The Residents
Blender Theatre at Gramercy; New York, NY
Abandoning the eyeballs-in-tophats costumes for black face masks, flashlight eyes, and bunny ears, The Residents rolled through New York to debut what some are rumoring to be their final tour, though any information regarding this enigmatic group is to be taken with a grain of salt; their even more paradoxical PR company, The Cryptic Corporation, have been spreading disinformation about their sole clients for 40 years now. In fact, to this day, after nearly half a century of making music, The Residents remain anonymous at large, with no one able to say definitively where they even come from (Mars?). It's in this mode of anonymity that the group have fed and nurtured a still-growing mystique, recruited a legion of fans culled from D&D comic book nerds, punk miscreants, and all weirdos inbetwixt.
The quasi-theatrical live performance featured tracks solely from The Residents new disc Bunny Boy, a concept album that chronicles the exploits of a somewhat schizophrenic, definitively frazzled, and possibly homeless man they call the Bunny Boy. The album, live act, and accompanying 13-part webisode series (which plays like a mix between a baffling Lynch mystery and home movies of your drunk uncle) detail the exploits of said protagonist, who, with a Norman Bates-level bunny obsession, nervously tells of the disappearance of his brother Harvey, an e-mail relationship with a wealthy Nigerian prince, and a trip to the Greek island of Patmos where either Harvey or the Bunny Boy (Or both? Or were they the same person? I’m still a little confused) disappeared into the Holy Cave of the Apocalypse. Weird stuff for sure, but this type of reduction ad absurdum is typical Residents fare.
Playing in the shelter of a half geodesic dome, The Residents plodded through nearly all the songs on Bunny Boy. Rarely moving from their spots, the masked musicians consistently gave off an inhuman, robotic vibe. Their synthesizer, guitar, and drum machine attack felt like authentic Residents; it was similar to, though not quite as satisfying as Duck Stab or Eskimo nor as maddening as Third Reich ‘n’ Roll, but for a group that’s been this bizarre for this long, kudos go to them for still being able to keep it weird. An array of lights, smoke machines, videos, and projected patterns made the night a real multimedia event.
I have to admit, with some regret, that the performance's strongest moments were when the Bunny Boy would disappear through a sheeted door in the middle of the stage -- into what he dubbed his “secret room” -- while the group played on their own. Not that I didn’t find his wild antics at least partly entertaining, but often his overly bombastic dementia relegated The Residents to background-band status. Still, his contributions on songs like "Boxes of Armageddon" and "Blood on the Bunny" reached chillingly cathartic heights.
At the end of the second act (spoiler alert: the Bunny Boy’s secret room is revealed), one audience member shouted out “Constantinople!” before the encore, and I couldn’t help but nod my head in agreement. A part of me wished they would just come out and do a few standards in their classic outfits, but it wasn’t to be. I wasn't disappointed by the Bunny Boy song cycle and act, but hopefully the “last tour” rumor, like every other one started about the group, will turn out to be false, and I’ll still get a chance to see those damn eyeballs.
Shudder to Think
Webster Hall; New York, NY
My favorite shows make me feel as though I'm watching someone cheat death, the ones that seem slightly out-of-time and off-balance -- like I’m not supposed to be there, but by some miraculous twist of fate, I've managed to slip beneath the velvet rope. When Shudder to Think were at the height of their fame, I was riding the school bus with a route number pinned to my jacket. Velvet Goldmine hit movie houses during the band's split-second Lazarus, and I was trying to decide if boys were still gross or not. I think back to my other favorite live experiences, and the theme runs deep: I'm damn lucky to have caught this before it was too late. Dinosaur Jr., The Pixies, Sonic Youth... get it?
Of course, we were late to the show.
(Post-show conversation via Gmail Chat)Kevin: we missed like 6 songs
me: blech
in a way i do not feel worthy of writing a STT live review
as a first-timer
also i never know how to explain missing parts of the concert
"sorry, i got lost"?
"... in the limpid pools of paul rudd's eyes in the bathroom"?
I'm not kidding about Paul Rudd (fortunately, we seem to have similar toilet-timing and music taste) or about the six songs. This is Shudder to Think’s first “official” reunion gig -- save for a quick set at the Mercury Lounge in September, along with Cardigan Nina Persson’s A Camp -- and, unfortunately, this is what happens when you put two strong-willed music critics en route to a concert and each one insists I Am Right, We Go THIS Way, You Asshole.
