Photos by Merry Swankster

Some solid international acts have graced Denver's stages this month. Earlier this month Montreal's Handsome Furs left a lasting impression at downtown Denver's dive-club fave, Larimer Lounge. In what easily was the year's best show, the husband-wife team of Dan Boeckner & Alexei Perry performed a dazzling show that hit all the buttons to stay memorable. Of course the "year's best" tag wouldn't last. Just last week a sold out Bluebird Theater hosted red-hot buzz band Phoenix for an electrifying and inspiring show capping a tragic day for the music world. Together both shows reminded why music's calling is such a powerful one.

I'm a man of order, with a pronounced fetish for organized chronology, thus I begin with the Handsome Furs annihalation of my expectations, and the Larimer Lounge crowd.

Handsome Furs is Wolf Parade's wiry guitarist, Dan Boeckner, and his fiery wife Alexei Perry. For the most part Boeckner sticks to his primary craft and shares minimal synth duties with Perry. Both play their parts with an honest intensity that is hard to not appreciate. Springsteen's style infusion into Handsome Furs overall aesthetic has been the subject of much analysis and discussion - for good reason; although live, the generational bridge was much more the afterthought compared to the onstage pageantry displayed by the band.

Together they make for an explosive pairing. He the grungy, tattooed punk in combat boots and impossibly skinny jeans that in any event hung baggy on his rail-thin legs. Alexei shined healthily and bright as her close cropped, bleached-blond and sun-kissed skin allowed. In a tight, black minidress this was quite a bit. She wore heavy makeup, long earrings, and for a minute anyway - sexy calf-high boots. The suggestive outfit is a rare sight in the world of dude-centric indie rock. Not to say she was wearing anything scandelous, but to say it commanded attention is as self-evident as one might imagine from the photographs.

Continue reading "Handsome Furs, Live @ Larimer Lounge, Denver, 6.14.09" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 03:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Photos by Merry Swankster

At almost the exact midpoint of 2009 there was no other show I was more excited for than Animal Collective at the beautiful Boulder Theater. From the squeeze felt by anyone making a play for scarce extra tickets, I clearly wasn't the only one stoked with anticipation. The experimental group's lone Colorado stop had sold out many months in advance. From the strength of a pair of challenging albums alone (2007's Strawberry Jam and this year's near perfect Merriweather Post Pavilion) this shouldn't have come as too much of a surprise. Consistent praise from critics has always bobbed in the band's wake, but the radical approach to musical composition that makes Animal Collective so unique is also likely to create problems for undeveloped ears. For that and several other reasons, I found it difficult to accept the actuality of their ability to draw large numbers. Obviously a capacity crowd of varied ages goes a long way to proving me wrong. As it turned out, all the high expectations and buzz in the world couldn't turn in a result of branding Animal Collective a "must-see performance."

Without counting the time at a past Coachella where I briefly dropped in on Animal Collective, this show was my first time seeing a proper AC concert. A warm, enthusiastic applause welcomed the trio as they emerged and walked to their respective spots behind each of the three white-skirted stations on the stage. Geologist (Brian Weitz), wearing his moniker's trademark head lamp, took stage right. Panda Bear (Noah Lennox) at stage left had a rig of keyboards, assorted mixers, boards and a small deconstructed drum set. Avey Tare (Dave Portner) worked the middle space between the flanks and took his spot underneath a giant white globe that got blasted by Rorschach-like projections of mirrored patterns throughout the show. For a backdrop, a massive tapestry of the optical trickery from the cover art on Merriweather Post Pavilion's donned the rear. If anyone wonders whether the giant size had an inverse effect on seeing the optical illusion, the answer is no. However, what did compute, awkwardly, was Animal Collective's inability to hold the audience's collective attention for any significant amount of time. Admittedly, a few exceptional song performances stand well enough alone and do not apply. It would be irresponsible of me to ignore the promising start of a show that kicked off a spirited "In the Flowers". Rollicking as it was, the song's upbeat, energetic vibes were not indicative of what was too follow.

Continue reading "Animal Collective, Live @ Boulder Theater, Boulder, 6.02.09" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 01:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

photos by Devon Banks

OK, so this show became instantly infamous, not for any performance that went down, but for a snit between Northside Festival organizers and independent promoters Strength in Numbers. Devon and I were out covering the show for the L, who obviously considered it part of the larger festival. I understand why, if feeling super aggrieved they wouldn't want to give a promoter/venue more free press, buuuuuuuuut man, what a set from Magik Markers. Shame to let it go unremarked, and for all these pretty pictures to go to waste...

Shea Stadium is the slightly confusing name for a huge loft space located at the nexus where Greenpoint, Williamsburg, and Bushwick all sort of mesh together. After directing a miffed cabbie to a seriously desolate stretch of warehouse space, it was the sort of event you had to narrow in on by following wafts of bumping noise. Once inside, we were informed that A: Marnie Stern had bailed out on the night’s proceedings, and that B: the show was going rogue from the Northside Festival proper and badge holders weren’t entirely welcome. (There's a question of how well the Marnie pullout was publicized, it was corrected in later ads from the promoters, but I sure never saw one.) Strength in Numbers, the show’s organizers, felt strongly enough about their declaration of independence to print out little handbill flyers championing a staunch all-ages ethic and bristling against any involvement from corporate sponsors. Of course, the room was sparsely populated enough that the present bands might have benefitted from a few LPs sold to fest refugees in the end. Seeing the number of dangling badges about, it seemed that more than a few folks decided that once they’d journeyed to the empty tundra, sticking it out was a better option than boomeranging back to Bedford. A good call, it would turn out.

Magik Markers were amazing, enough so that the absence of Ms. Stern was more of a minor annoyance than a night spoiler. Their set started sort of formlessly heavy, with the Connecticut three-piece trading deconstructed blues riffs that neared Black Sabbath thunder. Elisa Ambrogio looked like a Gilmore Girl gone wrong with a sharp jacket and straight brown hair that got immediately, mysteriously, and progressively more disheveled by the second. Her stage energy was seething and vicious, the furthest thing from our current state of glacial 80s-hued female vocalists (bright red next to Barwick’s earlier chaste white tone). I’d like to see Natasha Khan play the guitar with her face.

While it always sounded at least a little loose and fucked up, their performance took sharper focus once they started doling out hits from their very cool new LP, Balf Quarry. “7/23” was as queasy and abrasive, and yet somehow still as sweetly tuneful as it appears on record. At least it was until Ambrogio strapped on a stashed secret weapon guitar mid-song, totally leveling anyone hugging up against a speaker. “Don’t Talk in Your Sleep” was more intense still, veering from noise-punk Royal Trux bile into sublime bits vicious enough to make me question if we’d crossed some invisible line into metal. Then came a messy, squawking version of older anthem “Taste” that was just downright mean. “This is a quiet one, you can all file out in a row,” Ambrogio said before closing with the ponderous “Shells.” No one really took her up on that command, instead crowding around her as she sat hypnotic at the front of the stage. The track wandered from indulgent noodle to its supremely pretty mid-section and back again, the crowd willing to wait it out to its end. After that rumbling, bruising set we’d all earned some quiet time.

Posted by Jeff Klingman at 02:50 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Photos by Merry Swankster

A miserable rainy Monday night could not keep Denverites away from the loveliest band from Scotland. Camera Obscura and the always subdued live experience of the 7-piece group is an exercise in preciousness, from lovable banter in hard to understand accents to the decidedly unfashionable look of the group, which falls more in line with librarian couture than anything synonymous with rockstar gear. No matter the nerdy schoolteacher looks, when singer Tracyanne Campbell adorably refers to wafts of skunky air as originating from "jazzy cigarettes" all is forgiven.

It wasn't just observational musings that left an impression. The sad sweetness of Camera Obscura completely betrays the melancholy of the words sung. Mesmerizing is one word that comes to mind. As easy as it is to pigeonhole the band as a soft-rocking vessel for Tracyanne's downhearted despondency, it's the uptempo numbers like "Let's Get Out of This Country" and "French Navy", the lead track from this year's excellent My Maudlin Career, that provide levity to the slower songs. Like musical comic relief, the sharp contrasts offer dramatic context to the band's range while enhancing both the preceding and newly shifted to tempos with added dimensional color. Quite delightful when properly done. I'd be remiss to not bring up the grandmarshaling effect of "French Navy"'s soaring trumpets to the barnstorming experience of that particular performance.

Continue reading "Camera Obscura, Live @ Bluebird Theater, Denver, 6.01.09" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 06:26 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Photos by Merry Swankster

I went to this show not for Fischerspooner but for the notorious warm up band out of Kansas City, Ssion. However, as can happen when flaunting with the world’s schedule, we failed to plan and completely overshot when the infamous Ssion would take the stage. Even though we heard one of the other bands bailed on another opening slot I still blame our own hard to kick tendency of getting to shows precisely when our target bands start. Though we've been fairly successful with our planning as of late, efficient concert-going is of no matter to the gods of the law of averages. We had a nice run.

While nursing disappointment over adult beverage a parasol twirling Casey Spooner, vocalist and performing member of Fischerspooner, was on stage twirling a parasol in exaggerated dramatic poses. I'd love to say that the downer of skipping Ssion generated disappointment and exacerbated a growing boredom with Fischerspooner, but it did not. The more I tried disengaging from a Ssion-less Monday, the more I was convinced the pretentious nightmare that Fischerspooner assaulted the audience with had nothing to do with me and everything to do with Fischerspooner = horrible.

