Bumbershoot: Day One
Seattle Center; Seattle, WA
Taking the bus can be a daunting
task even for the most fearless explorer. Whirling south from the Ballard
neighborhood, I expected every stop to be packed with teens and twenty-somethings
eager to make it to through the pearly gates of Bumbershoot only to wait in a
contrived line to maybe, hopefully, possibly grab mainstage passes to check
out the unholy trifecta that was Hawthorne Heights, Yellowcard, and AFI.
Bumbershoot mistake #1: Making your paying customers waste hours under the
blistering sun to get an additional pass to see the mainstage action.
Thankfully I was armed with a press pass as well as no desire to check out the
bland trinity. I had bigger fish to fry.
I arrived, checked in, and then headed for the nearest musical stage. I
stumbled upon P:ano's set, which was winding down to much anticipation. The
band was on fire, adding fuel to what was to be an abnormally hot September
day for Seattle. Classify the band as chamber pop if you must, but today they
blazed a trail into jazz country. Perhaps it was the surroundings of the
jazz-sponsored stage they inhabited. No matter, they were sharp in front of an
older and appreciative audience. Playing to a crowd of no more than 80 either
brings out your best or your worst and P:ano happened to entertain 80 people
Not wanting to miss the speaking engagement of Charles Burns and Chuck
Palahniuk, I made a quiet exit and backtracked to Boeing Performance Arts
stage — the true beginning of my day. Burns, best known for his graphic novel
Black Hole as well as his cover illustrations for The Believer,
opened up with a slide presentation. At least it wasn't of his most recent
vacation. Much of the crowd was enthralled as he juxtaposed his favorite
comics of his youth with his sketches and stories. The more Burns settled in
to his speech, the more involved the audience became. I was beginning to
regret this misstep until Burns began to explore his work beyond the central
themes. Finding inspiration from his high school yearbooks, parallels between
the fictitious characters and the very real peers of Burns' yesteryear
overtook the presentation. After fielding a few benign questions from the
audience, Burns yielded the stage to big applause and bigger anticipation —
anticipation Chuck Palahniuk quickly met and exceeded. Ever since the days of
Fight Club's big screen adaptation, Palahniuk has been an author in
demand. His stories are larger than life and his details only blur the lines
between fantasy and reality. After showering the crowd with airplane bottles
of Wild Turkey and Crown Royal ("If you caught on of those and you're under
21, you're now breaking the law."), and showing us a suitcase of plastic
severed arms (which were inspected by Homeland Security) he read from "Guts,"
his prized story of childhood exploration through masturbation. If you've
heard it, consider yourself a survivor. I've never seen a room of men who
thought themselves to be tough as nails succumb to the uneasiness and sheer
brutality of Palahniuk’s descriptive prose. Thankfully I had eaten long before
journeying to Bumbershoot, so my stomach chose not to revolt. However, I saw
plenty of people make hasty b-lines for the exits. "Guts," is not for the
squeamish. Space Mountain be damned.
I slipped out shortly after Palahniuk wrapped up to avoid the exiting mass and
made my way back to the NW Court Lounge to catch Jarboe. After Palahniuk,
Jarboe's hushed beginnings weren't making the impression on me I desired.
After sitting on my hands for a few songs, I decided it was time to just
wander the grounds and see what I could find. My first stop was eavesdropping
on the set of Jaime Lidell. The set was very uneven, stretching from gnarled
soul to broken hip-hop. Perhaps I needed a different surrounding, or just a
beer or two in my stomach. Either way, I backtracked towards Key Arena to
check out the roller derby tournament and grab a beer from the stadium
concessions. Both were the mid-afternoon pick-me-up I needed. Ladies — all
elbows and knees, lukewarm beer, and the roars of a crowd enthralled by the
hometown all-star team beating the living hell out of a lesser team from
Carolina (North or South, we never were told. Perhaps it's like the Carolina
Panthers except without Steve Smith or Jake Delhomme) — were the recharge I
was looking for.
I absorbed the last bit of air conditioning I could muster and headed south to
catch Laura Veirs. While her performance wasn't as rousing or rocking as I was
hoping, she had a captive audience and the help of Karl Blau to help her power
through "Fire Snakes" and "Galaxies" in front of the hometown crowd. As she
was picking up steam, I decided my goodwill was needed elsewhere. I grabbed my
pack and headed to the far south end of Seattle Center to catch Rogue Wave
entertaining the chill, pro-KEXP crowd gathered 'round the Backyard Stage. By
now the temperature was beginning to cool and shade was taking over most stage
areas, so many in the crowd grabbed a large piece of land and set up camp. I
watched the crowd as the band plowed through the best Out of the Shadow
and Descended Like Vultures have to offer. I liked this crowd — it was
quiet, receptive, and captivated without the rowdy teenage hipsters or the
obnoxious 40 year-olds drunk and stumblebum as if Bumbershoot was their first
day out in the world. Of course I hate them — because I'm destined to become
one of them.