So, not only do we miss the opening song, "Red House" (originally found on 1991's Funeral at the Movies), we also miss "Shake Your Halo Down," "Hit Liquor," "Love Catastrophe," "Lies About the Sky," and "Jade Dust Eyes." We're still running up the venue's entrance stairs during "Man Who Rolls," when I'm struck by the decadent, sparkling sheen that's fallen over the crowd, kind of like showing up after everyone’s already taken the first hit. Despite our tardiness, the venue is pleasantly packed rather than unbearably mobbed, so we're able to secure a decent vantage point (which I later abandon for a spot near Craig Wedren's feet).
Tonight, Wedren bears a few more lines on his face and an elaborate show of sexy/sinister facial hair. Shudder to Think lived (and live) to fuck with you, and Wedren leans back invitingly during the soaring chorus of "No RM. 9, KY," allowing us to settle into the eye of the storm before we’re thrown right back into the fray. Sure, they know how to write a classic melody line, but that doesn't mean you're gonna make them do it. They draw heavily on their first departure from Dischord, Pony Express Record, which is what most probably hoped for as they purchased their tickets. Epic Records wasn't quite sure what to do with it in 1994, and it was largely overlooked. Still, enough record geeks and magazine reviewers embraced its complexity and style-spanning beauty that it became one of the most critically acclaimed albums of the ’90s. Most of us here tonight have cut our teeth on it. I wish for blue eye shadow on the band members during the surly "X-French Tee Shirt," but I suppose that’s asking a little much.
During breaks between songs, it becomes obvious that even Wedren can hardly believe we're here. "Thank you for coming ... no, seriously. Thank you." When the singer of a long-defunct band thanks you for coming, the gratitude has much more weight than your typical touring rock singer. At shows like these, the veteran musicians get to look out on that crowd and realize they still matter, which is certainly notable in an industry that latches onto The Next Big Thing at a sharp clip. No matter how nonchalant reunited bands appear, they exude that emotion so palpably it becomes one with the bass and, thus, your heartbeat. I've never seen a band of this genre (not that I'm volunteering to define it) smile so much.
I breathe a sigh of relief at the unabashedly glam-soaked opening riff of "The Ballad of Maxwell Demon," one of STT's two contributions to the Velvet Goldmine soundtrack. I'd been afraid that this song would be too obvious for the set, but therein lies the beauty of a reunion show. Nothing's too trite, because the gauntlet has been thrown down for the band: make them remember exactly why they love you. It was also at this point when I became truly grateful for my position at Wedren's feet. No, the band members didn't adorn themselves with glitter and spandex, but I take what I can get.
"Day Ditty" from Funeral at the Movies completes an otherworldly set, with Nina Persson of the Cardigans (wife of STT's Nathan Larson) and NYC singer/songwriter Amy Miles on backup vocals, smiling fit to split, 'cause they've been in on it the whole time. Tonight, we've reached a tipping point. If Shudder to Think needed an extra push to decide whether or not they should keep doing this, I think New York City accompanied it with a healthy smack on their collective ass.
Setlist:
Silver Jews / Monotonix
Music Hall of Williamsburg; Brooklyn, NY
David Berman was never really a quiet guy. Through The Silver Jews' 17 years of near-stage-silence, Berman always indulged the swarms of journalists eager for Jews news with lengthy interviews and thoughtful, candid answers. There wasn't much mystery: He traveled, gave readings, but never with a band. Which is why The Silver Jews' first tour in 2006 was such an unexpected treat (especially for someone who'd just discovered the literary ecstasy of Tanglewood Numbers). At London's Scala, the band was admirably shaky; David was charming and coy in his delivery, as he peered into a music stand of lyrics for the occasional assist. In all, the night was perfect.
For this follow-up tour, I inevitably had different expectations. The narrative surrounding it, following a ton of positive press for the Jews' sixth full-length, Lookout Mountain, Lookout Sea, focused on Berman's recovery from depression and drug addiction and the new positive direction of his life and the band. The idea of David and wife Cassie (on bass) touring together -- with drummer, keyboard player, and good-old-boy guitarists William Tyler and Peyton Pinkerton in tow -- resounded with writers (which most Silver Jews fans invariably are, and vice versa) and readers. This lead-in for the band's second tour, while peachy-keen, put a spin on the evening, different than that first glimpse behind the SJ curtain. It was to be something more than a mere exhibition of the Silver Jews catalog done live -- a show in its own right, an event.