Continue reading "Fischerspooner, Live @ Ogden Theater, Denver, 05.18.09" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 02:02 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

photos by Devon Banks

I try not to harp on it too much, because at some point it just becomes taunting, but it's hard to overestimate how f'in lucky underground music fans in this city are. Sure, with massive multi-city tour undertakings, it's possible to catch a couple of foreign bands on a Tuesday night in other towns, but surely not when they are both virtual unknowns, playing to a tight room of maybe 30-40 people. To have a terrific unknown Finnish band opening a terrific, mostly unknown Swedish band elsewhere, well, you're more likely in fjord country than Ford country.

Cats on Fire

Girls and gays in the room were immediately smitten by the photogenic Finnish gentleman of Cats on Fire. "Looks like David Bowie" is so standard a visual comparison in hipster circles that it made a Clap Your Hands Say Yeah song a few years back. But tall, gaunt head-Finn Mattais Björkas (of course that's his name) really does. Combined with his sassy neckerchief and semi-spastic Morrissey swaying, it was an Anglophile's suckerpunch to the max. The Smiths are the first through tenth bands conjured up by your head when watching COF, with deceptively precise, wiry guitar lines playing straight man to Björkas' charismatic vocals and lovelorn sentiments. He was charming between songs too, haltingly telling us about a really unlikely shoe mishap he'd had, and how attempts to "kick it with a tall boy" in Brooklyn just lead directly to them getting mugged. If they played here more often, they'd be at least on the same level of renown as the Pains of Being Pure at Heart, perhaps higher. You can't underestimate star quality.

Maybe I haven't been able to track down the very choicest cuts in the two days since, but it strikes me that this band is much more compelling as a live act right now than they are on record, for the aforementioned reason that magnetism can't always fully translate through speakers. Here's video of one of the set's standouts from a performance at last week's NYC Popfest, thanks to Soundbites NYC. Björkas is charmingly active, and his band is appealingly tight.

Cats on Fire - "Tears in Your Cup"
(live @ Don Hill's, NYC Popfest)

The answer to the ages-old hypothetical quandary: How much can one Finnish man resemble David Bowie?...

Liechtenstein

Three-girl Swedish band, Liechtenstein (like a Jersey band naming themselves Delaware, basically), were cool and crisp and ace as well. On record, I'm more drawn to their rumbling bass post-punk tracks, like LP leadoff "All at Once." It's not that the rest of their stuff didn't grab me, just that it didn't seem as archly dynamic, going more for sweetened harmonies than booming echo in shivering empty space. I was very glad to find their live sound veering more towards chilly, angular grooves and less towards cutesy melody. But don't get me wrong, it was plenty melodic, purely pop. With a debut record that barely clears the 20 minute bar, it's no surprise that their set was a brief tease. With the likes of them, Love Is All, and countless other skewed pop bands clogging their well-kept streets, it's impossible for me to think of Göteburg, Sweden, as anything other than an immaculately cheekboned version of Williamsburg, with many more outlets for salted licorice and herring. At least some parts of that equation admittedly sound pretty great.

More glamour shots beneath...

Continue reading "Cats on Fire / Liechtenstein, Live @ Bruar Falls, Brooklyn, 05.19.09" »

Posted by Jeff Klingman at 04:46 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Photos by Devon Banks

Adam Green

Upon entering the Music Hall, ex-Moldy Peach Adam Green was shirtless, puffy, pale and glistening, like a mound of pizza dough, freshly oiled. He had a bright orange Star of David dangling from his neck, which, when combined with his bare chest and weirdo poses made him seem a little like a Jewish Jim Morrison (at least a third of the way into his French Decline, but unable to grow any sort of legitimate facial hair). He seemed pretty f'in wasted, so much so that it could have been a method acting pantomime. I have sort of a hard time believing that the big show he made of eating from a supposed sandwich-size Ziploc bag of magic mushrooms was legit, but it looked sort of plausible anyway. Some sort of artificial courage led him to stage dive into a sparsely packed crowd during his last number, solo hit "Jessica Simpson" (which is actually sort of a great song, had he played it straight). I can't say how the rest of the set went, but if it followed directly from its finale, I can say: as a rock performance, it was a pretty amusing comedy act.

The Vaselines

The Vaselines took the stage shortly after all that had been cleared up, Eugene Kelly looking dapper in ascot and vest, and Frances McKee was mesmerizing in her agelessness (I would have believed anything from 26 to 50). You can always count on a drunk brooklyn crowd to be at least a little embarrassing, deciding it's awesome to yell "vagina" out loud, or some such, but by the filthiest comments of the night, by far, came through McKee's blushing grin. Underwear habits, oral sex commentary (not what "Molly's Lips" was about, she swore), Eugene's desire for after-show "rumpy-pumpy," the effects of healing effects of urine on a sore throat, and backstage midgets with cocaine on their heads all came up in due turn. The band's mischievous schoolkids not-quite-grown-up looks, coupled with the tendency to work blue, was disarming, and kind of charming as well. It all had the feel of a kid sister trying to make her brother blush in church.

Musically, the duo, fleshed out to a five-piece with other Glaswegian music scene regulars, was noticeably tighter than they were on record 20 years ago (though you'd hope they would be). "It's been a while since there's been a record," Frances apologized. "We're really milking it." But all those dear old songs sound just as relevant to our 2009 Slumberland Records moment as they must have to pale skinny oddballs in 1986. They played basically every song they had. Everything that made it onto The Way of the Vaselines anyway. Since they played everything quite well, with more pop sheen and less teenage fuzz, set highlights just came down to personal favorites. For me: "Dying For It," "The Day I Became a Horse," "Monsterpussy," "Oliver Twisted," and a truly beauteous "Jesus Don't Want Me For a Sunbeam." They even threw in a couple new compositions, the first in a few decades, I believe. They sounded of a piece with the rest of the set, as good as some oldies, but not instant favorites. You can watch video of newbies "Pick a Cherry Tulip" and "No Hope" at Pop Tarts Suck Toasted to make your own snap judgment.

Before the show, I seemed to completely miss the fact that another hero of mine, Belle & Sebastian guitarist Stevie Jackson, would be joining Frances and Eugene on tour. Having never seen B & S live, despite the countless hours of wistful college sighing his work soundtracked, this was quite a treat. The song's more intricate guitar work was outsourced to Stevie, including the ripping proto-Nick Zinner riff in the rousing "You Think You're A Man." A real, "Mmm, there's unadvertised peanut butter in this sundae!" moment.

They closed, I believe, with "Dum Dum," the gentle moshing to which caused an awesome slap fight to my right between a chode in a pork-pie hat and a furious chubby woman. Not that that microscale event could derail a rousing crowd send off, and a bashful bow. Almost surprising that such small-scale, modest pop music would still feel so perfect this far removed from its initially obscure release and blush with celebrity name-drop fame. But witty is witty, good is good. They were both. Very.

A few more shots after...

Continue reading "The Vaselines, Live @ Music Hall of Williamsburg, Brooklyn, 05.18.09" »

Posted by Jeff Klingman at 05:48 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

photos by Devon Banks

Monday night the Bowery Ballroom was full-ish, not quite packed, for a double bill of leading low-watt lights, Columbus sweethearts Times New Viking and Brooklyn's own Vivian Girls. In my biased view, I was expecting the bill to be swapped, with a longer set for the crew three-albums-in, rather than the one who probably don't have an hour's worth of music yet to their name, but I suppose a loyal, local following is hard to overestimate when it comes to booking. Somehow, I'd never caught one of the approximately 700 bills Vivian Girls have been attached to in 08/09, so what did I know, huh? Let's see...

Times New Viking

Amid the locust swarm of fuzz-addled 00s rock bands, Times New Viking are clearly my favorites. Live, they're slightly more comprehensible than on record, but not by much. But they do have knowledge enough to know that different elements of a song can cut through their murk by existing on different frequencies. Beth Murphy's decrepit synth can sound crummy, as long as its melody stands out among the greater clatter, for example. Jared Phillips' guitar only needs the couple pedal settings he used, when he stomped the change to signal significantly dynamic shifts in tone.

They blew through their opening set with a minimum of cuddly, charm. Drummer/singer Adam Elliott murmured crazy blurs between songs that resembled, "HeythisisasongitsnotaboutdrugsbutIhavetotalknowOKGO!" before thwacking away his jitters from a weirdly casual perch on what looked like suburban patio furniture. Witty, snotty songs shone through the gruff indifference. The older ones even more than the new, though set selection was a big part of that. "Devo + Wine" and "Love Your Daughters" are pretty sublime. < frowny font >No "Drop Out", either < /frowny font >.

Vivian Girls

I had been half-conditioned to believe, through endless Brooklyn Vegan comments section misogyny, and how-low-can-the-lo-fi-bar-get blog hand wringing, that the Vivian Girls would be completely inept, barely able to keep time, even. This was cartainly not the case. They cruised through a set of short, brash, and at least vaguely melodic rock songs, finishing with an extended jam, in which they all gradually switched instruments without missing a beat (if anything, they might have payed each others' bits more intensely than they had previously had been).