Soaking up enough indie music to last me for awhile, I made my way towards the
roller derby tourney once more to empty my bladder. After a quick peek to see
the hometown Rat City Rollergirls blasting the visiting San Francisco team, I
exited the premises to hear the members of NOMO finishing up their soundcheck.
Hearing the blast of horns, I figured a change of pace was needed. I strolled
over to the Bumbrella stage and was rewarded with free-jazz blasts of
saxophone and trumpet accompanied by African-influenced beats. The herd of
wanderers was quickly summoned over to watch Nomo's set from the first note.
Not one band attracted as much diversity, appreciation, and devotion as NOMO.
The music melted away my sadness that pitcher Hideo Nomo was not part of the
band, but I'm sure Bumbershoot could have used a decent hurler in case of an
The moving bug bit me again, but I still had 30 minutes to kill until
Alejandro Escovedo took the More Music Stage, so I returned to the homebase of
the NW Court to catch the improv stylings of PK and What Army. NOMO may have
advertised 4 horns, but PK and What Army boasted as many as 13 (during one of
my counts) out of the 17 people I was able to catch onstage. It was a
psych-jazz free-for-all as the band wailed and conductor/composer/all-around
nice guy PK led the band like a true-to-life Bugs Bunny. The music was
mind-melting and I began to contemplate leaving the festival right then and
there, for who was able to usurp PK from day one's top perch? Surely not
My decision to stay and let it ride on Alejandro Escovedo was a wise one. Two
guitars, a bass, a synth, and a cello certainly bested PK and his army on this
day. After Escovedo's battles with Hepatitis C, it was good to see the man
back on stage and tearing everything to shreds. Escovedo and his backing band
didn't take one note off, quickly gathering the passers-by with each number.
It's no secret that my first musical love was alt-country and roots rock —
Escovedo being a poster boy for the genre after Wilco left for greener
pastures, but tonight Escovedo was about nothing more than turning every one
of his songs into one giant mass of molten rock. Song after song he made new
fans. I noticed a rush to the nearby Tower Records tent, presumably people
looking to nab a few Escovedo albums. Unfortunately I couldn't stay for the
entire set — Deerhoof was calling towards the north end and I answered.
I made it to Deerhoof's stage in time to grab a beer and pull up a seat in the
beer garden before the doors opened and the Pitchfork indier-than-thou kids
began their fashion show: vintage t-shirts, obscure band t-shirts, shaggy yet
well-groomed hair. This is the uniform of the indie kid generation. Some of
the kids seemed thrilled to be seeing Deerhoof — usually the band is relegated
to the over 21 crowd — but I noticed the majority of people were just here
because folks like us tell them to. Don't misconstrue my words, I don't think
we have that much power and hold on the indie blog readers, but I'm sure many
of these festival-goers who happen to read sites just like Tiny Mix Tapes were
just towing the indie kid line. Unfortunately, their lack of energy rubbed off
on Deerhoof and the band's set never took off. They were doomed from the start
when the snare head broke on the first smack of the stick. Halfway through the
torture, I downed another beer and ran to check out Of Montreal at the
Backyard Stage. Sadly, I made it just in time to catch their last gasps. Both
tracks were ridiculously over-electronic and the crowd seemed restless. I was
growing tired and restless as well and decided it was time to endure the
trauma hell ride back home.
Photo: Ben Clark
The Minus 5
Tractor Tavern; Seattle, WA
There's nothing like a good time
with pop. Pop, in this case, being a double entendre for a genre of music and
The Minus 5's head honcho Scott McCaughey. Spouting self-important wisdom
through the lip of a Pabst Blue Ribbon can, Scott wasted no time dazzling the
packed audience with casual conversation and 3-minute pop delights. Few can
pull off the tattered hair and sunglasses look, but Scott has the look down
pat. It's a happy time when a man twice the age of his peers can put them to
shame on a stage.
The true beauty of The Minus 5 isn't to see Peter Buck up close and
lackadaisical or to watch Scott McCaughey wax poetic about sexy food, but to
enjoy a good, old-fashioned rock and roll show strictly on the merit of
clever, hook-laden pop. There isn't a need for a 15 piece band, a horn
section, or more pedals and contraptions than instruments. Seeing The Minus 5
on stage with the bare bones of primitive rock is a thrill unto itself.
Whether the band stuck close to recent releases (At the Organ and The
Gun Album) or mixed in a cover (Warren Zevon's "Carmelita"), it didn't
matter. For a change all pretense was thrown out in favor of substance. I like
a thinking man's show just a much as the next fan. I enjoy the fervor and
manic pace of a noise performance. There is truly nothing as heartwarming as
some twang chased down with a few shots of whiskey. However, none of those
shows can ever replicate the sheer, uninhibited enjoyment of going to a bar,
having a couple of cheap beers, and watching four guys just tear into pop song
after pop song with no cares. In fact, McCaughey's stage banter is just as
entertaining and personal as his music. I caught myself hoping he'd ramble on
a little more about burritos, mashed potatoes, and Portland. Dry wit is a rare
commodity in the world of indie rock
The Minus 5 are the perfect change-up to your concert-going routine (unless,
of course, your routine is just seeing The Minus 5). It's nice to lose
yourself in a 40 minute set and not have to think about the lyrics or the
music or the innovation. The pleasure is in drinking your Stroh's, moving your
feet, and bobbing your head. We forget about the heart and soul of music — the
primal band and audience connection. The Minus 5 won't let your ignore those
basic instincts ever again.
