The Sasquatch Festival: Day Two
The Gorge; George, WA
As we approached the venue gates
for Sasquatch Day II: The Reckoning, we expected things to continue as
planned. We'd soak up a ton 'o' sun, check out boatloads of bands and, you
know, drink a ton of $8 cans of cheap beer, just like at home, save the
exorbitant price tag.
And that IS how things went, for about 45 minutes. After missing Rogue Wave we
tearfully trotted over to the second stage to catch ex-Pavement frontman
Stephen Malkmus' solo set. We sat on the side at first and were treated to a
magical herbal supplement that tasted vaguely like fake raspberries. YUM!
TASTE THE BERRIFIC GOODNESS! Malkmus was no slouch either, offering his best
impression of a guy that is just too laid back to give a fish-frying fuck
about being a big, shiny rock star god.
Of course, if you're a Malkmus guy you know this actually isn't an impression;
he really doesn't care. His solo CDs wouldn't even have his name plastered
across them if he had his choice. Alas, indie politics are a bitch, and
nowhere was this more apparent than at Malkmus' gig on the – mentioned again
for effect – SECOND stage. Malkmus playing runner-up to Iron & Wine, TV On The
Radio, Arctic Monkeys and – [choking/gurgling sound] Him? JESUS CORSETED
CHRIST, WHERE'S THE JUSTICE?
I watched years ago as Bad Religion opened for Blink 182, and though that
little rip in the fabric of punk-rock history will always be tantamount to
ultimate shittery in my mind, seeing Malkmus stuck on the second stage wasn't
too far removed. But remember what I said above? He doesn't give a fuck. He
and his beloved Jicks played a great little set, touching upon all our weak
spots: high, squealing guitars that make us cover our ears and take notice in
one fell swoop; verses that sound like a slightly tipsy slacker
Thirtysomething ordering a bath pillow over the phone; a sly wit those on the
outside will never fully understand; and lotsa rockin'.
Being a lukewarm supporter of Malkmus' until the sublime Face the Truth
(though I've been told I'm effectively an indie-rock invalid for not having
freaked on the self-titled debut) rocked and shocked my system, hearing "No
More Shoes" in all its squall-heavy glory was an inspirational thing, as was
watching with childlike glee as Malkmus yelled "Suck my kiss!" at the crowd,
remarking, "I've always wanted to say that … and mean it."
Now that he's a proud father – is there any other kind? – and reportedly
"settled down," it's nice to know the nearing-middle-age indie icon remains
capable of capturing his songs in a live setting, though his monotone delivery
is still good for a cringe or two after a full set.
Once Malkmus unplugged his Malkmus and exited Malkmus-left we had a choice:
stick around for Band Of Horses and a few others or head to the main stage for
Sam Beam, Neko Case, and The [gulp] Tragically [double-gulp] Hip [you get the
point; lots of gulping being had].
In retrospect our decision was a flawed one. Sitting in the nicely cropped
Gorge grass and watching as a flock of ominous clouds was herded our way, I
couldn't help but notice that Iron & Wine sounded AWFUL. Well, at least what I
could hear sounded awful; Beam and his traveling band were so quiet you could
barely hear a thing from 50 yards and beyond. And what I did hear I didn't
like. Country- and folk-crimped blues is a mighty fine persuasion if delivered
in the proper fashion, but Beam just couldn't hang, and how could I expect him
too? He's a naked, introspective songwriter trying to play to thousands, so
maybe he isn't to blame. And who's the wunderkind that slated this concert?
Does it take a genius to understand that the more intimate second stage would
have been Beam's playground? Ahhh … But, to tell it like I heard it, Iron &
Wine still sucked big, shiny, decorative balls, no matter which party was
responsible. Fleshing out his one-man songs with a band was a good move, but
his voice struggled to attain the volume necessary for a huge crowd and the
whole full band thing looks a lot better on proof paper than upon publication.