Sure, I've caught them after their initial ladder-climb to the top of the New York concert circuit has already paid off, but shit, they've played so many shows from last year to right now, that you have to doff a cap to hard work. The three-girl band played a nice little set on Monday night, which I wouldn't exactly call tight, per se, but it was charmingly high-energy. Thought was demonstrably given to entertaining the amassed Bowery crowd. Like any young rock band worth a ticket price, they seem legitimately giddy with their current profession, and the enthusiasm was infectious. They were so much better than a recent headlining set I saw from one of their closely associated, male-dominated Brooklyn contemporaries. So much better. You don't even know.

Where I think you can still legitimately fault them, is for less than constantly compelling songwriting, and a whiff of samey-ness throughout their set. They sound sort of like a packed Rough Trade indie-pop compilation from the mid 80s, with the top 5% of its songs, the real mix-tape fodder, cruelly clipped out. The one track they've yet recorded that might sneak in to those higher levels, "Where Do You Run To?", was sadly absent. But, you know, I wouldn't be shocked if they return to at least that level another half-dozen times in the next few years. Call it a low bar if you like, but it's as much as a band like Shop Assistants--who these ladies likely hero-worship--achieved. There are places in the heart for the sporadically rad.

Note: One thing I couldn't help but notice with a head-shake was the state of tattooed Brooklyn, as epitomized by the V. Girls. I hope "Kickball Katy," an otherwise lovely Mad Men bombshell of a redhead, has a shockingly intense love of milkshakes, ostriches, forks, Wire's Pink Flag, and assorted other non-sequitur items. That drummer must really like salt? Don't we have the Internet to stem our crippling boredom now, rather than tattoo parlors? Am I fast becoming Andy Rooney?

More lovely photos after the jump...

Continue reading "Times New Viking / Vivian Girls, live @ the Bowery Ballroom, Manhattan, 05.11.09" »

Posted by Jeff Klingman at 05:26 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Photos by Merry Swankster

Once I arrived at the Fox and found a firm place to plant my feet, it didn't take more than a few minutes for me to wonder why the Kills weren't my favorite band. If not presently at least as an ex-fling. Scratchy, garage-bred guitars raised in electro back alleys are just my type. That they were as mean and ominous sounding as the sneer from the Kills' male half upped the ante on my sudden smittenness. Their sexed-up sound was like a racing infatuation high on even faster drugs. Music that begged to be played loud and reckless, like the two jerking torsos of the band members leaning on one another for support, quivering all the while with the intensity of partners in extended foreplay. It was perfectly suited for a dingy club in a sketchy dead-end in one of the Sohos of the world. While Boulder's sanitized university environment and college hipster crowd doesn't exactly fit the bill of a London or New York bohemian scene, like any perceived reality, it's all about how the senses discern. Getting down with the young drunk lovers indeed.

For those unfamiliar with the Kills, or lacking basic concepts of fractional mathematics, the band is a duo - vocalist Alison "VV" Mosshart and guitarist Jamie "Hotel" Hince. The latter might be more commonly known to tabloid followers as beau of Kate Moss, British supermodel, topless yachter, etc. VV's singing fits somewhere in between early Karen O's downtown punk inflection and a detached art-house snob (raised on a steady diet of filthy Classic Rock records, natch). Along with her statuesque presence, de rigueur rocker threads, and a long messy mane of brown hair doubling as facial curtains, she is the perfect archetype for dangerously unapproachable rock goddess. Dude doesn't exactly exude a warm and friendly vibe either. I can best describe him as I saw him - the most coked-out looking guy in the room. Though to be fair he was literally in the spotlight so my observation lacks empirical data to be considered scientific.

The tunes were standard representations of their album work. Backed by tracked drums and assorted accompaniment, had the driving rhythms been extended beyond the song structures they'd be shoe-ins for a tranced-out electro act. Luckily that didn't happen. Our show time was cut short on the front end due to the fact we drove from Denver immediately after Franz Ferdinand and also on the back end after Ms. VV succumbed to the effects of Colorado's high altitude. It wasn't pretty, but with this group it's not supposed to be. Still completely worth it from my vantage point. In case you missed it, here are the deets on that story.

JK: Following the Denver show's abrupt ending, their subsequent Manhattan gig was, if not triumphant, then at least complete. Yes, we got the "Screamin" Jay Hawkins' number "Spell On You" that the Boulder setlist had inaccurately predicted (a grinding noise-fuck version, no less). Seeing the band live, for the first time since their initial, mesmerizing string of New York shows, I'm struck by how committed the members are to their aesthetic. The temptation to flesh out the line-up with a live drummer or stray bassist must have been present since their first hints of success, but the band's performance is almost entirely based on the desperate interplay of two people. People who maybe aren't even all that good for each other (and I dunno, seeing Jamie Hince pull Allsion's hair mid-song was kind of uncomfortable, still) but can't help but drown out the rest of the world with blinding electro-personal magnetism. Understanding your strength as a band is one vital step that often trips up fledgling groups.

I also mused, watching itchy/swoony tracks like "Last Day of Magic" or "Tape Song" that the Kills are both lucky and unlucky to have come up when they did, in a post-White Stripes landscape. Lucky, that people might give them a chance in the first place, unlucky that easy press comparisons might have doomed them from gaining a different audience. If Jack and Meg had exuded an ounce of the unkempt sexuality that the aforementioned songs do, their sibling feint would have been actually scandalous rather than merely eccentric.

More CO pics, beyond...

Continue reading "A Tale of Two Kills Show, Live @ Fox Theatre, Boulder, CO, 4.22.09, & Live @ Webster Hall, NYC, 5.02.09" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 02:55 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Photos by Merry Swankster

I'm confident that I do not stand alone among my sub-30 peers in admitting My Bloody Valentine was not part of the soundtrack of my formative youth. When Loveless was released in November of 1991 I was but a wee 7th grader in my first year at my Jr/Sr High School. Just 12 years old and barely holding it together. I concede without reservation having more memories of Naughty by Nature blasting from cars during homecoming parades than I do of absorbing the challenging music of that time. For a contemporary comparison, I'm sure most will agree with me when I say that today's 7th graders are equally as unlikely to embrace a band like Animal Collective. Assuming Animal Collective is an acceptable 2009 substitution for My Bloody Valentine (and it isn't). In spite of our current times completely different rules, or in the literal sense - lack of rules when the Internet's powers of immediate access are placed into proper context. Still, I'm hard pressed to accept that a significant number of kids of that same age are into the indiest of indie music. As exceptions go, they are by definition a generalization breaker but society trends on generalizations, therefore those blessed with generous older brothers with cool music collections remain on the sidelines for the purposes of my theory.

Prior to going in I had heard all about the high decibel dangers of My Bloody Valentine's live show. "Don't be a hero" our friends warned. The Misses and I even remembered to bring ear plugs, the same ones from a set we bought long ago with the well intentioned motives of protection from the frequent shows we go to, the same ones we hardly ever remember to bring. Of course the one time we heed advice and bring them is the same night they're being offered free. Once past the Fillmore's multi-tiered gauntlet of security, ticket takers and ID checkers, a posted flyer informed us of the free earplugs available by the merchandise stand. With a grin we laughed at the irony of redundancy. Later in the night we laughed some more at the sheer inability of verbal communication amidst the deafening pummeling from the band. I read some hilarious reports of people passing around cell phones to get their thoughts across to those around them. Lo-fi adaptation of sophisticated communications technology turned into digital notepads is pretty hilarious. Picturing the visual of people doing this is yet another exhibit for the files of why do humans put themselves through this kind of shit.

I have an answer for that, though I'm not sure how easy one can appreciate it without experiencing it for themselves. My Bloody Valentine produced a relentless thundering of sound and it was awesome. Really, really awesome. The overwhelming resonance of noise assailing the Fillmore's cavernous walls, bouncing off our bodies and rattling our insides was like nothing I've ever encountered before. Sustained torrents of horrifically beautiful noise was Prime grade grandmother killing stuff. While it's easy to get caught up in the ostentatiousness of the amplification, the craft of My Bloody Valentine was surprisingly not lost at all. Kevin Shields and Bilinda Butcher's singing was indistinguishable from the sonic collages of the music, just like you'd expect. It's what we always loved about the band and I'm happy to say it wasn't erroneously muddled in the live setting. Pretty shocking stuff considering the Fillmore's notoriously sketchy sound system. It wasn't just singular senses being fried. An impressive light show flashed bold monochromatic colors to fortify the aural blitz. Multi-sensory synapse explosions stimulated hearing, sight, touch and depending on one's proximity to the speakers, probably taste as well. If the set pounding wasn't enough, MBV ended the encore-less show with the cascading "You Made Me Realise". Ten plus minutes of ravaging noise before letting up to a staccato peak that left the hairs in my nose twitching. Rock music with a knife put to its throat.

[More pictures after the jump]

Continue reading "My Bloody Valentine, Live @ Fillmore Auditorium, Denver, 4.24.09" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 02:30 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Photos by Merry Swankster

Last week Franz Ferdinand brought their brand of stylized rock to Denver for a show at Colfax's Ogden Theater. The stopover was part of the trek of reverse Coachella pilgrims swinging through Colorado from the California desert. The boys from Glasgow played from a setlist of music spanning all three albums and placed the heaviest emphasis on the bookends of their CV. All but four songs from their blockbuster self titled debut were played, half the songs from this year's Tonight: Franz Ferdinand and only four from 2006's You Could Have It So Much Better. Not sure what you can read from a single night's set, but that ratio seems pretty in line for constituting a successful night.