In that spirit, Drag City labelmates Monotonix opened with their outsider theatrics, playing, as usual, from the floor of the venue. But the party-rock parody fell flat in the awkward environs of the venue: Careening around a room of music nerds, mooning the crowd, pouring beer on each other and climbing the room's mezzanine threatening to jump made the band look more pathetic than rockin'. Worth a second look under different circumstances, perhaps.
After the floor was cleared and everyone was compensated with drink tickets, Silver Jews took the stage, emerging from a backlit-blue doorway and descending down a small back-alley staircase to their instruments. The familiar intro to "Smith & Jones Forever," a highlight from the band's best, American Water, was met with cheers as Berman grabbed the mic with confidence and maybe even a little swagger.
Berman -- oversized specs, beard as shield, donning a proper suit -- owned the stage while the Lookout Mountain songs glowed with sparkling Nashville sound. The guitarwork on tunes new and old (like classic "Dallas") cut through the club's mix with pristinely gritty solos and ringing lead lines. And the much anticipated duet of "Suffering Jukebox" made palpable Berman's much discussed spiritual and emotional recovery.
Though the novelty of seeing the Silver Jews live is wearing off (I know, fickle), the songs continue to captivate with a mixture of ambivalence and affirmation (even if their mid-tempo loll becomes more noticable in a live setting). The experience made the most sense as the night's closing phrase, "I love you to the max," repeated by crowd and band with earnestness and vigor, contradictions and all, echoed through the night.
Setlist:
Pygmalion Music Festival 2008
September 17-20, 2008;
Music festivals, for what it’s worth, are as much about music as they are about the experience, which largely explains their draw over regular summer touring schedules. It’s also one of the main reasons I found myself at Urbana-Champaign’s Pygmalion Music Festival amidst an awesome lineup of bands composed heavily of artists that I had no clue about. Even the ones I purportedly went there to see, and claim to be a fan of, I know little about: I’ve seen Dan Deacon four times now, but still have only heard one of his records. I’ve seen Headlights four times too, but only own their most recent release. So, to be unleashed on this unfamiliar wilderness of a Big Ten college town amidst a mass of musicians was simply disorienting.
----
{Thursday}
My friend and I were surprised and excited to find official Pygmalion tote bags waiting for us with our wristbands. Free goodies! Festival t-shirts! Complimentary issues of Paste! Free earplugs! Unfortunately, there was no real orientation guide for us, and we got lost looking for the first venue. We finally arrived halfway through Pontiak’s set; we were blown away by the level of musicianship displayed by this trio of brothers (all of whom resemble Will Oldham to some degree). Their riff-heavy indie stoner jams are likely to please fans of Black Sabbath and Animal Collective alike, and their continued alliance with Arbouretum is no surprise.
Pontiak was the first great revelation of the weekend, but unfortunately things went downhill from there. We saw Evangelicals stone-sober in the lobby of the University art museum, which was just plain weird. The normally effusive creators of this year’s sublime The Evening Descends were lacking in both energy and stage presence. They ran through that record like it was a hits compilation, with “Paperback Suicide” and “Midnight Vignette” sounding particularly good but overall flat.
We mistakenly missed the opportunity to see Murder By Death in lieu of the allure of beer at the Canopy Club. We ravenously attacked the $2 High Life specials (thank you, corporate sponsorship!) and then witnessed the rock ‘n’ roll swindle that is Monotonix – a really great guitar player, a shit-ton of stupid antics, and little-to-no substance. I’ve seen them twice now, and I never want or need to see them again. This must have been the evening of Spectacle.
The awful taste in my mouth left by Monotonix gave way to the blissful noise of Dark Meat. Taking the stage with something like 12 members, including 2 drummers, Dark Meat seemed to have the most fun of any band that night. They were also the loudest, just about destroying the already sub-standard sound at the Canopy Club, leaving us to revel in their wall of sound. Even if the intricacies of their sound were indiscernible, they were a blast two witness live.
The evening closed with the aforementioned Dan Deacon Fiasco. With the sound all but gone, Deacon’s music was reduced to static and a modest beat, while a host of hipsters danced to nothing. Inviting the audience onto the stage caused it to collapse. Still, the party persisted in the audience, at least until some fan got kicked in the face by a crowd-surfer and the plug on the night was pulled. It would have been unfortunate under normal conditions, except that I couldn’t help but feel that we had been spared actually having to wait through Deacon’s entire performance. It was pitiful and unfortunate, showing that a Dan Deacon show can’t be a perfect party every night.