Sorry Sam; please, don't play it again.
Next it was time for some faux kuntry by crooner queen Neko Case, and she was
amazing for the entirety of her set, which turned out to be … oh, 10 minutes
tops. Too bad, Case, baby; didn't you bring your knight's armor? No? Awww,
poor, sheltered rock stars; will you ever learn …
Ok, I should clarify that this is a total in-joke, as a barrage of
bite-sized-Snickers hail rained down on the Gorge like the hand of god before
Case could even finish "My Favorite." Oh, and did I say the hand of
god? I meant a million-thousand hands of god that feel more like
quarter-sized chunks of sleet and ice than one, unmistakable hand of our
ever-elusive creator. DAMN YOU GOD, IS IT SO HARD TO SEE A SEMI-SNARKY MUSIC
REPORTER HAPPY? This was unlike any day-concert scene I've ever witnessed.
Tens of thousands of show-goers cowered under plastic tarps, $10 ponchos, and
blankets. For the first time in my life I envied those lucky souls confined to
a plastic bubble for life. Hell, they were sittin' pretty!
My
colleague and I attempted to outlast the outrageous storm, but it was a futile
endeavor with none of the above-mentioned forms of shelter at our disposal, so
we ran for the hills, or, more specifically, an overhead shelter. Under this
shelter were hundreds of shivering souls with little room to breathe. Things
even got kinda scary when several belligerent drunks packed into an already
dense crowd, leaving one to wonder what would happen where there was simply no
more room. Cannibalism? A tribal system in which the lesser are stomped like
dogs? Unintentional group sex?
Well, none of these seemingly inevitable eventualities transpired, and with a
knowing wink god blessed us with pelts of rain, which at this point were damn
preferable in comparison to the stinging clots of hail. Our light, sunny-day
concert had turned to a dark, third-world hellhole in a matter of an hour. The
grass, previously packed with people, was now dotted by staunch survivors of
the storm, discarded ponchos (one of which we used for a seat as not to wet
our shapely bums), water bottles, wristbands and mini food trays. It was sad.
It was dreary. It was kinda cool to finally get a good seat.
And so we decided in kind to persevere. Too tired to amble over to the second
stage, we weathered our second shitstorm of the day: The Tragically Hip.
Tragically, they actually weren't really that bad. I mean, they were bad, but
not tragically bad circa Him. They were more They Might Be Giants bad:
You're suspicious of friends that swear upon their goodness, but you'll let it
slide because the keyboards sound kinda cool sometimes and because it's not
like you have to listen to it outside of the occasional ride in their car.
I'll just leave it at that, because frankly dear, I don't give a damn about
The Tragically Hip, and neither should you.
Before I drop several semi-sweet morsels about The Shins' set, I need to get a
few things off my chest. First off, though James Mercer and co. have gotten a
HUNDRED TIMES better at reenacting their Oh, Inverted World cuts in a
live setting over the years; the chorus of "Girl on the Wing" and a few others
are just-plain-cavalier; what's more, I've heard them get it right in the
past. Why not this time? Secondly, there's this GREAT Shins song they used to
play back in the early post-millennium days (at the end Mercer scat sings,
"oh-oh-oh-oh, OH-OH," if that helps), and they've simply abandoned it. Man,
that sucks ass. Thirdly, they played the EXACT SAME songs they cranked through
at Sasquilla 2004. Fourthly, the critics that hailed Chutes Too Narrow
as superior to Oh, Inverted World should be summarily shot in the teeth
repeatedly. Sixthly, Shins keyboardist Marty Crandall looks JUST like Chris
Parnell from Saturday Night Live and no one else seems to notice. What gives?