The Scottish lads toyed with subtle stabs at new interpretations for some of their older, more established material. So subtle that I wondered if it was indistinct for most people in the audience. Results of the new arrangements, much like the bands albums, where a mixed bag. As much as I hate to knock a band when flirting with new ways of refreshing older tracks, for the sake of honest relaying, I can't deny my underwhelmed feelings. On "The Fallen"'s coal-tinted glasses view of dystopian messiahs the band took to an odd swinging cadence. Singer Alex Kapranos handled the lyrics with a corny and somewhat uninterested, almost ironic flow that sounded like bad retirement home entertainment - or a man bored with his own music. However, and this is a big however, even as I interpreted a possible new rendering of one of their most lyrically interesting songs as boredom, the showy part of this and other lackluster songs in the beginning of the set were mostly saved by the energetic pace of the men onstage (save for the banged up keyboardist anchored on a chair).

The more straightforward takes worked better. On new songs like the upbeat "Bite Hard" it was the unmeddled approach that hit right on the money. Similarly, the band tore the place up on the relative oldie, "40'". Starting off with a breezy loungy vibe - think the hipper room with better music abutting the aforenamed old folks home - before turning down a glass road of face-melting, psychedelic jammyness.

Which brings to mind Franz's other stimulating elements of the live show. In past reviews I've not hidden my sincere appreciation for actual perceptible imagery while enjoying a rock show. It's something that is almost always complementary and yet still surprises me how too often bands overlook the creative possibilities of dressing up a feast for eyes. I also understand how such offerings may not change fans' preferences either way, but I'm willing to bet my money that a full spectrum of galvanizing triggers beats a bare stage when compared in a vacuum.

Franz Ferdinand has always been a band that comfortably combines arty sensibilities into what they are about. For this tour the entire rear of the stage holds a giant rectangular video screen made up of approximately 2' square cubes 14 across by 6 vertical. Its most memorable use came during the last song of the main set, the underrated "Outsiders". Real time projections of the band were shown filtered with neon edged, pencil sketch effects. Definitely interesting even amidst the familiarity of the production (to anyone who has ever played around with Photoshop filters anyway).

Continue reading "Franz Ferdinand, Live @ Ogden Theater, Denver, 4.22.09" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 11:43 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

[Photos by Merry Swankster]

Lately I've been going to a lot of shows of bands that I have minimal familiarity with, besides any preconceived conceptions formed through singles and steady blog fodder. In the case of the Ting Tings it was those ubiquitous, sugary singles that filed them in the straight pop category of my brain. My thoughts of the English duo were more ambivalent than anything else, but I definitely pegged them more for disguised indie band (following a thinly based White Stripes model) versus what I would quickly realize they were about - solid Indie Pop.

The Ting Tings are Katie White - spunky, pixie goddess with a bleached, California-blond mane - on lead vocals, guitars and keys and Jules De Martino - the cool gentlemen on drums and the occasional guitar. Cool is definitely the word for the presence emitted by the group. Unfazed and up for it, they tore through a short set of tight and bouncy indie-pop with welcome efficiency. Clean hooks, fun repetitive choruses and a matching beat always form the foundation for a catchy tune, and the Ting Tings made a clear statement that they are students of the game. The added element of a talented, performing, front-woman exuding copious sex appeal only heightened the pull of the Ting Tings' chosen brand of music.

On appearance, White and De Martino make for a gender-reversed White Stripes-style rock duo, right down to at least one surname. However, where Mr. White's appeal was prized equally for the rough, shredding edges of the garage rock style as were Jack White's talents with melody and storytelling, Ms. White's anthems are Grrrl power tales from the quiet and slightly detached girl sitting in the back of the classroom. From her point of view, and anyone else's, hardly anyone notices. She's infused with the spirit of a lite Karen O, and the looks of a young Debbie Harry, and those are just the obvious nods to female rock idols. At the show I actually concluded Katie White to be some ultra feminine-ized, female version of Keith Richards. You are probably thinking, What??

Between the whiffs of an 'I don't give a shit' attitude, a tremendously ass-kicking performance and the oversized newsboy/undersized mad hatter cap, the link was unshakable. As I write this I'm not so sure, though I tend to stick with whatever initial responses I come up with, integrity and all.

What I am sure of is the Ting Tings drew the highest percentage of tweenaged girls to a rock show that I've ever seen. In the area closest to the stage the cool moms were on chaperon duty for a field trip to the local rock show with their wide-eyed daughters. Just behind this scene of youth experiencing formative moments, was a group of popped collar bros extolling the hotness of Katie White with her every prance and strut. Their redemption came on "Shut Up and Let Me Go"'s extended break, which sparked the fellas to sing Franz's "Take Me Out". It was like retarded spring break, though to be fair, spring break is always fun. And these days I assume both songs are appropriate dance floor material.

More pics after the jump.

Continue reading "Ting Tings, Live @ Bluebird Theater, Denver 4.9.09" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 11:54 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I realize this will be ever-so-slightly confusing, but just so we're on the same page....

Micachu & the Shapes - "Golden Phone"
(live @ the Cake Shop, Manhattan, 03.23.2009)

The above clip is from night one of Mica Levi and her band's post-SXSW trek through the small, hip rooms of New York City. The show I grinned at last night was her second in Gotham, and only Brooklyn appearance of this infant spring. I conflate the two gigs in order to quickly display the trio's unusual setup, which consisted of drum set, laptop/synth station, and an assortment of smaller than average, oddly treated guitars. The household clatter of M & the S's Rough Trade label debut, Jewellry, was emulated by all manner of cans, cowbells, and other klanging accoutrements.

Mica/Micachu is a tiny, boyish young woman, whose close-cropped Dylan do, lightly indecipherable British accent, and perpetual, maybe accidental, sneer made her seem like a scrappy Dickens' street urchin preying on late 00's hipsters. Faced with her oddly compelling presence, the gender ambiguity of her lyrics was moved more to the forefront. "Wrong," introduced with the mumbled line, "This is a song about body-building," was revealed as a pointedly odd song for a female pop star to be singing. She mainly held and abused a miniature, snugly strapped guitar flat to her chest, making it look like a ukulele, in spite of the treated bigness of its amplified sound. Occasionally, she'd switch to a immaculately fuzzed full-sized electric for choppy, less-frantic strums.

The guitar-slinger bits, in tandem with her lost-orphan looks, conjured up a continuation of Elastica/Lush Britpop styles, but really so many things are stuffed into these songs, that any direct sound comparisons will be lacking. Their willingness to slip into spastic excess recalled Matthew Friedberger's guitar blues-wankery, as well as his flirtations with ear-splitting synth tones and outright cartoonish melodies, but these tracks' ability to snap consistently snap right back into the pop-pleasure center makes a Fiery Furnaces comparison mainly moot (unless you're talking about their very early shows). There were bits of forcefully wobbly post-punk; gang shouts on cue, rhythms developed from miscellaneous banging. But everything hung together, and nothing was ever too reminiscent of anything much. Certainly not enough to even identify more than a couple indirect influences.

The Shapes, i.e., the comely proprietress of a synth/laptop station, Raisa Khan, and gracefully gangly drummer, Marc Pell, were spot on as well. The Matthew Herbert-aided mix of Jewellry is full of music concrete touches, and murmuring bits of noisy ephemera. With a sparer live set-up (there was no vacuum player, alas) the songs came off even better. Mica's voice is soft, but clear, flying just below complete audibility in the climactic clanging bits, and suddenly soaring from nowhere in the thin, quiet sections. The Shapes were there, to add duel percussion, or supply harmonic whoops when needed. "...& the..." is always grounds for skepticism towards whose running a band, but these three had an odd chemistry that felt very fresh. It was well performed, unusually adventurous pop music that was quite inviting, in spite of an apparent need to fly off the rails at any given second. It walks a treacherous tightrope, skipping and laughing throughout.

Anyone in New York City with a clear dance card for tonight is encouraged to catch their set at Piano's, alongside the less-intriguing, but still fun Aussie band, the Grates. Likely the smallest room you'll be able to see Micachu & the Shapes play in this city, for the rest of all time.

Posted by Jeff Klingman at 02:19 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

It is a telling statement of our modern times that one might can ask if a band like Cut Copy is a "real" band. Real in the sense that the question of whether they consist of humans playing physical instruments can be a valid at all. I should preface by stating that I wasn't as familiar with Cut Copy prior to seeing them. Nor did I do my homework before the show for the quick and easy facts. So much so, that it wasn't until some post-show Googling that I learned of the group's Australian origin. My game time assumption was Britain. Usually that knee jerk guess would stand as a safe bet, in statistical terms, for any Anglo group with non-North American accents. Even so, my go-to geographical deduction left me wondering. Why was I so quick to conclude them to be British?

Cut Copy's sound evenly distributes refined new wave homages with a multi-genre referencing texture of electropop rhythms. Dan Whitford's dramatically articulated vocals are employed for a further hit of nostalgic 80s feel. In view of the fact that those same rhythms and vocals sound like they could be straight ripped from obscure disco records, it would have surprised me none had Cut Copy looked more like an efficient electronica outfit and not the full band they actually are. Color my ignorance of Cut Copy to nothing beyond inoffensive lack of awareness. Turns out they have real drums, guitar(s!), and bass to go with the essential keys and assorted plug-ins. It also turns out they are massively popular as evidenced by the extremely packed and very sold out Bluebird theater.

