Tiny Desk Concerts - Video

There's something endearing, old-timey and almost vaudevillian aboutBuddy Miller and Jim Lauderdale — even the way they bill themselves as "Buddy and Jim." Both veteran musicians are in love with country music in all its many forms and influences; their music incorporates the blues and bluegrass, rock 'n' roll and a good deal of craft. Buddy Miller is the guitar player to hire if you're playing heartfelt, not-so-shiny country-rock songs. Ask Robert Plant and Alison Krauss, with whom Miller toured for their Raising Sand tour, or Emmylou Harris,Shawn Colvin and Patty Griffin, who named their tour together "Three Girls and Their Buddy." Jim Lauderdale writes award-winning country songs — hits for George Strait, Patty Loveless and the Dixie Chicks. He'll once again host the Americana Music Awards alongside Miller, with whom he shares a radio show on Sirius XM's Outlaw Country Channel; that's where the corny humor comes in. You'll hear some of that in this Tiny Desk Concert, but you'll also hear musical merrymaking and timeless harmonies, with songs from their first full-album collaboration, Buddy and Jim. The songs they performed, at NPR's offices and on the album, have titles like "I Lost My Job [insert pregnant pause here] of Loving You." Some good fun to be had at the expense of heartbreak and life's loves, both lost and found.

You might never tell by her youth or her warm and approachable demeanor, but 26-year-old Scottish violinist Nicola Benedetti has already had an extraordinary career. Mentored by Yehudi Menuhin starting at age 10, Benedetti won the BBC Young Musician of the Year Award a decade ago — and, really, that was just a warm-up. Benedetti has since become an international performer of note: She's recently appeared as soloist with groups like the New York Philharmonic, the Chicago Symphony Orchestra and the San Francisco Symphony, and she was given the huge honor of playing the last night of the Proms in London last summer. But Benedetti just might be best appreciated in an up-close-and-personal setting, whether she's performing or working with kids, which is one of her greatest passions; she's a proud "big sister" to El Sistema Scotland. At this Tiny Desk Concert, though, she's simply radiant. Maybe that's partly due to her affable and gracious personality, or to her huge and sweet tone, enhanced by the 1717 Gariel Strad she plays. (It's worth some $10 million.) Or maybe it's the way she lets John Williams' theme from Schindler's List spin out in such aching fashion, or the way she makes room for silence in Bach's Chaconne before tearing deep into its dense warp and weft. In any case, she's enchanting. 

In a small, packed Washington, D.C., living room late one December night, I heard a cacophony of horns, keys, drums and guitars that simply floored me. It was brash, zany, brainy, scary and danceable. At the end of a long year of amazing live music, this would turn out to be one of the most memorable concerts I'd seen. I walked up to Adam Schatz, the man behind the saxophone and chief instigator in Father Figures, and told him his band needed to play the Tiny Desk. How this music would translate to the brightness of day — to say nothing of a busy office — was hard to anticipate. But from the moment the band squeaked its first squawk, it was clear that it would conjure up an adventure. These guys mix rock and jazz the way King Crimson did at its fiercest. Father Figures formed at New York University in 2007 with Adam Schatz on sax and effects, Jas Walton on sax, Spencer Zahn on upright bass, Ian Chang on drums and Ross Edwards on keyboards. If they come to a club or living room near you, drop all plans and go. This video is just the beginning.

You don't really listen to an Omar Sosa concert so much as experience it. The Cuban-born pianist's overall demeanor exudes a sense of calm and deep reflection, while a spiritual connection to music and his ancestors comes through in his piano playing. You can hear Sosa draw on more than 100 years of Cuban piano in the recognizable rhythms of his country's music. But in Sosa's hands, it's not all fiery and bombastic; he's most effective when he uses Afro-Cuban tradition as a guide to his distinct, subtle and nuanced approach. In Paolo Fresu, Sosa has found a sympathetic musical partner. Fresu's work on trumpet and flugelhorn provides a perfect foil for Sosa's introspective intersection of jazz, Afro-Cuban sounds and a chamber-music mentality. Sosa and Fresu's quietly energetic performance behind Bob Boilen's desk enveloped everyone in attendance like a soft mist. Fresu's use of digital delay never clashed with Sosa' acoustic piano, instead adding another color to the palette; at times, Fresu uses it to add a layer of rhythm with either the ring on his finger or a blowing technique into his horn. Omar Sosa and Paolo Fresu were as much fun to watch as they were to hear. Watch this Tiny Desk Concert and see for yourself.

