Icy Demons bring a sense of community to their music-making

Icy Demons play songs marked by asymmetrical melodies and clashing rhythms. (Shannon benine)

From inside a fortress home studio called the Shape Shoppe in Chicago's South Loop, Icy Demons leader Griffin Rodriguez has stapled together not only a band, but a sprawling misfit network of musicians.

"The studio is basically a hub," he says from a tour stop in Pontiac, Mich. "It's a meeting space where people from all over the country can hook up and collaborate. It's not that everyone is doing the same type of music - 'freak-art-rock' or whatever - but it's all people who are reaching and searching for something."

The Demons, who play Great Scott tomorrow night, find themselves included in a new guard of forward-thinking, underground musicians who seem to be taking the high road in the culture wars. Rather than hurling ever louder and ferocious attacks at the hull of mainstream success, Icy Demons are gladly hunkering down for an oddball long run.

Rodriguez is a big, soft-spoken man, 31 years old, who's reached a point in his recording career - nearly entirely nurtured through word of mouth - where things are starting to make sense. "People recording at the studio really all have the same attitude," he says. "And that's how I like it."

He leads his own band like a Nintendo-generation Charles Mingus, encouraging everything from breezy, electric tropicalia to coffee-break, '70s office-jazz from the group. It's all carefully stitched together with a crooked needle of off-balance melodies that have more in common with modern opera than modern radio. They could go toe to toe with Frank Zappa for all-out compositional weirdness and hyperactivity.

But where Zappa and other heady outfits once roamed the world in concert halls and commandeered symphony orchestras, the Demons remain dedicated to humble ambitions. They're self-releasing their latest, "Miami Ice," on a tiny label (Obey Your Brain) that's been dormant for years after putting out just one record by drummer Chris Powell.

"We revitalized the label because we felt like, with the kind of music we do, no one could really represent the band as well as we could ourselves," said Rodriguez. "It's going to be a great way to put out more music by friends and people we've met around the studio. A lot of it will sort of focus on my style of production and sound."

The self-release completes an in-house, spontaneous community feel already part of the process thanks to Rodriguez's live-room production of their records and a loose approach to the band lineup and live performances.

"We pick up people for the band because we know them and they can tour," says Rodriguez. "We're lucky to not be a band that is ever like, 'Man we need to find a new drummer!' It's just a natural process, asking people if they want to add some keyboards here or there."

"Miami Ice" picks up where the last album, 2006's "Tears of a Clone," left off. It bubbles, organically building rhythms in starkly different meters, slowly combing through pale chords and playful instrumentation. Sing-song woodblocks, electric pianos, and wheezing synths all take starring roles from song to song.

The crew here never exactly turns its collective backs on listeners, but there are no easy answers, either. Limping time signatures, asymmetrical melodies, and clashing rhythms seem to be the band's focus. Listeners have to get on board and try these ideas out in action. Anyone having a hard time might benefit from seeing it unfold live.

Onstage, the project materializes like the Star Wars Cantina band unmasked - cello, marimba, guitar, upright bass, members bopping from one instrument to the next, like a workshop on otherworldly jams.

"I like to think of what we do as just 'songs,' " Rodriguez says. "As in, they're just lyrics, notes, and rhythms. Every aspect can be stretched and changed on any given night depending on the crowd."