Compared to last weekend's Manhattan's show that our faster on the draw NYC team reviewed on Monday, I did not witness a dominating representation from any specific demographic here in Denver. That remains true only if I do not count the well versed fans enthusiastically singing along during most of the show. Before I digress deeply into a mulling of hair splitting census questions, let me instead indulge on why I think Cut Copy is a successful band for the masses.

Progressive house elements from 1990s techno have consistently proven to be adept tools in the arsenal of working up crowds. The passing of years shouldn't make this truth anymore obsolete than the passing decades negatively effect loud, crunchy guitars from rousing garage rock aficionados. That is to say, reliability, which by definition is something that has demonstrated its abilities over and over in a consistent way. The prism of musical reference has enough options in 2009 that depending on generational upbringing, classic is as much a relative term as another umm, classic word: Cool. Where a classic band was once defined by the standard guitar/bass/drums, now that template includes everything from turntables, elaborate percussion rigs, live sampling, found instruments, arrays of keyboards and my prior referenced model of knob twirlers and button pushers.

Forceful, up for it performances defined the night for Cut Copy. Their chops are solid and they don't lallygag with the afforded space between songs. Cut Copy is a breed of band that hangs its hat on the historically schizophrenic conceptions that a band is to provide multiple stimulation points for enhancing the live experience. I don't hold strong feelings for this type of thing either way, but I do know when complementing touches work when I see them. No song was most indicative of this tenor than on "So Haunted" - which arguably was the peak note of the evening.

It started innocently with an extended intro that bathed the audience in waves of escalating, panicky throbs. Multi-sensory supplement came from flashing lights emanating from a grid of horizontally placed, fluorescent tubes framing the rear of the stage. Flashing in time to the music, the optical mimicry intensified the club vibe to great response. It was a mix begging for a nightclub setting and the amped crowd roared in approval. They danced hard enough to almost will it so, even if it was just the Bluebird.

During one of the more genuinely memorable encore calls in some time, a somewhat coordinated chant of "Cut Copy! Cut Copy!" evolved, to my ear anyway, to sound more like "Big Papi! Big Papi!". This immediately made me happy. Not because I care for the Red Sox, but because baseball proper is just around the corner. More pics after the jump.

Continue reading "Cut Copy, Live @ Bluebird Theater, Denver 3.15.09" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 11:18 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

photo by "the 'Quiet' American"

It was at least partly a byproduct of personal circumstance, but Cut Copy's show this weekend felt less like a concert and more like a scene in a movie in which the protagonists take time out to casually attend one. I breezed in, slightly late, to hear In Ghost Colours' first (best?) clever/dumb pop moment: "All girls of note are crying/ Boo hoo! Boo hoo," as if it was cued to my entry. The crowd was already in motion, with Cut Copy's warm pastel light set-up making everything look like an impossibly kinetic sea of extras, perfectly bouncing in time. It took only seconds to note the obvious demographic reality that the Australian band has a massive gay following. It was the spooning body-builder show of the year. Why is that, you suppose? Just because all of their tracks are triggered to a Pavlovian dance response? I thought dance music, especially of the 80s-informed synth variety, had reached a saturated point of acceptance this decade beyond an "only the gays love to dance" stereotype, but perhaps my polling samples have been a bit limited. Terminal 5 is a big place, after all, and it was very sold out. Nearly everyone in the enormous room was bouncing emphatically, so credit to Cut Copy for prompting so much dedicated energy, at a relatively early point in a New York Saturday night's life cycle.

For me though, it was pretty impossible to connect emotionally to the music beyond a bit of bopping around. I pretty much love the slick pop album they've toured the world on, but Cut Copy almost seemed extraneous to it. You could have kept their light setup and blared the tracks out over a loudspeaker in a dance club and the feel in the hall would have been quite similar. Only on the shoegazier-than-most "So Haunted," did a bit of rumble and scrape enter the mix. Only then did it really feel spontaneous and alive, rather than immaculately preserved and presented. The corners of their songs are so rounded, and the melodies so streamlined, that room for emphatic changes in tone, of songs gaining steam or stripping down to focus on nuanced melody, is non-existent. Perhaps most crucially, the rhythm section wasn't forceful enough to provide that, "wow, my body is being pulverized in small degrees" physical thrill that you'd never leave, say, an LCD Soundsystem show missing. I came into a room where Cut Copy was playing (they happening to be there, actually playing), I enjoyed myself for a scene, and then moved forward briskly to the night's more pertinent plot points.

Posted by Jeff Klingman at 12:27 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

photo by "jwwa"

For the long time readers, I offer a bit of MS fan fiction (that actually occurred). This passed Saturday, with our relocated blog compatriot Dave Klein briefly back up North, we decided to hit the “hippest, most happening-ist” (Dave’s terms) show possible within the radius of my Brooklyn hood. On the night in question, that would have been the five-band buzz bill, bringing Silk Flowers, Naked on the Vague, Women, Blank Dogs, and Crystal Stilts to the Music Hall of Williamsburg. Due to other shades of merriment, we only got there in time to catch local boys, Blank Dogs, who were coincidentally the act I’ve been posting about most frequently, due mainly to an insanely prolific release schedule and a healthy dollop of intrigue. Sorry, Women.*

Listening to the volumes of music Blank Dogs have put out in just the last year, it becomes almost impossible to conceive of as the work of anything but a near-crazed lone figure. It’s too sober, too claustrophobic, and just too quickly produced for it to be anything but the product of late nights and restless morning sessions liberated from the navigation of multiple schedules. So to see five burly (and yet still somehow gangly) men executing these songs was a bit jarring to a immaculately constructed mental image. “Executing” seems the right term. songs like “Setting Fire to Your House” or “Crystal Ladies” are full of intricate, nagging guitar leads and killer basslines that are all shrouded in deliberate fuzz. Live, with a dedicated band member tasked with teasing them from the mix, the songs were revealed as appealingly nimble post-punk.

Continue reading "Blank Dogs, live @ the Music Hall of Williamsburg, Brooklyn, 03.14.2009" »

Posted by Jeff Klingman at 12:30 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

[All photos by Merry Swankster]

Earlier this month a not unexpectedly, though still embarrassingly empty Hi-Dive greeted Norwegian pop songstress Sissy Wish to Denver. At its peak not more than twenty-five people could be counted - including staff. It seemed even more empty with 95% of that crowd lurking far back from the stage in the dark shadows of the drafty venue. A Tuesday night booking in weather that, it goes without saying, was less than favorable probably didn't help matters. Unfortunately for the slumbering uninitiated and those who declined the guaranteed warmth of an early week Nordic pop exposition, they missed what very well could be the most strangely honest and surprising show of the year.

Sissy Wish's star is Siri Wålberg and her unique approach to live performance could not be better described than by simply taking accounts from the few witnesses who fell in love with her adorable goofiness. The way Wålberg's oddball bowl of a hairstyle betrays her perfect face-framing cheekbones is an appropriate analogy for her striking stage persona. While I'm told she enjoys massive success in Norway, similar notions get relegated to the proverbial 'big in Japan' for oversea audiences with no context for what that means. I might as well mention that Sissy Wish won a Norwegian Grammy in 2004 with her debut You May Breathe (true). Since both achievements are as relevant to non-Norwegians as the evil fun that can be had debating the hilarity of nationally tailored Grammys, it basically becomes a punchline. One that we should probably refrain from indulging in.

Sissy Wish's live production provided a great case for why richly textured pop is a genre best enacted by professionals behind the cornucopia of a digital soundboard. When one can clearly tell there is more going on than just button pushing and rotating of knobs the experience of modern shows is enhanced. Of course, no manner of technical observation can make up for the missing energy that comes only from excited crowds. The swaggering "Yayaya" enticed as best it could for an all out dance party, but the toxic mix of painfully sparse space and extreme avoidance of human pack-breaking ultimately doomed one of Beauties Never Die standouts. Instead of wiggling masses of humanity we got to see the "magic" it takes to create Sissy Wish's music. It is cool though to see it happen before your very eyes. Call me old fashioned but I'm a sucker for organically grown electronic music. Organic electronic music. It's a brave new world.

Continue reading "Sissy Wish @ Hi-Dive, Denver 12.9.2008" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 12:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

The start Julieta Venegas show that took place the day after Thanksgiving at the old McAllen Convention Center was a decidedly embarrassing affair. Not because of anything having to do with the performers, performance or this writer, rather it was a shame because by the third song of the set, which was almost a note-for-note rendition of this year’s stellar MTV Unplugged album, the theater was – maybe – halfway full*. Venegas is one of the few artistically relevant acts to visit the Rio Grande Valley (at least in over the past six-plus years); this is not the proper way to show gratitude. To an outsider (and I still consider myself somewhat of an outsider), it would appear as though the purpose of attending a concert in the RGV is not to enjoy or appreciate the aesthetic of professional performance, but simply to go and be seen. (For a prominent point of comparison, picture the home fans at an L. A. Lakers game.)