Sixthly, the above concerns mean precisely shinola because The Shins remain an
incredible band, Mercer a once-a-decade vocalist with a rare combination of
upper-register range and songwriting smarts cum whimsy. A few lukewarm
Chutes tracks notwithstanding, the amazing pitter-patter-plunk-plop rhythm
of "One By One All Day," the slinking synth-accompanied chorus of "Saint Simus,"
and of course the rousing chant of "Hold your glass up" from "Caring is
Creepy" proffered enough sugar-sweet goodness to render the preceding
hailstorm maelstrom a dirty, drippy memory, much like that time you caught the
clap from your elementary school janitor.
At this point, the crowd was informed that Ben Harper would grace the stage
before The Flaming Lips due to undisclosed difficulties. This ended up being a
HUGE deal, as Harper's set literally took 17 years, 321 days, 5 hours, and 37
minutes to end. It folded on itself like an apple turnover; it contracted and
expanded like a temperamental blowfish; it was Eternal like KLF's 3 a.m. and
The Bangles' Flame; it was unbearable.
And I like Ben Harper. Sort of. Well, I mean, I don't dislike his music
in any severe way. But he's just one of those artists to me -- I'll admit he's
talented as long as I don't have to listen to too much of his music or too
much bantering from his "biggest" fan that once shared a nose hair trimmer
with him (!). I bought the double album Live From Mars and shelved it,
save to listen to "Alone" occasionally. A friend once told me Harper is like a
combination of Bob Marley and Bob Dylan (Bob Marlan!), but to me he's more
Wyclef spliced with Dave Matthews: technically talented, and I loved The
Carnival, but c'mon!
His performance at Sasquatch did little to deter my "meh" sensibilities. As
our drenched clothes bonded with our white, bloated bodies a cutting wind
pierced our very souls and whittled away at our resolve. It became an
endurance test, one I'm sad to say we failed: After the 72nd Harper encore, we
uttered a "fuck this" and packed it in for the night.
I figured we didn't miss much. At Sasquatch 2004 The Flaming Lips' visual
extravaganza was blighted by Coyne's failure to hit his high notes. The next
day over Tequila shots a group of rowdy Canadian roughriders told us what we'd
missed: A boy in a plastic bubble, a cover of Sabbath's "War Pigs," and lots
of fake blood. Bollocks.
Would the Third Day of Sasquilla-my-'nilla compensate for the failures of the
second? Would I find the frozen banana of life, the treat that would save me
from damnation? Would I be able to keep my best palcoholic at bay? Would the
bubbling refuse in the outhouses remain enclosed or would it explode from all
the lame vegetarians and their heavily propelled poo? Would the Oilers win and
SHUT THESE GODDAMN CANADIANS UP ONCE AND FOR ALL?
Stay tuned for Sasquatch Day III: Return of the Drunken Gimp.
(Day One)
(Day Two)
(Day Three)
CMJ Report: Hello Sir Records Showcase: We Versus the Shark / Tiger Bear Wolf / Cinemechanica / Ho-Ag / Megaband
11-02-06;
CMJ is rough on a working man. With most of the festival running Tuesday
through Friday of November's first week this year, the prospect of staying in
Manhattan 'til 1, 2, or later on weeknights was anything but appealing for
this Brooklynite. Train construction woes ensured that late-night returns
could seriously jeopardize my beauty rest. As it happened, reprehensible
organization by CMJ's planners took care of the problem for me, rendering it
impossible to see any of the big name acts: Girl Talk, The Rapture, or any of
the participants of the Sub Pop showcase (The Shins, among others).
For those not in-the-know, CMJ is a huge, NYC-wide festival featuring at least
a thousand bands, broken up into (mostly) label-specific showcases at venues
around the city. As many of the bigger indie labels, like Sub Pop, featured
all of the biggest names in one event, it was necessary for attendees to show
up around eight o'clock to get guaranteed admittance, which as any regular
concert-goer knows, is LAME. As such, I was only able to attend one evening of
music, despite my flashy press badges. For the record, just about everyone I
saw had either a performer or press badge.