Tractor Tavern; Seattle, WA
in no mood to listen to Robbie Fulks. Don't get me wrong: Fulks'
tongue-in-cheek take on traditional country aesthetics and values is something
I enjoy, but it's hard to get yourself pumped up for a Monday night concert
when the last thing you've been listening to is anything but country.
Thankfully Robbie Fulks didn't play a single country tune, or any alt-country
tunes; the man and his tight backing band played rock and roll with a healthy
side of twang to compliment the main course of wit.
If you're not from Seattle and/or you've never been to the Tractor Tavern, you
can probably imagine the place's décor just by name alone. This particular
Monday evening the atmosphere was just a little more electric and unlike its
barn roots. Perhaps it was the older crowd and their enthusiasm wafting over
the joint, or it could have been that Robbie Fulks is a man that no
preconceived image can contain. To look at the him, you wouldn't expect
country-inflected music from such a man or his backing ensemble. Fulks is a
man above image.
From the first words of show opener "She Took A Lot of Pill (And Died)," you'd
immediately recognize that biting sarcasm from the indie world. Not only is
the song a shining example of many of Robbie's tracks, it's also a raucous and
rowdy anthem that cowboys and hipsters alike can love. The marriage between
the world of country and indie would become the theme of the evening. Unafraid
to explore his catalogue, Fulks and company ripped through dozens of tracks
with vigor. Whether it was the boot-scoot of "Rock Bottom, Population 1," the
fool's tale of "I Told Her Lies," or the honesty of "Mad at a Girl," Fulks
delivered it all with zeal. He had the crowd eating out of his palm, and much
like me, fans showing signs of not quite being in the mood were quickly
brought into the fold. It was only a matter of time before foot tapping, head
bobbing and full-blown dancing was taking place. The Tractor Tavern was
quickly turning into a barn dance even if most of the participants were weary.
The highlight of the evening came during "I Want to Be Mama'd," which saw the
entire band take solos. Usually tedious to endure, the band was tight and
inventive. There was no slack-jawed bass line, no color-by-numbers country
guitar solo, or country death song drum fills. The track was bits and pieces
of rock, soul and jazz. As the song devolved into chaos, it even began to
resemble free-folk. Robbie was doing Akron/Family fans proud with spastic folk
plucking and impromptu lyrics about his son's former high school teacher (who
was in attendance).
The reality of the situation hit me like a ton of bricks. No wonder Robbie
Fulks will never get the big break he deserves. He's not country, he's not
rock, and he's uncompromising. That's why he draws music nerds and working men
and women into his shows. It's a spectacle without strobes and lasers. All
Fulks has — genuineness — is all he needs to entertain.
Jon-Rae and The River / Castle Music / The People Verses
The Stack Farm; Kelowna, BC
to the Jon-Rae Jamboree," reads the sign greeting patrons. It's 7:30pm, the
official “Doors Open" time, and hardly anyone is here. At least, it feels like
no one is here. In fact, it seems like nothing is here, as tonight's
festivities are to take place at an old farmhouse in central Kelowna, a small
city known for its fruit trees, beautiful golf courses, ski hills, and
ludicrous amounts of urban development. But tonight, the focus is around the
return of one of the city's best exports: Jon-Rae and The River.
The 'door,' as it is normally referred to as, was more of a long, dirt
driveway, with a beat-up, old pedestal and a chair beside it. To the right of
this whitewashed box lay a blanket with the first band's CDs neatly arranged
in a row along the left-hand side, as to make room for The River's swag. Most
of the people who have come to attend this gig are wandering between the house
and Ernie's Liquor Store across the street, waiting for the show to start.
Once Jon-Rae Fletcher and his new, Toronto-based River (after moving there,
members of Jon-Rae's former River went on to play in bands such as Ladyhawk
and P:ano) pull up to the driveway, things are underway. After some quick
setup in the carport and a few beer runs, husband-and-wife duo The People
Verses hit the (ahem) 'stage' (carport). My expectations for their set were
rather low, and I was more than pleasantly surprised. Their stage presence was
warm, friendly, and very similar to fellow couple-band The Evens, but their
sound was more akin to a Detroit garage rock band, borrowing guitar sounds
from The Stooges, or perhaps The Black Keys. During their set, the band even
encouraged the audience to not buy their merch, as to help The River have
enough gas money to get back to hometown Toronto.
Second act Castle Music (featuring Jennifer Castle of Fox The Boombox and
Everybody Get Sick) was up next; they chose to start playing immediately
instead of saying "hi everyone," and waiting for our attention first.
