The Builders & The Butchers
Mercury Lounge; New York, NY
The Builders & The Butchers' sound is hard to peg down. Portland's Willamette Week called them, "A demon-possessed Southern Baptist preacher leading a requiem at a swamp-set, barn-burning hoedown." I'm not quite sure that description does them justice, but my own came up short with "Americana Punk."
Waiting for the show to begin, I began to notice the deliberate lack of electric instruments. It looks as if they could play without amplifiers if not for the light conversation running throughout the crowd. But with the simple sentence "Hi, we're the Builders & The Butchers," the humble band that seemed subdued only seconds earlier explodes into a torrent of movement and sound.
Frontman Ryan Sollee has a John Darnielle-sque quality to him, in that each lyric belongs to a story of a distant place and time, but he still seems pained to sing them. His face contorts, as if the sweat dripping from his forehead is burning his eyes. His feet stomp, guitar slung high across his chest; Sollee is a man possessed, . The entire band is possessed; the audience is possessed. Sollee's like a caricature of Leadbelly crossed with Bon Jovi. One second he is intently focused on the microphone in front of him, aching to get the words out, and the next guitars become axes and are being held high against one another for dramatic effect.
There is constant movement all around the stage. Not only from Sollee, but from the rest of the band. Two percussionists surrounded by a staircase of bass drums leading up to a snare -- always in motion. Their arms are flailing, feet stomping, various smaller percussion filling in gaps left by the drums. Tambourines snap back and fourth. Banjo/Mandolin to stage left, an acoustic bass player (who looks strangely like Harry Shearer's Derek Smalls from This Is Spinal Tap) on stage right.
This show should have been played on a street corner in the 1930s, not the Lower East Side of New York City. Each song sounds like it was written by someone who has been sitting in a library too long, reading tales of deception and hardships from long ago. The Builders' "Red Hands" repeats, "When you take a man's life you fall down/ You fall from the grace of god," while song titles range from "The Gallows" to "Bottom of the Lake."
Once told by the sound tech that they only had two songs left, Sollee began to hand out tambourines to several members of the audience. For the next five minutes, the audience was a flurry of noise. I had never seen a band take such great care of an audience before. They have mastered the give-and-take that is the relationship between band and crowd. As much as we were pumping along, the band pushed us even harder, trying to get that much more out of us.
In the interest of full disclosure, both Sollee and I went to the same school in Alaska and worked at the same college radio station (albeit at different times). Refreshingly, I can still hear a bit of the openness of Alaska in his songs.
My Bloody Valentine
Aragon Ballroom; Chicago, IL
1991. I was five years old in 1991. I had barely begun developing long-term memories, let alone an understanding of music. Had someone then told me this would be the last time My Bloody Valentine would tour until I got out of college, I would have thrown my toy at them and ran off to find my parents, calling that person “weirdo” in the process.
Seventeen years have passed, and now I'm the weirdo.
Standing in the middle of the Aragon Ballroom, I saw a small contingent of people here and there who were old enough to not only remember My Bloody Valentine then, but to have also seen them perform live. But the vast majority of the crowd in the venue was around my age. And unlike the older crowd, the only expectations we had were based on: (1) listening to Loveless and Isn’t Anything, as well as any EP or compilation they could find or pirate, (2) live reviews and news reports, and (3) primitive YouTube footage of the London rehearsals and previous shows. In other words, we had very little to go by, other than that they were notoriously loud and sounded about the same as they did 17 years ago. Kevin Shields and crew met those two expectations. But there were a lot of other things they did as well.
Granted, we knew it was going to be a loud show because the bouncers were handing out earplugs, “courtesy of the band.” But the moment the band started playing, 10 minutes after the lights dimmed around 9:10, we realized that these earplugs were not just a courtesy, but a requirement. Only one person in the crowd near me went without earplugs. I pitied him, for there is no metaphor to describe the volume. It might be the loudest event that I have heard and will ever hear. By the time they finished “Nothing Much to Lose” about 40 minutes in, I could already hear the ringing in my ears. And they would play for another hour.
