Commonalities between the Vampire Weekend Bluebird show earlier this month and last Monday's Islands sojourn through the Colfax theater begin and end with a tiny handful of amateur music fans annoying the crap out of me and others in the front pit area.

I fully understand the limited use for readers to hear (what amounts to pure whining) about fellow compatriots not knowing how to behave properly at live music settings. But this time it transcended into behavior inappropriate for any public setting. If you count yourself as such a person, that is, one who lacks the basics of human interaction in crowds, or strive to someday have the strength to leave the house and successfully tackle the gauntlet of humanity gathering, I present a primer to enjoying yourself, not having strangers immediately hate you, and basic points on personal space.

Rule #1: Don't start a mosh pit with 3 of your friends. Four dudes banging into each other and bouncing off innocent bystanders around them does not a mosh pit make. It is pure testosterone fueled homoeroticism disguised through violent aggression. Also, sauce fueled aggro, or other substances legal or otherwise is not a valid excuse for douchebaggery.

Rule #2: Don't become fight-ready psycho when others around you tell you to quit slamming into them.

Rule #3: Don't be an asshole.

That last one should really be the only true edict, effectively replacing the rest. The new golden rule if you will. Don't be an asshole, ok? Friends again? Great! I feel much better.

Continue reading "Islands, Live @ Bluebird Theater, Denver 04.21.08" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 03:08 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

photos by Devon Banks

Last Saturday, Deerhunter played a hastily announced but hardly secret show at Bushwick, Brooklyn's loft venue the Market Hotel. The occasion was a more newsworthy than usual first public airing of the songs that will make up the band's third record Microcastle, which has no release date as of yet but is expected later this year.

I gave a full accounting of my problems with the space and how the shows there are run a few months ago, and nothing about Friday night really changed my opinion in either direction. You can direct your attention to the predictable dust up in this Brooklyn Vegan comments thread. Why refight the same comments battle here by rehashing? On with the show...

Knyfe Hyts

I wanted to be on Knyfe Hyts' side, I really did. When the band began their set it was actually rife with promise. There was an enchantingly evil kraut bass groove, sharp guitar stabs, and a drama-masked theatricality that I was willing to embrace. But as the set wore on, the sound never progressed. The individual songs kept bloating to longer and longer lengths, and the spastic vocal stylings of the George "the Animal" Steele-level hairy singer weren't helping. But I never really despised the band until their final song, when they invited a beefy bald man known as "MC Tracheotomy" from the audience to join them.

At first the bloke just sat around in the background as another extended jam unfolded, occasionally clapping and continually resembling Herc from the Wire. When silent, his presence made me like Knyfe Hyts more. "Ah, they are doing a riff on the Happy Mondays/Bez and making it funnier by elaborately calling him up from the crowd," we naively thought. If only. What he did actually do was unleash a torrent of despicably enunciated freestyle rap that veered perilously close to similar abominations by world class MCs like Anthony Kiedis or Barney in that one Fruity Pebbles commercial. At which point any lingering good will I might have had was lead quietly behind a nearby shed and shot twice behind the ear with a service revolver.

AIDS Wolf

Listen, I'm not so dumb. I know that a band that calls themselves "AIDS Wolf" has different goals in mind then cracking the pop charts or soundtracking a Starbucks. I was expected abrasion (well actually I was expecting to miss them entirely as they were billed second on the poster, but...). AIDS Wolf's set was like being punched in the ear repeatedly for a good 25 minutes. There just wasn't enough nuance or apparent construction involved in the band's indistinguishable songs to make their time on stage anything more than an endurance contest. While waiting for it to end, I was imagining what their practice sessions must be like: "OK, guitarist, you just start fucking shredding. Drummer, pound the living shit out of that drum set. I'm gonna start screaming, and we'll all just kind of peter out in four minutes. Go!"

It's music for masochists and I sincerely didn't "get" it.

Deerhunter

When Deerhunter began setting up around 2 A.M. it was a profound relief. Many of less dedicated stock had already fled for the exits, with a late running time and grueling opening acts peeling a guesstimated 150 people from the back of the room. Which, in light of a heavily publicized performance of completely unheard new material from one of the underground's most acclaimed and debated bands, is more telling than any snark I could offer. As the unmistakable bass notes of their fellow Georgians' dance hit began to roll over us, the long national nightmare had finally come to a close.

Their version of "Cool" was entirely spot-on--concerned primarily primarily with nailing the original and not adding a new twist-- and entirely not why we were there. "So now Microcastle," began Bradford Cox. It's hard to get deep into specifics about songs heard once and then stored in a rapidly dissipating memory bank so forgive the generalities. The songs were shorter and more immediate than the band's previous material. it seems some of the sixties pop romanticism that informs the Atlas Sound material has seeped into Deerhunter as well. Previously known songs like "Calvary Scars" and "Activa" were present, but possible less drawn out than their sketches have been.

The performace was notably lacking any sort of vocal pedals to warp and manipulate Cox's voice; a factor that probably accounts for some of the lingering notion of increased accessibility. The ambient experimentation of Cryptograms seemed mainly chucked as well. Thankfully the occasional tidal wave of shoegazer guitar was not. Guitarist Lockett Pundt took the mic for one of the songs, ably showcasing a voice he's used in material posted on the band's continually seminal blog. "It'll sound alot better than this," promised Cox late in the dozen or so song set. Given the consistent quality of these under practiced songs in less than pristine conditions, that's a pretty tantalizing prospect.

Posted by Jeff Klingman at 01:05 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

I like to think that I'm not the type who easily falls for the accepted narratives when it comes to certain cultural, socio-philosophical, or political happenstance. As a human being with some intelligence I prefer to allow myself a wide enough subjective margin to work out my thoughts and opinions to the many things I hear or read about. Focusing this budding ramble solely on music, I want to believe I'm still capable of coming to terms with my own perspective with new artists. For mostly stupid reasons it seems especially important to justify a stance on those blessed (some say cursed) with the non-musical, ancillary perils that success can bring when a ride on the un-crestable wave of ascending popularity occurs. Stupidly because its rather embarrassing to have what is ultimately an existential crisis with clinging to what is or what is not cool. If a slight indulgence into meta cultural critiquing can be granted, I present the Hipster Problem. We're not fourteen anymore, but it sure doesn't seem that way.

