Digging through my computer I found some reviews that I must not have ever posted. They're all reviews of old albums (like from beginning of this year) and there's also one from a show––The Blow––that I went to in February.
Enjoy.
Showing posts with label Real Music. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Real Music. Show all posts
Sunday, September 23, 2007
The Hold Steady, Boys And Girls In America, Vagrant, 2006
Us kids, we love our music. Though, very often that music has nothing to do with us kids. That doesn’t mean that it’s bad music, completely foreign or inaccessible, it’s just not all about the kids. Craig Finn, the Hold Steady’s lovably goofy frontman, borrows inspiration from his younger years, giving us some of the most relatable, observant and well-written rock n’ roll music of the decade.
Teenage angst, love, drugs and general partying are not new subjects in the wide genre of music known as rock, what is new is the Hold Steady’s approach to teenage angst, love, drugs and general partying; he enlists honesty and authenticity in a way that has us exclaiming “that is so true!” at least once per song, often four or five times. In Boys And Girls In America, the Hold’s third album, the songs get less specific but no less observant.
On the first two albums, Finn used the names of specific people and places quite often––especially on the second album, Separation Sunday, with closely follows three characters––making the songs slightly more alienating, yet his startling observations still rang true. The songs’ getting less specific make them even more relevant, which, in turn, makes it easier for the listener to situate himself squarely inside of the narratives. The “that is so true!” factor also increases.
In Boys And Girls’ epic opener, “Stuck Between Stations,” Finn heaves a line right out of Kerouac’s On The Road with his cry of how, on some nights, he thinks Sal Paradise was right when he said “boys and girls in America have such a sad time together.” He then dives even deeper into his uncanny knowledge of youth and lists, bullet point style, how boys and girls in America do, indeed, have such a sad time together: “Making sure their makeup’s straight/Crushing one another with colossal expectations/Dependent, undisciplined, and sleeping late.” How does he know all of this?
Each track on Boys And Girls features a story line revolving around a party, a girl, dating, or, in the case of “Chillout Tent” a pair of teens who go to a music festival, do too many drugs and find themselves hooking up in the paramedic tent. The song is sung with such straightforwardness and attention to detail that it’s as if Finn is sitting in the bar telling his buddies about something that happened last weekend, metaphors be damned.
Finn’s lyrics are beautiful in their directness and accessibility and the same can be said for how he sings them. His blunt half-singing/half-talking delivery works for what he is saying; anything closer to proper singing would ruin the effect. When the words are nearly spoken over music it becomes really, really easy to sing along, and with goose bump-inducingly poignant lines like “we kissed in your car and we drank from your purse” you will be singing along.
In fact, goose bump-inducing poignancy is one of the Hold Steady’s most powerful weapons, and one that Finn wields with outstanding authority and precision. Also the music, which by no means suffers by the commanding presence of the lyrics, is not a something to trifle with. The four other members of the band keep it all together with their timeless I-think-I’ve-heard-this-before guitar riffs and powerful drums. While Finn isn’t singing, his band is jamming behind him, launching solos and continuing their classic melodies.
Great music is that way because of its accessibility and subject matter that relates, somehow, to your own life. The Hold Steady must have written the book on this matter, or at least found a really good copy; any good band could write the lyric “I love this girl,” but only Craig Finn would think to add “but I can’t tell when she’s having a good time.” The second half of the line instantly catapults the entire song from a run-of-the-mill piece of rock music to a hyperaware explanation of how anyone who’s ever liked someone feels.
The Hold Steady appeal very much to both adults and kids because their subject matter is totally rooted in youth. While adults want desperately to remember the great times they had in their younger days, much like Finn must, us kids want to know that those experiences are just and that everyone has them, and we want to have those events occur in our own lives so that we could, someday, write descriptive, reminiscent songs about them ourselves.
-February 10th, 2007
Teenage angst, love, drugs and general partying are not new subjects in the wide genre of music known as rock, what is new is the Hold Steady’s approach to teenage angst, love, drugs and general partying; he enlists honesty and authenticity in a way that has us exclaiming “that is so true!” at least once per song, often four or five times. In Boys And Girls In America, the Hold’s third album, the songs get less specific but no less observant.
On the first two albums, Finn used the names of specific people and places quite often––especially on the second album, Separation Sunday, with closely follows three characters––making the songs slightly more alienating, yet his startling observations still rang true. The songs’ getting less specific make them even more relevant, which, in turn, makes it easier for the listener to situate himself squarely inside of the narratives. The “that is so true!” factor also increases.
In Boys And Girls’ epic opener, “Stuck Between Stations,” Finn heaves a line right out of Kerouac’s On The Road with his cry of how, on some nights, he thinks Sal Paradise was right when he said “boys and girls in America have such a sad time together.” He then dives even deeper into his uncanny knowledge of youth and lists, bullet point style, how boys and girls in America do, indeed, have such a sad time together: “Making sure their makeup’s straight/Crushing one another with colossal expectations/Dependent, undisciplined, and sleeping late.” How does he know all of this?
Each track on Boys And Girls features a story line revolving around a party, a girl, dating, or, in the case of “Chillout Tent” a pair of teens who go to a music festival, do too many drugs and find themselves hooking up in the paramedic tent. The song is sung with such straightforwardness and attention to detail that it’s as if Finn is sitting in the bar telling his buddies about something that happened last weekend, metaphors be damned.
Finn’s lyrics are beautiful in their directness and accessibility and the same can be said for how he sings them. His blunt half-singing/half-talking delivery works for what he is saying; anything closer to proper singing would ruin the effect. When the words are nearly spoken over music it becomes really, really easy to sing along, and with goose bump-inducingly poignant lines like “we kissed in your car and we drank from your purse” you will be singing along.
In fact, goose bump-inducing poignancy is one of the Hold Steady’s most powerful weapons, and one that Finn wields with outstanding authority and precision. Also the music, which by no means suffers by the commanding presence of the lyrics, is not a something to trifle with. The four other members of the band keep it all together with their timeless I-think-I’ve-heard-this-before guitar riffs and powerful drums. While Finn isn’t singing, his band is jamming behind him, launching solos and continuing their classic melodies.
Great music is that way because of its accessibility and subject matter that relates, somehow, to your own life. The Hold Steady must have written the book on this matter, or at least found a really good copy; any good band could write the lyric “I love this girl,” but only Craig Finn would think to add “but I can’t tell when she’s having a good time.” The second half of the line instantly catapults the entire song from a run-of-the-mill piece of rock music to a hyperaware explanation of how anyone who’s ever liked someone feels.
The Hold Steady appeal very much to both adults and kids because their subject matter is totally rooted in youth. While adults want desperately to remember the great times they had in their younger days, much like Finn must, us kids want to know that those experiences are just and that everyone has them, and we want to have those events occur in our own lives so that we could, someday, write descriptive, reminiscent songs about them ourselves.
-February 10th, 2007
Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, Some Loud Thunder, Self-released, 2007
I had just heard them live. This was a year or so ago and I was going in with no idea who they were and coming out with self-induced "Clap Your Hands Say Yeah's" scrawled all over my arm and hand, as if the words were the numbers of the most beautiful girls I had ever met; I definitely did not want to forget them. Turns out I wasn’t alone in my excitement. At all. Everyone––specifically indie rock tastemakers typing away on influential blogs like Pitchfork.com––was going head-over-tattered Converse for Clap Your Hands Say Yeah’s catchy, powerful indie pop.
Clap Your Hands Say Yeah was self-titled, self-produced, self-released, yet entirely un-self-hyped and came complete with twelve solid tracks featuring warm melodies, fuzzy guitars and captivatingly odd lyrics sung in a is-that-really-how-he-sings voice by Alec Ounsworth, the band’s frontman. The striking yellow album also came with an equally solid 9.0 of 10 rating from the aforementioned blog. This helped the out-of-nowhere group sell over 90,000 copies of their debut and still remain unsigned.
With these facts in mind, it is no wonder that Clap’s second album had quite a bit more pre-release hype surrounding it than their first. Still, the band remained unsigned, although they opted to splurge on one important detail. They recruited Dave Fridmann, best known for his work with the Flaming Lips, to produce Some Loud Thunder.
Some Loud Thunder differs greatly from the CYHSY’s first record, which was sunny and full of thick, creamy melodies. Thunder still has thick and creamy down, mostly, but much of the sun is no longer visible. Considering the album is named after stormy weather, the lack of warmth does make sense. In fact, the ideal environment for listening to this album would be next to a rain-streaked window, under a wool blanket with a headful of languorous decisions to make.
Clap Your Hands Say Yeah was chock full of dense, driving and sometimes synthesized instrumentation that sounded incredible in headphones. The melodies were so worn in and well crafted that you could not help but turn up the volume and listen to every single tiny guitar riff and drum thump. Over and over and over.
Thunder’s music is just as sophisticated and there is a lot to listen to. Much more than initially meets the ears. The album announces itself, somewhat disappointingly, with its title track. “Some Loud Thunder” is steeped in so much distortion that is makes it sound less like music and more like someone scraped you’re new CD over your gravel walkway while you weren’t looking. Near the end of the song, though, it becomes evident that you’re disc is fine and it starts sounding better, although a little less distortion wouldn’t hurt anyone. Piano is prominent on a couple of songs, too, and distorted, electronic beeps and blips are used to build up and maintain the beat of the frantic guitar and kick drum-driven “Satan Said Dance.”
The songs are much less succinct than those of the first album, opting instead for a more atmospheric and swirling quality, due largely to Fridmann’s being on the payroll. Though, like the first album, almost every song has a lovable, if not off-kilter, melody that keeps you bobbing your head in time. Some songs disguise it better than others. In “Emily Jean Stock” the beauty becomes evident about 50 seconds in, with a sweep of guitar and short, coughing drums. Then, near the end of the song, you discover one of Clap’s great anti-choruses (continual yelps of “it is a radio tells me so”) and more of those quick, addicting drums. In “Underwater (You and Me)” the tambourine and bass-heavy tune moves up and down, in no hurry to be anywhere, like waves splashing calmly over a beach.
Lyrics also play a remarkable role in CYHSY songs. Since Ounsworth’s voice is an instrument in and of itself, you find yourself listening only to the sounds he’s making rather than the words he’s singing. Still, after repeated listens you want to know what he is actually saying, which is not nothing. The songwriting takes advantage of the odd vocals and deals with vague love stories, political observations, and more awkward love. Ounsworth will latch on to a certain line and repeat it with such emotion that it becomes the most important thing he has ever had to say in his life. The line is either so profound, so casual, or both at the same time, that it really is the most important thing ever. And don’t worry; you will find yourself singing––or wailing––along.
The songs on Some Loud Thunder do take a bit longer to wrap yourself around than those of the first album, and not every single song is one of the best songs you’ve ever heard, as is the case with the debut. However, once you’re wrapped up in and familiar with Thunder, you find that it is the perfect follow-up album to the perfect album. After all, you wouldn’t want it to be better than that brightly packaged album you first discovered while browsing concert calendars online, eavesdropping on the record store’s brutally hip clientele or rocking out in the busy bright sunset last summer with some of your best friends, would you?