Another health hazard came into play at the very beginning. The moment the band opened with “I Only Said,” the stage became so inundated with bright, rapid-fire flashes from above, it would have taken only three seconds for the sensitive to commence convulsing. The situation became disorienting quick for everyone involved. And yet, you could feel that was the intent: “I Only Said” was always a very jarring piece, feeling at times like an acid trip. The volume, the intense lighting, even Shields’s slapdash approach to the wah-wah effect made that disorientation all the more poignant.
As the band continued, cutting through favorites such as “Only Shallow,” “Thorn,” and “Soon,” their stranglehold on the crowd was intense. Even when there were a few moments of silence between songs -- as Shields or Bilinda Butcher switched and tuned guitars -- the momentum was never lost. This band had confidence. In turn, the crowd was pleased, earplugs and all. There were very few request shouts and cat-calls. The only time the crowd got wary was the end of “To Here Knows When,” which dragged an extra few minutes.
The band’s presence and mechanics were subdued in comparison. Debbie Googe never moved from her spot close to the bass cabs and drums. Colm Ó CÃosóig’s drumming was clear and consistent, but never over-the-top. Shields and Butcher’s vocals were barely noticeable amongst the layers of guitars and bass, a band trademark. Even between songs, a setlist that has mostly been in place since their first official show in Glasgow, the only time the band even spoke to the crowd was to thank them before their final song. Yet the crowd never wavered. The band was calm, and there were no signs of tension or distress.
The final point that marked the night was the visuals. When the lights and generated fog were lessened, the backdrop constantly shifted in repeated projections and lamp movements. There was a synesthetic intent to these projections: they helped create a visual frame to their music. It also made the songs much more lively. This point was never more apparent than during the closer “You Made Me Realise,” which entered into a 25-minute jam that sounded like the space shuttle got stuck in ignition. Despite the drone, the crowd enjoyed it, sans one beer-throwing member who did not even reach the security fence. Even as the band walked off stage, there was a small hope amongst many for at least another song, the euphoria apparent.
Seventeen years have past since My Bloody Valentine's last tour, and with shoegazing all but dead, one wonders what could possibly motivate them to return after all this time? It helps very little that no new material, particularly of the self-hyped third album, was played tonight. And 17 years have brought in an entirely new and different audience, including myself. But no matter their motivation, My Bloody Valentine sounded like they hadn't ever disappeared, never giving any indication that they would be stopping anytime soon. And, a few days of tinnitus aside, that is something to be hopeful for.
[Photo: PictureResearcher]
Okkervil River
Crystal Ballroom; Portland, OR
“Holy shit, I can’t believe we’re playing the Crystal Ballroom,” Will Sheff shouted as his band took the stage before a marginally filled house. Ever since exploding onto the scene with his 2005 breakthrough Black Sheep Boy, Sheff and Okkervil River seem to have no intention of going anywhere but up. Three years, two albums, two EPs, a free cover albums, and countless shows later, Okkervil River are playing bigger venues now, yet they still haven’t achieved the level of fame (or notoriety) as contemporaries The Hold Steady and The National. So what gives?
“Will Sheff sounds too much like Adam Duritz,” one of my friends said, growing reed around his collar with ire whenever I play him an Okkervil River track. “Something about the music is so depressing it makes me want to curl up,” said another. But if the band may sound like a (much) better version of the Counting Crows and Sheff spits lyrics that are both thoughtful and saddening, there is no denying that this band is red-hot right now, as evidenced by a scorching performance at Portland’s Crystal Ballroom.
Okkervil River kicked off the concert with the “slow song” “Girl in Port.” Dressed in a shabby black suit and tie, moppish hair swept off his bespectacled face, Sheff is both a dynamic and shambolic performer. He is all over the stage, contorting his body in rhythms around his acoustic guitar. Flanked by a five-piece backing band, Sheff played an exciting set that numbered nearly 20 songs, highlighting tracks from the band’s recent The Stand Ins, as well as many other past chestnuts. Watching the band is as exciting as watching Sheff himself. Drummer Travis Nelsen is one of the most energetic drummers I’ve seen, singing to himself with relish while pounding his kit. Lauren Gurgiolo, the newest member of the band, stepped in for the departed Brian Cassidy and backed up Sheff well with her black Gibson guitar.