Apparently we weren't the only ones who didn't realize that her set was
starting – the majority of the crowd continued talking throughout 75% of her
entire first song. Jennifer has an excellent, emotive voice, with similarities
to Leslie Feist or a much less annoying Joni Mitchell, and she isn't afraid to
use it to express. This was best evidenced in her final song in her incredibly
short set, a haunting a capella 'sea shanty' about sailors that finally
silenced the very social crowd.
But it was the entrance of The River that finally grabbed the audience's full
attention. Sporting a leaner, slimmer, touring band of a mere seven members,
leader Jon-Rae welcomed the crowd and started out the set with a set of two
new tracks, "Roll," and “Ghost." The new songs encapsulated the group's usual
'big city record store employee does country' sound, but have moved a little
closer towards a bastardized 'soul' music, such as with "Just One More."
Regardless of genre, Jon-Rae's knack for writing a melody is uncanny; it's not
often that you can go to a gig, hear a new song, and walk out of the show
actually humming the tune. That's how great pop songs should be, right?
Jon-Rae and The River are one of the best live acts I have seen. They are
enthusiastic and passionate about the music they perform, with all members
singing without microphones during some of the songs. One of the most
satisfying moments of the show was during "Holy Ghost" — a standout track from
their 2003 LP, The Road — where audience and band alike sang along with
Jon-Rae during the choruses, never missing a note or a word. There was a
slight chill in the air as those prolonged vocal tones resonated past the
single guitar's subdued, chiming notes, leaving this tiny fraction of
Between Paul Mortimer's weeping slide guitar, the outstanding, almost Doors-esque
keyboard collaborations of Jonathan Adjemian and Mike Stafford, the rolling
bass of Ian Russell, and the Animal-esque drum stylings of Dave Clark, The
River's blend of sounds complimented Jon-Rae and Anne Rust D'eye's tag-teamed
vocals perfectly. Never satisfied to adhere to one sound style, the group
would make these subtle yet ironically sharp left-turns, such as the Lynyrd
Skynyrd-style breakdown at the end of "Roll." These are the moments where it's
most apparent that JR&TR is a live band.
Though there were plenty of people in the crowd who didn't know each other,
what they did know is that you come to a River show to sing. This is a
band who did a show that Now! Toronto called "the best gig of 2005" — and for
good reason. They are musically tight, warm, and inviting, and they write
irresistibly catchy indie-rock/country tunes that aren't there to conquer the
world, be dramatic, or anything else other than just be great songs to sing
along to. You could say that they're the ultimate sing-along group. I mean,
all their albums to date have been recorded in living rooms while all of
Jon-Rae's friends sing along; is that not a big enough hint?
Expect the Toronto's newest LP, Knows What You Need to drop in October
on the Baudelaire label (also home to Tangiers and The Diableros). In speaking
with Jon-Rae, he told me he was most proud of this record of "soul songs about
fucking," which I'm sure has some sort of intentional Steve Albini reference
in it somewhere. If the recordings manage to capture a little bit of the magic
these live fucking songs convey, it will be an amazing record indeed. If
you're looking for a great act to see live, make sure you check these guys out
– you won't be disappointed. Perhaps you won't get to see them in a farmhouse,
but any venue with Jon-Rae and The River playing is a good venue indeed.
As I Die
When You Come Knocking
Come Back To Me
Nothing To Do
Just One More
Baby, Maybe (?)
It is Hard to Live in the City
Mission of Burma / Major Stars
Warsaw; Brooklyn, NY
guitars and rabid percussion punctuating intense, epic vocals, and a crowd
full of die-hard radicals shouting back the lyrics to every song. A
top-secret, sweat-soaked, God-forsaken hole in the wall where the kids get
psyched up for the revolution and then go out and fucking do it. Since
I was 16 years old, this is the mental image I've carried with me of what a
Mission of Burma performance must be like.
As a former New England prep school inmate who spent the majority of senior
year screaming along to "Academy Fight Song" (I still regret not choosing "I'm
not judging you/I'm judging me/My academy" as my senior quote), I've held
Mission of Burma sacred for years. When I heard about the band's 2002 reunion,
I was dubious, but the new material didn't disappoint. With such high
expectations and nothing to mitigate against them, I was completely unprepared
for the total "so what?" that was their concert.
Maybe part of the blame should be laid on the openers, Major Stars, who were
certainly capable of killing the mood. There was already some tension going on
between the band and the audience, who apparently weren't too excited about
mumbled vocals and anonymous hard rock guitar with some screeching and a few
interminable instrumental solos thrown in here and there. There was a
noticeable lack of polite applause between songs. Before the final song of
their set, the lead singer asked whether we were "super-psyched" for Mission
of Burma. Met with the first hearty applause of the night, she quipped, "It's
good that you're super-psyched for something." I'm super-psyched to point out
that the only thing worse than a band that can't keep the audience's attention
is a band that blames the audience for its inability to keep their attention.
