Merry Swankster: Still Glowing Lightly From Inside Closed Lids...

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April 01, 2008

Still Glowing Lightly From Inside Closed Lids...

So I officially have some sort of a mental block when it comes to neatly wrapping up the concerts D and I book. It has been one month exactly since the last Neon Lights Presents... night in Brooklyn, and here comes the wrap up just now limping across the finish line. Perhaps it's the sedating blush of an event completed or the psychological reluctance to move beyond a fleeting triumph that leads to the perpetual delay? It's kind of tough to self-diagnose. How about this: if the lack of immediate closure following a solid week of pre-show hype, maybe you should come to the next show, huh? No, I'm not ignoring you, non-New Yorkers. Who doesn't love a grueling cross state bus ride?

Anyway, the goods:

Crystal Stilts

The Crystal Stilts were about as cool as possible. In Galapagos' cavernous main room, their minimal sound became overwhelmingly big. I don't mean to equate sonically filling a room with anthemic preening. The unsung Brooklyn band was tenaciously aloof, pushing Liam Gallagher levels of hands-in-pockets nonchalance. Echo and reverb were magnified tenfold though, to the point that low-key iciness became all-encompassing. From the opening VU cover to the heighth of their self-titled EP's "Crippled Croon," the sound was consistently dark, but far from lifeless. It was far too snappy to constitute a perpetual mope. Also, a special technical merit badge is awarded on the basis of the ingenious "let's just lay a tambourine on top of this standing drum and pretend we can simultaneously thwack tom and cymbals" set up.

The Stilts' aren't one of these Brooklyn bands who you won't be able to avoid due to pervasive PR blasts, so do yourselves a favor and make an effort to seek them out if the name happens to cross your path.

Titus Andronicus

As much as we were all enjoying the disaffected badassery that the Stilts had to offer, there were no complaints once young Titus Andronicus climbed the stage with hearts pin snugly on-sleeves. This band rocks. Hard. Every song in what frontman Patrick Stickles described earlier in the evening as a "hits" set was drenched in flailing enthusiastic energy. Three guitars, a keyboard, and a shrieking New Jersey-ite up to no good is quite the potential powderkeg. The band has previously been complemented as a drunken bloody mess. Having had a bit of control over the drink tickets this evening, I'd say that's just projection based on their refreshing lack of self-conscious inhibition.

The high water mark of a positively flooded set was probably the Pogues-lilting but Wolf Parade-pounding self-titled anthem, "Titus Andronicus." This is the number that gives Patrick his permission to stalk the crowd screaming to people that their "life is over" (see post photo #1). His bandmates--clapping and shouting behind him--let him play grim reaper quite affectively. But I despite the easily assumed authority, it was charming that an attempt to act out the song's opening "throw my guitar down on the floor" was made impossible by a stubbornly placed mic stand and a strap that just wouldn't fucking give. As far as subsequent magic moments went, the part in "Fear and Loathing in Mahwah, New Jersey" when the band pulled to a halt, simply to scream "Fuck You!" in unison, was hard to eclipse on a pure punk scale (of 1 to OI !).

The actually quite pleasant lads don't seem to know when their Troubleman debut, The Airing of Greivances is slated to hit shelves. So obviously that much anticipated news will have to wait for a later date. Perhaps their April 13th gig at the Knitting Factory will provide a much-needed update.

Eamon Hamilton

In retrospect we probably did Eamon no favors by slating him to play amid the still smoldering wreckage of Titus Andronicus' energy bomb. A more prototypical singer/songwriter, armed only with a weathered acoustic guitar and a microphone, might have shrunken away from the challenge. Our Eamon responded with a surprising bug eyed intensity. The spiky rock numbers from the Brakes' songbook were delivered with full-throated gusto. The sweet ballads were aided by a lonesome vulnerability. Really, it was all unreasonably compelling for such an unadorned set.

Spontaneous decision makers heed my notice: Eamon plays tonight at Manhattan's Lit Lounge.

So thanks to Galapagos, the bands, DJs Professor David Klein and the Rich Girls are Weeping, and especially our very kind and thoroughly rocked patrons. There's a bit of a quandary as to when the next Neon Lights evening will go down, but trust that wheels are in motion and the congregation will be thoroughly preached towards when the theoretical show is actually approaching. If you've got a bright idea that you'd like to run past me, hit me up at neon lights nyc at gmail dot com.

Much more photo-documentation after the J...