Among the standouts of the set were “Starry Stairs,” which Sheff dedicated to the people smoking the weed that pungently filled the audience, and the apocalyptic “So Come Back, I’m Waiting.” When the band segued into “Sloop John B” during “John Allyn Smith Sails,” the crowd danced and sang along. But the audience was not courteous all the time. Sheff quit a minute into “Maine Island Lovers” as the noise from the crowd threatened to drown out that solo number. He instead launched into a snarling version of “A Stone,” the fury bubbling just under the surface as he demanded all the house lights out and a lone spotlight shining down upon him.
The band closed the first set with the amazing Stage Names duo of “Our Life is Not a Movie or Maybe” and “Unless it Kicks.” This is the third time I’ve seen Okkervil River, and never before has the band been so tight and so unhinged at the same time. As the band returned to the stage for an encore that highlighted old gems “Okkervil River Song” and “Westfall,” Sheff said that the last time they played Portland a record label rep gave the performance a “C+.” After telling us this little anecdote, Sheff just smiled. He knew this time around he scored an “A.”
Setlist:
All Tomorrow's Parties New York 2008
Kutsher's Country Club; Monticello, NY
- {Friday}
Though I may not have caught all I liked, I’m happy to say I spent my ATP kickoff right there for the first dusty amp clop and ensuing apocalyptic mottled tendril miasma that was Bardo Pond's Lapsed. No subtle way to start what’s essentially a rock fest – and not necessarily an uproarious one. With a sound like a lackadaisical Hawkwind without all of the ’70s trappings, it inspired an interesting mix of both excitement and the desire to forget you’re at anything but a Bardo Pond show spacing out. However appropriate, it was nice to start the weekend off with such a massively cool band.
Friday was the shortest day, dedicated to ATP’s Don’t Look Back series spotlighting live sets of classic albums. As one might expect, an idea like this can bond you to an album in new ways. In addition to rediscovering what a great, globular immersion in sweet nausea Lapsed is, I’m now completely won over on Millions Now Living Will Never Die. Standing there taking in Tortoise’s unique tweak on the funk aesthetic, the underlying musical themes, however augmented by odd syncopations and disruptive synth sqwuarks, put me in mind of the movie Westworld. If a THX-1138-era Lucas had made Westworld, Tortoise would have been the band to go with. Because they’re not just a good instrumental rock band: Given their precise orchestration and mysteriously evocative energy, I’d say they’re the greatest score composers of the greatest movies never made. Or at least the greatest future-noir movies never made.
Tortoise, like Growing and Harmonia after them, played a seamless set of otherwordly sounding music to get lost in. All had the dance-a-bility factor going for them, but I found them to be arrestingly out of body. Built To Spill’s Perfect From Now On was more body movin'. I’d seen them along with The (unstoppable) Drones and Meat Puppets the night before, and I still found the material riveting. Something about the urgency of the vocals combined with the mundane weariness of the lines just clicks, just feels classic – especially when the triumphant “Out of Site” rolls around. Unfortunately I didn’t get much beyond the impressive technical rawkability with The Meat Puppets when I saw ‘em Thursday so I ate a gyro instead. I think they’re fun, but for every high-five inspiring turn they pull, there’s one that simply rubs me the wrong way. They’re pretty righteous in a lot of ways, but at times they have a crunchy vibe going, and it always throws me off.
Thurston's set was cool enough (Steve Shelley’s patented drum work sounded particularly fine to these ears). I hadn’t heard Psychic Hearts, and I’m not sure I want to again. It reminded me of the SY song “Panty Lies” played a lot of different ways, with some cool Pollard-sketch-like ideas thrown in. As he fumbled through his lyric sheets, he mentioned that the album was recorded in a day. The music sounded good for that. In fact, I bet he craps good music before his morning coffee. But the inclusion of Psychic Hearts as a truly noteworthy album is still somewhat mystifying to me.
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- {Saturday}
Friday was pretty great, but I knew Saturday and Sunday were the milestone days, the bands whose music has been a consistent part of my life for over a decade were playing these days. Some (Low, Mercury Rev, Mogwai) have lost me with their newer material, but it doesn’t begin to upset the momentous strength of heart-wrenching pleas like Low’s “Little Argument With Myself” or Mogwai’s tectonic plate-spinning with “Like Herod.”