Before Mission of Burma took the stage, I made the mistake of assuming that
the rest of the super-psyched audience and I were on the same page, namely,
the page that said, "I am saving all my energy for MOB." When they started to
play, I realized that there was just no energy in the room at all — none from
the audience and none from the band. While the band's instrumentation was
tight and the new songs blended well with the twenty-five-year-old classics,
the show felt like a failure because they couldn't generate any excitement
onstage or in the crowd. The decision to play two sets only highlighted the
problem, as the songs in the first half of the second set blurred together
into a twenty-minute stretch of monotony, and no one in Mission of Burma was
engaging the audience at all. A band with that kind of incendiary passion and
intensity just doesn't work when the passion and intensity are taken out of
the equation. There was no furiousness, no intensity, no epic moments, and no
die-hard radicals. There wasn't even any dancing. People weren't going to
leave this show and set government buildings on fire; they were going to go
home, smoke a joint, sleep for 12 hours, and maybe blog about the experience
in the morning.
The most depressing moment of the night came when Mission of Burma actually
did decide to interact with the audience, prefacing one song with the words,
"Fuck Bush," and following it up with the thought, "You have to write pissed
off songs. That's all you can do, right?" Those statements crystallized what
had been wrong with the performance all along. "Fuck Bush." So what? For an
intensely political band who, 25 years ago, gave us the lyrics, "my father's
dead/But I don't care about it/It happens anyway/On the edge of Burma," the
only real content of that statement was the subtext that Mission of Burma has
lost its relevance.
This all adds up to what I can't get over when punk, underground, and
otherwise independent or politically-minded bands from twenty to thirty years
ago reunite. With few exceptions, the reunion is cynical, commercial, and
supported by companies diametrically opposed to the bands' original aims
Clear Channel and
Ticketmaster, anyone?). It seems obvious that every time a band that's all
about revolution and anti-capitalism reunites two and a half decades later to
put on a half-assed show sponsored by exploitative corporations, that band is
co-opting their own subculture and selling out the very kids they once
radicalized. Mission of Burma, savior of my boarding school days, is
unfortunately no exception.
Photo: Mark Belinsky
The Futureheads / The French Kicks
Webster Hall; New York, NY
those of you who have never witnessed The Futureheads in action, you have my
pity. After a long absence during which they recorded their new album, News
and Tributes, The Futureheads have come back with a vengeance,
demonstrating why they are one of the best live bands currently in existence.
I was surprised by how much I liked the opening band, The French Kicks.
Admittedly, I expected to hate them, but some of their songs were really
catchy and demonstrated why this band has been a long-time local favorite. On
the other hand, there was a lack of chemistry among the members that was
puzzling. Their fans were enthusiastic regardless of this fact, but as someone
seeing them for the first time, I found the lack of spark to be disappointing.
It was as though they were going through the motions, which made it hard to
appreciate their otherwise accessible material. With that kind of attitude,
will they ever be more than the perennial opening band?
The Futureheads, by contrast, were remarkably charming and engaging. They wore
big smiles through their set and seemed genuinely excited about performing
their new material. The songs from News and Tributes fared much better
live than in recording. One such example is "Return of the Berserker." The
band delivered "Berserker" in an impressive display of speed and raw energy.
Its recorded version pales in comparison. On this song, even drummer Dave Hyde
lost his composure as he beat on his kit furiously; this was quite a shocking
display, as he spent most of the night playing calmly and steadily through the
It should be noted that the band seemed much more confident than the first
time I saw them, when they supported Franz Ferdinand almost two years ago.
Even though they've maintained an energetic, almost frantic way of performing,
they've also learned to work the crowd in a very charismatic manner.
There were plenty of exchanges between the crowd and the band. It was hard to
understand the Futureheads' speedy banter because of their Northeastern
English accents, but they were obviously very amused by the constant quips
from the cheery, drunken hecklers. "You've been brilliant," singer/guitarist
Barry Hyde told the audience as the band closed their set.
The same could be said about the band, who pounded through the set with gusto.
The crowd cheered the loudest for old favorites like "Meantime" and the band's
cover of "Hounds of Love." However, there was also a healthy enthusiasm for
newer songs such as "Area" and "Skip to the End." At that point, the new album
had been out for only a couple of weeks, but their fans shouted along to all
The show wasn't perfect, but it had nothing to do with the Futureheads'
performance. Rather, the sound mix was unfortunate, with muddled vocals that
didn't do justice to the band's four-party harmonies. In addition, much of the
set was accompanied by intensely bright white lights that flashed directly
into the crowd. One can only hope there were no epileptics in the audience!
6. Favours for Favours
7. Hounds of Love
8. Back to the Sea
9. Stupid and Shallow
10. Return of the Berserker
12. A to B
13. Worry About it Later
15. Skip to the End
16. He Knows
17. Man Ray
Decent Days and Nights
Desdemona Festival: The Fiery Furnaces
Sawyer Point; Cincinnati, Ohio
of them abbreviated from their recorded counterparts. The band climaxed after
about 45 minutes when it transformed the new tune "I'm in No Mood" from the
toy-piano opera found on this year's Bitter Tea to an enormous, urgent
maelstrom akin to an Assyrian war march. The band also victoriously navigated
the complex musical turns of last year's polarizing "The Garfield El."
