MAD NOISE.

MAD NOISE, the ubiquitous, scandalously funky acoustic/jazz/punk ensemble that haunts streetcorners and sidewalks from Berkeley to the Mission, has recorded its debut album -- and you can hear the first song from it, "Danger," below. The band also just launched a fundraising effort on Indiegogo to help pay for a West Coast tour, with packages ranging from a $10 digital download to a private house concert ($600) or a new acoustic guitar and lessons ($750). We've long been fans of this hyperliterate crew of humble musicians, of course, but the strongest argument for helping Mad Noise just might be the smoky blues-funk of "Danger," the first song on the new album. They can perform their alchemy in the studio, too. - SF Weekly

Situated on a main street, The Legionnaire has a speakeasy attitude more charming with every stair step up to their modest stage. Security was light. Doors opened at 9:30, and there was no doorman guarding the ascent. Everyone looked to be enjoying themselves, but no heads raised for newcomers to the bar.

The upstairs bartender seemed inordinately excited at the prospect of his patrons being from New Orleans (no one was, though he asked). The price of a Racer 5 was a steal, commensurate to the rent disparities in Oakland versus San Francisco.

Mad Noise did that thing they do: sexy, wood-resonating acoustics with smoky, Creole spice. I'm not particularly enamored with the timbre of lead singer Khalil Sullivan's voice, but you can tell he knows what he's doing. His crooning takes on a particular whiny pathos that isn't my cup of bourbon, but while gruff, while growling, while snarling, he's magic.

Whether enjoying a 4505 Meats burger at the Ferry Building or the cheapest IPA you've found in the Bay, Mad Noise will make you thankful for local buskers.

The group is diverse, not afraid to use the N-word in a politically defiant courtship song, and wealthy in harmonica buzzing. Chris Weir (bass) and "Pharoah" (Jarel Stone on harmonica) could carry an entire show solo. - SF Weekly

BEST BAND

MAD NOISE

www.madnoisemusic.com - SF Bay Guardian

BEST BAND

MAD NOISE

www.facebook.com/madnoise - SF Bay Guardian

These buskers have brains. Lots and lots of brains. Guitarist and singer Khalil Sullivan is a graduate student in English at UC Berkeley, and he's using his experience with the motley crew of musicians he has assembled in Mad Noise — which include an upright bass player, a harmonica whiz, and a dude who will turn anything into a drum — to prepare for his thesis. The subjects? Music, race, the recording industry. On Saturday nights you can often find Mad Noise thumping on various corners in the Mission District, playing its mix of covers and originals — and that's usually after the group has played for hours in its home base of Berkeley. The music can be chaotic and entrancing (and sometimes downright messy), but it's always charismatic, led by Sullivan's winsome voice. And as you'd expect from a band led by a guy who performed for Toni Morrison at Princeton, there's much more to Mad Noise than "Can you spare any change?" Although the band wouldn't turn that down, either. - SF Weekly

BEST LOCAL BAND

MAD NOISE

www.facebook.com/madnoise - SF Bay Guardian

What do you get when you compile a group of musically-inclined individuals named Mogli, Khalil, Pharaoh and Chris? An identity crisis with some rhythm. That is, until they encountered a wino-prophet from North Beach one fateful night, who said to the lads, "Nah, nah ... Y'all make some mad noise. You mad noise." Thus was Mad Noise born, a '30s and '40s blues and contemporary pop quartet seasoned with a dash of R&B. They promise to make Radiohead danceable (not just in the coked-out, Thom Yorke way), charm moms into dropping big bucks (Nicole Kidman would agree - she bought a CD last Saturday) and add sizzle to every stripper gathering, yacht club soiree and farmer's market.

The all-acoustic ensemble unites bucket drums, guitar, harmonica and upright bass on their appropriately titled EP Noise Complaint, which they will soon follow with a compilation album of live recordings from the streets. They play every Saturday at the Embarcadero Farmer's Market, and will also make an appearance at the next Oakland Art Murmur on May 6th, so lace up those dancing shoes and come make some mad noises of your own.

—Belinda Gu - The Daily Californian

If you combined the soulfulness of Ben Harper, the heartbreaking honesty of Tracy Chapman and the syncopated acoustic rhythms of Ani DiFranco, you would have Bay Area musician Khalil Sullivan and his band Mad Noise.

A gifted songwriter in Northern California’s independent music scene, Sullivan possesses a unique talent for creating intelligent pop music. His honest, atmospheric brand of folk R&B covers relatable themes like getting it on, unrequited love, and desire. But Mad Noise‘s recent EP release, “Noise Complaint,” is the first recording he feels truly represents his sound.

Backed by Chris Weir on upright bass, Mogli on drums, and Pharoah on blues harp, Sullivan busks the streets of San Francisco, plays house parties, art galleries, and even weddings. “We’re basically a party band, but we like to party with people of all ages and cultures,” said Sullivan.