Unfortunately, Mercury Rev (who played Sunday) didn’t revisit their first three albums, and I got bored with the new material. Donahue’s a tough sell as a vocalist. His fearlessness is both mincing and convincing, even on their best stuff. But all these new mooning, space-gospel blasters lack the versatile what-the-fuck-just-happened madness of their best work. We’re left with gorgeous music, with what had to be the best lighting work of the festival, but distractingly inane vocals. It was a bit of a snake oily experience for me, being lured in by lush sound and showstopper presentation only to find something garish and annoying.
Good as Low and Lightning Bolt were, my main thrill on Saturday was getting to see The Drones again. THIS BAND IS ENORMOUS! I don’t mean famous mind you. Or fat. They’re all pretty skinny actually. But that sound. THAT SOUND. They sound like a rotted wind machine jammed with a thousand rusty metal filings, the house band in a lepers-only club, guns, roses and flesh-eating bacteria. They sound like defiance in the face of your compliance and a writhing wriggling gut buggy that takes you to the heart, rut by gaping muddy rut. NONE OF THIS IS HYPERBOLIC WANKERY. I’ll save that for Lightning Bolt. Yeah so, The Drones nearly cleared the room. Maybe one of the few bands I saw that did that. I didn’t want to report it, but it’s my job. I was so transfixed watching these cats, beyond cool, slapping the corpsemilk molten clay of “The Miller’s Daughter” (much better live, imho) around my head I didn’t notice till the lights came up. Man were they good! They’re not at all trendy and classically rocking without feeling too clichéd. Who knows why this crowd didn’t bite.
Lightning Bolt and Les Savy Fav were the real fun-makers of the day. Both bands know what it takes to deal with crowds – pure sound + pure presence. Somehow both bands achieve this time and again, without ever once feeling stale. I was never a big fan of Les Savy Fav, but Tim Harrington really gives it his all on stage -- and in the crowd with his cordless mic. Not a lot of frontmen to post-punk bands have this weirdo pep rally vibe, and I can’t say, as a non-fan, that I mind it at all. In fact, he made me appreciate what the band was doing all the more, rather than taking attention away from the music. It sounded like get-tough anthems for the heartbroken, and it felt good to feel that vibe whether I knew the songs or not.
LB was all new, and there was a lot of incoherent vocalating by Brian Chippendale and the presenting of a rubber mask by way of an Obama campaign plug. The new stuff sounded cool, a lot stranger with less overtly dude-rock trajectories. It sounded like colliding, so you collided sometimes with one another. It didn’t really feel like moshing. It was more, like, I couldn’t see standing still for Lightning Bolt, and I’m not about to worry about people’s personal space when we’re scrunched-in like cattle. If colliding around and convulsing is moshing, then I guess I was. Maybe the band sets up on the floor cause they don’t just wanna be gawked at. Maybe they just want to get us into a sweaty puddle and electrocute us. Why not? My only complaint is that they didn’t play on and on till B.C.’s arms flew off like pinwheels.
Shellac played themselves a gnarly little set. Tight, spindly Touch and Go punk that rained down the bad vibes. They were pretty convivial between songs, however, reminding me (much like Edan) of how little bands had been interacting with the crowd (Edan and EPDM were the only hip-hop acts at ATP, and they were all about crowd interaction). But most bands seem to want to let the music speak for itself. Shellac were just killing time while tuning, but it brought things down to earth a bit. Edan played earlier in the day with a set that was dazzling, warm, innovative, and funny, but somehow fleeting, musically.
Low looked so stark and gorgeous on that stage. Even when they rocked out with “Canada,” there was an ornate stoicism to it all that felt like old magic. Alan even made some ballsy stage patter about how the ATP crowd must’ve looked to the regular guys working security. It broke the ice. They had a uniquely insulated-feeling sort of warmth. When Alan asked us to go jogging tomorrow morning, it sounded tempting.