Songs aside, two overwhelming things became apparent during the set. First was
the band's courage and ability to innovate and reinterpret their own music,
trading patented, electro-studio piano magic for guitars and with
rearrangements of Eleanor's Keroacian vocal rhythms. Second was Matthew's
striking guitar work. At times he seemed every bit a young Thurston Moore,
bending his strings into zany effects one minute and playing out roaring blues
progressions the next.
Returning, perhaps, to its roots, the Furnaces, with this set, paid homage to
their garage-rock debut, Gallowsbird Bark. This aspect, when merged
with the uncompromising creativity of their subsequent work, was truly a
spectacle. The results, not always beautiful, were each stirring. The audience
collected at the stage seemed alienated and inspired, all in the same moment.
As some rolled their eyes and left, others raised their arms and joined. While
after the festival's conclusion, I heard comments like, "We Are Scientists
slayed," or "Annie was a babe," it seemed that everyone pondered the Furnaces
silently. And I have an inkling that they wouldn't have wanted it any other
Police Sweater Blood Vow
My Dog Was Lost But Now He's Found
The Garfield El
Benton Harbor Blues
Teach Me Sweetheart
I'm Waiting to Know You
I'm in No Mood
Radiohead / The Black Keys
Auditorium Theater; Chicago, IL
hard to believe it's been nearly a decade since the release of OK Computer.
In 1997, Radiohead was just barely warmed-up to the obsessive fandom that has
since plagued them. Ironically, it was OK Computer's
paranoid, albeit disjointed critique of human interaction in a "postmodern"
technological landscape that engendered the very conditions it was lamenting — alienation, disconnection, simulacrum — which
nearly suffocated the band on its OK
Computer tour. In 2006, it seems as though Radiohead has finally
reconciled its tumultuous relationship with being the center of attention, the
spectacle. This is not to say, however, that the members of Radiohead are
adhering to the absurd standards and expectations of stadium bands. While
enormously popular, Radiohead is no U2. It's nearing the opposite, in fact:
Radiohead is considering signing to an independent label, Thom Yorke's new
album was released on independent label XL, and rather than letting their
popularity dictate the venues, Radiohead booked a modest tour consisting
primarily of theaters.
Despite not romanticizing over Radiohead since Kid A, the prospect of
seeing them live in a theater was enticing. My last Radiohead concert
experience (at the HUGE Alpine Valley Music Theatre in East Troy, WI) pretty
much shattered the illusion that "transcendence" could happen in any context
if Radiohead's music was playing. The gigantic TV screens, the Budweiser
advertisements, the overpriced merchandise – it was all too much. This Chicago
show, however, was very refreshing, at least by Radiohead standards. True, it
was sad to see hardcore fans outside the venue giving metaphorical handjobs
for tickets, but it'd be sadder to see Radiohead make concessions for
something that could be whittled down to cultural capital.
When the band finally stepped on stage, the applause and cheers from the crowd
drowned out the elongated intro riff to "Airbag." Nostalgia flowed through my
body, and I was transported back to a fantasy world where Radiohead meant so
much to me, a time when they signified something much larger than life.
Despite this sort of static, unrealistic perception, the illusion was
thankfully punctured every now and again: there were at least two obvious
fuck-ups, and every time the roadies came out to tune instruments, swap
instruments, or even end songs (e.g., turning off the amps after "Everything
in Its Right Place"), I couldn't help but smirk, somewhat endearingly, at the
I was ecstatic when they played my two favorite Radiohead tunes: "Kid A" and
"The Tourist." And songs I've never really warmed-up to 100%, like "2+2=5" and
"Myxomatosis," were thrilling in a live setting. But most of all, I was
excited to hear the new songs. Surprisingly, the songs were accessible and
many of them danceable. With all the proclamations of reinventing themselves
and Hail to the Thief being their last "rock" album, you'd think the
band would go strictly "Treefingers" on us. But perhaps that'd be too easy for
Radiohead. Even the unreleased "Nude," which was once moody in the vein of
"Exit Music" and later more akin to "The Tourist," was somewhat danceable in
its latest manifestation.
What surprised me the most, though, was Thom Yorke. Not that I ever questioned
him as a performer, but it has been admittedly a long time since I've seen
such a huge rock band perform, and Thom reveled in the spotlight. His solo
performance of "I Want None of This" and his animated gestures during "The
National Anthem" reminded me of just how captivating he can be. Although he
coasts on a different wavelength than some of us, Thom was definitely feeding
off the energy of the crowd, and this sort of relationship is usually either
minimized or transparent when the role of artist and audience is so clearly
It's surreal watching Radiohead live, nowadays. The disseminated images I've
seen of Radiohead performing far outweigh the number of times I've actually
seen them in "reality," so this disjunction makes for a somewhat bizarre,
insular experience. All attempts at an "objective" account aside, I believe
Radiohead is doing a tremendous job coming to grips with their fame, and
they've handled their popularity with a reticent wink. Although their music is
no longer my cup of tea, per se (three days later, I went to the experimental
music fest End Times that truly blew my mind), Radiohead will still likely be
one of the main loci where my aesthetic biases, political allegiances, and
cultural critiques will be measured and articulated. As such, Radiohead has
once again truly opened my eyes in inspiring ways, and I've started listening
to their music with a new sense of vigor.
