Mostly Other People Do the Killing
Woos & Woes
our mountain
Zebulon
January 8th 2010
So I’ll keep this one short. It is long over due, and I wasn’t going write anything, but I figure why not take an opportunity to call it like it was. The title of this piece should be “Woos & Woes and our mountain Got Fucked by Mostly Other People Do the Killing,” which I’ll now refer to as “that jazz band” because I don’t have the patience to write their damn name. For those who don’t know—and who doesn’t—an opening slot for a 3 band gig is 45 minutes with 15 minutes for the break down. So let’s start there. That jazz band played for over an hour and a half and took their sweet time breaking down. To quote one exceptional jazz player, “If you can’t convince the crowd you’re good in seven songs, you won’t be able to do it in 14.” This is advice that jazz band needed to fucking take. The music was a flutter of circus acrobatics meshed with a rhythmic train wreck…and some how I think he might like such a description. At one point, during the syncopated scaled masturbation, the drummer sundered his kit and howled in the kick’s microphone, orgasming like basset hound. The band was confused…they thought we enjoyed their cheap pornography. I can’t tell you how many people looked at one another in absolute disbelief. What commitment…what style! I suppose they were releasing their new album that night.
Woos & Woes, whose recorded music by the way is pretty damn good, had a dreadful amount of mic issues. It clearly put them on edge. In fact if that is the description I’d give the night, on edge. They mostly performed well but the venue and mic set up was not suited for their delicate ambience, or their cavernous washed out vocals. Woos & Woes are an LA band that I imagine could have been, and should have been an excellent preface to the final show of the evening, our mountain. Woos & Woes played as a guy gal duo trading off instruments and vocal leads. Both members seemed stifled by the venue’s seeming lack of care for their performance.
Our mountain finally made it to the stage at 12:30, an hour and a half later than their scheduled slot. Those who stayed had likely by then spent all their money on booze and hardly had much to tip…yes a bucket was passed around. Our mountain played their usual energetic and explosive show. They debuted some new tunes, all of which were cradled comfortably within their brilliant repertoire compiled over years of refining their sound. I cannot say enough for this band, especially because they stuck to their gritty guns and gave a great performance, despite the fact that the venue hadn’t the slightest care. I can imagine there was a strong enough impulse to “say sorry guys,” to those who remained, and get the fuck out of dodge, but they didn’t. They played and played well. The venue, Zebulon, looks great, it has a Parisian feel with tons of wood and nameless beer taps. But they accidentally poured a beer down the shirt of a girl sitting at the bar and made a passive apology, failing even to play nice and offer a drink on the house. More importantly they lost control of their stage, letting a bunch of self indulgent jazz hacks suck out the oxygen from what could have been an amazing night.
Summer shows are a double edged sword aren’t they? The heat makes us acutely aware of the sticky auras enveloping ourselves and everyone around us. Forced to mingle, we herd ourselves into the small venue or cram ourselves as close as possible against the outdoor stage, sacrificing our personal space like the legions of L Train morning commuters riding in from northern Brooklyn. But the shows, they are amazing and they are aplenty. This summer looks to be very promising indeed.
Of course for me it has gotten off to a piss poor start. I intended to write a feature about a Norwegian band called Pirate Love. It would not only review their tiny EP, but talk about their live show as well. I was fortunate enough to be guest-listed for last Thursday’s performance at Pianos. A few companions and I had arrived early for a little pre-show drinking. I bullshitted with the bar-back, discovering that he is from Nebraska and that we know a few of the same folks—an altogether enjoyable experience.
Then it turns out that my name slipped through the cracks and was omitted from the guest-list. What to do? I had money for beer or the show, and seeing as one of the expenses was unforeseen, like any normal human being I chose the beer. A few other friends arrived at Pianos later that night. They relayed to me the following day that Pirate Love played a great show. From what I gather it would be a big mistake to miss these guys next time they are in town.
