Passing as much time in the restroom as possible, I am relieved of the tortuous compulsion that causes me to wash my hands repeatedly when I hear The Papercuts play a chord upstairs. The quietude that is near the stage of the Bowery Ballroom is a godsend, rivaling the booming forget-me-nots and sweet nothings that are being bellowed amiably by the bar flies downstairs. As the "cathedral of sound" — so aptly christened by record label Gnomonsong — of guitarist/vocalist Jason Quever's Papercuts begins to fill the empty corners of the room, I, along with the small crowd, give in willingly to the gospel drone. Unfortunately (and rather quickly), Quever's nasal pitch and the awkward pairing of his band mates become a little boring to watch. It is like walking down the street and coincidentally getting trapped in the traffic of a funeral parade.
Of course, there is nothing wrong with drone! It's been shown time and time again how much a good drone can perk your ears up. But this is just a lethargic bear trap (no pun intended) that makes me dread waiting two more hours for the headliner. Whatever Quever's brainchild was meant to be apparently sounds better on record in one’s living room, and it's easy to attribute this to his touring band: the insecure drummer, the stiff keyboardist, and the syncopated playing of the bassist who clearly belonged in a band more like Jane's Addiction (he was the one redeeming quality, albeit). Soon the nervous Papercuts are cut short due to a late start (they were "lost in the cold"), but fortunately, the next act would alleviate the frozen boredom of the room.
It's nice to see bands lugging their own amps, guitars, and drums onstage without the entourage of roadies and venue employees running amok, so it is even more pleasant when the graceful Beach House duo Victoria Legrand and Alex Scally set up a couple of keyboards and small amps within 10 minutes and initiate their show. A drum sample fills the now-thick air of the Bowery, preceding the soft synth anomalies of Legrand's throat. The latest success of their self-titled debut is nowhere to be found. In fact, this stage seems too minuscule to hold the power that Legrand possesses with her compelling gaze and pious vocals and Scally's ever-present shadow — this is a shocking realization. My eyes attempt to search the stage for something larger, something to complement the sounds that are encumbering me, but all I find is the small duo seated one behind the other: the boy lurched superfluously onto his guitar, the girl pounding away treacherously at her keyboard.
Legrand and Scally soar immaculately through songs like "Tokyo Witch," "House on the Hill," and mixtape favorite "Apple Orchard" before asking Papercuts' Quever to join on drums and tambourine on a slightly heavier version of "Childhood." Layers of tambourines, Scally's wavering guitar plucking, and Legrand's deep coo make this tiny duo's set enormous. Even a few new songs are thrown in that hint at a more complex, rhythmic, and pop direction for their next project. What makes Beach House a larger-than-life entity on that tiny stage is Legrand's big gaze, which scans the room relentlessly, possibly eyeing every person watching — a trait missing from The Papercuts. Between songs Legrand nonchalantly addresses two overlapping keys on her keyboard that make some chords sound off-kilter and quizzically, with soft sarcasm, asks the meaning of this vice: "a metaphor for tortured love?" With a rhetorical question that becomes preeminent throughout the night, Legrand perfectly summarizes the evening's delicate deliverance of languid, seductive, lo-fi synth pop.
Now, picture this: A flute trembles softly through the moist air of a hazy wood while a guitar is picked slowly and serene vocals lead you through a path to a yellow house, an ethereal wall of sound that materializes with Grizzly Bear's arrival. So went the stellar intro of the Brooklyn foursome as they cut the anticipation of the room with a mellowed "Easier." Immediately the intricacy of the band was at the forefront: Chris Taylor fidgeted with a number of instruments from the flute to bass to clarinet in the far left while the others harmonized impeccably with one another and their respectful instruments. Most of their set was full of derivations of some of Grizzly Bear's best songs. However, much to my disappointment, the steady flow of Yellow House was hardly present, contrary to what they would have had you believe with the "Easier" intro. Instead, there was a strange, blues-guitar-driven "Showcase," from their debut Horn of Plenty, seemingly out of place and reminiscent of a rehearsal rather than a band who within the last year have seen a large amount of recognition for their efforts.
Deviations are always a welcome subtlety, especially with a sound as eclectic as Grizzly Bear’s, but the problem was not the deviations, but how and where they occurred. On songs such as "Little Brother," "Colorado," and "Fix It," the originals were remade into rock-driven anthems that really jumbled my limbs, surprising me that these songs could be made so much more stirring. However, others, like "Lullaby" and "Showcase," left me wondering what was missing in these maladroit numbers compared to the epic monsters to come later. Whatever the answer, I was glad to see them pull it together for a fantastically raunchy version of "Little Brother," which immediately brought attention to drummer Christopher Bear. Airborne a score of times throughout the night, Bear slew each drumhead and crashed each cymbal with the intensity of a titan fighting a war, singing along to every lyric that head vocalist Ed Droste and guitarist/vocalist Daniel Rossen belted out, seemingly the greatest fan of what this band had accomplished within the last three years.
"Knife" followed, bringing Droste's incredible vocals into the spotlight, showcasing the diversity that his brainchild could bring not only to record, but also to a live audience. If anyone didn't get enough of the brilliant doo-wop here, it was certainly exciting to hear a poignant cover of The Crystals' hit "He Hit Me (It Felt Like a Kiss)" (a strange homage to the R&B beauties that Asobi Seksu have contributed to as well, covering "Then He Kissed Me" on their tour). "Fix It," also from Horn of Plenty, began with echoes of Droste's eerie recorder and ended with chanting that acted almost like a bridge assimilating the early recordings with the new.
They closed the night with "On a Neck, On a Spit," followed by a mellow encore from Rossen and Bear of a traditional song called "Deep Blue Sea." Strange how the night began with such a delicate tinkering of sound that quickly blew up into almost psychedelic territory, ending again on a subdued note. Maybe this was supposed to evoke a state of confusion. Once Taylor, Droste, Rossen and Bear left the stage, they also left the audience wondering if the songs played were really the songs they knew, if Grizzly Bear were capable of rendering so much credibility to their hype in roughly an hour. Simply put — befuddlement and bewilderment aside — yes.
by Mila Matveeva