3. Where I End And You Begin
4. 15 Step
5. Kid A
8. Climbing Up The Walls
9. Street Spirit
11. I Might Be Wrong
12. No Surprises
13. All I Need
14. I Want None Of This
15. The National Anthem
16. Bangers 'n Mash
17. Everything In Its Right Place
18. My Iron Lung
19. The Bends
21. How To Disappear Completely
22. Down Is The New Up
23. The Tourist
Band of Horses
Bowery Ballroom; New York, NY
On the evening of June 16th I
ventured down to the Bowery Ballroom, friend in tow. I warned him before the
show that he would be helping me to review the show. I just didn't tell him
how. My friend's name is Workweek. Let me introduce you.
Workweek is an Architect, Graphic Designer and DJ living in Greenpoint,
Brooklyn. Two of his all time favorite musicians are Bjork and Fabolous. He is
25 years old and waiting for his time to shine. That time is now – on Tiny Mix
What follows is a serious of 15 questions I made up for him a couple days
after the show, you know, so he had some time to think about it.
1. Do you like the Flaming Lips?
Is this the new Lindsay Lohan slang? Shit, I need to read Gawker more...
2. Do you like My Morning Jacket?
I've never listened to them. :(
3. How familiar are you with their catalog?
4. How familiar are you with the new Band of Horses album?
My roommate forced it into my iPod, and I have been enjoying it in the
mornings, and early evenings on the subway.
5. Did you enjoy the performance?
6. "James," a commenter on Brooklyvegan.com, had this to say about the show:
"don't know about you, but that show at the Bowery was boring. Too much reverb
on the vocals, too jam-bandy, and an "ah shucks, you guys are great, I love
you New York, ah shucks!" was kinda old when it began..."
But then "Nineteen-ninety-never" had this retort: "I disagree. I thought the
show was great. I don't think his happiness to be in NY was contrived at all.
It's a young band playing their first sold-out gig at the Bowery Ballroom, how
can you fault him for being psyched and appreciative? The reverb on vocals is
part of their sound, same as on the record. "Too jam-bandy"?? I don't think
any of the songs lasted more than 5 minutes and there were no segues. Maybe
I'm missing your point."
Who's side are you on, if any?
I feel The Ninety Never homie. I like that name too, being from the class of
99, and beginning to feel kind of old and all, but yeah. What's James talking
about being all "Jam Bandy," like, do those people still even exist? I totally
liked the live show. It was different sounding than my morning commutes, it
was more dancey, and yeah, I loved the energy and the vibe — fuck hating on
the dude for being stoked to be there — SHAKAH BRO!
7. If you could change one thing about the show what would it be? (you can
pick two or three if you want) It would have been nice to come out of there
with a phone number or two. I can imagine the girls who like BOH would be
totally cool. Especially if they liked that TI album they played during their
8. Do you like jam bands? Why or why not? No, I never really liked them, and
especially now that they're passé. Yeah I went to some Phish shows, but
whatever. I never collected
tapes — HA!
9. Would you rather be associated with Jam bands or Christian rock? AHAHAHAHA,
Some Christian rock is aiight. Like, I feel like Jam Band is a much more
pigeonholed genre than Christian Rock.
10. To your knowledge, what instrument was the lead singer playing? He started
with a LAP GUITAR and then played different guitars.
11. How did the music play out live compared to the record? Too alike? Too
different? It came out totally different than the record, and I really liked
that. The NYU Hip-Set was dancing too! I didn't know you could dance to BOH.
You're not going to catch me doing that, except for when the band came out
rapping to Chamillionaire's "Ridin." I like that music SOOOO LOUWWD.
12. What did you think of the reverb on the vocals? Got Old or Got Tingles? I
don't know what that dude was stressin' about. I'm pretty sure it's supposed
to sound like that. Regardless, it was seriously on point. The sound, the
aesthetic, the shaka-ing. I'm not going to say I got tingles or anything, but
yeah, it was tha' shiiiit.
13. Did this show prove to you that Band of Horses have what it takes to stick
around in the new blogged-out-internet-hate/love-two
seconds-of-fame-before/after-the-backlash music industry and world at large?
I'm still trying to figure this shit out. I feel like these bands are always
forced to come up big on following albums, with flipped-scripts and all that,
in order to survive. So yeah, this show kind of proved they had all this
energy and different style that is kind of absent on the album... maybe they
can use that to blow bloggers' minds on their next recorded go-around.
14. Did you find the show meaningful to you? Umm, like some born-again?
15. Being a party DJ you are probably familiar with the type of reaction music
elicits from the crowd; how do you react differently to this type of music
live as you would to say, the Juan Maclean, Rick Ross or Lightning Bolt?