But Sullivan’s music is so much more than a party. The Princeton alum, who’s currently pursuing a PhD in English at UC Berkeley, offers a substance and sincerity in his songwriting too often absent from pop music. Perhaps this is because his songwriting is informed by his sexuality and relationship experiences.

“I write songs that are overtly sexual, changing the gender sometimes during the performance to reflect my own bisexuality. And it confuses people,” Sullivan said. “I watch people’s reactions. ‘What will they think when they hear this lyric? Or this phrase? Or this word?’ My band watches as well. They’re straight, so I think they get a kick out seeing the jaws drop.”

But Sullivan wasn’t always so out in his music. For a long time he wasn’t ready to let his sexuality be known to everyone, particularly his family. “Bisexuality doesn’t get a good reputation in the national discourse. So I didn’t feel comfortable engaging in a discourse that required me to educate so many people. I just wanted to make art,” said the songwriter. “But art has a way of changing us. I got frustrated with the need to hide so much, especially if I use music to open up, to transform others and to be transformed.”

So Sullivan wrote a coming out song called “Thief” in early 2009. The song blends sustained haunting melodies with a military rhythm that captures inner conflict and lyrics describing bedroom thieves and pirates. The multi-layered tune inspired Sullivan to form his band, so he could play its intricate arrangements live.

“Thief” will appear on Mad Noise‘s next EP, which will undoubtedly be filled with more of Sullivan’s trademark relationship angst, which expresses both his longing and frustrations. “In a relationship, I am for intimacy, so any of my own concerns come up through dialogue. I think my lovers are pleasantly surprised to see me tackle all of those issues in my music, too. I deal with my bisexuality in the music because I use the medium to deal with all of my issues.”

In the politically correct Bay Area, Sullivan doesn’t mind raising issues, either. Sometimes, particularly if he’s performing solo, he performs spirituals in Blackface, which usually shocks the hell out of Bay Area audiences. The idea sprung from his interest in a Blackface minstrel type called the “Black Dandy,” which Sullivan researched as a Princeton undergraduate. “One day, I woke up and realized I can scare people if I want to,” he said. “I was always taught to be nice and sincere, and that element comes out in the Blackface performance. But I needed to remind people that racial identity is highly complex, especially when it overlaps with other identity.”

In the politically correct Bay Area, Sullivan doesn’t mind raising issues, either. Sometimes, particularly if he’s performing solo, he performs spirituals in Blackface, which usually shocks the hell out of Bay Area audiences. The idea sprung from his interest in a Blackface minstrel type called the “Black Dandy,” which Sullivan researched as a Princeton undergraduate. “One day, I woke up and realized I can scare people if I want to,” he said. “I was always taught to be nice and sincere, and that element comes out in the Blackface performance. But I needed to remind people that racial identity is highly complex, especially when it overlaps with other identity.”

In the politically correct Bay Area, Sullivan doesn’t mind raising issues, either. Sometimes, particularly if he’s performing solo, he performs spirituals in Blackface, which usually shocks the hell out of Bay Area audiences. The idea sprung from his interest in a Blackface minstrel type called the “Black Dandy,” which Sullivan researched as a Princeton undergraduate. “One day, I woke up and realized I can scare people if I want to,” he said. “I was always taught to be nice and sincere, and that element comes out in the Blackface performance. But I needed to remind people that racial identity is highly complex, especially when it overlaps with other identity.”

In the politically correct Bay Area, Sullivan doesn’t mind raising issues, either. Sometimes, particularly if he’s performing solo, he performs spirituals in Blackface, which usually shocks the hell out of Bay Area audiences. The idea sprung from his interest in a Blackface minstrel type called the “Black Dandy,” which Sullivan researched as a Princeton undergraduate. “One day, I woke up and realized I can scare people if I want to,” he said. “I was always taught to be nice and sincere, and that element comes out in the Blackface performance. But I needed to remind people that racial identity is highly complex, especially when it overlaps with other identity.” - Bi Magazine

If you're a musician who makes his living strumming a guitar on a corner, Saturdays can be grueling. And last Saturday was typical for Khalil Sullivan. He left his Oakland Chinatown apartment at around 11 a.m. to hit the Eat Real Festival in Jack London Square, guitar in hand. There, the 28-year-old met up with the other three members of his new jug band, Mad Noise. They were a motley crew: Chris Weir on electric and upright bass; Anthony "Mogli" Maureal on drums, buckets, tambourines, and miscellany; and Jarel "Pharoah" Stone on harmonica, etc. They were off to a slow start. They'd planned to busk from 11 a.m. to 5 p.m. at Eat Real, break for lunch, then head over to the Mission district around 9 or 10 p.m. Another fifteen-hour day on the grind.