I always struggled to understand the motivation behind tenuous justifications of negative attacks directed at popular artists. Mostly it's for petty and circumstantial reasons. Just because sketchtown residents like Pete Doherty and Amy Winehouse get so much attention for their junkie ways, though genuinely sad and we hope (by now) curbed with tragedy, it doesn't mean their body of work should be diminished anymore than the work of saintly artists with glowing credentials. History, through its virtues of distance and perspective has a way of sorting out the problems of real time conclusions by contemporary analysts by providing elucidation of the "real story.”

But we are in a new frontier of constant, 24/7 evaluation. Seen real time through the checkered wisdom of progress, it is chipping our ability to consciously step back enough to allow serious stocktaking of so many unfettered opinions.

Let me further that last point by pointing to the word "allow." We are in a unique time in history. Never has the ability to spray the world with independent judgment been so great. Not only for free societies, but for tiredly oppressed folks in places like Iran, China, and other so-called closed locales enjoying from the proliferating black markets of ideas. That said, the fact we all have a soapbox has muddled things a bit has it not? Spend some time perusing the reader comments of your local newspaper’s website to see some of the more egregious examples of unfiltered gabbing. Articles on immigration, the war, and even seemingly banal bulletins on the weather all serve as catalysts for the crazies to spew their venom. The terrible irony of the great final realization of a true free market of ideas seems to be that given the chance to proselytize, everyone comes off sounding like a douchebag. You might be thinking the same thing about me right now!

Continue reading "Vampire Weekend, Live @ Bluebird Theater, Denver 4.1.08" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 06:18 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

I enjoy visiting Los Angeles. It gives me a chance to catch up with some good friends while temporarily suspending whatever weather I'm currently experiencing. Idyllic climate doesn't come without a cost. Though what you hear is true about it never raining in Southern California, the infamous downside is the not insignificant mind-numbing traffic. You can count on the cake arriving but nobody gets to eat the damn thing.

My latest visit was last month for what I would have preferred to be a purely indulgent few days of summery carefree activities instead of the boring work related reasons. However, never one to be blamed for not taking advantage of advantageous situations I took the opportunity to make the decidedly Swankster move of catching Bon Iver's show at the Echo in Echo Park - the hipster neighborhood near downtown LA.

Continue reading "Bon Iver, Live @ the Echo, Los Angeles, CA 3.20.08" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 03:12 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Heh. How about that?

The stage was impressive, especially for a tour of this size. Perched on a riser above an illuminated, five-foot tall cross, the duo led the party with no crowd interaction but lots of bouncing. On each side, they were flanked by an impressive load of Marshall stacks -– 18 in all. In the middle of the set, I texted our photographer (who was shooting from the pit), asking if they were live, and she thought they were. But hanging out afterward with a colleague at the theater I watched as stagehands moved them on dollies out the front of the Ogden with ease. “Those aren’t live,” I said to my friend.

The stagehand laughed as he passed us.

“Um, no.”

The sound was still tremendous – loud and bold and crackly, while still allowing for a certain amount of definition. (We were standing about 10 feet behind the soundboard.) The room felt –- and sounded –- like a rave, much to the band and venue’s credit. (via)

Posted by Merry Swankster at 12:09 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

photos by Devon Banks

A week of Neon Lights prep and a subsequent week of deathly illness has pushed a couple live reviews I'd intended on posting into the regrettably tardy column. I'll try to wrap 'em up quick...

I brace myself for cries of "hypocrite!" from the gallery as I write. After seeing how much vitriol came out of the woodwork in response to my slight denigration of teenage enthusiasm previously, I can only assume that those totally subjective third party voices (cough) will have no choice but to take me to task for now expressing my enjoyment of a show where boundless teenage enthusiasm was all there was to recommend. Nashville's Be Your Own Pet are a sloppy punk band that are big on charm and short on tunes. I have no real room in my life for new songs as rudimentary as most of theirs are. But, if you're going to be penning straight up punk songs at this late date, those dumb expressions of pent up adolescent angst better be coming from a genuine place. On that count, BYOP are unimpeachable.

Punk Photo proprietor and Stereogum girl about town Abbey Braden captured some footage of the show and presented it in a much more timely fashion than I. A quick glimpse will give you plenty of insight into the band's "let's drink seven Red Bulls and hop in place" appeal.

Be Your Own Pet - "Bicycle"

That's plenty of fun but on its face, but the set highlight is not even a very memorable song. Yet the energy they bring to it is compelling and authentic. You believe these kids (who probably have diplomas by now, honestly) are in the back of chem lab starting bonfires with bunsens because they can't stand to listen to another word about electrons. You can picture their baby faced drummer laying in to his kit with a vengeance after sulking through a gym class spent in deep left field. You can just see the guitarist and bassist in a rec room somewhere practicing their split leg jump kicks with endearing earnestness. And pint-size hellion Jemina Pearl is a perfect outsider crush object. She has a sneering confidence that comes from knowing that you are just soooo much cooler than the insecure (secretly smitten) dumb shits coughing "freak" into their fists when you pass them in the hall. She rarely stopped flailing wildly with moves that betrayed a little too much reverence for Mademoiselles Harry and O. Effective shoplifting though, as she was pretty impossible to look away from during the entire performance.

Be Your Own Pet - "Becky"

The band's one transcendent song to date is their new album Get Awkward's murder ballad "Becky." They flubbed it slightly this evening, with the guitarist oddly complaining afterwards that he was looking at the set list for the band that had opened for them. But slightly marred or not, it still beat its peers due to shifting dynamics that made the fully adrenal explosions hit harder and gave Jemina's hilariously over the top lyrics some room to sink in. The melody is lifted from "Locomotion," but at least its got one. If they're ever to become a compelling recording outfit it will mean more tracks like this. As a touring force they can still get away with only a couple mid-tempo oases in the midst of a balls-out thrash fest for a few more years, I'd guess.

The whole night can really be summed up in a quick, two-picture summary.

Super-kinetic freakout...

...and bored now.

Continue reading "Be Your Own Pet, Live @ the Mercury Lounge, New York City 2.20.08" »

Posted by Jeff Klingman at 07:25 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

photos by Devon Banks and myself.

