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Big Ears 2025

Thursday, March 27 to Sunday, March 30, 2025.

Shows

Day 1

Day 2

Day 3

Day 4

Dispatches

The typical punishment for flying between two mid-tier American airports is a layover in a monstrous one. To avoid this we flew direct to Nashville. Our AirBNB is Dolly Parton and Johnny Cash themed. There are 5 guitars on the wall, but no Wi-Fi. We stress-test our livers at Bar Sovereign, Skull’s Rainbow Room, and The Patterson House. The next day we will drive three hours to Knoxville, with a stop in between for hot chicken.

Did you know McGhie Tyson airport is named for a middling-Knoxville man of little importance?

Ladies described him as “charming,” but he wasn’t necessarily the sort of guy you’d think of as a tragic hero. You’ve probably met him yourself: the West Knoxville boy who goes to the Ivy League college and comes home to work for his dad’s company. The handsome unmarried playboy who, even in his late 20s, still lives with his parents. The rich, idle kid who spends most of his free time hanging around Cherokee Country Club playing golf.

There’s a lesson in here somewhere.

I’m staying, for the fourth time, at the Hilton Embassy Suites on S. Gay street. I’ve never frequented any single hotel location more than this, and none has availed themselves of so much of my money. For my loyalty, I have earned at least a dozen Hilton Honors points.

First show: Tigran Hamasyan at the Tennessee Theatre. Armenian folk, jazz piano, progressive rock, and metal. He’s playing from his album The Bird of A Thousand Voices.

I was stoked to see the master Ustad Zakir Hussain, but he died in December. As someone who pretends to play tabla, I felt obligated to make the pilgrimage to his tribute concert. Ganavya sings along with Hussain’s longtime collaborators.

My obsession with Philip Glass started in high school when our percussion ensemble started dosing on Steve Reich, John Cage, and other aleatory drugs. Michael Reisman and the Philip Glass Ensemble performed the entirety of Music in Twelve Parts; an intricate sonic scarf that’s so dense I had to close my eyes to take it all in. The ensemble plays continuously, dividing the three hour piece over two days. I start Friday and Saturday with Glass at the Tennessee Theatre and I feel like I have 100 new synapses. Magnificent.

Sun Ra and Yo La Tengo sharing a stage is surprisingly underwhelming. They alternated songs and never quite found a groove together. Yo La Tengo awkwardly tensed around the ‘Arkestra’ like a doofus trying to infiltrate a conversation at a party. Messy. We surmised that the two bands didn’t really know each other before this show. Turns out they collaborate all the time. What the fuck.

Still House Plants is great. Three young talents in complete vibratory alignment. Jazzy drums, dry guitar, goth-y vocals. Can’t wait to see them when they add some protein to this club sandwich.

133 Years of Reverb turns out to be a sound bath administered by two very over-qualified healers. I saw James McVinnie in this same church a few years ago, but this year he was ordered, with Eliza McCarthy, to dutifully deliver hours-long whole note chords for most of the day.

Alabaster Deplume. I didn’t see him at all this year. Everyone else saw him multiple times. Huh.

Dakhabrakha. My fifth(?) time seeing this band. The first time was at Big Ears in 2017, when they rocked The Standard and it was the highlight of my trip. Once again, they did not disappoint. I get emotional when I think of how hard they are working to free their nation from tyranny. They are not just musicians, they are activists, and every show is a protest. They end the performance by auctioning off one of Marko’s paintings. I don’t even let myself consider bidding: it goes for $3000.

Clipping. Daveed Diggs can rap. Who knew?

Don Was DJ set. The record producer is spinning tracks he had a hand in producing from a 40 year long career. I only knew that he produced Love Shack by the B-52s; turns out he’s a legend.

Peter Peppercorn up to his old bullshit:

Within the quiet, cascading corners of Pittsburgh lies a community – nothing short of one large family – that spans zip codes, histories, occupations, and generations, always tumbling inwardly into itself, propped up by steadfast pillars of conviction toward spiritual and emotional mutual aid. The kind of earnest community scaffolding that gets bandied about, wielded as conjecture, particularly in an age of increasing fracture through digital sublimation, is alive and quite well within the universe surrounding Merce Lemon.

Water Damage. Maximum repetition, minimal variation. I guess I wasn’t in the mood, which is rich coming from someone who titrated three hours of Philip Glass that same weekend.

Laraaji. I know him from Brian Eno’s Ambient album, so I didn’t know what to expect. He played soaring, improvisational piano while sing-speaking a paean on non-duality and consciousness to a packed house at St. John’s. Upon walking out, someone described the performance like “getting a massage.” That sounds right.

Mùm is the last show of the festival for us. Ryan says there’s “not a bad seat” at the Bijou, except perhaps for the folks sitting next to the man generating scandalous AI images on his phone while waiting for the show to start. Mum is excellent, but they seemed annoyed with the tech. Later we will beside them at a bar, and Gabe will help one of the members buy a new Macbook Pro.

The previous Big Ears