The following night a few friends and I were off to Prospect Park to catch Blonde Redhead. The weather, we can all remember, had been shitty the past couple of days, and it wasn’t looking good for our Friday plans. Again we arrived a bit early and stopped at a pub to drink some pints of Bass and tequila shots. After drinks we began walking toward the park as it began to sprinkle and spit. The line into the venue was very long, but clearly the fans were willing to suffer the rain—for a while. When it came time to open the gates, the park workers kept the doors closed. What was at first a slow drizzle turned into a down pour and no umbrella could really do the job. So, defeated, we walked back the F Train and headed on home. When we finally arrived in Bushwick the rain had passed and the sun broke through. Mother fucker, two shows in two days blown—and we actually made it to the venues. We did the best we could to make up for the lost time. We bought and ate some baguette, stinky cheese, and pastis while watching the sun go down on our converted factory roof.
What will come of the rest of summer is anyone’s guess but I certainly look forward to actually getting inside venues. As always, there is a standing invitation for suggestions on venues and bands. Let us know what should be seen and where. Next week, we go to Wilcoopened by Yo La Tengoat Coney Island’s ill-named Keyspan Park. I haven’t seen these guys in a while, although I was able to get a copy of their newest effort months ago. A review is certainly pending.
But listen people…the best news of the week is thatSunny Day Real Estate will be reuniting for a 20 date tour (see dates below), supporting the rerelease of their first two records Diary and LP2. My fucking God this is amazing! Jeremy Enigk is without a doubt a major hero of mine. I feel slightly ashamed that the last time I got the chance to talk with him was 2003 and I was quite drunk. My brother and I drank dirty gin martinis until he puked and was booted from the venue. It was his 21st birthday. I felt like such a dick. My brother’s inebriation didn’t stop from seeing what was then a Fire Theft show at a joint called Knickerbockers. I asked Enigk something to the effect of “Jesus or Buddha?” He snarked back at me and said “Both.”
Luckily he wasn’t too offended about my mocking allusion to his past exploits in Christianity. He went on to disclose that his favorite band is The Who. After the show I got to sit in the booth with Nate Mendel and William Goldsmith. I am not sure how I pulled it off, but it was one of the greatest moments I’ve had. We’ll see what we can do this time. Although they play at Terminal 5, a shitty venue with what seems like a million people, half of whom will be complete assholes because they hate the music. Their friends dragged them there. Enigk had an amazing showing at the Bowery Ballroom supporting his 2006 solo record World Waits. This is easily the most anticipated reunion of the decade. I wonder what else, if anything, could top it.
Here are the calendars for a few of the better NYC venues:
Sunny Day Real Estate Tour Schedule
September 17 Vancouver, BC/Commodore Ballroom
September 18 Portland/Crystal Ballroom (Musicfest NW)
September 20 Salt Lake City/Murray Theater
September 21 Denver/Ogden Theater
September 23 Minneapolis/First Avenue
September 24 Chicago/Metro
September 25 Detroit/St Andrews Hall
September 27 New York/Terminal 5
September 28 Boston/House of Blues
September 30 Washington DC/930 Club
October 1 Philadelphia/Trocadero
October 3 Atlanta/CW Center Stage
October 5 Dallas/Granada Theater
October 6 Houston/Warehouse Live
October 7 Austin/La Zona Rosa
October 9 Tempe/Marquee Theatre
October 10 Anaheim/House of Blues
October 11 Los Angeles/Henry Fonda Theater
October 13 San Francisco/Fillmore
October 15 Spokane/Knitting Factory
October 16 Seattle/Paramount Theatre
In recent memory there has not been a band that has so succinctly captured the deep meaning and purpose of voyaging toward something unknown as the Whiskey Go Go’s. This is not only represented in their music, but also in their recent movement through New York City and LA. As the industrial malaise suffocates the broad sea of creativity and talent, some have made it their mission to ensure that their extraordinary presence in independent music is still felt. Vocalist/guitarist Matt Hutchinson and drummer Michael Noonan have exhibited their affinity for Brooklyn, playing multiple venues over the past two months. After their stints at The Trash Bar, the Whiskey Go Go’s played a set at Union Pool withParlor Grand whose MySpace quote says it all, “There are some Indians, There are some Whites.” Parlor Grand had a Crazy Horse aesthetic and a joy for performance that made their set entirely worth showing up for. Of course Union Pool’s delicious outdoor Taquito stand and wood burning fire pit didn’t hurt.