Anyway, I chose to attend a label showcase on Thursday night at the tiny
performance art venue The Tank in Tribeca, close to my workplace. I figured
the relatively low profile of the bands would make it a good pick. I was
right, mostly – although the venue was crowded, $3 beer from a cooler and the
lack of a real stage made the Tank a friendly, intimate environment for the
math-rock stylings of the
Hello
Sir Records showcase.
The first band to play was the only one I'd actually heard before, Georgia's
We Versus the Shark. Their screamy, jittery post-hardcore was a refreshing
punch in the face for me, as I was able to stand right next to one of the
band's guitarists for their set. For whatever reason, however, the band's
keyboardist/vocalist's singing seemed muffled, and it was harder to discern
what the group was trying to do musically than with any of the acts to follow.
After
the We Versus the Shark set, I wandered back to the back of the venue to check
out merch and shot the shit with Ho-Ag's Matt Parish, who convinced me to buy
the band's latest record, The Word from Pluto, sound unheard. I also
bought their only remaining t-shirt, which happened to fit quite nicely. I
told Matt that Ho-Ag had better be good. They were; more on that later.
The second band of the evening was Tiger Bear Wolf. I paid relatively little
attention, though they were certainly better than most opening bands I've seen
lately. Less spazzy and more bluesy than the other Hello Sir bands, the long
haired dudes of TBS definitely hail from the jammier side of hard-indie...not
exactly my thing, and really fucking loud, but not bad, frankly.
Next were the heavy hitters: Cinemechanica, another Georgia band (I think
Hello Sir's band, with the exception of Ho-Ag, are all from the state;
Cinemechanica members run the label), took the stage with a stage-filling
lineup that included a pair of drummers, who helped produce both complex
polyrhythms and a colossal amount of noise for the firmly math-rock, mostly
instrumental Cinemechanica set. For a big Sweep The Leg Johnny (RIP) fan,
Cinemechanica was a pleasant surprise; the hardcore/math rock genre has
produced a lot of (some would say all) duds, and I found myself, along
with the rest of the crowd, rocking out pretty hard. Like a lot of bands from
their scene, Cinemechanica's songs were long, involved, and complex. They were
more or less awesome.
Finally,
I got to evaluate my purchases as Ho-Ag took the stage. I stood directly in
front of Matt, no doubt obscuring the views of many (I'm one of those tall
dudes with big hair who always stand in front). No matter – it was worth it to
get steady-the-mic-stand duty and dodge flying guitars as Ho-Ag one-upped
Cinemechanica for stage presence and energetic mayhem. Like a coked-up hybrid
of The Dismemberment Plan and The Blood Brothers, Ho-Ag's set saw the
five-piece – two guitarists, bass, drums, and a singer/Moog player –
annihilate everything in the best, catchiest way possible. Parish shredded the
strings on at least one guitar and broke his first mic stand, along with
plenty of other damage that I probably didn't notice.
The crowd had noticeably thinned by the time Megaband took the state, despite
the early hour (around 11:30). Members of Cinemechanica make up this Nintendo
music project, who play the score from Megaman II while one member plays and
flawlessly conquers the game, projected behind the band on a screen.
Unfortunately, due to venue curfew restrictions, the band's eardrum-bursting
set (really, they were unnecessarily loud) was cut short, forcing Noah, the
resident gamer, to finish the game's final stage 'a cappella' – that is,
scored only by the TV's modest volume.
In summation, I would have been an unhappy camper to have paid the hundreds of
dollars required for a full pass to CMJ, which still wouldn't have gotten me
into any of the full-up venues to see the fest's brighter lights. As it
happens, however, the showcase I did attend nearly made up for it, since I
didn't much feel like staying out every weeknight anyway. Next time, I won't
bother trying with the bands I already dig – CMJ declares that they're about
acts at the tipping point, and my experience at the Hello Sir showcase proved
that point. Thanks are due Ho-Ag and Cinemechanica, acts that definitely merit
a look. So, uh, CMJ... cool?