-February 3th, 2007
Clap Your Hands Say Yeah was self-titled, self-produced, self-released, yet entirely un-self-hyped and came complete with twelve solid tracks featuring warm melodies, fuzzy guitars and captivatingly odd lyrics sung in a is-that-really-how-he-sings voice by Alec Ounsworth, the band’s frontman. The striking yellow album also came with an equally solid 9.0 of 10 rating from the aforementioned blog. This helped the out-of-nowhere group sell over 90,000 copies of their debut and still remain unsigned.
With these facts in mind, it is no wonder that Clap’s second album had quite a bit more pre-release hype surrounding it than their first. Still, the band remained unsigned, although they opted to splurge on one important detail. They recruited Dave Fridmann, best known for his work with the Flaming Lips, to produce Some Loud Thunder.
Some Loud Thunder differs greatly from the CYHSY’s first record, which was sunny and full of thick, creamy melodies. Thunder still has thick and creamy down, mostly, but much of the sun is no longer visible. Considering the album is named after stormy weather, the lack of warmth does make sense. In fact, the ideal environment for listening to this album would be next to a rain-streaked window, under a wool blanket with a headful of languorous decisions to make.
Clap Your Hands Say Yeah was chock full of dense, driving and sometimes synthesized instrumentation that sounded incredible in headphones. The melodies were so worn in and well crafted that you could not help but turn up the volume and listen to every single tiny guitar riff and drum thump. Over and over and over.
Thunder’s music is just as sophisticated and there is a lot to listen to. Much more than initially meets the ears. The album announces itself, somewhat disappointingly, with its title track. “Some Loud Thunder” is steeped in so much distortion that is makes it sound less like music and more like someone scraped you’re new CD over your gravel walkway while you weren’t looking. Near the end of the song, though, it becomes evident that you’re disc is fine and it starts sounding better, although a little less distortion wouldn’t hurt anyone. Piano is prominent on a couple of songs, too, and distorted, electronic beeps and blips are used to build up and maintain the beat of the frantic guitar and kick drum-driven “Satan Said Dance.”
The songs are much less succinct than those of the first album, opting instead for a more atmospheric and swirling quality, due largely to Fridmann’s being on the payroll. Though, like the first album, almost every song has a lovable, if not off-kilter, melody that keeps you bobbing your head in time. Some songs disguise it better than others. In “Emily Jean Stock” the beauty becomes evident about 50 seconds in, with a sweep of guitar and short, coughing drums. Then, near the end of the song, you discover one of Clap’s great anti-choruses (continual yelps of “it is a radio tells me so”) and more of those quick, addicting drums. In “Underwater (You and Me)” the tambourine and bass-heavy tune moves up and down, in no hurry to be anywhere, like waves splashing calmly over a beach.
Lyrics also play a remarkable role in CYHSY songs. Since Ounsworth’s voice is an instrument in and of itself, you find yourself listening only to the sounds he’s making rather than the words he’s singing. Still, after repeated listens you want to know what he is actually saying, which is not nothing. The songwriting takes advantage of the odd vocals and deals with vague love stories, political observations, and more awkward love. Ounsworth will latch on to a certain line and repeat it with such emotion that it becomes the most important thing he has ever had to say in his life. The line is either so profound, so casual, or both at the same time, that it really is the most important thing ever. And don’t worry; you will find yourself singing––or wailing––along.
The songs on Some Loud Thunder do take a bit longer to wrap yourself around than those of the first album, and not every single song is one of the best songs you’ve ever heard, as is the case with the debut. However, once you’re wrapped up in and familiar with Thunder, you find that it is the perfect follow-up album to the perfect album. After all, you wouldn’t want it to be better than that brightly packaged album you first discovered while browsing concert calendars online, eavesdropping on the record store’s brutally hip clientele or rocking out in the busy bright sunset last summer with some of your best friends, would you?
-February 3th, 2007
The Postal Service, Give Up, Sub Pop, 2003
Ben Gibbard is a superhero. He has multiple identities and his super power is the ability to write articulate, striking, metaphor-filled song after articulate, striking, metaphor-filled song without having any of them sound pretentious or wholly the same. He even has an instantly recognizable superhero costume made up of soft-hued sweaters, worn-in blazers and so-nerdy-they’re-cool black plastic glasses.
You, the average music-loving citizen of Metropolis, are familiar with Ben Gibbard because of Death Cab for Cutie and their low-key, mood-setting brand of northwest indie rock, but you may not be as in-the-know when the conversation turns to the Postal Service and their brand of indie-tronic pop music.
After hearing “Such Great Heights” or “We Will Become Silhouettes” (Give Up’s lead singles) a few times, you will find yourself trying to place the singer’s gentle voice and the way his stories of breakup and other such disaster unravel. You soon realize that the Postal Service is Ben Gibbard’s creation. It’s his Clark Kent to Death Cab’s Superman.
Formed in 2001, the Postal Service spent the subsequent year or so before Give Up was released pairing high-tech, sterile electronic beats, courtesy of the band’s second member, Jimmy Tamborello of the electronic group, Dntel, with oddly complementing and completely human lyrics and stories, courtesy of Ben Gibbard himself. Several tracks also feature additional vocals performed warmly by the Wonder Woman of indie pop, Jenny Lewis.
On opener “The District Sleeps Alone Tonight” Gibbard describes how an ex seems “so out of context in this gaudy apartment complex” over a series of quick back-and-forth electronic clanks and snaps. The song sets the mood for the entire album: largely gloomy lyrics balanced with optimistic-sounding, synthesized melodies. The album goes by far faster than you’re expecting it to, although the last third chugs along noticeably slower than beginning and middle.
Each song is the proud owner of its very own articulately heartfelt story and a catchy melody made up of electronic whirrs and claps. The standouts include “Such Great Heights,” “We Will Become Silhouettes” and “Nothing Better,” with all its medical metaphors (rhyming “future” with “sutures” just might be the definition of brilliance) and call-and-answer vocals revolving around an undying love.
Give Up has balance. At times its songs seem larger-than-life, with soaring proclamations of “everything looks perfect from far away” or “I want life in every word to the extent that it's absurd” but then, there are those pedestrian and utterly tangible lyrics, too, and often in the same song as the extraordinary. It is this integration of beauty and mundane occurrences that makes Give Up so easy to listen to. Clark Kent obviously knows as much about ordinary life as he does out-of-the-ordinary life.
-February 11th, 2007
You, the average music-loving citizen of Metropolis, are familiar with Ben Gibbard because of Death Cab for Cutie and their low-key, mood-setting brand of northwest indie rock, but you may not be as in-the-know when the conversation turns to the Postal Service and their brand of indie-tronic pop music.
After hearing “Such Great Heights” or “We Will Become Silhouettes” (Give Up’s lead singles) a few times, you will find yourself trying to place the singer’s gentle voice and the way his stories of breakup and other such disaster unravel. You soon realize that the Postal Service is Ben Gibbard’s creation. It’s his Clark Kent to Death Cab’s Superman.
Formed in 2001, the Postal Service spent the subsequent year or so before Give Up was released pairing high-tech, sterile electronic beats, courtesy of the band’s second member, Jimmy Tamborello of the electronic group, Dntel, with oddly complementing and completely human lyrics and stories, courtesy of Ben Gibbard himself. Several tracks also feature additional vocals performed warmly by the Wonder Woman of indie pop, Jenny Lewis.
On opener “The District Sleeps Alone Tonight” Gibbard describes how an ex seems “so out of context in this gaudy apartment complex” over a series of quick back-and-forth electronic clanks and snaps. The song sets the mood for the entire album: largely gloomy lyrics balanced with optimistic-sounding, synthesized melodies. The album goes by far faster than you’re expecting it to, although the last third chugs along noticeably slower than beginning and middle.
Each song is the proud owner of its very own articulately heartfelt story and a catchy melody made up of electronic whirrs and claps. The standouts include “Such Great Heights,” “We Will Become Silhouettes” and “Nothing Better,” with all its medical metaphors (rhyming “future” with “sutures” just might be the definition of brilliance) and call-and-answer vocals revolving around an undying love.
Give Up has balance. At times its songs seem larger-than-life, with soaring proclamations of “everything looks perfect from far away” or “I want life in every word to the extent that it's absurd” but then, there are those pedestrian and utterly tangible lyrics, too, and often in the same song as the extraordinary. It is this integration of beauty and mundane occurrences that makes Give Up so easy to listen to. Clark Kent obviously knows as much about ordinary life as he does out-of-the-ordinary life.
-February 11th, 2007
The Kingdom, K1, Arena Rock Records, 2006
What do lo-fi yet up-beat indie rock songs and snowmobile racing have in common? They’re both featured on the Kingdom’s full-length debut, apparently. K1 recounts, in 11 songs, the longest of which is just over 3 minutes, an epic transportation-filled cross-country race. The concept here is strong and executed far better than that of their first EP, which followed the life of NFL hall-of-famer Johnny Unitas as he navigated the solar system, complete with pretentious 20-second tracks with names like “Gamma 68 Yard Line” and all.
The whole racing thing does get a bit tedious, however. Charles Westmoreland, the band’s strangely-enunciating vocalist, sings about every form of transportation he can think of––motorcycles, hydrofoils, snowmobiles, spaceships, police cars, planes and even motorcades––and you soon find yourself growing very curious about where all of this motor sport influence is coming from. Songs with names like “Driver,” “Motorcading,” “Motorcycling,” “Polaris,” “Racer” and “Pilot,” make up about half of the album, yet the rest of seems to have nothing to do with racing, driving or piloting at all.
“Love Is My Nation,” the second track on the album, is a fast-paced, agitated pop song with synthesizers and a blasting chorus. It’s also the first time you notice how fascinating Westmoreland’s singing voice actually is. Him singing “With black and gold all over” sounds more like “I’m block! And go! I’ll owe her!” It’s as if he’s singing with his tongue shoved into his cheek while still enunciating every word as clearly as possible. It’s interesting to listen to, and adds several layers of texture to the songs.
The music is also happy as can be, and happy, in this case, tends to equal catchy. Almost military drumbeats and soaring but concise guitars never let up, save for the 3-minute piano ballad “Polaris,” with its strange chorus, consisting of the line “your leather snowmobile jacket fits like a dream.” The beginning, middle and ending songs, “Driver,” “Racer” and “Pilot,” respectively, are also quieter and recycle much of the same melody––and lyrics––building up to the terrific marching band finale and an image of a pilot who will “be walking down the concourse with my helmet stained with stars.”
K1 sounds good, and if you’re willing to overlook or embrace the oddly frequent transportation references you’ve got yourself a catchy, fun-loving and surprisingly solid listen. Additionally, there is a deeper side to this record that is up for interpretation, if you want it to be, because, seriously, there has got to be some reason for all of the motorcycles.