The audience at Union Pool was markedly different from that of The Trash Bar. I am not sure if this resulted from the particular type of punter each venue attracts, or from the high volume of random sophisticates and eager girls that decided to attend Union Pool that night. In any case, Union Pool’s show was somewhat more subdued. This is not to say the show as any less impressive; Hutchinson still had that same dramatic intensity. His eyes began tightly shut and his hands spoke with subtle movements. As the show continued he became ravenously wide-eyed and his hands seemed to reach out and extend past the crowd. He abused the whammy bar and scrapped the strings of his guitar along everything he could find, from the microphone mesh to the cymbal’s edge.
Mr. Noonan also played exquisitely. He is a disciplined drummer with excellent chops, which is important being that there are limited permanent members touring the U.S. There would be no room on this tour for an impressive front stage presence hampered by the dulling baggage of mediocrity. It was a privilege to get to see a second showcase of their new project Whiskey Rain, which is the title of their yet-to-be-released record. While unmastered, I have had the opportunity to listen to the new record. Though the record is largely influenced by various strains of Americana, it contains an authentic voice of its own. That voice contemplates love, loss, and ways to pacify the clutter of an unkempt mind…namely drinking…a lot.
The record is assembled with precision. The opening track, titled Whiskey Rain, is a collage of barely comprehendible exhortations, a wish list of affection set over amazing pop guitar. It is easily one of the most well written songs released this year. The following track, Wooden Hearts, is a bass driven, distorted soliloquy, narrating events with descriptions of natural elements and of violence, erupting into the refrain:
“You are the lady that I love…You are women that I adore”
This marks a defining feature of the Whiskey Go Go’s work. Hutchinson has written phrases that when heard are nearly impossible to suppress from being repeated over and over again in your head. Bang Shot is another incredibly well written track that begins with a simple and soft guitar melody joined by a perfect hum from the band. The song builds as Noonan’s snare pop makes the song onomatopoeic. The crescendo has all instruments at fever pitch as Hutchinson croons a new take on the old adage that it takes two…
“I held the gun, but she pulled the trigger.”
As a whole, the record succeeds almost immaculately, with only a few subjective missteps occurring. Every track is creative—undeniably a product of a band that benefits from the momentum of charisma and determination. Songs like Devil’s Banquet and Love Song round out the record, ensuring that it has balance and weight. Even White Angel and Yours Sincerely, the record’s most problematic tracks, have moments of stunning beauty and imperfect charm. The Whiskey Go Go’s have made a nice addendum to 2007’s Proud Tale to Them of Us, which itself boasted plenty of great songs like Rodeo and True Love. Hutchinson’s hollering madness and rustic sophistication is impressive. It is only a matter of time before they receive wider recognition. We are glad to have seen them when we did.