[photo by Annette Monty]

Continue reading "Julieta Venegas @ Old McAllen Convention Center, McAllen, Texas 11.28.08" »

Posted by Randall Monty at 03:34 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

[Of Montreal - Photos by Chip Diffendaffer]

Alternate headline: "Why everyone is missing the point of the wacky Skeletal Lamping show"

"This record is my attempt to bring all of my puzzling, contradicting, disturbing, humorous...fantasies, ruminations and observations to the surface, so that I can better dissect and understand their reason for being in my head. Hence the title, Skeletal Lamping. Lamping is the name of a rather dreadful hunting technique where, hunters go into the forest at night, flood an area in light, then shoot, or capture, the animals as they panic and run from their hiding places." - Kevin Barnes to Pitchfork

Anyone paying attention to Of Montreal this year has heard at least the tabloid rung version of the sordid tale that is the current stage show, a show colored by zany rock-cum-musical theatre, extreme button pushing and constant border skirmishes with the fringes of good taste. For a Manhattan concert Kevin Barnes rode a live horse onstage, simply because he could was the overwhelming sentiment. The band's leader and creative driver invites much disparagement from and in spite of his eccentricities. The casual observer isn't sure what to make of things - whether he or she is the unknowing mark of a grand joke or if Barnes' is simply fishing for uncomfortable reactions through weird titillation.

All these things make for irresistible material for sharp tongued critics. Kevin Barnes' late blooming eagerness for songwriting that projects vulnerability engenders vast space for misinterpretation. Stunts like the horse thing and essentially the premise of a traveling theater rock show guarantees it. However, as is often the case in this web of earthly things of ours: the entire experience of an Of Montreal show is something that can never be deduced from words and photos alone. You just simply have to see it for yourself. If you happened to be near the front of the stage like I was, you probably smelled it too. Mark my words, worse than the worst Phish show stench.

Of Montreal’s celebrated protagonist and Kevin Barnes' alter ego is Georgie Fruit, who has now been the focus of one and half albums. From the halfway mark of 2007's Hissing Fauna, Are You the Destroyer on "The Past Is A Grotesque Animal" Mr. Georgie Fruit has been revealing him/herself in ways that range from whispering hints to more upfront methods carrying all the subtlety of a dynamite blast to the face. Georgie Fruit's character development turned us on to a complicated personality full of muddled sexual identity issues, ones that without doubt are the cause if not also the effect of much of the deviant promiscuity that makes up song themes. That last sentence could easily substitute for a Barnesesque alternate title to Skeletal Lamping. A deep throated voice over guy would surely treat it with aplomb.

Continue reading "Of Montreal w/ Icy Demons @ Ogden Theater, Denver 11.16.2008" »

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

[Stephen Malkmus & the Jicks - Photos by Chip Diffendaffer]

[Blitzen Trapper]

Portland's Blitzen Trapper looks exactly like what one imagines a classic American rock band should. The sextet's wardrobe pulls inspiration from the utilitarian basics of plaid and flannel for shirts, denim for below and a look as unremarkable as any. They could be the band down the street playing your neighborhood bar. A grungy set of fellows, all long hairs with guitars. Of course the difference with your particular local heroes is that Blitzen Trapper is actually good.

Like master cultivators of musical Americana the band exists on the same logical plane as Subpop labelmates and miners of Appalachian heritage Fleet Foxes, both groups part of the welcome outreach from indie bands to an older, perhaps purer form of folk infused rock. The fact both bands hail from areas not traditionally associated with the type of music being made is a testament to the intra-national folding of regional sounds. As the world gets smaller so does acute awareness of anywhere by everywhere.

Much of Blitzen Trapper's volume sounded too low and I recall thinking the songs ending unexpectedly soon, though for clarity this shouldn't be confused with hastiness. The former I can understand for dynamic contrast in deference to the headliner, but the latter? Initially I doubted my own conclusion considering my personal history with the post-Grateful Dead kings from Vermont, but subsequent listens to BT's records I realized it was probably my relative lack of familiarity with Blitzen's catalog that betrayed my attempts at unbiased, free of baggage opinion. Probably an impossibility anyway since that is like saying one cannot critique anything if being completely informed is a prerequisite for opining. I can confidently add that this slight objection to the brevity of Blitzen Trapper's songs occurred prior to Stephen Malkmus and his Jicks noodly arrangements would cloud my judgment. The timestamp on my notepad proves it!

Notes: Malkmus joined the band on guitar for the jangly "Wild Mountain Nation".

Blitzen Trapper - "Furr"

Blitzen Trapper's title cut from 2008's Furr began like a facsimile Dylan tune, complete with frontman Eric Earley donning a handsfree harmonica. Speaking of Earley (warning: obscure reference for anyone who is not an avid watcher of the NY sports network SNY), the guy reminds me of a younger Giuseppe Franco, the Beverly Hills stylist of Procede commercials fame. Let me be the first to ask, Gary Busey? Really?

Stephen Malkmus

Here's a ridiculous statement: there are different kinds of people that go see Stephen Malkmus perform. That could be equally as meaningless a description as if I said that on any given Sunday afternoon there are different kinds of people at the grocery store. However, just like agreeing it's fair to assume specific demographics could be assembled from supermarket crowds one can also acquiesce to my initial point, there are certain kinds of people that go see Stephen Malkmus perform.

Continue reading "Stephen Malkmus / Blitzen Trapper @ Gothic Theatre, Denver 11.6.2008" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 06:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Stephen Malkmus & Blitzen Trapper - "Funk #49" - The Pageant, St. Louis 11.1.08

"Funk #49" enjoyed a somewhat recent spotlight in Prof. David Klein's obsessive Numerology feature. Though the above video is from St. Louis, MO @ The Pageant they did the same thing in Denver last week. The Gothic Theatre encore also included a raucous rendition of "I Heard It Through the Grapevine." It sounded better in person, but here's a crappy video nonetheless (via):

Stephen Malkmus & Blitzen Trapper - "I Heard It Through the Grapevine" [partial] - Gothic Theatre, Denver 11.6.08

Posted by Merry Swankster at 12:48 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

[Photos by Merry Swankster]

TV On The Radio is without question the most heralded group in the indie landscape, deservedly so. Full of substance, overloaded with talent, claiming one of our era's most prolific producers as member (Dave Sitek), and possessing one of the most electrifying live shows of any rival. And as to prove my liberal credentials with usage of ink from the gushing well of praise, they presented the world with what is my favorite album of 2008: Dear Science as fresh material for their current tour. If only the band could be as generous with their concert lengths as I can be with my words.

Dear Science is the one record that's held my attention most this year since emerging on the illicit corners of the Internet's black market (let the record show that I subsequently purchased the CD). I plan on eventually putting down some words in a future post, but know that for now I'm comfortably nuzzled in the post-awe and fully in love phase. It's a record that thrills as much as it angers, a record that breathlessly condemns shortly after getting you drunk with funky dance music. First single "Golden Age" fills you with hope amidst dance floor infectiousness praising an "age of miracles”. Live it is as raucous a song as can be. One that begs for a party as much as it hardens the cementing fact that TV On The Radio as a group, can be the rare jack and master of all trades.

A party band, however, is not what TV On The Radio is. They've never been a band to shy from writing with themes colored by the blood of their heart-stained sleeves; they've just done it better and with more shrewd elegance than anyone else. Most notably though is not the poetic rage at the core of TVOTR's fruits, nor a drive to preach - far from it actually. This band is as enchanting in their multi-faceted, genre-hopping compositions as they are in ornate verbosity. Quite simply the full package of wondrous complexity that one can wish for. All of these things were just some of the fuels raising my anticipation before Sunday's show at the Ogden.

As great as the latest album is, I am still not at all tired with anything from their penultimate release, and my favorite album of 2006, Return To Cookie Mountain. None of the expected erosional forces of time and overplay have caused harm to the gleam of these older songs, which in the current climate of over-hyping and overselling might mean something more than ever before. I can say this with authority not because I've been spinning older TVOTR albums, but because when five of the eleven tracks from Cookie... were performed live they all still felt fresh and relevant - speaking volumes towards the long lasting draw of the band.

TV On The Radio's dual vocalists are Tunde Adebimpe and Kyp Malone, both striking figures with very dissimilar performance styles. Adebimpe is a tall, muscular man that oozes emotionality with every grimace and closed eyed punctuation peppering his singing. The man is a jumping bean of energy bouncing around all areas of the stage, evident by his sopping wet t-shirt, his nightly workouts happen on the stage. On the other hand is Kyp Malone’s stoic presence anchored with a guitar in hand and microphone stand in front. Malone rarely outwardly emotes from behind his bushy beard and mini-fro giving him a Zen-like presence that betrays the exotic range of his voice. Vocal duties appear so effortless that it most of the time it doesn’t even look like he’s singing.

[More photos and setlist after the jump]

Continue reading "TV On The Radio @ Ogden Theater, Denver 11.2.2008" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 03:17 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

[Photos by Merry Swankster]

Yesterday I touched upon the party vibe at the Halloween Girl Talk show. I don't know what else can be said other than further emphasizing the insanity that it was, so let me attempt another stab at putting it into a context, one that requires some distance from the Halloween holiday. Imagine a scenario where aliens from another world are about to visit our planet, what would their initial impression of masses of inebriated and costumed humans be? Would they boomerang back to their home bases perplexed with the motivations of our people? Would they attempt communicating with a guy in a gorilla suit? What about someone dressed like an iPod? I've wondered the same thing at big music festivals, and though I never attended Burning Man, it's safe to guess I would be curious what an extraterrestrial journalist might surmise of our planet after witnessing only such crowds. Think of the wacky stories it'll publish for his home constituents.