-February 9th, 2007
The whole racing thing does get a bit tedious, however. Charles Westmoreland, the band’s strangely-enunciating vocalist, sings about every form of transportation he can think of––motorcycles, hydrofoils, snowmobiles, spaceships, police cars, planes and even motorcades––and you soon find yourself growing very curious about where all of this motor sport influence is coming from. Songs with names like “Driver,” “Motorcading,” “Motorcycling,” “Polaris,” “Racer” and “Pilot,” make up about half of the album, yet the rest of seems to have nothing to do with racing, driving or piloting at all.
“Love Is My Nation,” the second track on the album, is a fast-paced, agitated pop song with synthesizers and a blasting chorus. It’s also the first time you notice how fascinating Westmoreland’s singing voice actually is. Him singing “With black and gold all over” sounds more like “I’m block! And go! I’ll owe her!” It’s as if he’s singing with his tongue shoved into his cheek while still enunciating every word as clearly as possible. It’s interesting to listen to, and adds several layers of texture to the songs.
The music is also happy as can be, and happy, in this case, tends to equal catchy. Almost military drumbeats and soaring but concise guitars never let up, save for the 3-minute piano ballad “Polaris,” with its strange chorus, consisting of the line “your leather snowmobile jacket fits like a dream.” The beginning, middle and ending songs, “Driver,” “Racer” and “Pilot,” respectively, are also quieter and recycle much of the same melody––and lyrics––building up to the terrific marching band finale and an image of a pilot who will “be walking down the concourse with my helmet stained with stars.”
K1 sounds good, and if you’re willing to overlook or embrace the oddly frequent transportation references you’ve got yourself a catchy, fun-loving and surprisingly solid listen. Additionally, there is a deeper side to this record that is up for interpretation, if you want it to be, because, seriously, there has got to be some reason for all of the motorcycles.
-February 9th, 2007
The Blow, Live At The Showbox, Seattle, February 9, 2007
“Just how naked are we gonna get, just exactly how naked are we gonna get?” whispers Seattle native-cum-Portlander Khaela Maricich––who calls to mind a younger, hipper, way more musically talented Ellen Degeneres––as she nervously takes the stage. There is no instrumentation yet, and she keeps a beat merely by taping the microphone with her finger. Everyone standing in the audience assumed this a cappella performance was just a mic check, but as the song continues, with no abrupt mic checking end in sight, it becomes evident this is the Blow, and the audience is now fully captivated.
Of course, for the rest of the set there is music. Those addictive, plucky, body-rocking beats created by Jona Bechtolt, the Blow’s second member, are played underneath Khaela’s beautifully clean and startlingly sincere singing. The music is not live, though. Jona is nowhere to be found on stage; Kheala is up there all by herself with just a microphone and her awkward yet forceful white-girl-can-dance dance moves performed in time with the music. Plus, the solo performance makes the already heartfelt songs seem even more personal.
“You know those songs, where it’s just like ‘ugh, I want you!’?” she asks a few songs into her set, “well, those are the most interesting.” She then proceeds to tell the audience, who, as a whole, is still not at all sure what to expect from their evening, how she felt there weren’t enough songs like that out there and how she decided to write some more.
This explanation truly does explain everything: if you are at all familiar with the Blow’s album, Paper Television, you are sure to have asked yourself why are all of the songs are about some girl who constantly doubts herself (with lyrics like “I would consider myself lucky to be right in on your threesome,” “I guess I’m on the long list of girls who love the shit out of you,” or “you really wanna hold my hand?” it’s hard to focus on any other theme) and can never completely get that guy?
Well, the short answer is that the woman who wrote them thinks they’re more interesting and fun to sing. But, the long, more correct answer, is the woman who wrote them is very aware of how many people feel the same way about themselves and how difficult and awkward loving, or even just liking someone is.
It is evident that she is very, very adamant about this revelation, and, between songs, continues to talk in an animated and excited way, almost like a stand-up comic, about how strange love is. The beat keeps thumping as she tells us about this “guy who works at my work who yells at girls,” or good advice to use “if you’re out with someone and you’re not sure how things are gonna turn out.” That advice turned out to be the honest and precisely-sung chorus of the pounding, metaphor-y “Pardon Me”––“I’ve felt a heart before/And I’m learning what a heart is for/I believe. A heart. Is made to feel. The things that lay in front of it”.
The Showbox was packed with people confidently singing along with Kaehla and moving in-step with the music. The venue was also a good choice for an outfit like the Blow because somewhere bigger wouldn’t have allowed the dance club beats, intimate lyrics and delicate singing to be heard as clearly or thoughtfully. As she finished her last song and cheerfully left the stage, the whole club was filled with a feeling of contentment and silent vows made to love on your own terms could almost be heard over the applause.
-February 10, 2007
Of course, for the rest of the set there is music. Those addictive, plucky, body-rocking beats created by Jona Bechtolt, the Blow’s second member, are played underneath Khaela’s beautifully clean and startlingly sincere singing. The music is not live, though. Jona is nowhere to be found on stage; Kheala is up there all by herself with just a microphone and her awkward yet forceful white-girl-can-dance dance moves performed in time with the music. Plus, the solo performance makes the already heartfelt songs seem even more personal.
“You know those songs, where it’s just like ‘ugh, I want you!’?” she asks a few songs into her set, “well, those are the most interesting.” She then proceeds to tell the audience, who, as a whole, is still not at all sure what to expect from their evening, how she felt there weren’t enough songs like that out there and how she decided to write some more.
This explanation truly does explain everything: if you are at all familiar with the Blow’s album, Paper Television, you are sure to have asked yourself why are all of the songs are about some girl who constantly doubts herself (with lyrics like “I would consider myself lucky to be right in on your threesome,” “I guess I’m on the long list of girls who love the shit out of you,” or “you really wanna hold my hand?” it’s hard to focus on any other theme) and can never completely get that guy?
Well, the short answer is that the woman who wrote them thinks they’re more interesting and fun to sing. But, the long, more correct answer, is the woman who wrote them is very aware of how many people feel the same way about themselves and how difficult and awkward loving, or even just liking someone is.
It is evident that she is very, very adamant about this revelation, and, between songs, continues to talk in an animated and excited way, almost like a stand-up comic, about how strange love is. The beat keeps thumping as she tells us about this “guy who works at my work who yells at girls,” or good advice to use “if you’re out with someone and you’re not sure how things are gonna turn out.” That advice turned out to be the honest and precisely-sung chorus of the pounding, metaphor-y “Pardon Me”––“I’ve felt a heart before/And I’m learning what a heart is for/I believe. A heart. Is made to feel. The things that lay in front of it”.
The Showbox was packed with people confidently singing along with Kaehla and moving in-step with the music. The venue was also a good choice for an outfit like the Blow because somewhere bigger wouldn’t have allowed the dance club beats, intimate lyrics and delicate singing to be heard as clearly or thoughtfully. As she finished her last song and cheerfully left the stage, the whole club was filled with a feeling of contentment and silent vows made to love on your own terms could almost be heard over the applause.
-February 10, 2007
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
ALL ELECTRONIC MUSIC COMES FROM A DUO?!?!!!
Daft Punk
Air
Justice
MSTRKRFT
The Knife
Datarock
Goldfrapp
Junior Boys
Chromeo
The Pinker Tones
Simian Mobile Disco
The Blow
Motor
Eurythmics
Chemical Brothers
Ratatat
The Postal Service
Yaz
Thievery Corporation
The Crystal Method
What do all of the above groups have in commom? They are all made up of a mere two people and they all produce electronic music of some sort in some capacity. Most of the duos are 100% men, some are 50/50 (Yaz, The Blow, Eurythmics, The Knife) and the woman sings in each one of the 50/50s. Does she do anything else? I don't know. Probably. Hmmm. I don't really know what this all proves, I don't really think it proves anything except that duos must be conducive to producing good electronic, ambient, house, trip hop, techno, and dance music. It must be the perfect balance of creativity and control. The ideas are coming from two people as opposed to one or five; the correct amount of restraint and input. I'm not sure, but pretty much every single one of the above duos are really good, so something must be working.
Air
Justice
MSTRKRFT
The Knife
Datarock
Goldfrapp
Junior Boys
Chromeo
The Pinker Tones
Simian Mobile Disco
The Blow
Motor
Eurythmics
Chemical Brothers
Ratatat
The Postal Service
Yaz
Thievery Corporation
The Crystal Method
What do all of the above groups have in commom? They are all made up of a mere two people and they all produce electronic music of some sort in some capacity. Most of the duos are 100% men, some are 50/50 (Yaz, The Blow, Eurythmics, The Knife) and the woman sings in each one of the 50/50s. Does she do anything else? I don't know. Probably. Hmmm. I don't really know what this all proves, I don't really think it proves anything except that duos must be conducive to producing good electronic, ambient, house, trip hop, techno, and dance music. It must be the perfect balance of creativity and control. The ideas are coming from two people as opposed to one or five; the correct amount of restraint and input. I'm not sure, but pretty much every single one of the above duos are really good, so something must be working.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
I ♥ Björk
So Sasquatch! was really fun this year; it was different, but fun as fuck. As some of you may––or may not––know, I was seriously considering not even going this year. My plans had changed so extremely in so little time and I was left scrambling to attach people to the unaccounted-for tickets that I now found myself with. Fortunately for me, it was not too difficult to find a couple of people willing to drive a few hours to see the likes of The Hold Steady, The Blow, Viva Voce, Arcade Fire and Björk live.
The drive went fast; the four hours seemed more like three. In fact, I think it actually was three. We made two stops a long the way. The first was at a weird rustic-themed McDonald’s in Everett, where we encountered a couple of things: (a) some bitch eating breakfast with her dad while listening to music in headphones. Is that really necessary? Fuck no, it’s not. And, (b) McDonald’s McGriddles are really, really good. And disturbingly heavy. So, yeah, that was strange. But good-strange. They were hearty, I guess. From there we got back in the car, blasted mad Belle & Sebastian (“It’d be cool if they were coming to Sasquatch.” “Yeah, well it’d be cool if the Beatles were coming to Sasquatch too, but they’re not, jackass.”), a few sweet Justice trax and, of course, some Björk and Arcade Fire just to, ya know, get us in the mood. Next stop: Rest stop. But then straight on to Sasquatch!
Sasquatch! requirements:
- a hat (mine was The North Face, and definitely helped keep the sun off.)
- lots of sunscreen
- lots of cash (a can of beer was $11, okay?)
- knowing Arcade Fire's catalogue like the back of your hand
- a late model Suburu Outback crammed with crap like tents and sleeping bags (or, if you don’t have a Suburu, you won’t look too out of place in a Prius.)
