Bootyjuice is a Band Discharge Derek Gumuchian Published 2/14/04

It’s like this…the lights are down. There is a strobing light that flickers a little more slowly and lasts a bit longer than it should. You notice everyone is dancing very hard, their faces obviously unconcerned with being seen; they are quaking from their marrow to their pituitary glands like a tribe of pseudo-humans amidst a sacred ceremony to the gods of energy, whomever and wherever they might be. You are swept into the roiling tempest of bodies, with only a moment to check your belongings. You actually disregard their importance, cast them under the nearest table, and join the horde. No one is in danger here. You are as human as you have ever been, aroused and thrashing. You have always wanted to let go like this, but were never moved to. It’s the music, friends.

Tonight, Bootyjuice is playing the party, and we are all in good, but tastefully evil hands.

Bootyjuice is made up of six musicians, attendees of the New England Conservatory in Boston, Massachusetts. With that label comes a certain prestige, as NEC is regarded as arguably one of the top music schools in the country if not the world. The school only accepts masters of their instruments. Through rigorous ensembles and coursework with many noted legends and pioneers of the music of this world, NEC develops its student body in such a way that they end up possessing so firm a command of their instruments as to create jaw-dropping music in a vast range of contexts. So many musical forward thinkers have graduated from NEC that I will only say you have heard them often, and they are significantly influential.

Bootyjuice is no different. The context they choose to represent is too hip to be funk, too loose to be fusion; too intensely heavy to be pop.

What’s most remarkable is that these six musicians—who, if you met them (and I’m saying ALL OF THEM) would come off as somewhere between pimps, astronauts, and clowns—are as developed in their ideas as they are in their performance thereof.

Simply put, they want to rock the party. They want you to exist as base creatures of the underground while they hip, no ties, you into that place we all need to recognize—that glorious place where we ditch our collective bullshit, and GET THE HELL DOWN, together.

They have performed with such giants as Medeski, Martin and Wood and Soulive. They routinely play in Burlington, Vermont; NYC, and Boston, but have performed across the Midwest. They bang up house parties until all hours, and have made a name for themselves in doing so. The energy that keeps them driving towards national recognition is preserved perfectly on their first studio effort, entitled Discharge.

Immediately, the listener is struck with a dark fluttering line ripped by the alto sax (Zach Lucas-also performs with the Latin-Jazz juggernaut Insight) and sizzling guitar of Mike Gamble (The InBetweens, among others). Elaborate introductions of all the band members, and the muscle is readily apparent. Tony Kieraldo (Treeonik) covers the bass with his trusty keytar, whose presence is unmistakable and throbbing. Joe Dematteo and Connor Elms are second to none in their task of creating a unique, uber-hip textural backdrop for this most vivid of sonic tapestries. And Joey Mazzarella winds his tight, funky keyboards through it all with tones reminiscent of every good funk act, ya HEARD? Excuse me, I just got all wrapped up in the funk, as I am listening to the disc right now.

The boys cover the Prince song “Head” on the album, and even though I am here in my jammies drinking this morning’s cup of warm, I am in the middle of a party—it’s just no one else is here.
I will spare you my attempts to describe the music itself. The only result from such attempts is a loss of emphasis on how incredible it actually is. I can only write words here, and words can only convey so much.

Their website is www.Bootyjuicefunk.com. Enjoy the free downloads!

If the mood strikes you, put it on during a pre-party sometime, see what transpires; how this stuff opens that little Pandora’s Box we all clutch so. BJ’s music is a soundtrack for high-steppin’ out of the cave. When you do, you’ll see the horde clearly, naked in the valley below, shaking from the years of tension lifted off their shoulders, just like you.

Friends, I doubt that, in your lives, anyone else would ever make this request—but in all seriousness: let’s spread Bootyjuice all over this place.

Derek Gumuchian