The first thing you notice about freedom from corporate oppression is that it reeks of cigarettes. Upon entering the unmarked door of Bushwick’s new D.I.Y. venue Market Hotel, the combined scent of several hundred righteously lit smokes offered immediate welcome. The smell had to be tolerated due to the warmth that came with it, like begrudgingly accepting a hug from a slightly rank relative. After ten face-chapping blocks of bitter cold desolation (punctuated by oddly-named bodegas) from the nearest L train stop, we might have welcomed a chicken-storage garage with a space heater. Due to outside appearances, we could have been walking into just that. Freedom from corporate oppression is also hard to locate, obviously. Once safely inside, the sufficiently hip could dream of no better celebration for their protection from Big Brother’s gaze than to flick their Bics and inhale triumphantly. In a converted loft with no windows or ventilation of any kind, the suffocating freedom was thick enough that the clothes and hair of those lucky enough to co-mingle with its torchbearers would carry their proud scent for days to come.

The venue, a large and empty space situated above a Korean grocer, is another in a long line of creatively appropriated properties used by Brooklyn’s indie promoter kingpin, Todd Patrick, less formally known as Todd P. The man deserves a lot of credit, for the most part. His booking taste is fairly impeccable and big publications and traditional "Midas Touch" venues like the Bowery Ballroom have been following his lead for years. His attempts to stage intriguing bills in spaces beyond the traditional half dozen "anointed" prime NYC spots have empowered many people to take the reigns and throw their own events. But success is not a steady plateau that you reach and stand atop. Once you've earned your reputation as a tastemaker, more and more people are going to be flocking to what is still essentially a shoestring operation. Three hundred people crammed into a space that would have made a pleasant concert experience for a hundred and fifty isn't as "cool" as it purports to be. And all the talk about utopian inclusiveness goes right out the window when only the terminally plugged in, the responsibility free school kid, and the day job-less bohemian can get to the middle of nowhere in Brooklyn on a chilly Monday night.

In a 2005 interview, Patrick said, "I want to have people that are fairly normal, nice people working behind the door or behind the bar, because why have this uptight, alienating atmosphere? How could you have a good time with that, unless you're one of those people that enjoys the feeling of elitism? Which I don't." Now, it is very much true that the those involved in Todd's endeavors are nice people who don't project an air of superiority at all. But a scene is a scene is a scene, and those who don't fit the Euro-hip Brooklyn/Lower East Side stereotype were almost entirely absent from a truly inconvenient and uncomfortable time and place. He went on to say, "there's nothing worse than for it to be boring." Even after replacing the old standoffish order with a kinder, gentler one, that's easier said than done.

Perpetually running behind is one of the vestiges of Manhattan’s stodgy live music scene that Todd apparently deems worthy of maintaining. An urgently worded press release sent earlier in the day insisted that the show would start promptly at 9:30 and be completely finished at the mostly reasonable weekday hour of 12:30. At ten o’clock the only evident performance was a group of fishnet festooned girls on stage, theatrically reading the newspaper and giggling while raunchy rap music and well-worn college radio favorites blared from chintzy speakers. We would soon learn that these were the members of Skint, the evening’s first act. Not band, mind you, act.

Skint

Continue reading "No Age/ High Places/ Rings/ Skint @ Market Hotel, Bushwick, Bklyn 02.11.08" »

Posted by Jeff Klingman at 09:10 PM | Permalink | Comments (28)

photos by Devon Banks

Though Hot Chip's recent show in New York City couldn't be credibly spun as anything but a good time, I'm having a hard time thinking of it as anything more. Which, of course, is perfectly fine. We go to concerts to be entertained after all, to be taken out of whatever other concerns are currently dominating our lives. There should be no grounds for complaint in a fun, tight show. But I think my growing ambivalence about it has to do with how immediate and narrow its scope was. My normal gestation period for these write ups is at least a week, so, in that waiting period, the lingering impressions I have from a show tend to slowly solidify, eventually turning into the tale I wish to tell. With Hot Chip though, the enjoyment was so wrapped up the instant, in the immediate kinetic energy of rhythm and movement, that every day I get further away from its physicality, the less tangible it seems and the less I have to say about it.

Like my advance knowledge of Made in the Dark, the show began with "Shake a Fist" and then worked its way down. In concert, the song is svelte and focused. No "sounds of the studio" spoken interlude, and fewer sounds in general. Stopping the track dead like that is slightly perverse on record, and completely idiotic in a room full of dancing people, so clearly they handle it correctly. "Boy From School" was another immediate favorite for the sold out and dressed up room, who admirably had no qualms about getting down.

But when the motion stopped, so did the momentum. "Over and Over" absolutely killed, as did a more muscular "Ready for the Floor." But when it came to the band's flipside R& B balladry, there was gracious applause but a lack of connection. Maybe they should be content with being an ace party band and leave it at that.

Also, despite a tightness in rhythm that I want to take special care not to undervalue, there seems to be a good deal of room for them to grow as showmen. I realize that as a synth-based band, they are always going to be stuck behind the keys to a certain extent (as you can see from the photos). But in order to excite the crowd consistently, in ways that aren't dictated by tempo, some sort of solution is needed. Be it elaborate sets, a more sophisticated light show, external video, or even just empty space on stage for band members to roam, the set-up is a bit static for a band that thrives on motion. A World Championship replica belt was not enough to make "Wrestlers" less silly or more compelling, alas. To certain degree, I get that the "normal, nerdy dudes making you move" image is one they've taken pains to cultivate, but I think they are missing a certain something.

So, short story short--good show, good fun. Transcending the moment may be overrated, anyway, if the moment is sufficiently pleasurable.

Posted by Jeff Klingman at 12:40 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Though they've never been an overwhelming word of mouth or blog sensation, apparently the cool kids all know about the Ssion. Could it be that the beautiful people of New York City aren't sitting at home poring over their favorite mp3 blogs for information on what tonight's hot ticket will be? Gasp! Because the Annex on this particular night featured the sort of crowd that could make a values voter sputter and die on the spot. Stunning models, costumed deviants, and a bounding Karen O cavorted to Knife remixes on the dance floor as my pal and I slunk, feeling slightly out of place, to a prime position on a nearby wall. Later, after the blood was spilled and the show was over, I was told cryptically by a young co-ed that I "looked like her 26 year old friend." Though she graciously shaved a few years off of my actual carbon date, it was hard not to be offended. My accomplice had his junk squeezed by a girl who was in the process of making out with another dude, so odd dynamics abounded. But if this was the clarion call that the housefly life expectancy of our hipsterdom was tilting towards sunset, then at least we got this show in. It was a doozy.