Upon arriving, we quickly sun screened-up and then––tickets in hand––proceeded to stand in line for upwards of half an hour. Then: We were in! It was Gorge-ous (pun definitely intended): the Columbia River was right in front of us, the falsetto stylings of Loney, Dear were playing as we walked past the Wookie Stage, the sun was shining and there were nothing but cool people for as far as we could see. The first band we really wanted to see was the Hold Steady; they played in a few hours, at the Mainstage. We hit that up. But before THS took the stage, we had to sit through what was possibly the worst 40-minutes of music I have ever had to endure. The band was the Saturday Knights. They are a “Seattle-based hip-hop group.” They suck. Their singer is a huge-ass white guy who happened to be wearing a flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off and a trucker hat, and then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, the other singer-y guy was wearing a sweater, a few scarves and a beanie in the 85º+ weather. That should make you hate them already, but if you’re still interested, maybe this will kill that: One of their songs consisted of this and only this lyric: “I wear a vest/And a jacket underneath/With patches on the elbows/Patches on the elbows.” The big white guy sang these words, with no variation whatsoever, over and over and over. Thank God their set soon ended.
Now it was the Hold Steady’s turn. Their set kicked ass. They played “Stuck Between Stations” first, with no introduction––not that one was needed. They just started right in on that dun-dun-dun-da-da riff and it was obvious what was coming next.
There are nights when I think Sal Paradise was right.
Boys and Girls in America have such a sad time together.
Sucking off each other at the demonstrations
Making sure their makeup’s straight
Crushing one another with colossal expectations.
Dependent, undisciplined, and sleeping late.
She was a really cool kisser and she wasn’t all that strict of a Christian.
She was a damn good dancer but she wasn’t all that great of a girlfriend.
She likes the warm feeling but she’s tired of all the dehydration.
Most nights are crystal clear
But tonight it’s like it’s stuck between stations
On the radio.
The devil and John Berryman
Took a walk together.
They ended up on Washington
Talking to the river.
He said “I’ve surrounded myself with doctors
And deep thinkers.
But big heads with soft bodies
Make for lousy lovers.”
There was that night that we thought John Berryman could fly.
But he didn’t
So he died.
She said “You’re pretty good with words
But words won’t save your life.”
And they didn’t.
So he died.
He was drunk and exhausted but he was critically acclaimed and respected.
He loved the Golden Gophers but he hated all the drawn out winters.
He likes the warm feeling but he’s tired of all the dehydration
Most nights were kind of fuzzy
But that last night he had total retention.
These Twin Cities kisses
Sound like clicks and hisses.
We all tumbled down and
Drowned in the Mississippi River.
We drink
We dry up
Then we crumble to dust
Next came “Chips Ahoy,” “Hot Soft Light,” (“This is a song about gettin’ cought.”), “Stevie Nix,” (with awesome intro riff-plus-abrupt-stop beginning) “Your Little Hoodrat Friend” and “First Night” (truly one of the band’s most incredible songs; after the epic piano bridge, when the “Boys and girls in America” refrain starts up, every boy and girl at the Mainstage closed their eyes and sang a long. Talk about getting goose bumps.) Plus, the way Craig Finn moves his hands when he sings was practically the best part: Poking and jabbing up and down at the air after each verse, clamping a hand over his balding head, etc.
We were hungry. It was time for $8 chicken strips and $6 Cokes accompanied by the awkward love stories and awesome beats of the Blow. This all went down in the Plaza aka the Yeti Stage. The Blow (who, when performing live, is exclusively Kheala Maricich) played several of their songs and each of them came with a long narrative about their origin. This is cool, how she explains it, up there all by herself and stuff, but in the huge open air Yeti Stage, it didn’t translate immensely well. Most of the people were walking past to buy their $12 margaritas and generally had no idea who this woman singing about how this guy never called her back was. Nevertheless, I did know who she was and I thoroughly enjoyed it.
Looking at the schedule, it appeared that there wasn’t much else for a little while so we decided to go buy t-shirts. We thought the Björk shirts would be cool, but those weren’t in yet, so we asked the guy behind the counter if he knew when they would get them.
“Hey, so will you guys be getting in any Björk shirts later?”
“Who?”
“Björk. She’s headlining.”
“Um, I dunno, what we got is what we got.”
Thanks a lot, douchebag.
Generally speaking, this year the tees were not as cool as the ones last year. The Beastie Boys ones were hideous, the Hold Steady were cool but a little boring and several bands didn’t even have shirts. Oh well. Later, we checked back and they did have Björk shirts, which were the best of them all. They said “Björk” in purple over flames on a bright red American Apparel t-shirt. Works for me.
By now the heat had gotten much more bearable but we were once again thirsty. We all went in on a Coke. Let me repeat that. We all went in on a Coke. Nevermind the high cost, it was the most refreshing thing I’ve ever tasted. And we kept the cup, in case we wanted to fill it up with the cheapo hand-washing water. We also wrote all over the cup and dubbed it “The ‘Quatch Cup.”
Back to the Wookie Stage. We chilled out on the grass listening to some Electrelane, a band that I had become familiar with one day prior, while hearing one of their songs in Sonic Boom. Turns out, it was their best song. They were still cool though; the band was entirely chicks and they had very few lyrics. It was nice to just sit and listen to. After Electrelane finished their set (and didn’t play that one song, much to my disappointment, the song, by the way, is called “Tram 21.” It rocks.) Grizzly Bear took the stage. Grizzly Bear also plays largely chilled-out instrumental songs and we took this time to chat, take pictures, draw on ourselves, look for girls and people watch.
A few highlights:
Based on people watching, I concluded this very official study:
Percentage of Sasquatch-goers wearing Converse: 90%
Percentage of Sasquatch-goers wearing pretentious, douchey and/or ironic t-shirts: 90%
Additionally, another off-site study was also taken:
Percentage Sasquatch-goers who own a Suburu: 99%
These statistics are very real. And, actually, not very alarming. I was wearing Converse. Although I was wearing a blank white v-neck (from American Apparel, of course). Either way, I’m a tool.
Meanwhile, at the Mainstage!
This weird Mexican guy named Manu Chau––or something like that––was playing. We headed over to check it out, and, more importantly, to get into a prime Arcade Fire-watching position. Manu Chau’s songs all really sounded the same; they all stared out slowly, with some Spanish lyrics (which I assume are dirty as hell) and then quickly deteriorated into a fast-paced rock-out with a police car siren sample. Every single time. It was fun though. This was around 8pm. We would not sit down again until we got back in the car at 1:30am the next morning. This was about to be intense. After Chau finished his repetitively awesome, seemingly endless set, there was a long set change. During this time we shoved through as many people as we could to get as close as possible to that amazing collection of people known only as Arcade Fire.
As soon as Arcade Fire took the stage, it was pandemonium. It was powerful stuff. They blasted off with “No Cars Go” and then played a slew of their other great songs (basically every song they have). Highlights include: “Haiti,” “(Antichrist Television Blues),” the organ-heavy “Intervention,” “Black Mirror,” “Ocean of Noise,” “Neighborhood 1 (Tunnels),” “Black Wave/Bad Vibrations,” “Neighborhood 2 (Laika)” and then topping it all off with arguably the best 15 minutes of my life: “Neighborhood 3 (Power Out)” with the ending held out for several extra seconds, leading straight into the powerful drum beat of “Rebellion (Lies)” and then, from the last smacks of the drum, the energetic “Keep The Car Running” started up. No words really can describe the awesomeness. All 20,000 people in the gorge knew the startling chorus to “Power Out:” “I went out into the night/I went out to pick a fight with anyone.” And everyone sang a long. And jumped a long and screamed a long. All attempts at explaining the energy in the Gorge that night would be futile. “Every time you close your eyes/(Lies! Lies!)/Everytime you close your eyes/(Lies! Lies!)” To finish up his other-worldly-ly good set, Win Butler and his band of nine other musicians played “Wake Up.” I now know why Arcade Fire have been aggressively touted as “the best live act on the planet.” The energy around them is incomparable. And Arcade Fire is not a small band, either; the 10 members all contribute heavily to the sound and do so in their own way. They’re all standing on stage, just inches away from one another but in their own world, rocking out. It was an incredible show.
I thought the evening could not be any better. But I had forgotten about Björk.
We moved closer to the stage. This was possible to do because, evidently, a huge number of people had left after Arcade Fire. These leavers were presumably die hard Arcade Fire fanatics who had been on their feet all day, in front of the main stage just to get a good look at Win Butler, Régine Chassagne’s accordion playing, or the hot violinists. Whatever, Arcade Fire rocked fucking hard, but I wouldn’t have left if you paid me. Björk was about to begin!
The set change took forever and we stretched our legs and talked to a pair of Canadians who were standing behind us. We learned that they were brother and sister, the brother was trying to get his pilot’s license, they both wore Crocs and they liked tye-die shirts. A lot. Soon enough Björk stormed the stage.
Now, before this show, I was fairly familiar with Björk; I knew––and liked––many of her songs, had a few of her albums and generally just thought she was pretty cool. This has all changed since that fateful show at the Mainstage of Sasquatch.
This is why:
Björk is awesome. Period. This became extremely apparent during her set. She came out on stage (seemingly from out of nowhere) dressed in a weird banana yellow dress-like thing, silver tights and matching silver rubber boots. She opened the show with her new tribal-beat heavy single “Earth Intruders.” Next she played “Pluto” (by this point she had kicked off the boots and was performing barefoot). Near the end, when the song’s beat breaks down into strange electric noises, she shook her arms out and inward––in perfect time with the music. It was like she was controlling the sound with her hands; she was so in step with what was going on. This brings me to her band: there were at least 14 other people on stage with her. There was the 10-piece Icelandic Orchestra, the futuristic-looking drummer who kept the beat in practically every single song, the very out of place-looking piano player who appeared to be just some guy who could play the piano pretty well and finally “on electroneecs,” as Björk said in her adorable Icelandic accent, some hip guy who mixed each song live and seemed to know exactly what Björk would do next. All of these people knew why they were there: To support Björk. They did so perfectly and never took too much of the focus off of her.
At this point the set slowed down a little. She played several slower, less recognizable songs. This was not a bad thing. You could see how focused and how completely dedicated to the music she is. Björk’s voice, also, is one of her biggest draws. The way she sings is crazy, emphasizing random syllables, hitting high notes and then instantly letting her voice slide into a throaty yell and pronouncing words differently than anyone else ever has. During the end of Vespertine’s “Pagan Poetry” she repeated the refrain “I love him/I love him/I love him” and, in her awesome Björkian way, it sounded more like “I lufffhim/I lufffhim/I lufffhim.” Then, the Icelandic Orchestra picked up the backing vocals and begin their “She loves him/she loves him/she loves him” while Björk hopped and shook around the stage. The slow songs were now pretty much over, with the exception of the gorgeous “Dull Flame of Desire,” in which she tells us that she loves “your eyes, my dear/Their splendid sparkling/Fire” in her beautifully fractured style. The crowd was a little fatigued, it was now 1am and Björk was ready to rock.