----
{Friday }
With Thursday night marking the low-point of the festival, we turned to a long night of music Friday to set things right. We started off with our friends The Lonelyhearts, a duo who write lengthy narrative songs on the sparse landscape of 12-string guitar and a lone synthesizer. Their new record, Disaster Footage at Night, is one of the year’s unheralded gems, so I was among the privileged few who got to see them at their last live show of 2008. We then caught Owen at the aforementioned art museum, whose one-man confessional act was far more appropriate for the museum, balancing his acrid, stinging lyrics with an ability to make his acoustic guitar fill the room. The lineage from American Football is present and visible, and he was one of the surprise highlights of the festival.
We stuck around for Santa, the band who so graciously hosted us for the weekend, and enjoyed their manic yet pleasing indie pop. Clearly bringing out heads with their considerable undergrad following, the energy in the art museum was palpable. We booked it back to the Canopy after their performance and were delightfully greeted by the next big revelation: Titus Andronicus. Their triple-barreled guitar assault recalled the power-pop of The Thermals born out of the swamps of New Jersey. This band is seriously tremendous live. Black Mountain was next. They sounded great, but they've made little impact on my life, even after seeing their live show -- the perpetual “not my thing” band. We stumbled out into the night with the mash-ups of the Hood Internet playing behind us, more interested in carousing with bands in the downstairs VIP area than joining the crowd they attracted.
----
{Saturday}
This final day of the festival presented the Yo La Tengo quandary; is it essential to go see them just because they are a legendary indie rock band? Turns out it was and it wasn’t. They played in the massive Krannert Center for Performing Arts, worlds away from the beer and atmosphere of the Canopy Club. Twenty-five minutes of their set was all I needed, and I ducked out the back. Seeing indie rock in a concert hall like that is always a little weird. To their credit, they tore it up, but they felt so distant and, to some degree, scripted. There were clearly a ton of people who were very excited about the show, but I took my chances and bailed.
High Places provided an appropriate substitute. The band has been hyped like few others in 2008, but I must admit that the buzz is justified. Their tropical-influenced take on modest pop is infectious, and the drumming is mesmerizing. They were one of the only bands I could describe as danceable, which was a good break from a lot of loud noise.
The Canopy Club provided the grand finale of the weekend with the Polyvinyl Records showcase. The M's were uninspiring and drab, but Headlights and Asobi Seksu were so impressive that the weekend ended on an unexpected high note. The lack of critical attention for Headlights' 2008 album Some Racing, Some Stopping is confounding; meanwhile, their live show keeps getting better every time I see them. It's like witnessing the reunion of old friends, with all kinds of energy and smiles and good vibes. But what really counts is how good they make these songs sound live. The translation of "So Much For the Afternoon" from slow jam to full-on pop stomp is impressive.
Headlights were followed by Asobi Seksu, the final band of the weekend. I thought about skipping them, but I couldn't resist sticking around for one last performance. Luckily, they didn't disappoint. I had always thought of them as primarily steeped in shoegaze, but their indulgences in pure pop tendencies combined with their big sound (the Canopy finally got its sound right) was a delight, a perfect way to end the weekend.
Pygmalion 2008 was long, loud, and flawed. But like any good festival, I found some new bands to fawn over. Some aspects of the festival were unwieldy and inconvenient -- it's really spread out, and the lack of alcohol at some of the venues was unfortunate -- but in offering a small, local, and cutting-edge festival, Pygmalion succeeds on the whole. Although I didn't get to see everyone, and although I didn't like everyone I saw, it was a very successful weekend of live music. When I got home, I was ready to rest, which in this case was a good sign.
Treasure Island Music Festival 2008
September 20-21, 2008;
{Day 1}
A bus with beautiful leather seats delivers us across the great silver highway in the sky to Treasure Island, a man-made island just off the coast of San Francisco, originally built for the 1939 San Francisco World's Fair. Since then, this island has housed the military, the projects, and now the Treasure Island Music Festival.
"Where are the people?" says Robyn the Photographer. Militaristic buildings and an eerie emptiness make Treasure Island feel like the North/South Korean DMZ. Or a ’70s sci-fi thriller. The strange quiet — even though people do live here — only lasts until we reach the bayside pasture where the TIMF is already alive with bright young stars.