TV on the Radio / Grizzly Bear
First Ave; Minneapolis, MN
"Man,
this place is big... and Prince! I mean, Purple Rain!" That was what
the Grizz guitarist in the cardigan said after two songs. The best thing I
overheard in response was, "Everyone in Minnesota is so over that." It would
have been true of a twenty-one plus show, but there were plenty of eighteen
year-olds who are currently discovering the purple export of Minnesota
flipping out and requesting indie rock covers of that Sexy M.F. For some
reason this all stuck in my head, and when TV's singer gave his obligatory
shout, everything gelled as a weird theme in my head.
"We got here and looked at the stage, saw the lights, it's a little different,
but when we saw Prince's star. I'm sorry I'm sure you're sick of hearing it...
" That makes up for it, kind of, but what really cemented the reparations for
the damage of the one millionth Prince reference from a touring band I've
heard was the fact that this was an incredible show.
The greatest thing a five-piece band can do is to sound like a five piece
band, and the sonic wall bombarding the audience was incredible. Members
served a purpose, which was successfully capturing the dramatic and anthemic
nature of their recorded material while keeping it "live." The charisma of the
lead singer — with his dramatic arm movements punctuating lyrics delivered
with the conviction of a devoted believer in the power of music, coupled with
the impressive falsetto backing vocals of the rhythm guitarist — is an
experience that commands a viewer's attention. Between falsettos and freak-out
shouting, there is a comparison to be drawn between his royal Prince-ness,
begging the question of what it would sound like if contemporary indie rock
were substituted for the funk, soul and sex of Purple Rain-era Prince.
As for Grizzly Bear, their opportunity to be the supporting band for such a
strong act should prove very beneficial. To be honest, I was somewhat non-plussed
by the milque-toast delivery of this low-key four piece, but the intellectual
aspect of this hipster-pandering indie group was intriguing enough to make me
want to spend some time with their recorded material. The drums, in
particular, were well orchestrated; they were very laid back, but in each song
they would masterfully build to a decisive crescendo delivered with an
impressive amount of force. At one point during their set, they utilized an
Autoharp and a clarinet, intriguing choices that worked successfully, and
during the last song the drummer retired his sticks and played his kit
barehanded.
TV on the Radio, Grizzly Bear: go, watch, listen, enjoy.
Encore: I am oftentimes in the camp that feels encores are kind of bullshit —
looking at my notes I saw that I had written, "My feet hurt, I have to pee,
and I want another beer." Sorry, but thirty minutes is the ideal amount of
time to watch most any live act; anything more than that, and my experience
can be distracted. But... BUT, every time I like the band and they do an
encore I find myself saying, "Ooh, I love this song!" TV was no exception;
they performed a three-song encore, coming to a dramatic finish when the four
fellows of Grizzly Bear joined them onstage with an array of rhythm and
percussion instruments. The energy of that final song was a masterful way to
end an evening of great music.
Photo:
Jon Gilbert
Serena Maneesh / Woven Hand
State Theatre; Falls Church, VA
After
completing a fancypants internship this past summer in Washington, D.C., I
just decided to stay in the nation's capitol. A new music scene is enough of a
bitch to immerse yourself in, especially when you've come from such a solid
environment as Athens, Georgia. However, having to learn how to get to venues
and figuring out when shit actually goes down can be equally as frustrating.
The District's quadrant layout is inspired in theory, but between multiple
roundabouts (why, why, why do these exist?), nearly identical street names,
and unclear signs, I've spent more than half my time making illegal U-turns
and desperately trying to find the interstate.