Bands with big ideas work well at the Tiny Desk. Efterklang is a Danish group whose recent album Piramida took its members to an abandoned mining town between the North Pole and Norway. There, they recorded sounds of empty oil tanks, old pianos and pretty much anything they could strike or record. It's precisely that creative energy that led to Efterklang ransacking our kitchen utensils and desks in search of sound-making material. The band is a joy to witness live with a small orchestra, but it's equally compelling just the way it is here, huddled around my desk and trying ideas it's never tried. A true adventure.

You're about to watch one of the best fiddlers on the planet and a subtle guitar master work their magic. For too many of us, Irish music is something that merely gets trotted out around this time of year, associated with St. Patrick's Day and the coming of spring — and made a cliche by commercialism and whatever other shallow notions make cliches what they are. But for a moment, stop, put aside your notion of jigs and reels, and just listen. Martin Hayes plays his fiddle with an exquisite touch and tone, as well as a magnificent sense of melody and rhythm that never ceases to astonish. I'm a year-round Irish-music guy. I've spent many summers at Celtic-music camps trying to improve my mediocre guitar skills and enjoying late-night Irish music sessions. I've seen Hayes at these camps as a teacher and performer; his playing has brought me to tears at times, and at others has made me burst out with joyful laughter. I couldn't be prouder to have him perform for us. Hayes has worked with many accompanying musicians, and some are equal partners, but with Dennis Cahill you get delicate support. It's a rhythm that keeps the tune in; that accents and colors it but never overtakes it. It's brilliant restraint that serves the music and perfectly suits his parter. So with fresh ears, come join us in a rare treat with a familiar sound.

After hearing The Lone Bellow's self-titled debut, I couldn't wait to play it for friends and on All Songs Considered — I knew people would love it. Still, honestly, I was unprepared for the stunning power of the band's live show. When you see this Tiny Desk Concert, I'm sure you'll experience the same sensation I did. The Lone Bellow features three brilliant players, with Zach Williams singing every word as if it's the last time he'll ever get the chance. He's got a bit of Springsteen in him; it's the sort of delivery I was sure couldn't get more intense, until it does. Kanene Pipkin and Brian Elmquist aren't just supporting players; they're vital. Their voices harmonize with Williams', sometimes making vocal power chords and at other times supplying delicate textures. Pipkin's mandolin and Elmquist's guitar create melodies and rhythms that seem a lot bigger than 14 unamplified strings normally make. Williams began writing songs not too many years back while living in Georgia, inspired by tragedy — a riding accident that left his young wife temporarily paralyzed. That inspiration and undeniable heart comes through in every song. I'm so glad we got The Lone Bellow on the rise, because I have a feeling they're about to get very, very busy.

Today, when you see a saxophonist and a trumpeter in front of a jazz group, it's par for the course. It's a particular combination that's defined many landmark recordings: Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie, Ornette Coleman and Don Cherry, John Coltrane andMiles Davis. Done right, it's a classic meat-and-potatoes sound: open to reinvention, comfortable with tradition. Guitarist Mary Halvorson didn't come to this standard practice just by playing standards. As a sidewoman, she's often tapped to play in open improvising situations; her mentors include the unclassifiable composer Anthony Braxton and the free-jazz guitarist/bassist Joe Morris. Among her sonic signatures are craggy distortions, bent strings and delay-pedaled blurts through a hollow-body guitar. Yet Halvorson has now recorded two albums with her quintet, one with alto saxophone (Jon Irabagon) and trumpet (Jonathan Finlayson) up top. (The rhythm section is also among New York's finest, with John Hebert on bass and Ches Smith on drums.) From the way her songs balance order and entropy, you can hear that she's studied how golden-era hard bop blended those voices, and how later generations morphed, rephrased and imploded those ideas. We thought we'd spring this particular sound of surprise on the Tiny Desk. So when they showed up in town to perform, we invited Mary Halvorson and her quintet to NPR Music's headquarters, where they got comfortable enough to get rad.