Sullivan relishes it all: the long days, the noise complaints, the people throwing money, the run-ins with cops, the hanging out in alleyways with drunks and potheads, the hours spent reading up on what counts as "public" performance space. An English graduate student at UC Berkeley, he's preparing to write a dissertation on race, minstrelsy, music performance, and the American recording industry. He's fascinated by the way that he says musicians in general — and black artists in particular — achieve success only after participating in their own exploitation. He's tried circumventing the market economy in various ways, first by playing house gigs, then by doing shock theater with street performer Philip Huang. Once, he took to the stage of El Rio in blackface.

Busking ties into Sullivan's process of questioning the entertainment industry. Like other guerrilla-style performers, he's foisting his art upon the public. "What is my place here, as an artist right now?" Sullivan asked during a recent interview. "I'm still trying to figure it out." More importantly, he continued, "Whose neighborhood can I go into — and make a bunch of noise?"

The name "Mad Noise" came from a North Beach wino who hung out with the buskers last July while they played in an alleyway between City Lights Books and Vesuvio Cafe. It stuck. The band does, indeed, make good on its name, especially now that it has a regular Saturday-night entourage.

Last Saturday was no exception. At around 11:30 p.m., Mad Noise stationed itself in front of the bar Kilowatt on 16th and Valencia streets. By then, it had morphed into eleven people playing three plastic recycling buckets, harmonica, tambourines, rain sticks, two guitars, cowbell, jingle bells, and milk crates. Two guys were banging drumsticks on the sidewalk. Mogli was pounding buckets while Pharaoh slapped a tambourine impatiently against his leg. The musicians put a hat out for money, and a cardboard sign with their band logo. "Love, peace, chicken grease," it read.

Sullivan launched into a three-chord rendition of Red Hot Chili Peppers' "Under the Bridge," singing in his thick, growly tenor. Drunk women walked by. Some looked askance; others smiled teasingly at the band members. A man picked up his date and swung her around. A woman squealed. "Take it off!" she cried, as her friends burst into giggles. "You motherfuckers — yeah!" shouted a middle-age man in red pants and a backwards cap, grinning and pumping his fist.

The musicians welcome such behavior. Sullivan let red pants call out requests. For a moment, he became the de facto bandleader. "You do F sharp into D, F sharp into D," he instructed, as Sullivan fumbled with the chord changes. Red pants began to sing in a voice that was slurry, angry, and metallic, all at the same time: I don't care anymore/I don't care anymore/I don't CARE anymore!

"This is awesome," said one tambourine banger, turning to the guy beside him — who looked bored or weary. Mogli howled. Sullivan gave his last chord the heft of an exclamation point, and launched into a new song. "Hey, you guys, why don't we play 'Voodoo Child?'" the red-pants guy entreated.

Just then, a man approached the band, arms outstretched. "Hey, I live across the street, and it's after midnight," he said, pointing toward the upper story of a high-rise apartment building. "Look, I'm ready to go to sleep," the man said, rather sheepishly. "I don't want to call the cops."

Sullivan has grown accustomed to such exchanges. He's used to talking to cops and security guards, being told he can't play at full volume, put his hat out for money, or strum his guitar without a permit. One night, he said, Mad Noise got shut down by five different "mercenaries of the urban environment."

"Hey — what time is it?" Sullivan asked. Twelve-o-five a.m., and time to move to a new spot. The band members packed up and migrated to 22nd and Bartlett streets, near the Make-Out Room. Before they left, Mogli drew a blue bird on the sidewalk in chalk. "Mad Noise was here," he said triumphantly.

It had been a trying night. The extra personnel hadn't helped much — many didn't appear to know their instruments or the songs well enough to stay on beat. "If their rhythm is off, it throws me off," Sullivan said. His frustrations were understandable. As the band's frontman, he also makes all the important decisions — like where and when to busk, and what to play (Mad Noise's repertoire is about 75 percent covers, 25 percent Sullivan originals).

At 1 a.m., he called a huddle. His voice had given out, his muscles weren't working anymore, and he wasn't exactly pleased that the busking had devolved into a drum circle. The bandmembers made a new rule: They could invite friends along, but once the hat goes out for money, the entourage steps off. For Sullivan and Pharaoh, that's no joke. There was a point this summer when they were busking for rent and grocery money — Sullivan's teaching stipend had dried up, and Pharaoh had a wife and kid to feed. Three hundred dollars a night isn't a killing when you have to work twelve hours and divide the money among four people. But it bought the BART trip home and food for the next two weeks, Sullivan said.

This week, things are looking up. Weir became a sophomore at UC Berkeley. Mogli and Pharaoh are learning about the recording industry at Ex'pression College for Digital Arts. Sullivan is teaching and in full dissertation mode. And he's back to seeing Mad Noise as a piece of performance art, rather than a hustle. But if you ask him where all this is going, his answer is surprisingly cliché: "All the way," he said. "I'm doing this to be a rock star." - East Bay Express