The last time I saw "the band" play was in 2003, during the last throes of electroclash haven Luxx. Riding a small wave of footnote celebrity due to troupe leader Cody Critcheltoe's design for album cover of Yeah Yeah Yeah's Fever to Tell, Ssion still played to a nearly empty room. It wasn't a rock show so much as an ironic performance art extravaganza. No instruments were played, no vocals sung live, but one large snake was dramatically given birth to by a woman in a cow costume. Characters dressed as the seminal three-man line-up of Nirvana made cameos, as did some stern, video-projected lectures from Cody's dad. It was big on the sort of chutzpah over chops antics that ultimately doomed electroclash, but it was wildly entertaining enough for me to declare Ssion a must-see event any time they rolled back through town.

But the Ssion that greeted us at the Annex was on a completely different level of performance than the bratty kids we'd seen before. We'd seen a girl confusingly circling the room dressed to resemble Cody's current drag-king mindfuck look all night, so we knew that Saddam Hussein type look-alikes would be part of the proceedings. Somehow though, as the lady-Cody ascended the stage, and brought out a male replicant with her, I was still tricked into taking my eye off the real prize, the regally dressed Critcheltoe slowly rising from the pot of gold with toothy grin behind them. As they danced in synch to the piped in strains of Fool's Gold standout (and previous podcast inclusion) "Clown" I thought maybe we were going to get a souped of version of the former goofy playacting, big on performance and low on musicians actually playing. But then the thudding in my chest made it impossible to ignore the hidden live drummer tucked into the side of the stage, and then follow the line to a similarly obscured keyboardist.

They skipped around the running order of last year's epically underrated camp pop epicFool's Gold preserving the D.I.Y. goofiness that made that first show so appealing, but married it to sharper pop hooks and a creeping sense of professionalism. On screen projections added a continual sense of theater, but never obscured the performers. Cartoonish ridiculousness and ballsy camp were another common through line. When was the last time you heard a painfully hip act gamely attempt to redeem flabby early 90's pop like Michael Jackson's "Remember the Time"? Smug and half-assed this was not.

Ssion - "the Woman"

The set really began to peak with "The Woman," an icy disco track with a funnier-than Peaches brash lady vocal. The shoulder pad festooned woman in question berated the audience from behind clunky glasses, looking much like Brigitte Nielson playing Ivan Drago's cold handler in Rocky IV. Her warped vision of feminist history was hilariously bad-ass. "In the sixties, I burned my bra/ in the seventies, I made it with a chick/ in the eighties I made it with another chick/ in the nineties I didn't do SHIT!" For a show that skewed very heavily from a gay male perspective, the infusion of angry femme was pretty rad.

Continue reading "Ssion, Live @ the Annex, New York City, 02.01.2008" »

Posted by Jeff Klingman at 05:35 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

I brought my camera to the Cake Shop on Friday, but any pictures I might have taken from my millimeter of personal space two feet from the side of the stage would have been largely composed of the heads of those brave, pushy souls who got even closer. The above picture was flickr-napped from the account of photographer Christine Tadler, and also appeared in the Pitchfork write up of the next night's gig. Yeah, not even the same show, but I provide it mainly for the disadvantaged people in the MS audience with no ability to conjure mental images of their own if I said something like, and then three middle aged Kiwis proceeded to be awesome.

Before they were given a chance to, early claim stakers were entertained by Brooklyn fuzz pop purveyors, Crystal Stilts. There was an older guy perched alone at the far end of the bar next to me, who was looking twitchy all through their set. When I finally turned my head fully in his direction, he excitedly blurted out, "Do you know the name of this band? They sound like the Jesus and Mary Clean." His description was fairly accurate, but picturing myself hitting tiny rock clubs for another decade or two, with no one masochistic enough to accompany me and listen to my pithy band comparisons was a chilling vision of the future. Sorry guy.

Continue reading "the Clean, Live @ the Cake Shop, New York City 11.30.07" »

Posted by Jeff Klingman at 01:10 PM | Permalink | Comments (12)

George Fruit - from hermit to glam-hero.

Of Montreal's elaborate set pieces looked like the menacing front grill of a souped up big rig to my easily excited imagination. Just one observation that came to mind during the long exploratory opus of opener, "The Past Is A Grotesque Animal". I patiently waited for a violent, head-on impact from that specific symbolism, but it never came.

Few victims of a proverbial mind blowing could be counted among the amped crowd at the Ogden two Saturday nights ago. Lets just say things didn't pan out as expected. Most post-show exit polling focused on the extended noodling sessions and not, surprisingly, what was definitely the splashiest set design of any show I've seen this year. Not that the competition was especially fierce, so might as well go out and say it was vastly more interesting than Arcade Fire's netherworld pulpit.

Of Montreal's meteoric rise to the relative heights of modest indie stardom is a testament to the stupendous success of Kevin Barnes' heady work with Hissing Fauna, Are You the Destroyer? Taking on severe glam rock treatment is nothing new for Barnes. However with Hissing Fauna Barnes triumphs in creating a fold in time allowing Ziggy Stardust a new path to walk on instead of Rock 'N' Roll Suicide. It's only natural to expect a meaty live show.

Expectations being what they are anything short of an over the top visual spectacle would have been a letdown as compliment to the extravagance of Hissing Fauna. As if to purposefully mock the up-for-it party throngs, Of Montreal spotlighted long jams rather than glitzy production elements to set tongues wagging. Setting the table with an eleven minute song to start a show can obviously accelerate such focal shifts.

Choosing "Grotesque" as opener is further made curious when you learn it is the longest song in the Of Montreal coffers. While I hesitate to second guess any artist's decision in regards to song placement, it would behoove my review efforts to ignore the head scratching from others in attendance. It seemed very much like the band was making a conscious show of defiance by supplanting succinct pop songs with episodes of stretched out jamming. Defiance of whom, however, is anyone's guess.

Continued with setlist, more photos + MP3...after the jump.

Continue reading "Of Montreal - Live @ Ogden Theatre, Denver 11.17.07" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 02:12 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Raleigh's own Annuals brought their brand of rich melodramatic hooks to Denver on Monday night for the penultimate show of this latest tour. The young band appears posed for a hard jamming, road weary future from the looks of things. From what I could tell its unclear on what exactly that will end up sounding like.