Harmonia was transportive and shimmering. Like LB, you didn’t need to see what the group was doing to feel it. Next to Low’s brilliant, choking set and the riproarin’ Trail of Dead, Harmonia was the best-sounding thing at the low-ceilinged second stage. I’m very grateful that my first live krautrock experience was one performed by legends of the scene. Growing actually had a similar command of that strange space, making refracted metronome glitch hypnotics out of guitar loops and lots of effects swim through our shared shallow-end.
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- {Sunday}
Sunday was a let-down only on a few counts. Mogwai was pretty powerful, but kinda got dull at times for me. They never had the intrigue of Tortoise for being instrumental, nor the hooks of The Drones for being fellow mope-rockers. It’s not like I’m new to the band. Mogwai got me started on instrumental rock in the late-’90s. But aside from the moments of dazzling brutality, I failed to find much of interest in their plodding, predictable grey day jams. Then Yo La Tengo didn’t play nearly long enough, and My Bloody Valentine wasn’t nearly as loud as I’d hope they’d be. Of course, this last is an out-and-out lie. MBV was louder than an atom bomb; I defy anyone who was there or in an atomic explosion to say otherwise. And it wasn’t so bad that Yo La Tengo only played a few tunes. When one of those songs is the Mogwai-can’t-eat-this-song's-boogers greatness that is “The Story of Yo La Tengo,” it’s hard to complain. Not to mention they did a Georgia ballad! She sounded so sweet. No it wasn’t “Shadow” or “Don’t Say a Word” (though either of those would’ve been choice). It was “I Feel Like Going Home” and it was one of the most crystalline, intimate moments for me all weekend. The sentiment was counter-productive for those of us who were getting a little weary and ragged around the edges, but oh well. It’s such a damned pretty song and played so delicate and perfect, you wanna immerse yourself in the sentiment, even if only to abandon it at the song’s end.
EPMD, like fellow hip-hoppers Edan and Dagha, were much more about verbal communication and getting the crowd to liven up (sadly, I was not a success story) and wave there arms to and fro. Their rhymes and beats were hulking and rubbery, they mourned some lost legends (evidently, the duo’s not caught up enough to know about J Dilla, who one audience member vehemently appealed for a mention of) and left the frillspace to everyone else.
One surprise was the charmingly slight, art-damaged chamber pop of Le Volume Courbe. They were pretty fine and pleasingly distinctive up until an irksome cover of “Freight Train” by Elizabeth Cotten. When you’ve heard Cotten’s version (and you should!) you’ll see what I mean. Also a nice surprise was Robin Guthrie. Unsurprisingly, it wound up sounding kinda like Cocteau Twins. I almost thought I heard Fraser’s voice in there, but it was more or less instrumental. The surprise here was how perfect the way his rear-projection imagery (something that bands either used or skipped completely) and ambient dream pop sounds turned that entire mainstage area into a sort of sound spa. You could just kick back and soak it up for once. No big nothing, just the precious precious strypps of milky gauze emanating from Guthrie’s gear. His set was a much-needed decompression chamber and a pretty keen one at that. When the evening wound down, after much schedule delay and confusion (I just barely caught a handful of songs from Trail of Dead’s set. They were a big beautiful mess – especially with their climax misplacement on the leveling finale of “Totally Natural”), Dinosaur Jr. took the stage and absolutely killed, providing a scrappy, sloppy, fun mood in between spiky blasts of shred. They were the perfect aperitif for the band of the hour, something day-glo bog before the day-glo glacier.
I’m sorry but My Bloody Valentine just can’t be compared to anyone. The music they’ve made is so beyond gorgeous and righteous and heavy as to be something purely unto itself in terms of pure artistry. It is pop. It is rock. It is punk. But it’s none of these. And seeing them live (after an excruciatingly epic lathering wait for the band to emerge) in person, I can still say without reservation that this music is the stuff of genius. Beyond having all the anthemic qualities of rockers and anemic qualities of aesthetes, there’s something transcendently tragic about their songs. Live, you could really feel emotions that can’t just be pegged down to touchstones of adolescent outsider angst. It’s the music of eternal yearning and the knowledge that grace is fleeting -- in the embodying and in the witnessing of it. It’s the music of the unnamable rogue pains brought on by living a life of escape into oblivion. When they launched (they really did launch into their songs, as though they were all rigged with jetpacks) into “Feed Me With Your Kiss,” it’s not a feeling of romance, but one of facing blind lust and shuffling the mess in your head around so much you might as well be waltzing with it. Closer “You Made Me Realize” lifted the roof off and pinned us to the ground with its unrelenting depth charge squall interlude. “Soon” (the ultimate dance-track ever as far as I’m concerned) was the ultimate pinch-me moment of the weekend. I AM SEEING “SOON” PLAYED LIVE, I thought. I was pretty damned pleased with myself then.