The mechanism in place to check papers and provide infrastructure is impressive and well-organized. As I walk in, Heineken serves samples of beer in tiny plastic cups.
----
- {Aesop Rock}
2:06 PM: As much in support of turntablism as he is in support of rap, Aesop Rock spins, pops, and scratches out a dignified opening for this festival, which in that moment has the flavor of an MTV Spring Break party — and I mean that in a good way!
Aesop Rock announces himself as, "One of the only hip-hop acts here." He is supported by DJ Big Whiz, an astonishing turntablist.
----
- {Nortec Collective}
A blend of Norteno and techno, Nortec Collective is like listening to Mexican radio on ecstasy. Cheesy, high trumpet, cloying 2-beat sizzles spicily along with psychedelic echoes and bassy beats. The DJ looks like Yul Brenner in Westworld with his 10-gallon hat, western jacket, cowboy boots, and bolo tie jangling as he rocks the block with laptop and sampler.
Nortec Collective is weird, but beautifully ass-kicking. I pass someone with a vintage NES controller for a belt buckle. Another girl sits bug-eyed and nervous like it's her first time on acid. Is this the feeling of "indie"? Contradicting systems and references swirl around me.
----
- {Antibalas}
A 10-piece with horns, bongos, afro-cuban grooves, Maynard Ferguson screaming jazz flamboyance, and the requisite nerdy, bearded, 4-eyed frontman, Antibalas is an exercise in polyrhythm. The frontman asks the audience to chant a counter rhythm, and they do, while the horn section kicks and punches a little booty shakin' out of this slightly sluggish afternoon crowd.
----
- {Hot Chip}
Some independent thinkers bought Erasure albums in the ’80s.
Hot Chip's harmonies are as beautiful and well-executed live as they are on the album. Gentle synthesizers and heavily-delayed guitars dance and bobble around me like so many barely-legal strumpets in hot pants. Fueled by a second or third afternoon beer, a little ironic disco bumping and grinding commences in the crowd.
These guys are awesome. Long live synth pop! Someone yells.
Someone who sounded like Ringo Starr introduced Hot Chip as having come from "all the way across the pond." And now, this is finally a party.
Eventually, Hot Chip covers "Nothing Compares to You" and the crowd sways, the mood is dreamy. Life seems beautiful.
----
- {Amon Tobin}
At last, an electronic music legend, my IDM hero, my MySpace friend: Amon Tobin quietly takes the stage. Echoes and burbling, watery tones (tones that sound like they are submerged in water) swirl from speaker to speaker. Random screams bubble up from the crowd. They're eager for the beat to drop.
A beautiful girl smiles at me (or maybe someone right behind me). Her shirt caresses my arm, and I am struck by the sensuality of Amon Tobin, whose swirling echoes give birth to hip hop beats. "His secret is a combination of audiophile-approved blips and beeps, art-o-phile-approved post-structural order-from-chaos-style sound-collage, and hot-girl-approved dark-eyed smoldering Brazilian sexy man-ness" (Igloo Magazine 05.25.07). It's the kind of music that makes hips circle slowly left, then right. Unlike anyone I've seen here yet, Amon is alone on stage — a gaggle of photographers crowd below, eager to click the man who made IDM sexy.
----
- {The Portapotty}
Long lines. Really long lines. A girl in line who happens to be holding the same mid-size bottle of Jameson that I am tells me about a recently discovered city hidden beneath Machu Picchu, thousands of years older than the ruins there now. We talk about Graham Hancock and the 2012 apocalypse as I awkwardly dance the pee dance — from one foot to another — until we pee at last. We are pee at last! Let freedom ring.
I emerge and Amon Tobin has switched to drum and bass.
----
- {Goldfrapp}
The band wears all white. Goldfrapp are dreamy, heroin shimmers. There's a harp on stage. The bassist's guitar is transparent. Blond and dreamy, Mrs. Goldfrapp wails a haunting falsetto, and I'm transported to Merlin's England where dragon's breath hangs over a magical wood.
I share a joint with a wood sprite.
The instruments blow like so many rivers to a sea of soft, elegant, radiant dream pop. They're something like the Cocteau Twins, but not as weird. Does Mrs. Goldfrapp even know Esperanto? In the early ’80s, I think Goldfrapp bought Blondie's Autoamerican and The Cocteau Twins Garlands and listened to them at the same time.