Annuals wrapped their November outing with a final, chops sharpening performance at the Bottleneck in Lawrence, KS the following evening. No word yet whether nearby KU students passed on the show in lieu of homeward defections in preparation for tomorrow's turkey gorging.

With that, happy Thanksgiving from all of us at MerrySwankster.com!

[More pics after the jump.]

Continue reading "Annuals played the Hi-Dive 11.19.07" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 01:35 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

photos by Devon Banks

Rushing off for a Thanksgiving getaway, but it felt sinful to leave Devon's notably lovely photos languishing in publishing queue for yet another week. When we strolled into the Music Hall on the night in question, shortly after the Oxford Collapse had finished, the room was sparsely populated enough for us to stroll right up to the very front, quickly establishing prime photographic real estate. From the depths of the DJ booth, Gang of Four drummer Hugo Burnham (cheekily billing himself as Gang of One) was unspooling tattered post-punk that was new even to me. Which is why you bring the man in, obviously. The crowd slowly expanded, and he creeped into this decade with some spastic Klaxons remixes. Despite his best efforts, it was one of those incorrigible set up waits, where spontaneously synchronized foot stomping erupts.

When the band finally took the stage, in their matching red tees, the eruption from the faithful (skewing a bit older than your usual Billyburg gig) seemed to cause a bit of a collective Pylon blush. Their predictable opener, "Cool," was a but rougher than you might expect. Michael Lachowski's bass seemed to be wrongly wired, despite the deliberate set up, so the song became a chopped pile of its conglomerate parts. As a deconstructionist curtain pull-back, this was actually, forgive me, pretty cool. A slash of guitar from the right, a disconnected bassline isolated at the end. It's all about the drums, anyway, apparently. They followed that with the single's original b-side, "Dub." Vanessa Briscoe, (now Briscoe Hay), improbable screams and frenetic dancing haven't softened with age.

Due to the cruel whims of fate, I've only just been able to get rightly acquainted with the band's wondrous first album, Gyrate. It's DFA re-issue comes on the heels of a five year span where half of our fine boroughs bands were borrowing from these Georgians, whether they were conscious of the connection or not. A driving rhythym section coupled with violent guitar outbursts has been an aesthtic staple. Punctuated by Vanessa's playful shrieks, Pylon had a light, joyous touch that has eluded most contemporary disciples. You got the sense of band thrilled to be given not just a second, but a third go round. There was no apparent bitterness at being a group of mainly unsung heroes, just a genuine joy that people still cared enough to show up and get down. The gratitude from both sides of the stage was infectious. Vanessa played conquering hero all night, getting increasingly comfortable in her spastic dancing and even pulling out the trusty traffic whistle a time or two.

They played most all of Gyrate througout the night, but the unquestioned set climax was a blistering version of track 2, "Feast on My Heart." The isolated wildfires of dancing that had sprung up during the show consolidated and intensified, with stationary members at least putting forth the effort to clap along to the stop start beat. Though evidence of this sort of unbridled crowd enthusiasm is easily accessible in You Tubed footage from the band's heyday, you rarely see it outside of a current LCD Soundsystem show. Whether the record further material, or simply let their old stuff continue to trickle out, they've a spiritual home on DFA. For an hour an half, in one room, in one borough of New York City, Pylon mattered, alot.

More terrific shots after the jump...

Continue reading "Pylon, Live @ the Music Hall of Williamsburg, Brooklyn 11.08.07" »

Posted by Jeff Klingman at 10:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (3)

photos by Devon Banks

Last Wednesday I managed to climb out of my pain cave long enough to catch a nice little double bill at a sparsely populated Knitting Factory. I'm not sure you need any more context that that, huh?

High Places

High Places continue to be one of New York's most charming new bands. But as their (always) short set began, the odd instrumental textures Rob Barber employs almost completely drowned out their more accessible aspects. It sounded alien and intriguing, sure, but missed the irresistibly propulsive thump, and mainly Mary Pearson's warped warmth. When she became more prominently featured, though, as in debut EP standouts "Head Spins" and "Golden," their hallucinatory children's songs have a joyous magic. This isn't to say that her contribution outweighs his. Especially live, Barber's drum patterns practically dominate. She just provides the humanity needed for his unidentifiable circuit box to emotionally connect.

The show was running a bit late, due to an unrelated early show at the venue, so the duo was forced to rush from track to track without even time for much of an audience reaction. Still, every unexpected cymbal rattle, every appropriate recorder toot, confirmed my unstoppable band crush. The best performance was saved for last, a previously unknown song called "New Grace," which married swirling ambience to an "Iko Iko" stomp. Mary told me it was named for the outer borough Chinese restaurant the duo happened to be sitting in when the Australian label whose compilation it's destined for finally demanded its christening. I joked that writers were likely to read much more into it then that. Upon reflection, we might have some cause. It's the balance between Rob's gut rumbling percussion and Mary's sing song melody that provides their songs grace. It's the amniotic noise that encompasses both that makes them sound almost entirely "new."

Casiotone for the Painfully Alone

While impatiently waiting for one of the first LCD Soundsystem headlining sets at the Bowery Ballroom in 2004, Owen Ashworth's music actively annoyed me. I recall it being some unlistenable mess of brutally abrasive synth noises, and ear-bleeding dissonance. Now that I've lived with the man's records a bit, it seems impossible that I'm remembering it correctly. There are nits to be picked with Casiotone to be sure; an unchanging hung-over vocal tone and a claustrophobic, keyboard-only instrumental palette, to name two. But it's not like he's the next coming of Suicide or something.

All of Owen's songs show a knack for deadpan melody and affecting character study. He shied away from playing songs off of last year's chronically slept on Etiquette LP, so we were denied many of his most fully realized compositions. The show instead had a feel of a fan club show, with 7" b-sides and old self released tracks dominating. The excessive intimacy level would have been almost unbearable if not for the strangely compelling anti-charisma of Ashworth himself. He's a meek bear of a man, overdivulging information at every step, but with a nonchalant confidence that makes it seem brave rather than embarrassing.

The lack of variation was still slight problem, though maybe the more varied recent tunes just aren't possible as a one man band. When he went digging through some cardboard boxes at the back of the stage, only to produce several more tiny, obsolete keyboards, it seemed like a punchline. "Just to change things up a bit..." It was no surprise that the one Etiquette track played, the appealingly maudlin "Bobby Malone Moves Home," should be the set's high point. Its tones were rich and warm, its narrative of a mid-twenties loser forced to refill an empty nest was compassionate, instead of ironic or glorifying. Though I was continually entertained throughout the set, the superiority of this bright spot confirmed that my interest is more in where Ashworth is going than where he's been.