Nutty, ecstatic, frazzled, sweaty, sexy, creative, and pumped with energy for fun is what every Girl Talk show is like. For Halloween just multiply by one thousand and you'll get close to the craziness that was. A true mess of people collectively deciding to not care about the world and their own lives for a few hours while cutting the rug and sharing moments of elation with friends as well as the many strangers grinding on them. Everyone in the crowd was dressed as something - from Waldo (of where's fame) to the Incredible Hulk and the obligatory assortment of sexified working class outfits from the young women.

Click through for a compilation of some of the best costumes and for more snapshots of the wild Friday night that was the Ogden Theater for Halloween 2008.

Continue reading "Girl Talk @ Ogden Theater, Denver 10.31.2008" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 01:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

[Girl Talk crowd - 10.31.08]

[TV On The Radio w/Dirtbombs - 11.2.08]

Yowza. That is my one word summary of the two shows I witnessed this weekend in Denver at the same venue, on different nights. First was the insane, barely in control, smorgasbord of color and energetic swaying bodies that was Girl Talk’s Friday night Halloween extravaganza. Second was TV On The Radio’s incredible, passionate, powerfully soul- and life-affirming performance last night.

Beyond the obligatory good times, both shows were a study in contrasting forms for the ways contemporary, independent music is presented. Girl Talk was “just a man” and his laptop, ostensibly a performer under most definitions of the word, but whose crafted existence relies on the catalog wealth of others. “Performer” in the DJ/emcee mold with dabs of post-modern absurdity. Arguably or not, whichever city Girl Talk plants his flag can claim host as the best party in town. When adding the debaucherous excess that Halloween breeds, well then the argument is a fairly one-sided one. My observations before even entering the Ogden Theater on Friday night, the energy was palpable. You could cut it with the $100 bills scalpers demanded for a ticket (face value $20). Inside was no different. A liberated atmosphere from the throngs of beautiful costumed faces eager to contribute their sweat to what would be a grinding mass of humanity packing the Ogden’s floors, rafters and stage. Rarely do so many people look so happy in terribly cramped quarters. Which if nothing else can be a true testament to the human spirit’s need for plain old cathartic fun.

On the other side of the imagined fence of musical purity lies the multi-talented TV On The Radio. A group at odds with the Girl Talk pleasure machine in terms of structural integrity. I refer to the actuality of real people making real music in real time as opposed to whatever Gregg Gillis does with his lanky frame hovering over a laptop. Something that even though at moments I was inches away from I still cannot confidently report on. Some might point to his manipulation of music as fraudulent or without worth, but anything that exists as something that “is” has meaning in my book, even if it is the alleged simple act of cutting up songs and piecing them together with a computer as delivery vehicle.

Last night I noted (to myself) that TV On The Radio is an American treasure, a band so deeply poetic and smart that it almost pains me on how fantastic their output has been. A band so sincerely perfect for these conflicted modern times that it can almost be overwhelming when delving deep into their strife filled dispatches. Live, they are as close to perfect as possible, organically creating many of the samples that define much of the Sitek sound in real time, like when he recorded a vocal sample and looped it at the beginning of Cookie Mountain's whipping “Dirtywhirl”. Full of the emotional rollercoaster rides that befits more massively consumed anthemic predecessors like U2, Pearl Jam and REM.

A fellow writer for this site mentioned to me just this morning how he wishes for a smash hit from the band to simply spread the relative secret of the Indie underground to the rest of the world. Fuck indie cred and the blasphemy I’ll be so predictably accused of. I see no negative from the rising of thousands of hands shouting out lines from songs like “Shout Me Out” and “DLZ”; both from their incredible Dear Science album. These songs beg for intense crowd response as much as they plead for hope amidst despair. The way TVOTR manipulates superficial pop structures with dark lyrical themes is admirable from the perspective of having fun with subtleties to the real need of digging deeper for full appreciation.

The contrast between those abilities in the live realm vs. Girl Talk’s handling of other artist’s stirring music for purposes of satiating enthusiastic rooms of exuberant bodies is fascinating in the sense that the presented methods of delivery can be no more opposite.

Ed note: Full reviews with photos and the like forthcoming.

Posted by Merry Swankster at 03:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

The final song of Billy Bragg’s set at Duke’s Page Auditorium on Saturday night, “Waiting for the Great Leap Forwards,” contains the phrase “mixing pop and politics,” an apt enough description of this guitar-wielding troubadour’s M.O. for more than 25 years—only he didn’t sing it. The song had been almost entirely reworked, with lines about Robert Oppenheimer and Soviet nuclear testing having been replaced with references to the New World Order and the imminent “sacking” of George W. Bush, a testament to the malleability and timelessness of the folk music tradition to which Bragg proudly adheres.

Touring in support of his latest release, Mr. Love and Justice, Bragg played his share of love songs, but most of the prolific singer’s two-hour set—beginning with “Help Save the Youth of America”—was more concerned with justice. In the hands of someone else it might have felt like sermonizing (OK, it did occasionally) but the singer’s cheeky humor and wordplay prevents his songs from descending into mere didacticism or sloganeering. Bragg’s between-song patter—ranging from punning observations and apercus about his travels through America (somehow he squeezed in a reference to the alternative-universe Coen brothers film “Noam Chomsky for Old Men”)—supplied some of the highlights of the evening. My favorite was an extended digression on the word “tumescence” that ended in a revelation about the phallic double entendre inherent in Jackson Browne’s “Redneck Friend” (something my older brother told me about when we were in high school but which I had never heard confirmed from a “reliable” source until last night). And in the case of Woody Guthrie’s unfinished “Ingrid Bergman,” Bragg’s entertaining description of the song’s origins far exceeded the running time of the song itself. I admit that I would have opted to replace a couple of his strictly political statements with a few songs that he didn’t play (“The Short Answer” or “Accident Waiting to Happen” would have been sweet) but it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that the man with a hits compilation titled Reaching to the Converted would spend time doing just that. Yet long-time fans had little to complain about; he played just about every classic song in his canon, from his early days as a Clash-influenced busker in the London Tube (“Milkman of Human Kindness) to the Mermaid Avenue collaboration with Wilco’s Jeff Tweedy based on unpublished song lyrics of Woody Guthrie (“Way Over Yonder in the Minor Key”) to his most accomplished work from the major-label releases of the ‘90s (“Greetings to the New Brunette,” “The Saturday Boy”).

On his own, Bragg shows just how charismatic and compelling a performer can be armed only with guitar, a passionate voice, and probing lyrics. With his trademark Cockney enunciation and a rough strumming style honed over decades of tireless performing, Bragg commanded the stage. The indefatigable singer’s familiarity with his own oeuvre showed in his ability to comment on a song in the midst of singing it. Thus, we learned that he was never fully comfortable with his lyric about being “more impressionable when my cement is wet,” a point that had this writer nodding in agreement.

The evening began with an understated yet occasionally stirring set by the Watson Twins, sisters from Louisville who collaborated with Rilo Kelly’s Jenny Lewis on Rabbit Fur Coat (2006). With pristine keyboard accompaniment and an acoustic guitar that they shared, the sisters’ country-inflected songs went down easy on the strength of their intuitive harmony singing. The set included a lovely countrified cover of the Cure’s “Just Like Heaven” that could bring a smile to even the dourest mope-rock aficionado. The Watsons returned to the stage for one of Bragg’s encore versions of a new song, the hymnlike “Sing Their Souls Back Home.” The evening ended with a rousing audience sing-along version of “A New England,” which included a shout-out to the late Kirsty MacColl, who added a verse of her own to the song in her 1991 cover version. Then Bragg took it home with his tribute to the redemptive power of American soul music, “Levi Stubbs’ Tears,” made all the more touching by Mr. Stubbs’ passing two weeks ago. When the song was done, he cheerfully flung the teabag from his third cup of “Throat Coat” into the enthusiastically cheering audience before exiting the stage, beaming and holding aloft his snazzy silver Telecaster in a gesture of triumph.

Posted by David Klein at 02:34 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

photos by Devon Banks

A week of post-CMJ shellshock kept this write up on the shelf, but couldn't bring myself to let it slide entirely. It was a better show than anything I'd see in the nominally more fertile schedules of the week that followed. One of DFA Records' original powerhouses, the Juan MacLean have been churning out steady-thumping, yet classily minimal, dance music for the better part of the decade. This was a bit of a whim attendance, but a shrewd one in retrospect.

First though, a note on their shotgun wedding opener, the suddenly successful Chairlift...