The enormous sounds of the intro to “Army Of Me” kicked off the rock-out. Also, near the end of the song, lasers started up and jabbed all over the Gorge––once again, in perfect time with the beats. Speaking of the beats, the songs were a lot louder and more beat-heavy live, which was very conducive to dancing and rocking a long to them. Everyone was jumping and moving their heads to the crashing beats and perfect acoustics of the Gorge. Including Björk. She was going crazy. In “Hyper-ballad” (one of her coolest songs) the backbeat was made much louder than it normally is, and she stood in the center of the stage and ran in place, shook her black hair all over the place and moved her arms ridiculously fast. Additionally, those lasers didn’t stop. They were still blasting the night sky with penetrating green lines. The real head banging came during the intro of “Innocence.” The Timbaland-produced beat is unbeatable and makes for perfect head-turning and arm-jerking fodder. The show quickly built up momentum and by the time it’s 90-minutes was over the crowd––and Björk––were having a great, loud time. (With lasers!) Not doing an encore was pretty much out of the question. She ran back out on stage, introduced the other 14 people behind her (Yes! Another chance to hear her adorable speaking voice. "Thinks very mooch.") and then started right in with the loudly political “Declare Independence.”
Declare independence!
Don't let them do that to you!
Declare independence!
Don't let them do that to you!
Start your own currency!
Make your own stamp
Protect your language
Declare independence
Don't let them do that to you
Declare independence
Don't let them do that to you
Make your own flag!
Raise your flag!
(Higher, higher!)
Declare independence!
Towards the end, it seemed like the stage was going to explode; the beat was so loud and precise and awesome. The show was now over, but its power was still inside of me. Björk’s energy, her dancing, the thunderous music and the fact that it was all being performed live, 60 feet from me at one o’clock in the morning in the middle of the most beautiful outdoor venue ever was all incredible.
Plus, Björk is fucking bomb. I know she’s 42, married and has a couple of kids, I think, but she is really, really, really cute. She’s pretty much unquestionably weird, too. But that only makes her cooler––and hotter. Her adorable Icelandic accent, her intense dancing, her perfect hair, her quirkiness and her obscene amounts of creativity; it’s all right there and makes her insanely attractive.
I truly do ♥ Björk.
And I also ♥ed the whole day. It was fantastic. Perfect weather, great people, amazing music and a great time in general. Arcade Fire and Björk were definitely the highligts, but nothing was bad, even the bad things were good and made the day even more fun. I can’t wait to find out who’ll be playing next year. Hmm…maybe I should just change the name of this post to I ♥ Sasquatch! No, maybe not. Sasquatch isn’t a ridiculously cute Icelandic singer. So, yeah, no, the name’s staying the same.
The drive went fast; the four hours seemed more like three. In fact, I think it actually was three. We made two stops a long the way. The first was at a weird rustic-themed McDonald’s in Everett, where we encountered a couple of things: (a) some bitch eating breakfast with her dad while listening to music in headphones. Is that really necessary? Fuck no, it’s not. And, (b) McDonald’s McGriddles are really, really good. And disturbingly heavy. So, yeah, that was strange. But good-strange. They were hearty, I guess. From there we got back in the car, blasted mad Belle & Sebastian (“It’d be cool if they were coming to Sasquatch.” “Yeah, well it’d be cool if the Beatles were coming to Sasquatch too, but they’re not, jackass.”), a few sweet Justice trax and, of course, some Björk and Arcade Fire just to, ya know, get us in the mood. Next stop: Rest stop. But then straight on to Sasquatch!
Sasquatch! requirements:
- a hat (mine was The North Face, and definitely helped keep the sun off.)
- lots of sunscreen
- lots of cash (a can of beer was $11, okay?)
- knowing Arcade Fire's catalogue like the back of your hand
- a late model Suburu Outback crammed with crap like tents and sleeping bags (or, if you don’t have a Suburu, you won’t look too out of place in a Prius.)
Upon arriving, we quickly sun screened-up and then––tickets in hand––proceeded to stand in line for upwards of half an hour. Then: We were in! It was Gorge-ous (pun definitely intended): the Columbia River was right in front of us, the falsetto stylings of Loney, Dear were playing as we walked past the Wookie Stage, the sun was shining and there were nothing but cool people for as far as we could see. The first band we really wanted to see was the Hold Steady; they played in a few hours, at the Mainstage. We hit that up. But before THS took the stage, we had to sit through what was possibly the worst 40-minutes of music I have ever had to endure. The band was the Saturday Knights. They are a “Seattle-based hip-hop group.” They suck. Their singer is a huge-ass white guy who happened to be wearing a flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off and a trucker hat, and then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, the other singer-y guy was wearing a sweater, a few scarves and a beanie in the 85º+ weather. That should make you hate them already, but if you’re still interested, maybe this will kill that: One of their songs consisted of this and only this lyric: “I wear a vest/And a jacket underneath/With patches on the elbows/Patches on the elbows.” The big white guy sang these words, with no variation whatsoever, over and over and over. Thank God their set soon ended.
Now it was the Hold Steady’s turn. Their set kicked ass. They played “Stuck Between Stations” first, with no introduction––not that one was needed. They just started right in on that dun-dun-dun-da-da riff and it was obvious what was coming next.
There are nights when I think Sal Paradise was right.
Boys and Girls in America have such a sad time together.
Sucking off each other at the demonstrations
Making sure their makeup’s straight
Crushing one another with colossal expectations.
Dependent, undisciplined, and sleeping late.
She was a really cool kisser and she wasn’t all that strict of a Christian.
She was a damn good dancer but she wasn’t all that great of a girlfriend.
She likes the warm feeling but she’s tired of all the dehydration.
Most nights are crystal clear
But tonight it’s like it’s stuck between stations
On the radio.
The devil and John Berryman
Took a walk together.
They ended up on Washington
Talking to the river.
He said “I’ve surrounded myself with doctors
And deep thinkers.
But big heads with soft bodies
Make for lousy lovers.”
There was that night that we thought John Berryman could fly.
But he didn’t
So he died.
She said “You’re pretty good with words
But words won’t save your life.”
And they didn’t.
So he died.
He was drunk and exhausted but he was critically acclaimed and respected.
He loved the Golden Gophers but he hated all the drawn out winters.
He likes the warm feeling but he’s tired of all the dehydration
Most nights were kind of fuzzy
But that last night he had total retention.
These Twin Cities kisses
Sound like clicks and hisses.
We all tumbled down and
Drowned in the Mississippi River.
We drink
We dry up
Then we crumble to dust
Next came “Chips Ahoy,” “Hot Soft Light,” (“This is a song about gettin’ cought.”), “Stevie Nix,” (with awesome intro riff-plus-abrupt-stop beginning) “Your Little Hoodrat Friend” and “First Night” (truly one of the band’s most incredible songs; after the epic piano bridge, when the “Boys and girls in America” refrain starts up, every boy and girl at the Mainstage closed their eyes and sang a long. Talk about getting goose bumps.) Plus, the way Craig Finn moves his hands when he sings was practically the best part: Poking and jabbing up and down at the air after each verse, clamping a hand over his balding head, etc.
We were hungry. It was time for $8 chicken strips and $6 Cokes accompanied by the awkward love stories and awesome beats of the Blow. This all went down in the Plaza aka the Yeti Stage. The Blow (who, when performing live, is exclusively Kheala Maricich) played several of their songs and each of them came with a long narrative about their origin. This is cool, how she explains it, up there all by herself and stuff, but in the huge open air Yeti Stage, it didn’t translate immensely well. Most of the people were walking past to buy their $12 margaritas and generally had no idea who this woman singing about how this guy never called her back was. Nevertheless, I did know who she was and I thoroughly enjoyed it.
Looking at the schedule, it appeared that there wasn’t much else for a little while so we decided to go buy t-shirts. We thought the Björk shirts would be cool, but those weren’t in yet, so we asked the guy behind the counter if he knew when they would get them.
“Hey, so will you guys be getting in any Björk shirts later?”
“Who?”
“Björk. She’s headlining.”
“Um, I dunno, what we got is what we got.”
Thanks a lot, douchebag.
Generally speaking, this year the tees were not as cool as the ones last year. The Beastie Boys ones were hideous, the Hold Steady were cool but a little boring and several bands didn’t even have shirts. Oh well. Later, we checked back and they did have Björk shirts, which were the best of them all. They said “Björk” in purple over flames on a bright red American Apparel t-shirt. Works for me.
By now the heat had gotten much more bearable but we were once again thirsty. We all went in on a Coke. Let me repeat that. We all went in on a Coke. Nevermind the high cost, it was the most refreshing thing I’ve ever tasted. And we kept the cup, in case we wanted to fill it up with the cheapo hand-washing water. We also wrote all over the cup and dubbed it “The ‘Quatch Cup.”
Back to the Wookie Stage. We chilled out on the grass listening to some Electrelane, a band that I had become familiar with one day prior, while hearing one of their songs in Sonic Boom. Turns out, it was their best song. They were still cool though; the band was entirely chicks and they had very few lyrics. It was nice to just sit and listen to. After Electrelane finished their set (and didn’t play that one song, much to my disappointment, the song, by the way, is called “Tram 21.” It rocks.) Grizzly Bear took the stage. Grizzly Bear also plays largely chilled-out instrumental songs and we took this time to chat, take pictures, draw on ourselves, look for girls and people watch.
A few highlights:
Based on people watching, I concluded this very official study:
Percentage of Sasquatch-goers wearing Converse: 90%
Percentage of Sasquatch-goers wearing pretentious, douchey and/or ironic t-shirts: 90%
Additionally, another off-site study was also taken:
Percentage Sasquatch-goers who own a Suburu: 99%
These statistics are very real. And, actually, not very alarming. I was wearing Converse. Although I was wearing a blank white v-neck (from American Apparel, of course). Either way, I’m a tool.
Meanwhile, at the Mainstage!
This weird Mexican guy named Manu Chau––or something like that––was playing. We headed over to check it out, and, more importantly, to get into a prime Arcade Fire-watching position. Manu Chau’s songs all really sounded the same; they all stared out slowly, with some Spanish lyrics (which I assume are dirty as hell) and then quickly deteriorated into a fast-paced rock-out with a police car siren sample. Every single time. It was fun though. This was around 8pm. We would not sit down again until we got back in the car at 1:30am the next morning. This was about to be intense. After Chau finished his repetitively awesome, seemingly endless set, there was a long set change. During this time we shoved through as many people as we could to get as close as possible to that amazing collection of people known only as Arcade Fire.
