With his spiky, greying mullet, Bob Dylan shades and hotel room drink in a plastic cup, Glenn Branca cuts a mean, iconic hipster figure, a pure punk aesthete who for 30 years has been taking music -- call it rock, call it classical, call it Post-Minimalist, call it Maximalist -- to places the most shreddingest of experimental shredders fear to tread. In an infamous spat in the ‘80s, even John Cage turned a deaf ear to Branca’s wall of dissonance.
Branca is in town for a performance of his