Posted by Jeff Klingman at 01:10 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

photo by Devon Banks

In regard to this year's CMJ Music Marathon, I was a bit of a bad hipster. You see, thanks to my involvement in the After the Jump conglomerate, and due to the largesse of CMJ itself, I was treated to a complementary laminate pass. When I learned of this development I had visions of hopping from venue to venue, thrilling to the sounds of the future! But when faced with the actual task of rock n' rolling all night, partying everyday, I just didn't have it in me. The buzz shows were bound to be annoyingly full, the outland showcases too much of a needle in a haystack. So, basically, I copped out. I did hit a minute corner of the festivities, however, and am duty bound to give you some sort of a report. Below, in the untimely fasion that has become my signature, you'll find a recollection as jammed, hurried, and bite size as the festival performances they recount.

Kiwi Showcase - the Delancey

I strolled into the Delancey's basement shortly after picking up my badge on Wednesday, and was immediately thrust into an air of surreality. In an oddly elaborate move for an afternoon showcase in a decidedly non-marquee venue, the bill was em-ceed by that dude who plays the band manager on HBO's Flight of the Conchords(aka Murray, aka comedian Rhys Darby). He stayed completely in character while giving ironically inept play by play between bands. "This, is what we in the industry call a change over. You see the musicians do not all play the same instruments. They've all brought their own." In a pompous Kiwi drawl, this was fairly amusing. He would then climb down from the stage, to casually sip some beer. I don't know if you've ever been in the room with a fictional character, but I found it rather disconcerting.

Liam Finn

The one truly intriguing set I caught from an artist I had no previous awareness of was from the stout and hirsute Liam Finn. Liam is Antipodean rock royalty of sorts, the son of Split Enz and Crowded House musician Neil. if he hadn't enlisted a full lunged female back-up singer, I'd have called him an impressive one man band. His songs were sharp and melodic, but peppered with pounding drums, jagged riffs, and buzzing electronic loops, all of which were played by Liam himself. He'd lock a guitar refrain into a digital playback machine, then leap to the kit, to be his own jam partner. For an unexpected appetizer, he was actually quite impressive.

the Brunettes

I'd come to give the Brunettes a fair hearing. On record, the Brunettes leave me in a state of diabetic shock, overcome by acute cuteness. Watching them play live though; hearing them masterfully execute their ornate arrangements; seeing the lovely Heather hop from glockenspiel to keyboard to clarinet in order to fully capture the range of their new record, Structure & Cosmetics; well, I couldn't help but be sincerely charmed. I'm not sure it'll make me hear their music in a whole new light, but we had our moment at least.

Continue reading "CMJ Rewind (In Fast Forward)" »

Posted by Jeff Klingman at 12:31 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Any talk of Caribou's live show without addressing the most immediately striking features of the stage are rubbish. If I were to not bring it up I'd be committing a terrible disservice to you, Internet word consumer. Of course I'm talking about the inverted placement of instruments on the stage. Things arranged quite literally backwards from the formulaic rock and roll layout. You see, Caribou has two drum sets. They rest facing each other at the front edge of the stage closest to the audience. Separated only by a stub section of two by four acting as buffer from each other, protecting from collision as much as keeping the bass drums in place. If a device existed that was able to harness the absorbed energy from the wood I imagine the entire electrical grid covering Larimer Lounge through to the other end of Five Points could be energized.

Caribou got the night started with a terrifically sharp, violent blast. Piercing the mid-volume chatter of Larimer's patrons like a bomb exploding the peacefulness from a still and silent evening. Electing a different style from the standard attention scratching mumble of "We're a band, thanks for coming out", Caribou instead opted for solicitation via the subtle shotgun to the face approach. Ka-BOOM! Unlike the <7 second fade from Andorra's version of "Sandy", this wake-the-fuck-up message could not be ignored. For the remainder of the night the drums made sure of this as they consistently upped energy levels from the stage to aggressive, just barely hanging on to the edge levels. All making for a seemingly mess of unscripted noise. Though I'm fairly certain the blatant looseness of the band was due more to effective rehearsals rather than live improvisational exercises.

I should admit I was not at all prepared for the dynamic range of bombast coming from live Caribou. I fully expected an evening of dreamy electro tinged rock with flourishes of updated 60s gauze. Instead we got the pounding rhythm battery one might expect from a slimmed down marching band. A marching band stripped of everything but percussion while bathing in a psychedelic blanket of trippy lights and sounds.

Continue reading "Caribou - Live @ Larimer Lounge, Denver 10.23.07" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 05:20 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

photos by Devon Banks (in tough conditions)

I've been there a time or two since, but this show, Sunset Rubdown's first Brooklyn appearance in support of the knotty but great Random Spirit Lover, was my first time in the pompously named Music Hall of Williamsburg. It's actually sort of disorienting. When folks say, "There should be more venues like the Bowery Ballroom," I don't think they mean that they should actually be a completely identical simulacrum of that space. But common owners Bowery Presents apparently decided that all their Northsix demo costs could be alleviated by just using those old blueprints they had lying around. Seriously, right down to the basement bar and the overlooking balcony set up, it's a Single White Venue situation. Of course, the sight lines are good and there's plenty of room, but this is exactly the sort of thing that you might list on the con half of the sheet weighing the merits of having a singular entity owning most of the city's marquee venues. You should at least know what borough you're in, I think.

Krug however seemed fairly chuffed to be in the revamped space, playing for a packed and fanatical Monday night room. It's increasingly hard to write off Spencer Krug as a product of blog hype, or another disposable artist thrown up by the hype and destroy cycle. People are genuinely moved by the crazed energy he throws behind his vague epics. The opening notes of last year's stunning "Us Ones in Between" began the evening, giving the devoted a swoon instead of a spark plug. When I first saw Sun Rub last year, the song was augmented by a thumping rhythm. Here it was serene again, Krug lightly sighing his gloomy metaphors, and leaving the heaviness to its final boy-girl surge. The following "Shut Up I'm Dreaming of Places Where Lovers Have Wings" was fantastic as usual. There's an energy to this song that wasn't captured in its studio take, which always seems to come out when played live. The dynamic shifts are more pronounced and thrilling, becoming a launched rocket or a heart to heart chat when needed.