Such was the case driving into Falls Church, Virginia, what seems to be a
pleasant little suburb of D.C., and the reason why I missed half of Woven
Hand's set. However, when I walked into the rather impressive State Theatre,
all anxiety was quickly taken over for the deep, Gregorian drone track
underpinning "Chest of Drawers" from Consider the Birds: "Go into the
Lord's house / And go in a mile / The world will bow / The knees will be
broken for those who don't know how / He delights not in the strength of
horses / He takes no pleasure not in the legs of men." David Eugene Edwards,
completely focused on Woven Hand now that 16 Horsepower has officially
disbanded, sat solo on a short stool and slashed at his knees with an open
hand as he sung these words.
What struck me most about this performance was Edwards's connection with the
audience. Four years ago, I saw Woven Hand close out a festival on an Illinois
farmland – then accompanied by an organist and drummer – months before his
self-titled album was released stateside. Similarly, he sat on a stool
stomping violently with boots, but he played as if possessed. Almost paranoid
in demeanor, he'd whip his head around as if he heard voices and stare
dead-eyed into the stage lights. It was as alienating as it was intriguing.
Tonight he still stared into the ether but performed with an unfettered
inwardness that seemed to invite the audience. And despite his solo stature,
his unmistakable and resonant voice (and selected pre-recorded backing tracks)
filled the theatre with desperate urgency.
The much-warranted hype behind Norwegian band Serena Maneesh was met with a
small audience, but still, the sextet put on a show with a sound made to
reverberate the walls of a large auditorium. In fact, portions of the
performance reminded me of the stories I heard about My Bloody Valentine's
decibel-destroying volume heard streets away from the 40 Watt club in Athens.
(There you have it, folks, the requisite MBV reference. Happy?) Before
launching into the killer Stooges riff of "Sapphire Eyes," it was like
listening to a noise-rock band (Magik Markers strangely comes to mind) but
watching a fashion-forward frontman spitting up into the air before cooing
into the microphone. Okay, maybe the two aren't all that different.
The dynamic remained throughout the evening, even on the softer, more blissed-out
pop songs from the self-titled debut and escalated at two calculated "noise"
sections as indicated on a set list I grabbed. The first looped and reverbed
freakout came out of the two guitarists as the band patiently stood by, which
was a bit distracting to the visual, but their psychedelic Sonic Youth-like
explorations didn't disrupt the pace. The band was remarkably in tune with
each other. The sheer loudness of the set had the potential to obscure Emil
Nikolaisen's meticulous arrangements, but nearly every nuance came through
clearly. In fact, the closer, "Your Blood In Mine" – quite rhythmically
indebted to Confusion Is Sex now that I think about it – really warped
out the textured drone to great climax. The violinist sawed long notes while
the two guitarists once again explored every sonic corner of the theatre. One
by one, the band left the stage, leaving the second guitarist alone amidst
bubbles falling from the proscenium under lighted purple hues and the small
crowd roared appreciatively as he left the stage smiling a goofy Norskie
smile.
Setlist:
Sapphire Eyes
Selina's Melodie Fountain
Candlelighted
Un-Deux
Chorale Lick
Don't Come Down Here
Beehiver II
Your Blood In Mine
The Mountain Goats / Christine Fellows
Bowery Ballroom; New York, NY
The Mountain Goats bring people
together. Maybe it's because there's nothing hip about them. The band's
unadorned music is unabashedly personal and narrative, with each new album
serving as a volume in the often depressing but always enthralling chronicles
of lovers, friends, and family — some drawn from John Darnielle's own life,
some fictional, and some blurring the line between the two. Real or imaginary,
the characters draw you in, and their loneliness, failed relationships, and
ugly feelings become mirrors of your own. Just by showing up to a Mountain
Goats show, you're laying your emotional cards on the table.
With that in mind and my heart on my sleeve, I guess, I walked into Bowery
Ballroom. Over an hour after the doors opened, I had expected that opener
Christine Fellows would already be onstage but was surprised to see the
venue's lights on and concertgoers seated in small groups on the floor.
