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.
James Jackson Toth / The Dutchess and the Duke
Gravity Lounge; Charlottesville, VA
“Everybody squint your eyes a little bit, so it looks like it’s darker in here,” said The Duke, also known as Jesse Lortz. He and The Dutchess (nee Kimberly Morrison), joined by a percussion player, were perched on the edge of the stage, forgoing the PA and strumming and singing straight at the seated audience. The duo’s debut album, She’s The Dutchess, He’s The Duke, takes up a folkish minimalism, and their live show follows that same path. Their proximity to the crowd was one example, as was their simple, unplugged orchestration and precise delivery.
Such a basic approach might come off as sterile or lacking talent, if not for the energy at the root of The Dutchess and The Duke’s sound. On the album, the source of this essence is hard to pin down, but in a live setting, it’s literally right in front of you. They behave like good friends: slightly drunk, slightly unruly, but completely endearing and disarming.
In between songs, The Duke disclosed his newfound fascination with port wine while sipping on a glass, then polled the front row about their astrological signs. The Dutchess, meanwhile, apologized for singing with her eyes closed, joking that it made it easier to imagine that no one was watching. But even with eyes squinted or closed, you can’t miss the spark between them. Performing much of the material from their debut, they showed that the raw, straight-ahead path of their album is their natural musical cadence. And the jovial nature of their stage banter is the same spirit that brings their rhythms and melodies to life.
Standing up to put their guitars away at the end of their set, the duo displayed their friendliness one more time. A fan in the front row asked if they could play “I Am Just A Ghost.” The duo shrugged and smiled, returned to their seats, and delivered the tune, forgoing the typical leave-and-return encore formalities and making their last number a personal, special farewell.
Since The Dutchess and The Duke went PA-free, James Jackson Toth and his band, The Born Bads, took the stage after only a short break, and while The Dutchess and The Duke made their impact with stripped down directness, Toth’s five-piece ensemble pulled out the stops and rocked with a full and focused force.
Jexie, James’ wife, contributed backing vocals, and the rest of the band proved that a stellar recording lineup (including guitar-god Nels Cline and Deerhoof’s John Dietrich) isn’t the only thing that Toth’s latest incarnation has going for it. Abandoning the more shaggy, meandering aspects of a lot of Wooden Wand material, Toth’s latest material is well-groomed and drives forward with a determined momentum.
While the band impressively channeled the album’s energy on Waiting in Vain-tunes like “Look in on Me” and “Poison Oak,” “Mother Midnight,” from Wooden Wand and the Sky High Band’s 2006 album Second Attention, burst out towards the end of the set as the night’s highlight. The Born Bads’ rendition showed that the amped-up, reigned-in sound not only works for the new songs, but can also inject new blood into Toth’s back catalogue.
Standing on stage and rocking out, Toth looked confident and comfortable. His latest musical steps may be venturing away from some of the more experimental back roads that he has embraced in the past, but it looks like he’s got his compass aligned just as he wants, and the open highway lies ahead.
Bon Iver
Aladdin Theater; Portland, OR
Justin Vernon, née, Bon Iver, recorded his album For Emma, Forever Ago while living alone in a cabin in Northwestern Wisconsin. It is almost impossible to read anything about Bon Iver without this nifty fact being called to your attention. While it is almost certain that Vernon retreated to the cabin and recorded these songs without lucre or fame in mind, you can see the dollar signs in the eyes of record execs and publicists with such a juicy story to exploit. So, in case you didn’t know, Justin Vernon recorded his music while living alone for months. Let’s get that out of the way first.
But marketing tools aside, there are a great set of songs that populate Emma. They are hushed, pained elegies that sprung from Vernon’s isolation. The melodies unfold slowly as the ghostly vocals drift over the strum of a spare acoustic guitar. Though some additional overdubs and recording were done elsewhere, this album is Vernon and Vernon alone. It made me curious how such a personal collection of songs would translate in a live setting.
This event marked the first show I would attend since relocating to Portland, Oregon. There is a special thrill when visiting a venue for the first time, but after a few years and scores of shows elsewhere, that initial trip can be disorienting. There is something comforting when a club or ballroom becomes familiar. After seeing scores of shows at the Black Cat and the 9:30 Club over the years, I had the corner on when to arrive, where to park, where to stand. Even the venue staff had become recognizable. This, however, was a whole new world.