Winston Yellen didn't start singing until he was 18 — he's 23 now — but he's already got one of 2013's most arresting new voices. As the singer for the country-rock group Night Beds, Yellen often performs a cappella, with tremendous soul and nuance. We thought Yellen might show up for this Tiny Desk set by himself — all the better to show off that amazing voice, with maybe just his own guitar as backup. But he opted to go all-in with the full Night Beds touring band, including lap steel and keys. The resulting performance was both lighthearted and deeply affecting. Fortunately, you still get a chance to hear Yellen's voice in the clear: The group kicked off its four-song set with "Faithful Heights," the a cappella opening track from Night Beds' full-length debut, Country Sleep. The song segues seamlessly to "Ramona," followed by "22," before the set closes with with "Hide From It," an unreleased song. As Night Beds' members were packing up after their performance, I asked Yellen if he ever has to work on his voice or if he was just born with it — I'd assumed the latter. "I actually just started taking voice lessons," he said. "I knew I could be so much better before heading out for this tour." It's hard to imagine it sounding any better.

It's easy to think of The xx as a fashionable band: Its members have a sleek all-in-black look, its typography and cover art is coolly and distinctively styled, and the group itself has been showered with validation, including Britain's 2010 Mercury Prize. But beneath all that tightly controlled image-making lays music that's raw and vulnerable; shy, worried tentativeness is wired into a sound that shimmers powerfully, but remains as fragile and delicate as a soap bubble. The xx's second album, Coexist, came out last fall, and it plays like a series of tensely lovely interludes, each building to a climax that never arrives. Plopped in front of Bob Boilen's desk and asked to play a few songs from the record, singer-guitarist Romy Madley Croft and singer-bassist Oliver Sim have reason to look slightly ill-at-ease: The setting and band configuration robs them of cover. No beats from member Jamie Smith, who opted to hang back at the hotel; no shroud of darkness or bright lights pointed outward to blunt the crowd's stares. Throughout their characteristically compact seven-minute performance, Croft and Sim avoid eye contact, as they visibly try to ignore the huge throng and cameras positioned maybe 10 feet away from them. What comes out of their performance is not just beauty, but humanity — the sense that, in all of The xx's songs, all the calm chilliness in the world can't quite contain an exposed heart.

Is there some kind of weird vocal vortex in Minnesota? The state turns out so many excellent choral groups — at the school, church and professional levels — that it can arguably be dubbed the choral center of the U.S. The members of the male vocal ensemble called Cantus, who huddled around Bob Boilen's desk to sing for us, hail from that vortex — specifically Minneapolis-St. Paul. A quick note on the group's name, because it's more appropriate than you might think. "Cantus" means "singing" in Latin, but it also refers to an old European tradition. A student group who gathered to sing traditional songs and drink beer was once called a "cantus." And this modern-day group of Minnesotans indeed got its start in 1995 as a student singing group at St. Olaf College in Northfield, Minn. They didn't tell us much about the beer, though. Cantus went professional in 2000 and has cut 15 albums on its own label. Unlike some choral groups who specialize in one style of music, Cantus prides itself on diversity. Just take a look at the three songs its members chose for this concert. "Wanting Memories" is a song steeped in African-American culture, written by Ysaye Barnwell from Sweet Honey in the Rock. "Zikr," composed by A.R. Rahman — the same guy who scored the hit movie Slumdog Millionaire — has roots in the Sufi tradition, where deep chords and repeated phrases signal a slow burn toward religious ecstasy. And the group closes with German composer Franz Biebl's gorgeous "Ave Maria," a signature piece for the group that blends traditional plainsong (or chant) with delicate melody and voluptuous harmonies that ascend heavenward. Listening to Cantus, you understand that there's something about a group of people singing that touches listeners on a very human level. Perhaps it explains why so many of us sing — and not just in the shower. Chorus America estimates that 42.6 million American adults and children sing in choirs. (A lot of them live in Minnesota!) For the rest of us, whose pipes aren't quite that golden? We've always got excellent groups like Cantus to do the singing for us.