Alison Goldfrapp asks the audience, "Are you okay?" Everyone says, "Yeah!" And she sings, "You're my number one…" Somehow, I feel like she is singing directly to me, as I wander away from the stage to the perimeter of the festival grounds.
Resourceful kids sit on the rocky rim of Treasure Island, outside the fence. Security guards scowl and yell things at them. I sit.
----
- {Mike Relm}
Earlier, I was lucky enough to interview Mike for three and a quarter minutes:
In his mashup set, Mike mixes Linus and Lucy with Rage Against the Machine's "Killing in the Name," which he mutes on the chorus so the crowd can chime in with "Now go do what they told ya!" so enthusiastically, like they'd been expecting and practicing their part.
----
- {TV On The Radio}
"Thank you for your time." Drums, horns, fuzzy guitar pours like honey into a cup of tea, or over an eager audience. I am immediately aware that TV On The Radio is on a different level, a higher level of talent and experience than the other groups here. They've come all the way from the East Coast to educate these kids who are picking up the indie rock torch that TV On The Radio helped to light. The last time I saw them, they were reminiscing with the audience about SF experimental rock groups of the early ’90s. Yesterday, I read a story about them in the New York Times about their über-cool Williamsburg studio. So it goes. Good for them.
These songs are always running as fast as they can possibly go. The tempo pushes and shoves ahead not like fast music, but like a volcano. Kids keep shoving past me, toward the front, eager to leap and burn in TV On The Radio's molten sonic goo. Members of Antibalas play horns with them on a few songs.
"This is a song for San Francisco!" the heroic singer says before playing "Wolf Like Me." "We have a new record coming out on... Tuesday," he says. TV On The Radio is, as always, so good I don't know what to do. I just stand in awe. They talk about how good the other bands have been, and I'm charmed. They're right. Everyone here has been amazing.
----
- {Robyn the Photographer}
Robyn the Photographer has managed to get another gentle photog uproariously drunk on the absinthe she brought in a thermos. I offer him a sip of my Jameson bottle: "Hell yeah, my nigga!" he says. Familiar systems of reference are disrupted, and I experience bliss.
----
- {CSS (Cansei de ser Sexy) – at last.}
The photogs argue: Who is better: Justice or CSS? I assert that my respect is with Justice, but my heart is with CSS — who are beginning now.
Lovefoxxx releases a huge bunch of balloons into the air, and the show begins. Known for outrageous outfits, Lovefoxxx does not disappoint: thousands of ridiculous curly tubes hang from her body. Her hair is like Evita.
"San Francisco is the home of beaches and gays... and gay beaches... and bitchin' gays!" Lovefoxxx is so adorable, so endearing. She entreats the crowd with a sweet, girlish voice, making little quips between songs. And during the songs, she dances like Tina Turner.
"This next song is called ‘We like Obama.’ It's called ‘We cannot vote but if we could we would vote for Obama,’" and they play "Music is My Hot, Hot Sex." She walks atop the crowd like Jesus on water, and a halo of digital viewscreens surround her. She is pure goddess, pure holy power, pure good, pure evil. She speaks, my heart skips, I gasp. The power of Lovefoxxx compels me.
----
- {Justice}
Two angels grab my hand and scream, "Justice!!!" and I'm whisked away from CSS to the front of the Justice stage moments before they begin. Writing is difficult here, dear reader, but I press on for you.
Justice are surrounded by Marshall cabinets, nine stacked on each side, with their signature glowing cross in the middle. The bass is so powerful that it rattles my insides and threatens my ear drums. Justice is the Guns and Roses of electronic dance music. They are like Daft Punk, but with penis and testicles.
Like Daft Punk, this is minimal house, with the emphasis on making their simple basslines the biggest, most destructive, disembodying, divine sound of all time. The audience shrieks with glee, and a thousand digital viewscreens elevate in front of me.
There's really no way to describe the bass — so huge, so immersive. Like enormous, blubberous whales falling from the sky; thousands of them cascading down on so many holy, hopeful, tiny dancers. We drown in bass, we are redeemed in bass. I soak in bass and my wounds are healed. Suddenly the Marshall cabs burst in light! They're lit from the inside!! Everyone goes crazy. The shadows of a thousand hands dance on the white gauze stage curtains.