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- {Monday}
So where did I go, and what did I do, when Monday came around? I drove home and slept away the day. Pushed the whole thing from my mind. I realize now that as great as music is, sometimes the drab, unmomentousness of everyday reality wins out. A lot of the time I was sore, tired, regretful that I’d missed this band or that. Wondering why I hadn’t just worn a backpack instead of schlepping my sweatshirt and notebook around. Sometimes there’s that person standing in front of or around you that acts so inconsiderate as to distract you from taking in the band you love. Sometimes the band takes forever to get started. As I mentioned, the sound felt imperfect (this time, there was entirely too much domineering bottom end). Perhaps the vocals were buried more than they ought to’ve been, but the instruments ably filled in a lot of the best vocal melodies. The sound throughout ATP was uneven, but I assumed no more than what was usual, as Terrastock ’08 was similarly hit-or-miss in this regard. If you loved the music as much as I did at times, you likely weren’t too bothered about the lack of album-quality balance. And, as the drink prices were astronomical, I frequently wondered if I should bother getting sauced. Sometimes it’s hard to just relax at a festival, even though that’s basically what you came to do when all’s said and done.
And this venue, Kutsher's, was absolutely enchanting. Sure it was a bit rundown, but that was what made it work. I saw Dinosaur Jr. at a club in Burlington that was so sleek that it almost made the band's scruffy image seem almost cast in shiny plastic. Despite all the irksome details I’ve mentioned, the venue itself was a very choice place to chill- and check-out some great performances and (if you could manage it!) see some Criterion screenings. I almost forgot to mention, there were comedians booked as well! I only managed to catch Patton Oswalt, and he was excellent. I got some nice hearty belly laughs that I’d desperately needed. He’s a sharp, imaginative dude with a really memorable lynchpin bit about KFC’s “Famous Bowls” that is both despairingly piteous and mean in a drop-dead funny fashion. Live stand-up comedy is new to me, but Patton is not. I would gladly see stand-up again, as it is an immense thrill. The person is under immense pressure, and you can almost hold it in your hands. I think it produces a pretty interesting bond, where you’re sort of pulling for the person to be as funny as they can be rather than sitting back and waiting to be amused. He of course picked on Kutsher's a bit, but everything he said only served to reaffirm the location as a perfect home to the spooky, elegiac, raucous, and dark sounds swirling about its grounds. As to future ATP hosting plans, I say this: next haunted old hotel resort please!
As the schedule kinda slipped out of sync on Saturday and Sunday, I missed out on a fair share of acts. For this I am truly sorry:
- Fuck Buttons (was wary of their moniker, and later kicked myself repeatedly after hearing how great they are)
- Meat Puppets (saw ’em in Northampton the night before and wasn’t into enough for another go -- they certainly did shred like hell, but I guess I don’t get totally get the appeal)
- Comedians Eugene Mirman, Joe Derosa and Maria Bamford (Thurston)
- Polvo (Low)
- Autolux (dinner)
- Bob Mould (Yo La Tengo)
- Alexander Tucker & Apse (missed these guys because I wanted to win a Gimme Shelter DVD. Turns out they were giving away a poster instead. Didn’t know the quiz answers anyway. After the movie, which was fun to watch with a group for the first time, I stuck around for Dave Markey and his film The Year Punk Broke. Hadn’t seen this since I lent out my VHS copy long ago, to never see it again. It’s a fun, aimless festival tour flick, but I couldn’t bear to miss The Drones even if I had just seen them in Northampton on Thursday. Not to mention the head of the person in front of me took up the majority of my view of the screen)
- Om (had to eat something)
- Spectrum (ditto, but they sounded pretty good from directly outside)
- Lilys (Robin Guthrie)
- Brian Jonestown Massacre (This is where things get fuzzy. From Yo La Tengo on, there was a lot of delay. Think I was seeing either Mogwai or Dinosaur Jr. at the time)
- Thee Silver Mt. Zion Memorial Orchestra (already seen ’em, so I went with Les Savy Fav. For the record, I think they put on a pretty good show so – it was with some regret.)