About halfway into Of Montreal's Tiny Desk Concert in the NPR Music offices, I showed a friend a Post-It note on which I'd just scribbled, "Was I wrong to expect more of a decadent, pan-sexual carnival?" I'd thought we were going to need to throw plastic sheeting over our desks, like at a GWAR concert, and there we were, watching a miniaturized Of Montreal — just Kevin Barnes solo, albeit with the assistance of singer Rebecca Cash and guitarist Bryan Poole for "Feminine Effects" — as it strummed its way through three stripped-down songs. So if you're looking for another side of Barnes' music — for comparison, check out the April 2012 Of Montreal concert we recorded for NPR Music, the description of which includes the words "wildly theatrical," "flamboyant," "synchronized dancing" and "strange, wandering creatures that look like amoebas" — you'll get it here. The singer told us that he'd been working on quieter, more personal material in recent months, and figured the intimate surroundings would be an ideal setting to try it out. The result is a rarely heard side of a band and a frontman for whom theatricality has long been a means of expression rather than an end unto itself.

The charming roots-folk band Black Prairie got its start as an outlet for The Decemberists' Chris Funk and Nate Query, who wanted an outlet for some of their rootsy, mostly instrumental string-band wanderings. As the new group expanded to incorporate more members — including another wayward Decemberist, Jenny Conlee, on accordion — its sound has grown as well, with Annalisa Tornfelt's sweetly countrified vocals and violin lending Black Prairie's songs an added dimension. As if to flesh out The Decemberists' more stripped-down Tiny Desk appearance from 2011 — only guitarist Chris Funk performed at both shows — Black Prairie played richly layered versions of three cuts from last year's A Tear in the Eye Is a Wound in the Heart. Like so much great folk music, there's a marvelous blend of darkness and light at work here, as the band lends a snappy, lilting quality to songs of alienation and darkness.

 We brought Lucius to the Tiny Desk because I fell in love with one joyous, catchy song: "Don't Just Sit There." That's all I had to go on — I'd never seen the group live — and though I expected fun, we also got fabulous. Not only are Jess Wolfe and Holly Laessig a winning singing duo, but their charisma and charm helps turn good pop songwriting into an endearing performance. Both Berklee School of Music alumni, the two women moved to a Victorian home they'd found on Craigslist. As it turns out, that old Brooklyn home had a 60-year history as a recording studio and music school, complete with an old Steinway piano; it was there that they found their future bandmates. Danny Molad, Peter Lalish and Andrew Burri fill out the group with guitars and drums and an uncanny ability to create songs with vastly differing character. One minute, Lucius sounds like a girl group circa 1961; the next, you could be hearing an Emmylou Harris outtake. And, though only four songs turn up on the band's 2012 EP, I feel a strong album on the way. Pair that with a dynamic and lovable stage presence, and what you're witnessing from Lucius at the Tiny Desk sounds like the early days of a long career. 

Miguel turned up in the NPR Music offices early one morning, after playing a show late the night before. He appeared light and calm, and betrayed no hint that he was nervous about stripping his highly produced hits down to their bones. Accompanied by just his guitarist, Dru DeCaro, Miguel eschewed flash and went big on small gestures — ingratiating ad libs, only one full spin and voice control that kept the songs close to his chest but emotive enough to translate to the back of the room. He told us he wrote his Grammy-nominated song "Adorn" with no idea that it would take him to our tiny stage. But he was made for it. His style was compact and graceful, his manner self-aware and open. After releasing two albums, the 27-year-old performed as if he'd spent years of his life pressing rewind and pause on the great entertainers of our time — James Brown, Prince, Sam Cooke, Jackie Wilson, Michael Jackson. After he ended his set, I wanted to ask who'd taught him the most, but the crush of admirers loomed and I got out of the way of the cellphone cameras. He's a genuine, modern-day star.