Fontana’s
Wednesday, January 28th
105 Eldridge Street, New York NY LES
First it should be noted that for those of you who have never been to Fontana’s in Manhattan, this place is great—go there soon. Granted the place was not exactly packed Wednesday evening, so I do not know the levels of douchebaggery that flow into the joint during peak volume, but I do know the aesthetics are excellent. They have a purple felt pool table…
The venue itself is in the basement. It is a typical Manhattan hole in the ground. The best thing about this set up is that its small size and earth insulated walls ensure ear damage. Fontana’s is blissfully loud. It is dimly lit, giving the room the tenor of an opium den. The bar is positioned in the back, the amber lights drawing attention to the various colored liquids resting on the liquor shelf. It was the perfect place to view The Depreciation Guild in all their shoegazey glory. As of late it has become objectionable to allow oneself to be called “shoegaze,” but there seems to be no argument from the band when people deploy this genre definition—the word appears on their Myspace page no less than 14 times. The thickly constructed wall of melodic noise pulsed from a dark stage. The stage background was lit by a projector emanating Technicolor geometric shapes over the face of the drummer, Anton. Christoph and Kurt were shrouded in pitch, orchestrating their knobs and pedals to direct a deafening wind that blew to the back of the venue. The vocals betray an intense infatuation with 80’s pop melody construction. Their brazil nut colored mod hair styles matched—they looked like a band from an era when constituent musicians would share some attribute, whether it be a hair cut, a t-shirt, or a jacket. Combined with the forceful ambience of guitars, a post-punk back beat, and an accentuation of low-bit synthetic sounds, The Depreciation Guild engaged in an orgy of reverberation and distorted harmonics. Their strong performance confirmed that this wouldn’t be a night of openers and closers, but a menagerie of varied but equally impressive musicians. Rarely is one subjected to such a luxury.
The bands began about a half hour late due to what I can only assume was a lack of audience, but as The Depreciation Guild finished the crowd began to thicken. By the time Cymbals Eat Guitars’ gear was set up, the room was coming alive with chatter and the clinks of whiskey glasses. From the first note, it was determined that Cymbals Eat Guitars was entirely different show than that of the band before. The energy was not subdued, it felt coursing and adrenal. Joe Ferocious’ voice was brain lacerating—a braided arsenal of calm and sensitive croons, lined between what too few people are able to achieve, dopamine inducing screams. And the Hazy Sea exemplifies how the band shifts during their live performance. It is the song that initially hooked me in. Live, the song was twice as loud, twice as energetic, and twice as good. Mr. Ferocious worked his guitar over—tapping and sliding and tweaking the strings into disjointed and caustic solos. It was delicious! The contrast between The Depreciation Guild and Cymbals Eat Guitars cannot be overstated. Ferocious and company’s infatuation with pop doesn’t spend much time contemplating dreamy things; their infatuation is a result of years of underage drinking and late nights listening to Pavement, Pinkerton era Weezer, and Issac Brock. It is an optimism wrought with defiance and the desire to remain unshackled by social expectation. Is this what these people really mean with their music? I don’t know—but it is exactly how their music makes you feel.
Black Diamond Bay headed by ex-Dear member Patrick Krief was yet another turn in this show’s display of style and genre. His voice is refined and his hands play a soulful guitar, fluttering the bluesy Hendrix/Stevie Ray signature across the lower steps of the E and A strings. Krief is a guitar man—he is a songwriter that frames an old and noble tradition into something new. When Black Diamond Bay took stage, the venue had largely become deserted, the once attentive audience forsaking the hole at Fontana’s for some other Manhattan happening. In the end, there only seemed to be the musicians on stage, the bands that came before, my friends, and friends of friends who remained. This was in some ways tragic and in other ways fortunate. Tragic, because the band deserved a full house—fortunate, because we had the house to ourselves and incredible musicians to keep us company. I was afraid that Krief and his mates would not perform as well as they might if the house was at capacity. The room might lack the reciprocal energy required to rock the faces off those who insisted on looking first, hearing first in the front row. I’ll say this, the collection of bands was great and every one of them performed exceptionally, but if there was a crescendo of the night—a highlight that humbled all other moments— and I think the other bands would agree, Krief’s final solo was it. The band didn’t muddle through the night for the first chance to get off the stage; they didn’t offer a half-hearted effort. Krief finished the evening with his white guitar positioned on the ground. While on hands and knees, he pounded with a forceful fist on the fret board like the final desperate moments of CPR, when the chest is pounded with abandon to awaken a dying heart, generating a freight train inside our heads.
All this in an empty venue, in a vacant bar.
Black Diamond Bay continues their tour in support of their latest effort, Calm Awaits, February 5th at The Mercury Lounge. Go…and see for yourself.