Spiritualized
Berbati’ s Pan; Portland, OR
When listening to the music of Jason Pierce, the British songwriter behind Spiritualized, his moniker could be considered in two ways: spiritualized by the cosmic interstellar rock and spiritualized by the ghost of the Holy Spirit. But in this case, it is used as one entity, space rock combined with gospel, a Wall of Sound against the thrumming of the sounds of church. It is spiritual redemption at a rock show. As we all know, Pierce was stricken by serious pneumonia that almost killed him in 2005. We also know that Spiritualized has returned this year with Songs in A&E, an amazing collection of songs that deal with love, God, and mortality. Though Pierce claims that the bulk of the songs were written before his illness, it is impossible not to hear sweet relief in his cracked voice. Playing them live is the culmination of this cycle.
Pierce and Spiritualized took the cramped stage before a crowd of 400 people. Bubblegum-scented smoke filtered over us, drenching the room in an eerie fog. Dressed in dark wraparound glasses and a Roky Erickson t-shirt, flanked by two gospel singers in white, a guitarist, bassist, keyboardist, and drums, Pierce picked up his red Fender and launched into a feedback-laden version of “Amazing Grace.” It was a mixture of grit and sublime. Waves of bass and drum shook the floor and rattled in our chests. The angelic voices of the backup singers wafted above the noise, ghostly tones floating somewhere between our world and somewhere else. Then the band burst into “You Lie You Cheat.”
After more than decade of shows, you'd think Spiritualized could play to a bigger crowd in a bigger venue, but Portland's Berbati’s Pan felt somewhat empty that evening. Didn’t Pitchfork’s coronation of A&E as "Best New Music" guarantee sold-out shows? But this audience seemed to be more than fly-by-night hipster fans. The guy next to me wore a Nick Cave shirt, a woman in front of me knew every lyric. These were music fans, and as the feedback pummeled down on us, there was no pushing, no jockeying for the front of the stage.
The first part of the set relied heavily on new material. Pierce played “Soul on Fire,” “Sitting on Fire,” and “Sweet Talk” at a much quicker velocity than the album. When the band launched into “Walkin’ With Jesus,” an old chestnut from Pierce’s Spacemen 3 days, the crowd shouted and sang along. Pierce remained stoic behind his glasses, never smiling and never addressing the crowd during the first set. Another highlight was “Death Take Your Fiddle” from the new album. In a truly haunting performance that included the sounds of someone breathing on a respirator, Pierce welcomed the arrival of Death with open ears. It was a song both chilling and life-affirming.
Next came some tracks from 1997’s Ladies and Gentlemen We Are Floating in Space, which included an amazing performance of the title track that bled into “Can’t Help Falling In Love.” Finally, Pierce busted out another Spacemen 3 gem, “Take Me to the Other Side,” to end the set. Unleashing a torrent of sound, the band played until it seemed it would spontaneously combust. Then they walked off the stage. A languor hung over the audience. Could there possibly be more?
The band returned for one more song. Pierce uttered “thank you” before strapping on his acoustic guitar and picking the introduction of “Lord Can You Hear Me,” an emotional stunner. The crowd remained silent for a moment after it ended. Pierce said nothing else, applauded along with the audience, and then vanished. We had been Spiritualized.
Michael Franti and Spearhead
Roseland Theater; Portland, OR
AN EXAMINATION OF MUSIC CRITICISM or I’M JUST A CYNICAL BASTARD or A MICHAEL FRANTI CONCERT REVIEW
I’m sure many of our readers ask how we decide which shows are covered on this site. I hope I’m not giving away any top secret recipes here, but reviews are rarely assigned. A writer usually covers concerts that interest him or her and that means it’s usually a band that the writer likes. Since the writer has a preexisting affinity for said band, this usually translates into positive reviews. Of course, Tiny Mix Tapes has published plenty of negative live reviews in the past, but I have more than a passing interest in most of the bands I see, and this usually results in positive coverage. It’s symbiotic that way.