The ecstatic mood dropped slightly when the band dipped into Random Spirit Lover. I'm don't think it was a lack of audience familiarity that did it either, as I saw plenty lips moving precisely on the floor below. It's just that the live arrangements of the new material might need some tinkering. On record, the complexity of the songs is an asset, letting a listener slowly unlock its melodic puzzles. In the room, it was perhaps a bit busy (they've added an extra guitarist for the tour), with too many moving parts stunting the vocal impact of the song's best lines. "The Taming of the Hands That Came Back to Life" and "For the Pier (and Dead Shimmering)," though enthusiastically performed (and Krug's sweat level lets you know how hard a man can play a synthesizer) didn't have the intangible emotional connection of which the group is capable. "What Would Neil Young Do?" read the banner draped over the band's tech, and it's hard to imagine that adding more circular guitars, meaningful xylophone sections, and lyrics about leopard riding would be that question's answer. It wasn't until the relatively stripped down authority of "Winged/Wicked Things" that a performance of a new song surpassed its recording, rather than merely executing it. That's a tough, high bar, I know, but the man has earned his high expectations. A regal "Stadiums and Shrines" gave the short proper set its needed climactic release.

The encore, or "half-core" as Krug called it since he never fully left the stage, fell back again on older torch songs. The two installments of "Three Colours" (from the self titled EP released in the first months of '06) were melted together into one shivering epic. Finally getting to hear the band tackle the wailing wind tunnel effect from the song's second half was probably my personal highlight for the entire show. For most everyone else, it had to be closer, "the Empty Threats of Little Lord." I hadn't considered that track to be the band's communal torch song, but that's how it was received. I'd say an easy third of the room chanted "You Snake..." back at Spencer when the ratched up its building tension. More than half, were ready to riot when the drums and guitar meltdown finally released it.

A couple more murky photos and a setlist after the jump...

Continue reading "Sunset Rubdown - Live @ the Music Hall of Williamsburg, 10.08.07" »

Posted by Jeff Klingman at 02:30 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Bat For Lashes is Natasha Khan's band. You realize this within the first few minutes of the performance. She has a graceful, intoxicating presence and all the energy created from the band appears to emit from her. A stunning performer to observe and quite something to look at. She's absolutely gorgeous in a strikingly exotic way, attributed to her background of Pakistani & British parents. All magnified by an eclectic wardrobe of Eastern headdresses and the trademark eye makeup keeping in line with the cosmic-hippie vibe so prevalent in the music. She comes off like a total sweetheart to boot - one hundred percent heartbreaker material.

Lest I give the impression her surrounding band is a bunch of slouches, I'll go on record saying they are not. The all female foursome back Khan's wondrous vocals by actualizing a delicately deliberate style perfectly suited for the difficult task of not overwhelming the singing. And what a voice!. Like a cross between a less breathy Tori Amos and the controlled wail of Björk.

Much like the live action mischief seen from zany Montreal bands, the Bat For Lashes gals are constantly on the move. Swapping instruments quicker than you could deduce what was being played. Often choosing strange instruments looking like pillaged relics from a found freight container lost by the Arcade Fire. No drum set to speak of, but plenty of percussion. Be it front of stage floor toms, snares, handclaps (!) or stickball bats to the floor, the band has no shortage of rhythmic devices to choose. I hesitate to call it tribal, but the percussive flourishes deserve some sort of mythical characterization. They'd be even more prominent if they didn't exist almost solely in minimalist roles, though as hinted above, any other method wouldn't work. At one point you could actually hear the rasp from the moment when fingers strummed against guitar strings. Something I can't imagine was planned, yet resulted perfect. Apropos to the movement demanding more with less -- which is exactly the result.

Bats For Lashes' is pegged with mysticism and the environment created on "What's a Girl To Do?" (whose opening drums sound like the beginning of about three different Wolf Parade songs), doesn't hurt the argument in support. Not so much from the overdone lyrics questioning fizzling love ("the thrill is gone/ And your kisses at night/ Are replaced by tears"), but from the lead tom stomping and fairly dramatic spoken word opening verse. Lead track off Fur and Gold "Horse And I" is also complicit but this time from a lyrical standpoint: "This is yours to wear/ You're the chosen one, there's no turning back." Another suspect of creeping tribalism but again, not quite guilty. Even with the theremin cameo. This time the keys get the spastic treatment while drums go marching and strings get plucky.

Overall a very entertaining and fun show. Too bad the place was only half full, next time no excuses! A resounding Wow from Merry Swankster, not just due to hotness exuded but from HOTNESS radiated by arguably the most dynamic all girl band I've seen in some time. What most excites me about Bats For Lashes is the excitement of what the future holds in terms of exploiting the grand potential of this young band. With their existing playful base of colors and eagerness to mix things up, who knows what's to come next.

[Follow the jump for a ton more pictures, my favorite Bats For Lashes song and list of remaining tourdates.]

Continue reading "Bats for Lashes - Live @ Larimer Lounge, Denver, CO 10.05.07" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 12:42 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

[Click for your new desktop image]

See Monolith Day 1 coverage here.

Forget Cassettes

Forget Cassettes explore the yin and yang of minimalist atmospherics and loud, abrasive in your face-ness. This empty middle ground caused attention to wonder off especially in the awkwardly silent breaks between songs. Beth Cameron is a tiny little thing whose voice is big and powerful much like PJ Harvey, but the band has a long way to go with their live show. At times it seemed watching paint dry could rival them in excitement. I dug their ending song though, "Tabula Rosa" - outro felt like a tsunami of pretty noise drowning the audience.

Matt & Kim

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"I will never forget this! This is amazing!" said Matt of Matt & Kim, the most excited band at Monolith. Husband and wife duo never stop smiling. Can you blame them? Playing on top of the Red Rocks pavilion where local purveyors of tasty beer sponsored the stage, the view is pretty ridiculous.

He even made a heaven joke:

Continue reading "Monolith: Day 2 | 09.15.07" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 06:47 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

[Red rocks from the south east]]

Last weekend, for the first time ever, a rock festival was held at Colorado's breathtaking Red Rocks Amphitheater. In some ways hard to believe it took this long. Then again there sure was a lot of hiking involved getting around the five stages. Red Rocks surroundings may be beautiful, but the place makes you earn it. I kinda dig that though, and it's not like excessive walking is an unexpected labor for rock fests. It just might be a difficult endeavor for those incapable of strenuous activity.