Los Campesinos!
Hold on Now, Youngster…
April 1st 2008
Arts & Crafts
If Kids Incorporated were to return to the pop cultural radar screen, they would blip to the tune of this unabashedly juvenile band. Los Campesinos! are a group of 7 Welsh youths that have generated what could turn out to be the future prototype for indie pop, or their fifteen minutes may have passed so fast that their influence came and went before the record ever hit the shelves. Hold on Now, Youngster… is a collection of high energy multi-instrument explosions that have been in the works for the better part of 2 years. It is without a doubt one of the most saccharine records I have ever heard. But to its credit, Hold on Now, Youngster… induces excellent spirits as well as that ever elusive urge to dance. It is contrived and trite, sung poorly, harmonies and violins out of tune with the shallowest appeal to be described as punk rock. It is like seeing a 3 year old with a Mohawk on the hip of a Prada draped mother. That having been said, perhaps their naivety is their most attractive aspect.
If Kids Incorporated fails to return then Los Campensinos! should seriously consider their own show. The assembled appearance and style found everywhere from their scratched out and then rewritten lyrics in the album art, to the deliberate branding of their name in their music videos. Hell I even received a baggy of mini-pins with their logo all over it when I bought the record. Their lyrics are clever enough and the instrumentation is really interesting. But there is a youth factor that has been to good effect exploited by bands such as Tokyo Police Club and Born Ruffians. However Los Campesinos! have formulized the attitude and spiked it with a little overt Go! Team Britishness, truncating the ultimate appeal of their music. Another exclamation point? Despite of all of this nose thumbing, Los Campesinos! succeeded in making an extraordinarily fun and energetic record, which complicates much of the criticism levied.
Decently produced show footage from Eagle Seagull‘s performance at Paridiso in Amsterdam on May 21st of this year. I think that, in regards to a release date for their upcoming LP The Year of the How-To Book, it is safe safe to say that “Some time early in 2008″ has been modified to “Sometime in 2008,” but I think most people are fine with that, as long as they get a wink and a wave. This footage below does just that, and fine job as well. I am not even sure why I thought the record was coming sooner than later. I probably just made it up.
Also if you would like to read some of Eagle Seagull‘s exploits as they toured with The B-52sclick here. Eli Mardock tells The Reader a harrowing tale of a nipple pinching deviant, a nippy Fred Schneider, and the true meaning of family fun at Disney Land. Enjoy!
The Duke Spirit
Neptune
February 4th 2008
Shangri-La
This British five-piece has influences from all over the place, but their special spark endows their music with a sort of badass fascism. The Duke Spirit’s Neptune is tinged with retro late 80’s/early 90′s British invasion guitar riffs and is speckled with the occasional My Bloody Valentine noise wall and Jesus and Mary Chain backbeat. Even so, their subtle homage does nothing to discount their definition amongst the myriad of chick fronted car wrecks that have plagued so-called indie rock bands for a while now. First off Liela Moss’ voice has a seductive working class quality. She sings about love and loss with equal commitment. But this ain’t no one lady show. The fuzz bass and crunchy guitar make their style incredibly voluminous, cradling Moss’ words. Each part does not compete with the other. The strong personalities within the band do not self destruct.
“When nothing’s fluid, you drink yourself through it”
The solidarity in purpose that The Duke Spirit displays is however tempered and relegated by their inability to transgress multiple contexts. I can’t complain, but what else are they good for besides a good time? At times Liela Moss sounds like Sheila Nicholls with thigh-highs and a neat whiskey. Fortunately, even with all the abundant emotion, The Duke Spirit never attempts to be deeper than an afterthought. Neptune describes a life where two weeks is a million years and problems last only as long as you are consciously able to think them through. This band has toured relentlessly and certainly deserves attention. The Duke Spirit might however be doomed to burn out before they fade away or even worse to transform from an exciting fascination to that drunken bitch that never leaves you alone. But I’ll love them for now.