"We…are…your friends, you'll…never be along again, so c'mon..." Then synth sizzles, guitar strums, and magnanimous bass erupts to free the slaves, give birth to the soul, and enlighten the masses in holy, holy vibrations.
----
----
{Day 2}
Hungover and tired, I had the foresight to bring two flasks today. I start the day exploring the myriad of booths. The Treasure Island Music Festival celebrates independently produced music as well as independently produced art, writing, crafts, and even education via Dave Egger's own 826 Valencia, who have a booth there, too.
----
- {Okkervil River}
So much guitar! Okkervil River seem like they're having fun. Will Sheff does that thing that The Killers (and many others) singer does where he opens his mouth real wide when he sings his vowels: "She can't hi(iiioooiiiiyyyeee)de!" Everything sounds like a sensitive "Oiyeee!"
They're interactive. Singer encourages audience to clap, sing along:
"C'mon! It's early in the day. You've still got a lot of energy to clap! I know you have the energy deep inside you to clap! I want to see all of your hands!!" (Sheff's candor is actually really endearing.)
I, for one, don't clap. Day one was electric and exciting. Day 2 starts as a chore. This will not be helped by the fact that today's pastiche of bands are largely indie rock, so therefore they emphasize irony and sadness (which makes me feel self-conscious), while yesterday's more electronic dance-oriented groups emphasized dancing (which makes me want to live, love, be free).
----
- {Fleet Foxes}
A strange cacophony of beautiful (and well-executed) harmonies. At the beginning, they are The Doobie Brothers, but then they turn into dreamy, droney, echo-driven post-rock.
And then they turn into Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young. They are perfect Sunday afternoon music: gentle, delicate, undistorted, with locomotive shuffle snare and golden cymbals to emphasize the golden harmonies. Like so many of these classic rock-inspired indie rock bands, you think you're getting soft rock radio, until they do something weird. The irony is subtle. It never breaks a smile.
The band pauses between songs to argue about what genre they are.
----
- {Vampire Weekend}
Darlings of indie pop, Vampire Weekend draws the first big crowd of the day. Photog is unable to get into the pit to click Vampire Weekend. Their managers are fussy. They take themselves very seriously, it turns out.
Wow, Vampire Weekend play these songs really well. They are pure honey-sweet bouncing afro-pop — just like on the album. Self-importance hangs over the stage like a whiny storm. But this is kind of their shtick, right? Snotty, preppy, Upper East Side kids? Life imitates art and art follows suit.
The fan kids have the fancy jeans, and even though it's windy, girls are wearing skirts. From where I sit, tired and beer-scented on the grass, I can see up their skirts.
I stew while Vampire Weekend performs certainly and elegantly — just like on their album. So, it's a good show, but they don't want my love like Okkervil River did. So, maybe something is lost. But maybe I'm just not a teen excited about my jeans anymore.
"Vibrations straight from fingertips to larynx and out the nether chakras," says Robyn the Photographer.
Where's the balls? Where's the sex? Where's the transcendence?! Where's the sheer, childlike beauty? They left it in the studio. I become distracted. The audience is entertained, but not inspired, lulled but not moved; except for the pack of douchebags nearby, who are eager to sing the album word for word, right along with the band.
----
- {Dr. Dog}
Dr. Dog was gracious enough to give me 7 minutes of their time for an interview earlier:
Dr. Dog played like warrior poets: beautiful, dreamy, Beatlemania.
----
- {Tegan & Sara}
Even though they can't be more than 11 or 12 years old (j/k!), I get the feeling that Tegan & Sara are part of the old guard here. They're sweet and sentimental. They are bright and brilliant, and they push the tempo like the Indigo Girls do when they play live, with harmonies quavering like Liz Frazier.
Next, on Bridge Stage, is The Kills. I'm wondering if it might be better to skip them so that I can get to the front of The Raconteurs show.
----
- {The Kills}
I decide to forgo The Kills show. Robyn the Photographer goes. They ruled, apparently:
----
- {The Raconteurs}
I'm finally here: crowded at the front with the other folks who have forsaken The Kills to cram up to the holy Jack White pulpit. We cram up there for an hour-and-fifteen minutes.
Suburban mom rubs against my left side. I offer her some whiskey. She accepts. We share a nice moment. And then she tells me that this is her daughter's (15) and nephew's (14) first concert. They turn out to be crammed in right behind me. Her husband is crammed behind them. It's a family affair.
