control on Friday at Williamsburg’s Union Pool. Prior to their psychedelic go-go set were Boston’s Faces on Film, specialists in intricate, atmospheric drama that begs for visual accompaniment. Devolved electro-pop kids Yip-Yip, who played on Saturday at Rebel, had no shortage of visual stimuli, with checkered body suits, goggles and colourful keyboard cases, left open on stage as decoration. But the ultimate eye candy was the Fall at Hiro Ballroom—not the band per se, but the venue, a wide bar with large Japanese lanterns, crimson walls and a bathroom attendant whose spread included perfume, hairspray, sesame snacks and lollipops. The drinks were way overpriced, mind you,necessitating a trip to the friendly corner liquor store.

Following a few Narnack label-mates, including a promising San Francisco act called Ohsees (aka OCS), the Fall’s grizzled frontman Mark E. Smith emerged to a deafening cheer, his young back-up musicians rocking the band’s classic U.K. post-punk sound. The only onstage interaction occurred when Smith pulled on the guitarist’s jacket and ordered him to sing, while Smith’s only words for the fans were, “These microphones still don’t fucking work.” After a half-hour set, and a fruitless 15-minute wait for an encore, that was it—as problematic as one would expect the Fall to be, and a somewhat anti-climactic end to CMJ. But, as with so many things in New York City, you’ve got to temporarily embrace the chaos, and kiss the ground on returning home.

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