Other Music
Darling You’re Mean EP- 2003
Roll, Spirit, Roll EP- 2003
Relieve the Distressed EP- 2005
Cuts Across the Land- 2005
Covered in Love EP- 2006
Ex-Voto EP- 2007
Tour
May 7th 2008 @ Conan O’Brien- New York, NY
May 8th 2008 @ Crystal Ballroom- Portland, Oregon
May 10th 2008 @ The Troubadour- Los Angeles More Dates on Myspace
Born Ruffians
Red Yellow & Blue
March 4th 2008
Warp Records
This Toronto trio has finally released a full length. While they receive relatively little press, Born Ruffians deserve volumes. Red Yellow & Blue has a lot of the same charm as their intensely hip 2006 self-titled debut EP, even if it is less quirky and more refined. Not to say these guys take themselves too seriously. Quite the opposite is true. The glossed nature of Red Yellow & Blue comes completely from production quality. If their self-titled is The Velvet Underground & Nico, then Red Yellow & Blue is Transformer.
Guitarist and singer Luke Lolonde has an obsession with quaint and extended utterances like “whoa,” “oh,” and “ho!” There is hardly a song that neglects this tendency. At points the extended vowels seem not to be much more than vocal gymnastics aimed at annoying the unfamiliar ear, but these persistent melodiums give Born Ruffians a stylistic distinction that lacks in so much of today’s up-and-comers. Lolonde’s high pitched croon solicits a knee-jerk compulsion to move to the groove of the motha fuckin’ music. He unassumingly plays his guitar like a drum. Rather than play separate and complimentary parts, the drum, bass, and guitar combine into a focused and purposeful beat, all telling the listener to do the same thing. Dance bitch!
Red Yellow & Blue is long enough to include a few soft songs like Little Garçon played to the melody of a French squeeze box and harmonica. The slower, more subtle tracks of the record give it more variety than the blanket high energy of their 2006 release. The only real mistake of the record was the needless reworking of Hedonistic Me, which is the only song harvested from their debut EP. The original was grittier and comparatively raw, but its newest incarnation does not improve it. So why reuse it?
Born Ruffians are fun, creative, and original. They are wholly representative of our generation and yet they are entirely unepic. Red Yellow & Blue may not be quite as delicious as their first EP, but it definitely doesn’t disappoint. Born Ruffians are a great band and have as much of my attention as their ADHD brains can handle. When they return to New York City I promise they will be greeted enthusiastically by the masses. These guys are good and you should listen to them- even when you aren’t drunk.
Shows
Mar 14th 11:00PM @ SXSW- Austin, Texas
Mar 15th 9:00PM @ Hailey’s- Denton, Texas
Mar 17th 9:00PM @ Rhythm Room- Pheonix, Arizona
Mar 18th 9:00PM @ Casbah- San Diego, California
Mar 19th 9:00PM @ Echo- Los Angeles, California
Mar 20th 9:00PM @ Bottom of the Hill- San Francisco, California
Mar 21st 9:00PM @ Holocene- Portland, Oregon
Mar 22nd 9:00PM @ High Dive- Seattle, Washington
Mar 25th 9:00PM @ Lucky Bar- Victoria, British Columbia
Mar 26th 9:00PM @ The Media Club- Vancouver, British Columbia
Mar 28th 9:00PM @ The Velvet Underground- Edmonton, Alberta
Mar 29th 9:00PM @ The Hi Fi Club- Calgary, Alberta
Mar 30th 9:00PM @ Amigo’s Cafe- Saskatoon, Saskatchewan
Mar 31st 9:00PM @ West End Cultural Centre- Winnipeg, Manitoba
Apr 1st 9:00PM @ 7th Street Entry- Minneapolis, Minnesota
Apr 2nd 9:00PM @ Empty Bottle- Chicago, Illinois
Apr 3rd 9:00PM @ Grog Shop- Cleveland, Ohio
Apr 4th 9:00PM @ Pike Room- Pontiac, Michigan
Apr 10th 9:00PM @ Casbah- Hamilton, Ontario
Apr 11th 9:00PM @ Ford Plant- Brantford, Ontario
Apr 12th 9:00PM @ Call the Office- London, Ontario
Apr 17th 9:00PM @ Zaphod’s- Ottawa, Ontario
Apr 18th 9:00PM @ Grad Club- Kingston, Ontario
Apr 19th 9:00PM @ Casa- Montreal, Quebec
Apr 24th 9:00PM @ Vinyl- Guelph, Ontario
Apr 26th 9:00PM @ Lee’s Palace- Toronto, Ontario
The National
Phosphorescent
Maps & Atlases
Eisner and Lubin Auditorium NYU
February 28th 2008
Let’s get the negatives out of the way, shall we?