And after a school of attentive roadies have turned every nob just so, The Raconteurs take the stage. Cherry chapsticked mouths squeal, pimpled faces light up, bright eyes open wide.
Jack White is like Robert Plant: he wails, ladies swoon. No matter what the publicist says, Jack White is the front man of The Raconteurs. This is his band.
Anyone can see why Jack White has chosen these extraordinary players. They possess the extraordinary talent and disciplined musicianship that Jack White has been longing for.
Brandon says, "We're The Raconteurs from Nashville, Tennessee," and I'm confused. I thought Jack White was from Detroit. They must be trying to be cute. Fucking clever steam punks.
At times, they are corny classic rock, but in spite of it all, they are just so fucking good. These are the best musicians in rock today, and they are all here to prop up the master: Jack White. Jack White who bleeds like Jesus, Jack White who hunts the great white whale, Jack White who entreats all the girls in the audience to come on over get some Coca-Cola. And he tells the boys in the audience to put on a collar, a tie, and to pray.
Holy gospel pours from beautiful harmonies and elegant rhythms. Power from electricity, power from sex, power from the pure joy of rock ‘n’ roll. Jack White might be better than any human has ever been on that guitar of his. (It's called "hyperbole")
"Though I always seem to win, I always play to lose," he sings. "That's why I think I've got the rich kid's blues."
As their momentum builds, they start to sound a bit like MC5 — but the way MC5 always wanted to sound.
----
- {The End}
I'm tired, but I go home electrified. Thanks, Treasure Island Music Festival! I love you!! An exercise in creative contradictions and wholesome, shameless talent, the Treasure Island Music Festival charms the pants off of even the bitterest and hippest of the bunch. I can't wait to see what these kids cook up next year.
[Photo: Robyn Johnson]
Sunset Rubdown
Empty Bottle; Chicago, IL
“Looks like it’s gonna be FULL Bottle tonight.” This barely clever but totally correct statement was made as I stood in line outside the Empty Bottle in Chicago. Hearing it made me excited. It may just be my own perception, but I always thought Sunset Rubdown have never received the full acclaim that their music warrants (despite consistently appearing on year-end lists), so I was ecstatic to see the strong turnout. In fact, I was especially excited to share the Spencer Krug Experience in a venue that seemed tailor made for them. The Empty Bottle is easily one of my favorite places in the Windy City: cozy, inviting, and intimate, in a way that most venues fail to even approximate. There is nary a bad seat in the house.
I've seen Sunset Rubdown a handful of times now, and I've concluded that, for them, the bigger the venue, the less interesting the show. This show did not break that mold. This time, I was close enough to keep my eyes locked on Krug’s eyes the whole show, which created a tension and connection that only venues like the Empty Bottle could recreate. I felt as if he was singing right to me, which, despite the cliché of that statement, is indicative of how engaging the performance was. The inherent nature of his songs almost necessitates this kind of intimacy. One of the highlights of the evening occurred when, after a guitar string broke, Krug played a slowed-down, quiet version of "I’ll Believe in Anything" -- a Wolf Parade song that was originally intended for Sunset Rubdown -- as the crowd sand along with every word. This moment would have been lost in any other venue.
The majority of the set was built around a handful of new songs, but despite the unfamiliarity, they managed to get the audience moving. Although the new songs replicate the elements that make Sunset Rubdown interesting in the first place, they also push their sound into interesting and exciting new territory. The band played them with the pride seen in a new mother’s eyes, yet there was also a nervous energy present: you could tell the band enjoyed playing the new songs, and they hoped you liked hearing them, too.
The remainder of the set was a showcase for the songs that we, as fans, have come to wholeheartedly embrace. "Mending of the Gown" was played with the reckless abandon that it deserves, while "Up on Your Leopard, Upon the End of Your Feral Days" was presented with the peculiar beauty that most of Krug’s songs possess. However, anticipation had built for a pair of songs that were continually being requested throughout the night: "Stadiums and Shrines II" and "Us Ones In Between." When these songs were finally played, the whole crowd breathed a sigh of relief. They were glorious, nakedly elegant, and gorgeously played. The whole venue shook with drums, rang with guitars, and overflowed with voices. Indeed, this was a good show, loud and raucous, and, unlike so many shows where the audience and artist are clearly distanced, this show felt unmistakably connected.