I’m not going to hide behind the typical excuses for seeing a concert that does not fit snugly into the hipster handbook of cool (such as I’m going because my fiancée really wanted to see the band). Call me a glutton for punishment, but the challenge of reviewing a Michael Franti and Spearhead show, a band I really don’t like, is what drew me to cover it. Besides, this guy has millions of disciples that swear by his positive message and funky jams. Even last week, I met this woman at a party who swore to me that Franti is a prophet.
Okay, bring on the prophet.
There is something about Franti’s pan-cultural idealism that smacks me as smug. Maybe it’s the manifestation of this message through his fans rather than a direct edict from the prophet himself, but it’s a bulletproof vest that guards against any sort of criticism aimed directly at the thing that matters most: the music. I have bemoaned the band’s watered-down fusion of reggae/funk in the past, and instead of criticism leveled at my taste, his fans have hit back with retorts such as, “Well, if you don’t like it, you’re just cynical.” Since when did my worldview have anything to do with whether something sounds good or not? Undaunted, I tried to enter the concert with an open mind and a somewhat open heart.
Michael Franti took the stage soon after 10 PM and kicked off what would be a nearly two-and-a-half hour set with “Hello Bonjour” from Yell Fire (2006). The crowd went nuts. I tried to hold back a smile as Franti regaled the audience with greetings from different languages (Hello, Salaam, Shalom, etc). Crudely drawn speakers adorned with a cross, a star, and a crescent surrounded the band. Eureka! I get it! We’re all one. Gimmicky? Yes. But is it any worse than Cheap Trick’s “Hello There?” What do I know? I was the only one not dancing.
Franti also had some serious mind control over his audience. When he said ‘jump,’ they jumped. When he told them to wave around their t-shirts, t-shirts were waved. I am not completely cool; I dance at concerts that move me. Here I wasn’t moved. Sure, I bobbed a little with the beat and all, but I just couldn’t give myself wholesale to the love. Besides, if Franti’s fans are all about one love, then why did security threaten to kick out at least three people around me?
The show was strictly divided into two sections, the funky and the serious, and in case the audience didn’t realize it, Franti and friends sat on stools to connote the difference. Now, I’m as much of a dyed-in-the-wool lefty as it gets, and I do agree with a lot of Franti’s politics, but it’s the idealism that trips me up. He complained that the upcoming election shouldn’t be “stolen by cynicism.” But idealists tend to forget that there is a difference between realism and cynicism. Just because I don’t enjoy Franti’s music doesn’t mean I disagree with his politics. I think there is definitely something noble in trying to push an agenda on positivism, and, sure, “Everyone Deserves Music” has a great beat. But there is a big current that runs through all of Franti’s music: his ideas manifest themselves in lyrics that are too trite. That doesn’t mean I like only obtuse lyricism; some of the best songs have ridiculous lyrics. But it’s the earnestness attached to the simplicity that bothers me. Just look at the titles -- “One Stop Closer To You,” “All I Want Is You,” “Light Up Ya Lighter.” Let’s get real, it just felt too dumbed down.
Franti ended the first set with “Hey World (Don’t Give Up Version),” where he beseeched the audience to hold hands, and “I Got A Love For You,” a song he said he wrote for his son. But explain this to me: first he did a version of the song with an acoustic guitar, then another version with a Les Paul, and then a final one with a Fender. I’m not talking about three guitar switches during the song. I’m talking about three versions of the same tune. We still had the encore ahead of us.
Away from all the touchy-feely stuff, the bottom line is I just did not connect with the music. It felt blasé, it felt bland. All the songs sounded the same. But so do the songs of James Brown, said one Franti fan. At one point of the performance, Franti’s knit cap flew off and his dreadlocks came out in a big reveal. I hear this surprise happens nightly. But James Brown did the cape trick. That’s all calculated too. But there’s a very basic difference here that I’ve been trying to spit out during this entire review: James Brown’s music is good. Forty, fifty years later, it sounds fresh; it sounds exciting. It’s dangerous. Michael Franti’s music is none of those things. I really wish it was. I’m just being a realist and an idealist.