As soon as Arcade Fire took the stage, it was pandemonium. It was powerful stuff. They blasted off with “No Cars Go” and then played a slew of their other great songs (basically every song they have). Highlights include: “Haiti,” “(Antichrist Television Blues),” the organ-heavy “Intervention,” “Black Mirror,” “Ocean of Noise,” “Neighborhood 1 (Tunnels),” “Black Wave/Bad Vibrations,” “Neighborhood 2 (Laika)” and then topping it all off with arguably the best 15 minutes of my life: “Neighborhood 3 (Power Out)” with the ending held out for several extra seconds, leading straight into the powerful drum beat of “Rebellion (Lies)” and then, from the last smacks of the drum, the energetic “Keep The Car Running” started up. No words really can describe the awesomeness. All 20,000 people in the gorge knew the startling chorus to “Power Out:” “I went out into the night/I went out to pick a fight with anyone.” And everyone sang a long. And jumped a long and screamed a long. All attempts at explaining the energy in the Gorge that night would be futile. “Every time you close your eyes/(Lies! Lies!)/Everytime you close your eyes/(Lies! Lies!)” To finish up his other-worldly-ly good set, Win Butler and his band of nine other musicians played “Wake Up.” I now know why Arcade Fire have been aggressively touted as “the best live act on the planet.” The energy around them is incomparable. And Arcade Fire is not a small band, either; the 10 members all contribute heavily to the sound and do so in their own way. They’re all standing on stage, just inches away from one another but in their own world, rocking out. It was an incredible show.
I thought the evening could not be any better. But I had forgotten about Björk.
We moved closer to the stage. This was possible to do because, evidently, a huge number of people had left after Arcade Fire. These leavers were presumably die hard Arcade Fire fanatics who had been on their feet all day, in front of the main stage just to get a good look at Win Butler, Régine Chassagne’s accordion playing, or the hot violinists. Whatever, Arcade Fire rocked fucking hard, but I wouldn’t have left if you paid me. Björk was about to begin!
The set change took forever and we stretched our legs and talked to a pair of Canadians who were standing behind us. We learned that they were brother and sister, the brother was trying to get his pilot’s license, they both wore Crocs and they liked tye-die shirts. A lot. Soon enough Björk stormed the stage.
Now, before this show, I was fairly familiar with Björk; I knew––and liked––many of her songs, had a few of her albums and generally just thought she was pretty cool. This has all changed since that fateful show at the Mainstage of Sasquatch.
This is why:
Björk is awesome. Period. This became extremely apparent during her set. She came out on stage (seemingly from out of nowhere) dressed in a weird banana yellow dress-like thing, silver tights and matching silver rubber boots. She opened the show with her new tribal-beat heavy single “Earth Intruders.” Next she played “Pluto” (by this point she had kicked off the boots and was performing barefoot). Near the end, when the song’s beat breaks down into strange electric noises, she shook her arms out and inward––in perfect time with the music. It was like she was controlling the sound with her hands; she was so in step with what was going on. This brings me to her band: there were at least 14 other people on stage with her. There was the 10-piece Icelandic Orchestra, the futuristic-looking drummer who kept the beat in practically every single song, the very out of place-looking piano player who appeared to be just some guy who could play the piano pretty well and finally “on electroneecs,” as Björk said in her adorable Icelandic accent, some hip guy who mixed each song live and seemed to know exactly what Björk would do next. All of these people knew why they were there: To support Björk. They did so perfectly and never took too much of the focus off of her.
At this point the set slowed down a little. She played several slower, less recognizable songs. This was not a bad thing. You could see how focused and how completely dedicated to the music she is. Björk’s voice, also, is one of her biggest draws. The way she sings is crazy, emphasizing random syllables, hitting high notes and then instantly letting her voice slide into a throaty yell and pronouncing words differently than anyone else ever has. During the end of Vespertine’s “Pagan Poetry” she repeated the refrain “I love him/I love him/I love him” and, in her awesome Björkian way, it sounded more like “I lufffhim/I lufffhim/I lufffhim.” Then, the Icelandic Orchestra picked up the backing vocals and begin their “She loves him/she loves him/she loves him” while Björk hopped and shook around the stage. The slow songs were now pretty much over, with the exception of the gorgeous “Dull Flame of Desire,” in which she tells us that she loves “your eyes, my dear/Their splendid sparkling/Fire” in her beautifully fractured style. The crowd was a little fatigued, it was now 1am and Björk was ready to rock.
The enormous sounds of the intro to “Army Of Me” kicked off the rock-out. Also, near the end of the song, lasers started up and jabbed all over the Gorge––once again, in perfect time with the beats. Speaking of the beats, the songs were a lot louder and more beat-heavy live, which was very conducive to dancing and rocking a long to them. Everyone was jumping and moving their heads to the crashing beats and perfect acoustics of the Gorge. Including Björk. She was going crazy. In “Hyper-ballad” (one of her coolest songs) the backbeat was made much louder than it normally is, and she stood in the center of the stage and ran in place, shook her black hair all over the place and moved her arms ridiculously fast. Additionally, those lasers didn’t stop. They were still blasting the night sky with penetrating green lines. The real head banging came during the intro of “Innocence.” The Timbaland-produced beat is unbeatable and makes for perfect head-turning and arm-jerking fodder. The show quickly built up momentum and by the time it’s 90-minutes was over the crowd––and Björk––were having a great, loud time. (With lasers!) Not doing an encore was pretty much out of the question. She ran back out on stage, introduced the other 14 people behind her (Yes! Another chance to hear her adorable speaking voice. "Thinks very mooch.") and then started right in with the loudly political “Declare Independence.”
Declare independence!
Don't let them do that to you!
Declare independence!
Don't let them do that to you!
Start your own currency!
Make your own stamp
Protect your language
Declare independence
Don't let them do that to you
Declare independence
Don't let them do that to you
Make your own flag!
Raise your flag!
(Higher, higher!)
Declare independence!
Towards the end, it seemed like the stage was going to explode; the beat was so loud and precise and awesome. The show was now over, but its power was still inside of me. Björk’s energy, her dancing, the thunderous music and the fact that it was all being performed live, 60 feet from me at one o’clock in the morning in the middle of the most beautiful outdoor venue ever was all incredible.
Plus, Björk is fucking bomb. I know she’s 42, married and has a couple of kids, I think, but she is really, really, really cute. She’s pretty much unquestionably weird, too. But that only makes her cooler––and hotter. Her adorable Icelandic accent, her intense dancing, her perfect hair, her quirkiness and her obscene amounts of creativity; it’s all right there and makes her insanely attractive.
I truly do ♥ Björk.
And I also ♥ed the whole day. It was fantastic. Perfect weather, great people, amazing music and a great time in general. Arcade Fire and Björk were definitely the highligts, but nothing was bad, even the bad things were good and made the day even more fun. I can’t wait to find out who’ll be playing next year. Hmm…maybe I should just change the name of this post to I ♥ Sasquatch! No, maybe not. Sasquatch isn’t a ridiculously cute Icelandic singer. So, yeah, no, the name’s staying the same.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
DETAILS OF THE WAR
The best song ever? Yes.
Bloody sheets
Tenderly she moves me
An opera star
Dying hard for love
You say I'm hurt
I will take your word
Leather pants
Happiness
A hundred dollars
Buy success
Hanging with your fashionable whores
And I'm a wounded bird
I will take your word
You and tom (you and tom)
To the prom (to the prom)
Camel dick (camel dick)
Crucifix (crucifix)
Everyone's the same and on and on
Emerging from the football stands
Clinging to his broken hand
It's over I have seen it all before
Nakedness (nakedness)
A flying lesson
Tattered dress
Sunburned chest
You will pay for your excessive charm
With a boy who knows
Less than he thinks
Drinks up his expensive drinks
Be careful with the DETAILS OF THE WAR
Bloody sheets
Tenderly she moves me
An opera star
Dying hard for love
You say I'm hurt
I will take your word
Leather pants
Happiness
A hundred dollars
Buy success
Hanging with your fashionable whores
And I'm a wounded bird
I will take your word
You and tom (you and tom)
To the prom (to the prom)
Camel dick (camel dick)
Crucifix (crucifix)
Everyone's the same and on and on
Emerging from the football stands
Clinging to his broken hand
It's over I have seen it all before
Nakedness (nakedness)
A flying lesson
Tattered dress
Sunburned chest
You will pay for your excessive charm
With a boy who knows
Less than he thinks
Drinks up his expensive drinks
Be careful with the DETAILS OF THE WAR
Sunday, May 20, 2007
The Decemberists, Live at The Paramount, May 4, 2007
Evidently, the majority of Seattle-based Decemberists fans suck. I say “evidently” because this startling, somewhat depressing and somewhat useless fact became evident to me when I saw the Decemberists live at the Paramount at the beginning of the month.
Most everybody in the crowd, with the exception of me and my friends, was thirty or older (in most cases much older, sporting a very unimpressive grey haircut and some shoes that they certainly bought at REI), seemed to know the band and the music fairly well but felt completely un-compelled to display any of this knowledge––this could be achieved through singing, cheering or generally moving your body ever so slightly to the music. In fact, emotion wasn’t on display at all; at least any emotion besides boredom, if that is an emotion. Either way, boredom was in no short supply that evening and it was not all the fans’ fault, either.
Colin Meloy, the Decemberists' über-intellectual front man (read: trying way to hard to be Ben Gibbard), flaunted his intelligence in a number of equally exhausting ways: (1) choosing to open the set with a pre-recorded six minute song that sounded like something that was meant to be played before each Russian ambassadors’ meeting, circa 1880, (2) talking––in a very nasally voice––at length about Portland’s (the Decemberists’ appropriately artsy hometown) several merits and supposed superiority to Seattle, etc. and, (3) while talking at length, using unnecessarily large words––like “denizen”––which truly have no place in spoken conversation. Although that all-important element of any live show, simply known as “the vibe,” really could not have been any worse, the actual concert, inasmuch as the music, was not a complete loss.
Meloy and the rest of the band, although unattractive and a little stagey, do make very good music. Some of this good music was played at this concert, but much of it, somewhat perplexingly, was not. They neglected to play pretty much every single one of their “hits,” and instead chose to play a slew of obscure, back-catalog songs. This conscious reluctance to play their more popular songs seemed like another, more underhanded way of flaunting their intellect. “Yes, we only play songs from our early cassettes and worst-selling albums, because, you see, the fact that nobody knows, likes or understands them means that they are very intelligent songs. Their virtually unknown status is the only validation we need to play them for the rest of the night. Enjoy.” Yeah, cool, we get it; you’re intellectual.
Luckily, there were still some compelling moments of their just-over-an-hour set. To begin with, after that Russian anthem, the Portlander’s took the stage and launched into their epic three-piece story “The Crane Wife” (off of their excellent new album of the same name.). The song is fabulous and live it was technically tight and emotionally strong. Of course, the rest of the bored slobs in the audience seemed to have already lost interest by this point, about three minutes into the set. Their loss.
After “The Crane Wife” finished up, complete with an awesome electric-guitar-feedback-distortion ending, the lights went down and the group started right in again with their other three-part, 12-minute song, “The Island.” During this time I was singing a long and jumping up in the air and by the time both of these epic songs were over, I was totally energized and eager for the rest of the set, despite the everyone else around me. Unfortunately, this two song, sub-30 minute extravaganza was the high point of the show, and took place at the very start of it. They did play some other good songs: “O Valencia!,” “The Perfect Crime #2” and fan-favorite “The Mariner’s Revenge Song.” However, they didn’t play several of the songs that seem obligatory at any Decemberists show: “The Infanta,” “July, July,” and the marvelously anti-war “16 Military Wives.”