Big kudos in the direction of Monolith organizers for coming up with the idea of two indoor stages for a genuine feeling of small rock club atmosphere. Housed in the bowels of Red Rocks in the visitors center. Hands down the best place at the entire festival was the elongated WOXY.com stage sponsored and curated by the revered online radio station. Excellent lineups each day showcased up and coming bands in what was ironically the least picturesque stage at a festival quite literally named for magnificent natural sandstone formations. How Rock and Roll. Also indoors was the Rock Stage (because it was in front of a big exposed section of rock (natch) left protruding through the wall) which for the most part hosted an eclectic mix of local bands. Not enough can be said for Monolith to include Colorado area acts. Nice touch.

I mentioned the lack of festival-y things as a sore point to the whole experience in this post. Some disagreed. I stick by it however. The closest most cities in the US get to a rock festival is in the shape of a radio sponsored all day event at the nearby hockey rink, or more humiliatingly in said hockey rink's parking lot. Increasingly irrelevant with each passing year these lame radio stations complete their handshake deal of our era's payola scheme with guaranteed radio plays in exchange for the appearance at their "festivals". Now, I'm not at all inferring Monolith approached the levels of cheese associated with the radio gigs, but at the same time it didn't convey any resemblance of a unifying theme either. Besides the sculpture of this recycling spacecraft, little or no art was set up.

I would like to see future editions take a page from the Coachella & Bonnaroo playbook and litter the grounds with interactive displays of art and general weirdness. Critics to this will say its all about the music, and why are such distractions needed, and I'll say because it adds to the festival vibe and its cool. I'll stress again that for a 1st year you couldn't really ask for more. But I'll do it anyway from a slight sense of entitlement. Here's a start if anyone cares to follow up on this suggestion.

Quick note to the rude, dirty, drug-dealing, ratty-haired, sorry excuse for a human being hippie swinging his wares in the lot. Suck it fucktard and I ain't your brah. I'm not even a hippie hater, just an asshole hater.

Sermon over, Monolith as seen and heard by Merry Swankster.

Ghostland Observatory - Main stage

[Photo cred]

Painted on jeans look better in dark, dank nightclubs with mirrorballs and disco lights. I imagine the same is true for Ghostland Observatory.

Rev. Peyton's Big Damn Band - New Belgium stage

[Photo cred]

Hillbilly Appalachia with a sharp (though harmless) wit, and a big momma playing hardcore washboard. Hailing from Nap town, not West Virginia.

Ra Ra Riot - WOXY stage

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My favorite performance of Monolith. Completely killed it from a performance perspective. ATJ Fest & Syracuse alumni hailing sextet was a charged unit of non-stop motion on the WOXY stage. Like six energy balls bouncing off one another throughout the show. Unbelievably causing only one instance of "wire spaghetti" from all the tangled cables caught in the movement. Big crowd pleasing set marked their first time poking this far west. Possibly the best thing to come from Syracuse University since the entire Merry Swankster.com crew (minus the adopted bastard Dave Klein, who is very much loved regardless) and the 2003 National Title.

Continued...

Continue reading "Monolith: Day 1 | 09.14.07" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 04:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Hey! So, umm...the National also played in Denver this week. Completing a triumphant string of shows in which pretty much every single major indie rock band in the known universe came to Colorado. I got there really late and missed St. Vincent and most of the National's set. I would normally be bummed but I was fading fast after the crazy week. What I did see sounded good. However, coming off the heels of the LCD & Arcade Fire show it was tough to really get into. Color me spoiled. They closed with "Mr. November" and more pics after the jump.

Continue reading "National played Ogden Theater, Denver, CO 9.18.2007" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 06:33 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

For all the sentiments that are roused up when writing about music, I find the most genuinely free-flowing ones come from the inspiration a great, ass kicking live performance can provide. One that refreshes and encourages while entertaining mightily. When the search for cool is momentarily forgotten and a performance transcends the music itself. An experience that moves you to think. Maybe about the words in the song, maybe about the person you love, maybe about what you want to be when you grow up. If even for just a few minutes of wide awake daydreaming, the music becomes the catalyst to something special. Let me tell you about how Okkervil River completely killed it last Thursday night in Denver.

For every paragraph or page or chapter or book that could be devoted to Okkervil River's greatness, there is but one thing to say about their live show to someone that hasn't experienced it, go see them straight away. I guarantee you'll have a much better than average evening versus whatever else vies for your time. I'd sleep better knowing at least one person heeded my advice. And if that helps clear the nagging kink in my shoulder then all the better. Forget that digression, at least I'll know the world is slightly better off with more people joining the Okkervil River party and that is plenty satisfaction.

Last Thursday night saw Okkervil River play the Marquis Theater, effectively kicking off an epic long weekend of heavyweight indie rock happenings in Denver. Competing directly against Bright Eyes' show across town at the Fillmore, Denver metro found itself with a serious surplus of modern folk heroes holding court in the 'hood. Given the pull for partisans from pretty much the same demographic pool, the Marquis was fairly packed. Not sold out, but as close as possible without being so.

Okkervil River got things started with the reference heavy, numerology fetish that is "Plus Ones." The recently featured M.S. Pick set the table for a ride on the Will Sheff & Co. school of understated rock. Their sound was a dichotomy of sharp and dull. Possessing a dull edge without the negative denotation, edgy in terms of clean drops within the typically sparse compositions and dull for the softly filtered method in which everything comes together. Rustic drums and a persistent modern twang adds a classic feel that is hard to describe in other terms besides authentic. Serving well as compliment to Sheff's deep baritone brooding. His suspenders are indescribably stylish too even though this evening the fashion was mixed in with ragged and frumpy look. Not unlike the scene of college students juggling breakfast and a hangovers at the dining halls come Saturday mornings/afternoon.

[Continued with photos, MP3 and more. Okkervil River tour is just getting it's sea legs, full dates after the jump]

//Okkervil River - site
//Okkervil River - Myspace
//Okkervil River - Stage Names - buy

Continue reading "Okkervil River - Live @ Marquis Theater, Denver, CO 09.13.07" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 02:54 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)