The Aladdin Theater is an intimate setting with a 600-person capacity. It reminded me of a high school auditorium with general admission seating. I took a seat near the soundboard, halfway back from the stage where a nice pitch in the floor would give me good visibility. But as more and more people filtered into the sold-out show, the pit and aisles became free game for standing room. Without the proper neck angle to see through the crowds, it was either stand or not see much.
Vernon took the stage, with three other musicians, and launched into “Flume,” the opening track from Emma. As Vernon strummed, his striking tenor almost identical to the tracks on the record, guitarist Mike Noyce pierced the fragile song with laces of electric feedback. Silence filled the theater (beyond that obligatory dick who claps at first and then is stared down by displeased neighbors). The song had transformed from a personal ballad to a powerful anthem. Vernon is no longer alone in the woods.
With only nine songs to his credit, I had assumed the concert would be fairly short. Even Vernon, himself, joked, “Guess what, everybody? We only have so many songs. We’re probably going to play them all.” But the metamorphosis from the introspective tunes on the album to the southern rock crescendos of the live show brought more vitality and drama to the music. Highlights included the soaring “For Emma” and the slow-building “The Wolves (Act I and II).” For the latter, Vernon told the audience that he has a nightly audience sing-along where the crowd must sing “What might have been lost/ Don’t bother me” over the rattling percussion on-stage. Before we had our chance, Vernon said San Francisco and Amsterdam were tied for first place. The members of the Portland audience seemed to give it their all. Vernon never said who won.
The concert only dragged when the band played two covers. While covering Talk Talk’s “I Believe in You” and Graham Nash’s “Simple Man,” Vernon allowed other members of the band to take over the vocals. Though the singing wasn't bad, the voices could not equal the haunting quality of Vernon’s pipes. Consequently, the aisle cleared during this segment of the show and the visibility became perfect as folks fled to the restrooms or out to have a smoke.
Bon Iver closed the first set with “Creature Fear.” As the theater filled with a barrage of drumming and feedback, the transformation of Justin Vernon became complete. Reclusive music had become a full-scale rock show. Although no one danced, the audience remained frozen in rapt stillness. The band came out and finished the show with the plaintive “Blindsided” and “Skinny Love.” While Vernon played the dobro, the three other musicians drummed. This is a far cry from the woods of Wisconsin. Justin Vernon is alone no more.
The Walkmen
Bowery Ballroom; New York, NY
The Walkmen are the best rock ‘n’ roll band on the planet, plain and simple. Sorry to have to break it to you so bluntly, but how this group of Bob Dylan disciples has avoided consistent mainstream attention is a mystery to me. Riding high on a strong four-album run, the quintet possess all the tools required of a slick r-n-r machine: A guitarist with a splendid ear for melody, a bassist with near-perfect instincts, a keyboardist in the shadows, a vocalist with no shame, and a flexible, creative drummer.
The Walkmen are one of those bands, like Dylan, that don’t reach everyone. For me, that usually means I’ll try to Get It for years unsuccessfully, then suddenly BLAM-PLOP-FIZZ-SMASH, it crashes in my head like an errant crow planting beak-first into a windowpane.
Ouch.
This immediate immersion has, in the past, caused me to do unreasonable things. I still remember scrapping together cash to buy Mötley Crüe tapes from a neighborhood pawn shop, and I wasn’t gunning for just, say, Shout at the Devil or a “Home Sweet Home” single; I wanted everything they had to offer up to that point, and I made it happen (though I never did find the Toast of the Town/Stick to Your Guns EP, rare as it is).
Next came Metallica, and I moved with even more stealth, even more wrath until I had the coveted Kill ’Em/Lightning/Master/Garage Days/And Justice… quintet in my possession. And, let me tell you, I rocked out so hard and so often on my headset my family forgot I was around on family gatherings.
Perhaps not coincidentally, I was listening to a Walkman.