Something about it reminded me of a junior high slumber party. As if to
confirm that impression, a few college guys sitting next to us introduced
themselves to me and my friend. Our chatter about the show soon led to a
spirited discussion of Terence Malick films and last year's Olivia Tremor
Control performance. Throughout the night, our new, admittedly tipsy friends
probably introduced themselves to 20 people, and our part of the audience
became a sort of small community.
When she finally appeared, Christine Fellows, a folky Canadian singer and
keyboard player, provided a good preface to the main event. She was joined
onstage by two other musicians, playing the cello, xylophone, and drums. Her
songs shared basic structural elements with The Mountain Goats': minimal
instrumentals — plus the percussion, minus the guitars — backing memoir-style
lyrics. Though sometimes a bit too quirky and hyperbolic for my taste, the
majority of her songs were funny and insightful. During his set, Darnielle
praised her at length, beseeching us to "Please buy her album [The Paper
Anniversary (Six Shooter)]. It's fucking astonishing." Though my
enthusiasm for her is no match for his, I have a feeling that Fellows hasn't
yet reached her peak. I wouldn't be surprised if her next album turns out to
be a revelation.
The scene when The Mountain Goats (really just John Darnielle and bassist
Peter Hughes, joined later by a keyboard player) took the stage was what I can
only call the indie rock version of that footage you see of Beatles audiences
in 1965. Darnielle returned the audience's enthusiasm in spades, in a way that
suggested he was fragile enough to need their support to power him through the
performance. The opening riffs of each song were met with widespread applause.
Everywhere, people were quietly singing along.
Much has been made of how different this year's Get Lonely is from
earlier Mountain Goats releases. While you'd be hard pressed to call it sadder
than, say, The Sunset Tree, it is palpably quieter than its
predecessors. Large stylistic shifts can make for difficult performances, but
here, the integration of often anthemic, old songs with ghostly, soft-spoken
new ones created a balance. Just as in life, there were loud moments and quiet
ones. In this context, the new material seemed more an elaboration on the
previous albums than a departure. The same audience that sang along with lines
from "You or Your Memory" ("St. Joseph's baby aspirin!") and "Jenny" ("A
pirate's life for me!") stood silent and rapt for whispery numbers like "Maybe
Sprout Wings," which opened the show, and "In Corolla," the song that finally
closed the set, after two encores.
Insistent, intractable "This Year" and "No Children" provided the most
exciting moments of the night. It was truly surreal, but also strangely
powerful, to hear an entire roomful of people shouting, "I am gonna make it
through this year if it kills me" and "I hope you die/I hope we both die."
Toward the beginning of "No Children," I looked over and realized that one of
our new friends had <i>picked up</i> the other one, who became all flailing
arms and utter exhilaration. At any other show, I almost certainly would have
found those antics annoying, but here, I kind of understood. They weren't
trying to be a pain in the ass — they were just that consumed by the
experience. Even the people screaming out requests didn't bother me. They
weren't yelling for hits at the exclusion of everything else — they were
begging for the songs that meant the most of them. So when I say that The
Mountain Goats bring people together, that's probably what I mean.
Set list:
1. Maybe Sprout Wings
2. Jeff Davis County Blues
3. Jenny
4. Color in Your Cheeks
5. Love Love Love
6. Game Shows Touch Our Lives
7. Shadow Song
8. In the Hidden Places
9. You or Your Memory
10. Dance Music
11. Moon Over Goldsboro
12. Quito
13. Your Belgian Things
14. This Year
1st encore:
15. Ac-Cent-Tchu-Ate the Positive (Johnny Mercer cover)
16. No Children
17. Houseguest (by Frank, the keyboard player)
2nd encore:
18. In Corolla
Photo: Sean Ruch
Sufjan Stevens / My Brightest Diamond
Murat Egyptian Theater; Indianapolis, IN
It is always a pleasant surprise
when an artist visits Indianapolis without just skipping on over to the more
accessible Chicago. The very articulate Sufjan Stevens entertained a sold-out
crowd at the Murat Egyptian Room on Saturday night with a generous reaction
from the crowd. As soon as Stevens took the stage it was apparent that he
considers himself an entertainer, and he takes himself seriously as an artist.