Though the show was actually disappointing because of its poor quality, equally disappointing, in retrospect, was the knowledge that it could easily have been much, much better if a few specific things had been done differently. The vast majority of the audience could have either been much more into the music, or just not have come, Meloy and his band could have better sensed the bored atmosphere and injected some life into the lame Seattle crowd by cutting down on their own unfunny banter and playing more well-known, sing-alongable songs.
Maybe the Decemberists’ brand of nuance-filled, hyper-literate bookstore rock doesn’t translate exceptionally well into a crowd-pleasing chorus-filled live show. Or maybe most of the people who think they like the Dememberists actually don’t like them at all. Or maybe all of the people who actively dislike the Decemberists decided to spend thirty dollars on a ticket to their tour-closing Seattle show because, hey, they all had nothing better to do on that particular Friday night. Or maybe attending concerts where the other attendees are visibly not enjoying the music and the people playing that music are visibly down-talking the aforementioned attendees––in a very nasally voice––isn’t really my thing. Maybe. And it doesn’t really matter how much I am enjoying the music, which, for the most part, I was. The vibe was killed before it was even born.
Most everybody in the crowd, with the exception of me and my friends, was thirty or older (in most cases much older, sporting a very unimpressive grey haircut and some shoes that they certainly bought at REI), seemed to know the band and the music fairly well but felt completely un-compelled to display any of this knowledge––this could be achieved through singing, cheering or generally moving your body ever so slightly to the music. In fact, emotion wasn’t on display at all; at least any emotion besides boredom, if that is an emotion. Either way, boredom was in no short supply that evening and it was not all the fans’ fault, either.
Colin Meloy, the Decemberists' über-intellectual front man (read: trying way to hard to be Ben Gibbard), flaunted his intelligence in a number of equally exhausting ways: (1) choosing to open the set with a pre-recorded six minute song that sounded like something that was meant to be played before each Russian ambassadors’ meeting, circa 1880, (2) talking––in a very nasally voice––at length about Portland’s (the Decemberists’ appropriately artsy hometown) several merits and supposed superiority to Seattle, etc. and, (3) while talking at length, using unnecessarily large words––like “denizen”––which truly have no place in spoken conversation. Although that all-important element of any live show, simply known as “the vibe,” really could not have been any worse, the actual concert, inasmuch as the music, was not a complete loss.
Meloy and the rest of the band, although unattractive and a little stagey, do make very good music. Some of this good music was played at this concert, but much of it, somewhat perplexingly, was not. They neglected to play pretty much every single one of their “hits,” and instead chose to play a slew of obscure, back-catalog songs. This conscious reluctance to play their more popular songs seemed like another, more underhanded way of flaunting their intellect. “Yes, we only play songs from our early cassettes and worst-selling albums, because, you see, the fact that nobody knows, likes or understands them means that they are very intelligent songs. Their virtually unknown status is the only validation we need to play them for the rest of the night. Enjoy.” Yeah, cool, we get it; you’re intellectual.
Luckily, there were still some compelling moments of their just-over-an-hour set. To begin with, after that Russian anthem, the Portlander’s took the stage and launched into their epic three-piece story “The Crane Wife” (off of their excellent new album of the same name.). The song is fabulous and live it was technically tight and emotionally strong. Of course, the rest of the bored slobs in the audience seemed to have already lost interest by this point, about three minutes into the set. Their loss.
After “The Crane Wife” finished up, complete with an awesome electric-guitar-feedback-distortion ending, the lights went down and the group started right in again with their other three-part, 12-minute song, “The Island.” During this time I was singing a long and jumping up in the air and by the time both of these epic songs were over, I was totally energized and eager for the rest of the set, despite the everyone else around me. Unfortunately, this two song, sub-30 minute extravaganza was the high point of the show, and took place at the very start of it. They did play some other good songs: “O Valencia!,” “The Perfect Crime #2” and fan-favorite “The Mariner’s Revenge Song.” However, they didn’t play several of the songs that seem obligatory at any Decemberists show: “The Infanta,” “July, July,” and the marvelously anti-war “16 Military Wives.”
Though the show was actually disappointing because of its poor quality, equally disappointing, in retrospect, was the knowledge that it could easily have been much, much better if a few specific things had been done differently. The vast majority of the audience could have either been much more into the music, or just not have come, Meloy and his band could have better sensed the bored atmosphere and injected some life into the lame Seattle crowd by cutting down on their own unfunny banter and playing more well-known, sing-alongable songs.
Maybe the Decemberists’ brand of nuance-filled, hyper-literate bookstore rock doesn’t translate exceptionally well into a crowd-pleasing chorus-filled live show. Or maybe most of the people who think they like the Dememberists actually don’t like them at all. Or maybe all of the people who actively dislike the Decemberists decided to spend thirty dollars on a ticket to their tour-closing Seattle show because, hey, they all had nothing better to do on that particular Friday night. Or maybe attending concerts where the other attendees are visibly not enjoying the music and the people playing that music are visibly down-talking the aforementioned attendees––in a very nasally voice––isn’t really my thing. Maybe. And it doesn’t really matter how much I am enjoying the music, which, for the most part, I was. The vibe was killed before it was even born.
Sunday, May 6, 2007
LCD Soundsystem with Yacht, Live at The Showbox, May 2, 2007
Seattle’s Showbox was fucking sweaty last Wednesday night. The clean, repetitive, danceable beats of James Murphy and his LCD Soundsystem opened-for by the remarkably fresh, energetic laptop pop of Jona Bechtolt and his Yacht made sure of that. I wore a sweatshirt by mistake.
Portlander Jona Bechtolt (aka Yacht and that cool guy who made all of the beats for the Blow) stood up on stage alone before a relatively empty Showbox and began rocking out to pre-recorded multilayered track after pre-recorded multilayered track. Every few songs Bechtolt––who looks something like a cross between Napoleon Dynamite and Jerry Seinfeld, only much more stylish than both––would adjust some setting on his well-loved MacBook, with “Grunge Ain’t Dead” written on the lid, and another song would instantly flare up.
The energy was very high despite the small crowd. Most people didn’t seem to be familiar with the songs––or even know who this kid was––but seemed to like it. After familiarizing yourself with the first few bars of each song, you could easily assemble the tune and bang and slide your head accordingly. Of course, the listeners’ jerky dancing was nothing compared to Bechtolt’s theatrics. He jumped high, kicked around, air-pianoed, banged his head, swung the mic and generally just really enjoyed himself. Then, a few songs in, he stopped the music and asked if anyone had any questions for him.
“No, seriously. Does anyone have any questions?” He asked, peering out into the crowd––which was an odd mix of indie kids, indie twenty-somethings and then several people who either were wearing business or ugly clothes and looked completely out of place. A few people actually did have questions. They ranged from the obvious (“How does performing make you feel?” Um, good.) to the uninformed (“Are you in the Blow?” I quit the Blow.) and then the awkward (“What was your weirdest sexual experience?” It involved a walk-in freezer.). The fact that Bechtolt took the time out of his already cramped set to answer half-a-dozen dumb-ass questions shows something. It shows that he’s in it to have fun. And you could really tell.
Besides the question-and-answer session, he also talked a little bit about the mundane things his songs are about and how he finds magic in those everyday experiences. His lyrics, his music, his dancing, his bright red pants and the name of his new record, I Believe In You. Your Magic Is Real., suggest a sense of optimism and humor, both of which made his set––and hopefully will make his album––absolutely great.
A long wait. Accompanied by a set change and some unrecognizable house music.
Finally, LCD Soundsystem takes the stage. At this point, the place has filled up considerably since Yacht and you can hardly move for the tightly-packedness. It’s getting hotter. LCD Soundsystem is James Murphy, but when LCD Soundsystem wants to perform live he does so with his five-piece band. The eight-minute “Us V Them” starts out the set and establishes the energy level of the show: Really high. Everyone within a ten-foot radius of the stage is swaying––and sometimes banging––into each other. We are just inches away from moshing. The music does lend itself to this type of sweaty, high energy rocking; it’s rock music but it’s also got the repetition and dance-ability of electronic club jams. And live the songs are even longer and louder than usual. And they do not let up. Murphy cranks it up a notch with “Daft Punk Is Playing At My House” next and then keeps it at that notch with his new single “All My Friends” and a few other persistent body-moving songs off his first record.
The crowd is now aware that they will not be able to keep up their current pace and so the smashing into one another comes to an end, but there is no less enthusiasm in the room. I took this relative stillness as and opportunity to take off my sweatshirt, which was soaked in sweat––and it was not all mine. The crowd resets the energy level this time: High. The set continues, Murphy talks to us a little but not very much; he doesn’t really need to. Even though the songs are extended when played live, they seem to go by much faster than they do when you’re just listening on your own. You can see Murphy and the rest of his band loving every moment of the show. You could tell that this was Murphy’s band and also that they were extremely in sync with each other. During a drum break, Murphy would grab at a cymbal and hold it for exactly the right amount of time––stopping the sound––then he would let go, and his drummer would whack the cymbal again––tinginginging––then, Murphy would be back, grabbing the cymbal daintily for several seconds before letting go again. It was perfect.
Also, everyone in the place seemed to know the lyrics. A fact that is somewhat astonishing since new album, Sound of Silver, came out about the month ago. Everyone screamed the words to each song at the stage, trying to match Murphy’s voice. Once the first measures of the first single off of Sound of Silver, “North American Scum,” were played the crowd instantly knew what was coming next: that gorgeous “uh-uhh-uhoh.” Everyone knew it and everyone sang it. Then the words start, and with a huge group of North Americans singing it together it becomes pretty damn special. “Oh I admit/I dunno oh where to begin/we are North Americans/and for those of you who still think we’re from England/we’re not/no.” By the time he gets to the England part, we’re all screaming. Then Murphy’s humorous and observational lyrics continue, to stating relatable facts about our country, and everyone is singing a long at the top of their voices.
During “All My Friends” the people in all different groups of friends around me start to sing less towards the stage and more towards each other. The verse “You spend the first five years trying to get with the plan/and the next five years/trying to be with your friends again” could not be more true, or more widely sung by all of the twenty- and thirty-somethings who, apparently, know all too well how important is to just be with your friends after you work so hard for all your responsibility. And us kids can relate too: Friends are it. The final refrain, “If I could see all my friends tonight?” is repeatedly sung over and over until it stops, when it does stop there is hugging among friends and widespread agreement over the lyrics.
It soon becomes very obvious: LCD Soundsystem is making much, much more than just dance music; James Murphy is making dance rock that is as thoughtful as it is danceable. He knows a lot about a lot of things. He knows how to write a song. An electronic, repetitive dance song that is also humane and completely lovely. He also knows how to make people sweat.
Portlander Jona Bechtolt (aka Yacht and that cool guy who made all of the beats for the Blow) stood up on stage alone before a relatively empty Showbox and began rocking out to pre-recorded multilayered track after pre-recorded multilayered track. Every few songs Bechtolt––who looks something like a cross between Napoleon Dynamite and Jerry Seinfeld, only much more stylish than both––would adjust some setting on his well-loved MacBook, with “Grunge Ain’t Dead” written on the lid, and another song would instantly flare up.