I won’t go into the depths of my Van Morrison jones too deeply; just know that, within a few months, I purchased/inherited the following records like downloading never existed: St. Dominic’s Preview, His Band and the Street Choir, It’s Too Late to Stop Now, Hard Nose the Highway, Moondance, Beautiful Vision, Inarticulate Speech of the Heart, Veedon Fleece, Into the Music, Wavelength, Common One, and A Period of Transition.
So yes-yes-yes, I have an addictive personality when it comes to collecting certain artists. Strangely, this phenomenon normally only occurs with bands that I can’t stand upon first listen. I thought Mötley Crüe were evil when I first heard them, and back then, that wasn’t a compliment; ditto for Metallica. I figured Van Morrison was a one-hit-wonder for years upon years until I stumbled upon a $1 copy of the Tupelo Honey LP in an antique store.
I had a similar moment with The Walkmen. I found Hamilton Leithausen to be arrogant in the way he swung his voice around and wrung so much piss out of it, to the point where I often squirmed in my seat when “Little House of Savages” took its melody an octave higher halfway through.
I still wriggle when “Savages” goes next-level, but I’ve slowly realized that The Walkmen are much more than a stylish, stubbornly singular NY rock band with a singer that’s too confident for his own good. For one, drummer Matt Barrick has quietly carved the most distinctive percussive entity in indie-rock with his sense of subtlety, driving the songs with woodblocks, shakers, tambourines, hi-hat chicka-chicka, cymbal taps, and triangles. He never lets his drumset become an expensive trap, never lets the obvious thud of a bass drum suffice when a simpler pleasure could add something more personal, and never, ever, ever cuts corners, often holding several instruments at the same time and never looking too comfortable behind his set. And don’t worry: when it comes time to throw the-fuck down, he can do that too, as punk ragers like “Tenley-Town” attest.
Taken as I am with Barrick and his relentless push to revolutionize the way indie-rock songs are metered, he is but a part – albeit perhaps the most important part – of a machine that is eternally more than the sum of its cogs. Any Walkmen song sounds the way it does because of guitarist Paul Maroon; without him, Barrick would be slapping shiny decorations on a dying tree, and his ability to pluck out euphoric little stabs of electricity in between verses and choruses precludes the need for a true rhythm guitarist (though Leithauser straps a six string on occasionally). Peter Bauer is steady as they come on the bass, and though Walter Martin fills a less-defined, auxiliary roll, I can’t imagine The Walkmen’s splendid atmospheres burning so bright without his thoughtful, crafty, tinker-toy approach to his duties.
And, of course, any discussion of The Walkmen has to hinge on Leithauser, he being the out-front presence he is. Much has been made of his penchant for Dylanese, but however prone Leithauser is to imitating Dylan’s gurgles, it’s important to think about the last time you heard a Dylan impersonator that didn’t COMPLETELY miss the mark. When was it, “Sultans of Swing,” maybe? Yeah, that’s right – it’s literally been decades since anyone aped Dylan with any authority (Micah Hinson gets the silver medal, and the guy from Mendoza Line gets Honorable Mention), and no one wraps their lips around a song like Leithauser, who, like Dylan, has a way of crooning overtop the rhythm so haphazardly it’s as if he doesn’t even hear what the rest of the musicians are doing.
Another piece that makes the Walkmen puzzle so cohesive is their songwriting ability and the way it lends itself to different forms of expression. To cite the most recent example, You & Me, every song carries its own set of moods. Not a single song ‘rocks out’ in the traditional sense, yet every song is heavy in its own way. It’s a devastating album; what’s more, it’s The Walkmen’s fourth devastatingly good album of original material.
Thing is, you might not quite Get It until you see The Walkmen live; it’s what pushed me over the edge of fandom to rapture five years ago when, against my instincts, I skipped a Public Enemy show to see The Walkmen at Bumbershoot 2004 in Seattle. They played “What’s in It For Me” and “The Rat” in succession, as they are laid out on the album, and it was impossible to abstain from the feeling they wrung out of their devices. A subsequent trip to Seattle that same year cemented the relationship.