Live it did kind of get to me, but their album doesn't. But like Juan Maclean
and Lightning Bolt rattle my bones in their recordings almost as much as they
do live. I've never seen Ricky live, but I hear he's not afraid to spit
Husslin' more than once in a show which I would be sure to pump ma' fist to.
BOH just elicits a pumped 'shaka' from my rating scale, but a burly one, ya
So, in the constantly evolving, genre spanning, internet-fueled music
industry, the underground has now successfully created its own specific 15
minutes of fame. Whether these 15 minutes lead to a major label contract or a
video aired on MTV is irrelevant. Besides, Sub Pop is practically a major
label at this point sales-wise, right? These 15 minutes are the (let's not kid
ourselves) 'Pitchfork 15.' The modern day Rolling Stone is now lofting
artists to a level of notoriety during the fledgling years which immediately
exposes them to a wider audience, but could potentially create overexposure
and a subsequent backlash. It's like in the mid-'90s when people got all
pissed that Built to Spill signed to a major label, but now you don't even
have to "sell out" to be hated; you just have to be liked by a larger
population of people (see: The Shins). Who gives a shit about the show; should
I like these guys? How do I stay cool? -Rezound
Buzzcocks / The Adored / The Choke
Irving Plaza; New York, NY
Going to see a band that hit its
prime over twenty-five years ago is always a dicey venture. No matter how good
they were once upon a time, you can't help but wonder whether you should just
spend your hard-earned money on a few re-issued LPs instead of shelling out
for tickets to a show that very well might forever ruin your enjoyment of said
band. As I entered Irving Plaza to see the Buzzcocks, I worried that I might
never be able to play Singles Going Steady again.
The first two bands, The Choke and The Adored, highlighted the contrast
between what punk music meant in the late seventies and what it means now.
Though both bands could be described as competent, I'm confident that they
could also have been restyled and repackaged as pop or metal bands, depending
on the preferences of focus groups and record executives. I missed most of The
Choke's set, and aside from the lead singer's throaty, powerful voice, the
band didn't make much of an impression. They seemed like they'd be at home in
a second-stage slot on the Warped Tour.
The Adored were no musical revelation either, but I've got to admit that their
set was fun, complete with harmonizing vocals, jubilant microphone twirling,
and hand claps. These guys were clearly living out their pretty boy punk rock
fantasies, but they were just so goddamn catchy and high energy that they
managed to win over even little, old, cold-hearted me. I don't think I'd
bother to pick up their album, but their set certainly kept my attention and
even made me dance. I was kind of sad for them when some frat party refugee
behind me yelled, "You suck!" as they walked off the stage.
After 20 minutes of listening to the same guy periodically scream, "Let's go
Buzzcocks!" as though we were at a high school football game, the band came
on. Though it was touching to watch how genuinely thrilled Pete Shelley and
Steve Diggle looked to be on stage, performing for a whole new generation of
fans, I just couldn't get into the first few songs. They opened with the title
track from their new album, Flat-Pack Philosophy (Cooking Vinyl), and
played about seven new songs in a row. While this new music is unmistakably
Buzzcocks and therefore not completely devoid of value, it just isn't perfect
the way the old stuff is. I blame the lyrics, which seem pilfered from vintage
Gang of Four: modern relationships are mechanical and consumerism is turning
us soulless – full of references to Marx on worker alienation. Twenty-five
years later, this stuff just feels trite, and besides, the Buzzcocks were
always at their best singing about the little indignities of romance and the
lack thereof. It seemed like even the band themselves were half-assing these
I was starting to despair when, finally, I heard the opening riffs of "I Don't
Mind." The band immediately seemed to hit its stride, as the old-timers and
teenage skate punks alike went wild, and the first few songs began to feel
like nothing but warm up. These were the Buzzcocks we had all come to see, and
we were overjoyed to find that they could still rock. They treated the
audience to about ten more of their favorite songs, among them "Fiction
Romance," "Ever Fallen in Love?," "Autonomy," and the sublime "What Do I Get?"
All of Irving Plaza sang along to "Why Can't I Touch It?," a phenomenon that
seemed to delight Steve Diggle. Often overshadowed in the band's mythology by
Shelley and Howard Devoto, Diggle was undeniably the star of this show. While
I sometimes felt like Shelley was rushing through his vocals (perhaps his lung
capacity isn't what it used to be), Diggle was just completely in his element,
bopping around the stage, oozing even more energy than those plucky kids in
the opening bands.
Though they'd already played for an hour, the Buzzcocks returned to the stage
after only a short break to play a generous, six-song encore. The highlight of
this last group was what I like to refer to as everyone's freshman year of
college anthem, "Orgasm Addict." Strangely, during this song and no other, the
entire audience began either pogo-ing or moshing. I could only guess that the
sexual intensity of the song was unconsciously encouraging complete strangers
to rub up against one another.
By the time the show was over, the band had played at least three-quarters of
Singles Going Steady and I had forgiven them for making us sit through
the new material first. It's obvious that the Buzzcocks know their best albums
are behind them, and if Flat-Pack Philosophy is nothing more than an
excuse for them to get out and perform their late-'70s classics, that's good
enough for me.