The energy was very high despite the small crowd. Most people didn’t seem to be familiar with the songs––or even know who this kid was––but seemed to like it. After familiarizing yourself with the first few bars of each song, you could easily assemble the tune and bang and slide your head accordingly. Of course, the listeners’ jerky dancing was nothing compared to Bechtolt’s theatrics. He jumped high, kicked around, air-pianoed, banged his head, swung the mic and generally just really enjoyed himself. Then, a few songs in, he stopped the music and asked if anyone had any questions for him.
“No, seriously. Does anyone have any questions?” He asked, peering out into the crowd––which was an odd mix of indie kids, indie twenty-somethings and then several people who either were wearing business or ugly clothes and looked completely out of place. A few people actually did have questions. They ranged from the obvious (“How does performing make you feel?” Um, good.) to the uninformed (“Are you in the Blow?” I quit the Blow.) and then the awkward (“What was your weirdest sexual experience?” It involved a walk-in freezer.). The fact that Bechtolt took the time out of his already cramped set to answer half-a-dozen dumb-ass questions shows something. It shows that he’s in it to have fun. And you could really tell.
Besides the question-and-answer session, he also talked a little bit about the mundane things his songs are about and how he finds magic in those everyday experiences. His lyrics, his music, his dancing, his bright red pants and the name of his new record, I Believe In You. Your Magic Is Real., suggest a sense of optimism and humor, both of which made his set––and hopefully will make his album––absolutely great.
A long wait. Accompanied by a set change and some unrecognizable house music.
Finally, LCD Soundsystem takes the stage. At this point, the place has filled up considerably since Yacht and you can hardly move for the tightly-packedness. It’s getting hotter. LCD Soundsystem is James Murphy, but when LCD Soundsystem wants to perform live he does so with his five-piece band. The eight-minute “Us V Them” starts out the set and establishes the energy level of the show: Really high. Everyone within a ten-foot radius of the stage is swaying––and sometimes banging––into each other. We are just inches away from moshing. The music does lend itself to this type of sweaty, high energy rocking; it’s rock music but it’s also got the repetition and dance-ability of electronic club jams. And live the songs are even longer and louder than usual. And they do not let up. Murphy cranks it up a notch with “Daft Punk Is Playing At My House” next and then keeps it at that notch with his new single “All My Friends” and a few other persistent body-moving songs off his first record.
The crowd is now aware that they will not be able to keep up their current pace and so the smashing into one another comes to an end, but there is no less enthusiasm in the room. I took this relative stillness as and opportunity to take off my sweatshirt, which was soaked in sweat––and it was not all mine. The crowd resets the energy level this time: High. The set continues, Murphy talks to us a little but not very much; he doesn’t really need to. Even though the songs are extended when played live, they seem to go by much faster than they do when you’re just listening on your own. You can see Murphy and the rest of his band loving every moment of the show. You could tell that this was Murphy’s band and also that they were extremely in sync with each other. During a drum break, Murphy would grab at a cymbal and hold it for exactly the right amount of time––stopping the sound––then he would let go, and his drummer would whack the cymbal again––tinginginging––then, Murphy would be back, grabbing the cymbal daintily for several seconds before letting go again. It was perfect.
Also, everyone in the place seemed to know the lyrics. A fact that is somewhat astonishing since new album, Sound of Silver, came out about the month ago. Everyone screamed the words to each song at the stage, trying to match Murphy’s voice. Once the first measures of the first single off of Sound of Silver, “North American Scum,” were played the crowd instantly knew what was coming next: that gorgeous “uh-uhh-uhoh.” Everyone knew it and everyone sang it. Then the words start, and with a huge group of North Americans singing it together it becomes pretty damn special. “Oh I admit/I dunno oh where to begin/we are North Americans/and for those of you who still think we’re from England/we’re not/no.” By the time he gets to the England part, we’re all screaming. Then Murphy’s humorous and observational lyrics continue, to stating relatable facts about our country, and everyone is singing a long at the top of their voices.
During “All My Friends” the people in all different groups of friends around me start to sing less towards the stage and more towards each other. The verse “You spend the first five years trying to get with the plan/and the next five years/trying to be with your friends again” could not be more true, or more widely sung by all of the twenty- and thirty-somethings who, apparently, know all too well how important is to just be with your friends after you work so hard for all your responsibility. And us kids can relate too: Friends are it. The final refrain, “If I could see all my friends tonight?” is repeatedly sung over and over until it stops, when it does stop there is hugging among friends and widespread agreement over the lyrics.
It soon becomes very obvious: LCD Soundsystem is making much, much more than just dance music; James Murphy is making dance rock that is as thoughtful as it is danceable. He knows a lot about a lot of things. He knows how to write a song. An electronic, repetitive dance song that is also humane and completely lovely. He also knows how to make people sweat.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Visualizing the Depths of "Tristan"
"By Matthew Gurewitsch, Published: April 29, 2007
Staging Wagner’s 'Tristan und Isolde' is a notoriously treacherous proposition. A man and a woman are seized by a forbidden passion, are discovered and pay with their lives. That’s it––for three long acts, running four hours, give or take. Wagner thought of his cosmic rhapsody of love that kills not as a story set to music, but as 'deeds of music made visible.'"
-from the ny times. hey, i'd see it.
Staging Wagner’s 'Tristan und Isolde' is a notoriously treacherous proposition. A man and a woman are seized by a forbidden passion, are discovered and pay with their lives. That’s it––for three long acts, running four hours, give or take. Wagner thought of his cosmic rhapsody of love that kills not as a story set to music, but as 'deeds of music made visible.'"
-from the ny times. hey, i'd see it.
Friday, April 27, 2007
Nine Inch Nails, Year Zero
I would definitely not call myself a Nine Inch Nails fan, at all, and prior to getting the new album the other day the only NIN track I had in my library was “Only,” and only because I appreciated the over-the-top exclamation “There is now fucking you/there is only me” and the throbbing beat. Although I did have a pretty good knowledge of the band and I know there has always been this cloud of bad, angry connotations associated with Trent Reznor and his Nine Inch Nails. However, I do have a tremendous amount of respect for him. Most of this respect comes from how evil he is, or how evil he appears to be (he recently shaved off all of his goth hair and the black buzz he is now rockin' is much more evil).
Also? The name. Just saying "Nine Inch Nails" conjures up ideas of hatred, feelings of ridiculous angst, images of disgusting fingernails and huge metal spikes being hammered into things––like people's heads. Because of these connotations listening to Nine Inch Nails at this point in history means you're that guy who hates everyone, himself included, wears all black all the time and probably friend requests some really creepy people on MySpace. Or at least those are the conclusions drawn when the people who's only knowledge of Nine Inch Nails comes from Clueless––when the goth alternative kid (played by the very un-goth and un-alternative Breckin Meyer) mentions them––glance at your iPod screen and see “Closer” bannered across it. To be fair, only listening to Nine Inch Nails definitely should garner you some very negative social feedback, and that's actually probably why you're doing it, but the music itself is not terrible.
The new album, Year Zero, begins with the instrumental “Hyperpower!” which, if you took away some of the noisy static guitar and left the melody alone, could be on almost any harder-core indie rock album out there. The single, “Survivalism” starts out with that classic NIN up-and-down synth thing and then Reznor’s talk-singing comes in. this time he’s singing about how much of a whore mother nature is (“Can't seem to shut her legs now”) and other quasi-gross imagery like how “We kept on eating/out bloated bellies still not full.” The lyrics are sort of what ruin Nine Inch Nails, but at the same time they make it what it is. The pure––and quite unfounded––angst of Mr. Reznor is definitely a turn off, though it's also sort of funny and when you find yourself in a terribly angry/hateful- towards-others mood, “Only” is definitely relatable.
It just sounds so angry for the sake of angry. But, again, that's kind of why I have respect for him. Although, much more of that respect comes from his compositions, which are really kickass. Throughout the 16-track album, Rezzy has a lot of time and space to create some truly beautiful––and pleasant (!)––soundscapes. Many of the songs on the album's last third feature piano and a lot less singing. “Another Version of the Truth” is actually a haunting, regal piano-driven instrumental.
Then there's the six-minute closer “Zero-Sum,” which starts out sounding like that music they play before and after commercial breaks on VH1’s late-night music video show Nocturnal State and then turns into a smooth track, repeating the whispered request of “May god have mercy on our dirty little hearts” and ending with a memorable and pretty piano refrain. The album also has its catchy moments, nice longish choruses and I-want-to-hear-that-again riffs. The subject matter also, for the most part, shifts away from Reznor's own horrible problems and has him yelling about how fucked the world is.
Nine Inch Nails will always be Nine Inch Nails, with all that entails, but this is a strong album and one that proves that Trent Reznor can still be evil and hateful when he's not complaining about his own life. And seriously, why should he be? Year Zero has been sitting comfortably on the iTunes top 10 best-selling albums list since it came out last week.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Klaxons Are Kunts
This Monday the Klaxons were in town so my friend and I thought we’d check ‘em out. It was a great show. If you're not familiar with the Klaxons, which I really wasn't before a week before the show, they're from London and they play loud, rave-ish, squeaking music with surprisingly great choruses and awesome harmonies. And live it was even better; everyone was sweating, especially the singer, who looked pretty much exactly like professional douchebag Bandon Davis, everyone was pretty drunk and moshing against each other to the loud dance-party beats. The show was at The Crocodile Café and within 10 minutes I came up with an adjective to describe all the people there: "hipsceneindiebrightsweatshirtglostichairproductraver" kids. To say the least, there was definitely a certain “crowd” at the show, but not a bad crowd by any means, though, and everyone was extremely into the music. The Klaxons didn't come on till late, though, and in the time that we were waiting for them to start I got to hear a few very music-snobish conversations, which was nice. The opening band consisted of a chubby indie chick on keyboard and a bearded drummer who stared intently at the aforementioed indie chick the entire time; this duo (who I assume were dating) was known as Fist Fite. They sucked at first and then started to sound really good. They had it all: sharp keyboards, never-ending drums, impossible to understand, pissed-off lyrics and awesome dumb song names like “High Five Steve.” They also had $5 t-shirts, a bargain since the “Klaxons Are Kunts” t-shirts were going for a whopping $20 (twice as much as the ticket cost!). The Fist Fite shirts were also shamelessly hand-decorated, saying things like “Do You Want To Fuckin’ Fist Fite?” and “Fuck You In The Face.” My friend and I both bought one. Then, what seemed like hours later, the already sweaty Klaxons took the stage and everyone stopped talking about the other, better bands that they've seen and started absolutely rocking out. I was not at all familiar with their album (Myths of the Near Futur, out now on Geffen) but they played it all and played it well. “Atlantis To Interzone” has been ringing in my ears since the show ended.
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