This time around, with two more albums to their name, the new cuts were hanging on the hook: “On the Water” starts with a ripple of urgency before exploding in red-alarm whistles and a frenzied tempo; the swingin’ “Donde Esta La Playa” (the first encore offering) slides casually along a downtown apartment’s hardwood floors in its socks, while “In the New Year” packs more power into its sudden bursts than a nuclear-powered jackhammer.
The true treat, however, is “I Lost You,” which is buried near the end of You & Me and contains a few of The Walkmens’ most memorable flourishes and an opening guitar sequence so lovely it sounds like it should have been crafted by an ace session musician in the ’70s.
Bring-down-the-lights numbers “Long Time Ahead of Us” and “New Country,” like “138th Street” and “No Christmas While I’m Talking” (which they played at the 2004 shows but not this time) before them, present us with the troubling possibility that The Walkmen would be just as effective as a stripped-down act, their awkward moments of solitude easily as important as the ‘whoosh’ moments that stand out upon first listen.
I could have gone without the horn section bleating in on the action so often, and “Little House of Savages,” an encore selection, didn’t shirk my irk once again.
Neither concern was an issue when the big picture is considered. As expected. The Walkmen roared out of the Bowery Ballroom’s imaginary gates with the same intent they seem to harness wherever they play, Leithauser taking his place front and center, forcing the crowd to not only hear him but to deal with him, one way or another. Sort of reminds me of a Walkmen album, actually; his squeals push you away before they draw you back in, and during performances, Leithauser takes an even more prominent role in projecting the group’s live energy, yelling and flapping his vocal cords for all they’re worth and hitting every note while not hitting every note, if you dig.
If you’re been snubbing The Walkmen, I don’t blame you, but it won’t be so easy to ignore them in the near future. It took U2 a half-dozen albums to truly break the surface; I’d be truly surprised if The Walkmen didn’t hit the number if they surge on for a few years. We can only hope we’re so lucky.
MusicfestNW 2008
Various Venues; Portland, OR
I remember a conversation from a few years ago where one of my friends bemoaned the lack of summer festivals in the United States. It seemed like all the best acts were gathering in places like Roskilde and Reading, playing these crazy weekend-long bonanzas. Meanwhile, we got the annual Steve Miller and Jimmy Buffett borefests on this side of the Atlantic.
But things have changed, and each weekend there is some sort of festival out there promising to rock your world. Bonnaroo, Sasquatch, Coachella, Lollapalooza, Bumbershoot -- and those are only the big ones. Hell, I even attended Captain Morgan’s Jam on the River just so I could see the Flaming Lips. But like all things American, these festivals have begun to homogenize. The lineups are becoming interchangeable. Seriously, how many did Jack Johnson headline this summer?
MusicfestNW 2008 would be the third festival I attended this summer. But rather than use the blasé format of take-a-big-field-throw-up-some-stages-and-wedge-people-into-a-campground that the bigger fests have employed, MusicfestNW turned the entire city of Portland into a musical playground. Instead of worrying about who is playing on what stage (pun intended), one can see Les Savy Fav at the Wonder Ballroom or travel across the river and catch The Cool Kids open for Del the Funky Homosapien.
I decided to take it relatively easy. Even though it’s ambitious to see every band, standing around for hours can take its toll if meshed with drinking and other merriment. But the shows I did catch were great. No Age helped whip up the crowd with its two-man lo-fi rock, and Battles finished them off with a tight, weird, wordless set. Headliners Vampire Weekend played a set of serviceable songs to a sold-out crowd. The Fleet Foxes sounded great during a truncated set. Local favorites Menomena, claiming this would be the last show for awhile, translated their songs perfectly on-stage. It was also a night of firsts: TV on the Radio and Blitzen Trapper played music from new albums for the first time. Mogwai and the Fuck Buttons kicked off the first night of a joint tour together.
As the city recovers from so much music, I’m sure the blogs will light up with all kinds of reviews and stories, each different from the other based on who the author decided to see. We decided to do things a little differently here at TMT. So, check below for a handful of Shrimp Scampi videos with some of the artists who played MusicfestNW. (Click here for an in-depth talk with Stuart Braithwaite of Mogwai and here for an interview with TV on the Radio's David Sitek.)
----
----
----
----
----