The show began with opening act My Brightest Diamond, aka Shara Worden, who
has been a long-time collaborator and friend of Stevens. I didn't expect too
much from Worden, as I only got a taste for her solo project by listening to a
few tracks off of her debut album Bring Me the Workhorse. My first
impression was comparisons of Kate Bush and Tori Amos, but Worden's live
performance molded her into a special, must-hear new artist. With string
arrangements adding to Worden's captivating vocals, the only thing that took
away from her performance was the radio station that was somehow transmitted
through her amp. Worden made the best of the situation by jokingly dancing to
the radio music and by staying undisturbed and focused during her most intense
numbers.
Worden's sensibility and playful, dry humor foreshadowed the audience to the
behemoth that is Sufjan Stevens. I really didn't know what to expect this time
around from Stevens. I anticipated a more orchestral performance, and I was
delighted to see a 14-piece band walk onto stage along with Stevens, all
dressed with butterfly wings. The group promptly proceeded into an uproarious
take on "Sister," which led to a crescendo opener. A giant projector screen
behind the band began to play random tranquil images and later, home movies
from Stevens himself. My first thought of this spectacle was a reminiscent
experience watching a middle-school band play with an arts and crafts theme
attached. Most of the violinists, trumpet players, and other members appeared
quite young. The thematic element that Stevens often carries along with his
live performances encompasses a visual of a family or cult-like stage presence
that breathes in vein of Danielson Famile.
After the opener, Stevens modestly greeted the crowd, "Hello, I am Sufjan
Stevens and I am here to entertain you tonight." This quickly dispelled any
arguments anyone had over the pronunciation of his name. Soof-"yawn," as I
like to say, then plucked away on his banjo as he began "The Transfiguration."
This made me excited, anticipating that the show would feature some different
versions of songs from Seven Swans, which was the first album that got
me into his music.
Each song had an exploding intensity that kept everyone locked to their seats.
It was difficult for me to imagine how brilliantly Stevens was able to write
all of the arrangements for each instrument in the performance. In between
each song Stevens would have a monologue with the audience, which varied in
dry humor to the background story of the NPR-inspired "The Lord God Bird"
about a rare woodpecker. Stevens also had beside him a stool with bells that
he would constantly ring during climatic portions of each song as well as a
plastic rooster that Stevens explained they stole from a Perkins restaurant
and named "Hendrico."
Another highlight from the show had to be the new song "Majesty Snowbird,"
where Stevens delivered a chorus with a grand falsetto, and the epic "Seven
Swans." Stevens ended with the obvious but glorious favorite "Chicago."
Stevens swore that was the end of the show after that, but I didn't believe
him for one minute. Yeah, he lied. Steven's returned with a few others to play
"To Be Alone With You" and "The Dress Looks Nice on You."
The whole performance was epic and warm. Although a deaf man may have seen the
show as a goofy, arts and crafts middle school band performance, a blind man
would be able to hear the talent of each every performer of Steven's
self-proclaimed "Butterfly Brigade." Unfortunately, if you are a deaf, blind,
mute midget you really missed out. I formally apologize to my brother. It was
irresponsible for me to bring you to that show for your birthday, Charlie. At
least I enjoyed it.
Setlist:
Sister
The Transfiguration
The Lord God Bird
Dear Mr. Supercomputer
Jacksonville
(Short Reprise for Mary Todd...)
Detroit, Lift Up Your Weary Head
The Predatory Wasp...
John Wayne Gacy, Jr.
A Good Man is Hard to Find
Majesty Snowbird
Casimir Pulaski Day
Seven Swans
Chicago
Encore:
To Be Alone With You
The Dress Looks Nice on You
Photo: Denny Renshaw