1st- There was no beer. Now this might seem to be a point of rather small stature but given points 2 and 3, the omission of alcohol was severely detrimental to the entire experience.
2nd- Don’t let its name fool you, The Eisner and Lubin Auditorium is pretty much a high school gym. The sound was pretty awful. The show was only $8 so complaints are hard to make, however, them’s the facts folks.
3rd- I was surrounded by NYU students. This isn’t inherently a bad thing, but I felt as if I was attending a hipster-slut convention.
I entered the auditorium as Maps & Atlases began their set. Mustaches make for darling bands, do they not? These guys were very talented on the music making front. Their style is very similar to Unique Chique, utilizing elements of jazz guitar tone fused with progressive rock beats. In fact Maps & Atlases are a pretty standard example of Chicago indie rock. They even use vibraphones. If Tortoise, Sea & Cake, and Unique Chique are your thing I am absolutely positive that you’ll appreciate Maps & Atlases. The vocals of Dave Davison set them apart from other bands in their genre in that they are punchy. The vocals don’t necessarily play second chair to the jazzy, experimental music. The guitars are tapped instead of strummed so that the collective punch of the drums, bass, vibraphones, and vocals combine in a free-flowing percussive orchestration. All the instruments work in syncopation.
The three bands were very different from one another. Phosphorescent has a beautiful and soft quality laden with animistic lyrics and an American Gothic aesthetic. I would not be so familiar as to outline Matthew Houck’s influences except to say they certainly hail from the vicinity of southern folk. As mentioned to me by a friend, the band seemed stuck in a perpetual state of near collapse. Each musician was very concerned with what the other band members were playing. But this looseness did not detract from the performance. Houck’s vocals were a tremendous croon. He did not shy away from experimentation, looping his voice over with octaves of bellows and screams, a sure sign that he writes his music solo. In many ways I’d compare him to O’death minus the psychosis. He seems to be pleading not seething. Fair play Southern troubadour, fair play.
When The National took the stage, it was immediately apparent that this band had their shit together. First off it must be said that even as I compared Bryan Devendorf‘s drumming to Stephen Morris from Joy Division, experiencing the on stage presence of Matt Berninger was amazing. It was as if Ian Curtis never died, grew up, and mellowed out. The resemblance is pretty astounding, if not in looks than in spirit. When he wasn’t spittin’ his poems into the mic, he turned away from the audience and let the music consume him. His stage manner is conterminously intense and timid. Especially memorable was their performance of Mr. November. Watching this guy go ape-shit was a treat. When I watch a gorilla looking metal fuck scream and wince it has no more appeal than a cow fart. When a rail thin, contemplative type, hugs him self so hard that he bellows out his sweet, sweet words, I am simply moved.
These guys definitely knew what they were doing. I got the sense that they have been around for a while. In contrast to Phosphorescent, they commanded their instruments with exactitude. Every note was hit with deliberation. Fake Empire was ridiculous. They made us certain that after our trite experience as 20 somethings, we can definitely look forward to a period of disgruntled 30 somethingness. In short through no fault of their own they made the bourgeois problems of the disaffected youth look pretty pathetic. What does a 21 year old really have to say about life? Sigh…