Chairlift

It's frankly kind of weird that I'd not seen Chairlift play. As Colorado to Brooklyn transplants, they cover two geographical poles of MS' coverage. They've been bobbing around in my own little small pond for quite a while, I mean, they played After the Jump's summer fest. back in June, and I even missed them there. Kind of lame that I only get around to discussing them in earnest now that they're soundtracking iPod commercials. But it did give me a chance to form a belated first impression from the band's show. And this might seem painfully obvious now, in the shallow light of conventional wisdom, but I was surprised at how big they sounded. Singer Caroline Polachek, especially, has a sweet, strong voice that comes already made up for the narrow spotlight they've been given. The thing is, that, right this second, the glare is focused on a small stylistic sliver from what is a pretty muddled act. Bouncy new wave fluff like the pod-selling "Bruises" and "Evident Utensil" were light, airy, and flatly charming. They're like bite size Milky Ways. With the song length stretched out, and the hooks less immediate, my attention waned. But still, to her credit, Caroline's voice filled a Bowery-sized room even during the ponderous tracks, ambling forth without clear destination in mind. They'll stick around for a bit, I'd guess.

the Juan MacLean

Perhaps it was a common trend around the end of last decade, or perhaps it was a peculiarity of geography and demographics (not to mention pharmacology), but I attended college in the midst of a fairly wide dabbling in European club music. But, much like the effect of Puffy's anemic rap skills bleeding through my thin walls, Paul Oakenfold's lame trance stylings were a poor ambassador for a huge genre at large. But more than an aversion to faceless repetitions, it was very tough to shed teen rockist suspicions about what exactly those DJ types were even doing behind their expensive consoles. Hey guys, get hype, I'm gonna raise my hands in the air now, cause I just put on another record!! But that's not nearly the method of the JM. As an expansive instrumental set up foretold, we were damn well going to feel the music ahead of us, and be close enough to study its clockwork guts.

John MacLean, also known as the Juan MacLean of THE Juan MacLean, entered smirking to the emotive cheese of Tears for Fears' "Head Over Heels," which could have been an ominous sign for the sincerity of the performance to come. But even at the shows most lactose infused moments, when coaxing butter fat funk from his mounted theremin (the funkiest theremin mine ears doth heard), there was a joyous wizard quality to MacLean. Presto! I shall conjure laser squiggles from the very air itself! His band had come to level us with precision, but there was a joie de vivre in the room that couldn't have been entirely pill enhanced. The very expensive looking laser light show that filled every cubic inch of the stage and its musicians was helpful in that regard, as well.

The single biggest factor in the band's accelerated palatability is the solidified participation of vocalist Nancy Whang. You might best remember her as Lady Deadpan from the last LCD Soundsystem record, mocking you and your ability to normalize. though sparingly used in that band, Whang's singing was spread liberally around new material from the '09 release The Future Will Come. Less Than Human was the band's previous mantra, but as usual, it's tough to overestimate how much a dose of humanity aids the beats' actual connection. She didn't wow us with virtuoso three part harmonies or anything, but she was the performances' heart--a small woman, threatening to be lost in a rising tide of rhythm at any moment, but welcoming its rush. Without extensive familiarity with the band's set (I have their last DFA record, dusty, on my shelf somewhere and I've really liked newer material that's trickled out) she was my emotional rope line, at least.

After bringing the set to a fitting climix with a taut, still dripping from squat thrusts, version of previous club hit, "Give Me Every Little Thing" the JM launched into the truly, truly epic "Happy House." In regard to the song's influences, I have to admit that I only know what I've read. My house-music exposure was later and much less life affirming than the Latin piano tinged late 80s variety that's supposedly being referenced here. A great 13 minutes on vinyl, the song must have ballooned even longer as this show's set closer. It contained multitudes. Nancy fulfilled her star turn admirably, rocking back and forth to proclaim her lover "so damn excellent," as John floated his lascivious hum. But it really got intense after she exhorted him to "launch me into space." It got more cosmic, weirder, faster, in turn. By my count, the main refrain receded and returned in full force no less than three times--encore teases contained within the final act itself. Of course the blissed out crowd was worked into a fearful froth each time. As it came to a final close, my head was spinning ready for more, but my feet were resentful ready to stop. A live dance music show can have no better epitaph, right?

the Juan MacLean - "Happy House"

More photos beneath the fold...

Continue reading "the Juan MacLean / Chairlift, live @ the Bowery Ballroom, New York City, 10.17.08" »

Posted by Jeff Klingman at 09:45 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

[Photos by Merry Swankster]

[They are not lasers]

On Monday's listings I teased the Secret Machines new tour by mentioning the band's Es Devlin designed set. In person it looked like a cross between 3D trigonometry graphs and a pyschedelic mosquito net enclosure that you might consider upgrading too should you find yourself on an African safari. The stage plotting was an inescapable and prominent character of the show, one that both housed the group and also gifted a wealth of photographic capture opportunities given the cool angles it generated.

Built from what looked like an array of masking tape strips arranged in mathematically precise order, the unique furnishing provided a sheltering effect above, behind, and all around the band. An amazing frame like nothing I've ever seen before. This was constructivist art meeting the goals of its definition, in this case an enveloping nest for the Secret Machines (mix your Russian history metaphors as you wish). For those of you uninterested in art history research, or more specifically pre-USSR regime approved art, just know it looked shit-hot cool.

My enchantment with the piece can go on much longer than a standard review should, to say nothing of the dark psychedelia tones of the Secret Machines music. I was struck by how brilliant the pairing turned out with the awesome form presented, like a structural echo to the bending aural vision of the Secret Machine's bombastic music.

[Continued with more trippy photos and tourdates...]

Continue reading "Secret Machines @ Bluebird, Denver 10.27.2008" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 05:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

[Photos by Merry Swankster]

I wish I had a better reason why I'm just now getting to posting about this show. I considered using the excuse that it took this long to regain my sense of hearing and that without it, I couldn’t write about it. Not only is that beyond lame and a lie, such a position does not allow me the chance to properly thank my benevolent colleague’s sage advice regarding ear protection. A Place To Bury Strangers being the Loudest Band in New York and all.

Loud they were. Really loud. Meandering shoegaze amplified at such intense levels that the swirling sounds might as well been cascading waves blasting from the impressive array of massive Fender towers. Enough gear for a Fender boutique showroom, or more apropos, the band's stage set occupying a quiet corner of a non-descript downtown art gallery. Labeled with a small, homey posted sign that neatly spells out: “the Loudest Band in New York”.

A Place To Bury Strangers took the stage at midnight, which is a more likely reason than any on why this write up took so damn long. Hump day at midnight is a terrible time for information retention. My most vivid recollection was of an overpowering feel from the full assault of APTBS’s billowy noise. Not to get melodramatic, but it literally felt like I was getting blown away. Can obscene volume shift air patterns and produce sonic breezes? It sure seemed that way. Pairing the fierce soundscapes was a stunning yet simple visual element bathing the stage with a monochromatic checkerboard saturation of bright light. Deliberate enough to justify it as an illustrated metaphor for the at times ineffable arrangements.

These blinking lights were positioned a good distance from the stage and casted long shadows from audience members between them and the band. It was a cool and surely lo-fi method of increasing the striking vibe of the show. That said APTBS would befit the entrapments of a giant arena stage and the gargantuan demands of sound and light that would be accommodated in such a setting. Doubtful if their chosen genre can take them to such heights, but they all but demand bigger and better resources for their brutal show. To better crush audiences obviously, though in a good way of course. Fans of the loud stuff will love it. Count me in.

Before feasting on the photos, I wanted to tip my hat to the Larimer fans for the spirited encore callback. More "fuck yeahs” from Spicoli and Diamond Dave sounding dudes than I ever imagined possible - full throttle hollering appropriate given the circumstances.

They yelled, “One more!”, and were echoed sarcastically by “seventeen more!.” Ha.

Continue reading "A Place To Bury Strangers @ Larimer Lounge, Denver 10.08.2008" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 02:23 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

[Tunde Adebimpe of TVOTR] - All Photos by Chip Diffendaffer

The server pooch ate them. We slaved for days putting them back together after a lengthy battle with parasitic nanobots...ah screw this. More of Chip's Monolith photos.

Previously:
Monolith: Day 1 | 09.13.08: 1, 2

[CSS's Lovefoxx]

Continue reading "Monolith photos unearthed!" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 02:13 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

photos by Devon Banks

Update: The whole set can be downloaded from nyctaper. A few tracks are scattered throughout here, but please, grab the whole set over there, and support Stereolab on tour...

Stereolab are one of the last true iconic bands of the 90s alternative that are still alive and thriving. And while continually productive eighteen-year career in the music business is nothing to diminish, theirs seems less surprising than others might. There's something about the band that seems constant--a continuous wavy line emanating from a single starting point, decades ago. It's not so much that the music all sounds the same, though that's the knock on their records that you hear most often. It's more that their music has such a specific aesthetic that it can absorb exterior elements without ever sounding fully transformed. There's a steady rhythm, floating keys, maybe a few keys guitar repetitions, and those lovely, unknowable rosewater vocals. If the songs themselves span a huge gap from frothy 60s bossanova to intense krautrock, they always seem contained by an innate Stereolab-ness that's hard to quantify. For US fans, the predominantly French lyrics are a big part of the mystique. Stereolab tracks can't generally be shorthanded as "the one about..." anything in particular. "The one with the pretty, cascading female vocals" is also less than helpful. When you put on a Stereolab record, there's just this pulsing sound, this driving beat, stretching in to perpetuity. It's almost a mood made manifest rather than a single-serving idea you can put a pin in and file away. As a result, of all the bands I'd listened to consistently over a long period in my life, they were probably the one who I've granted the least defined mental image. All I get when I close my eyes is a striking French lass cruising on a magic carpet.

Entering the ex-Irving Plaza over a week ago, to see Lætitia Sadler bathed in soft light, surrounded by aging musos, seemed a bit too masculine, a tough too literal. The records seem so female, in temperament and texture. On first glimpse, it seemed impossible that Lætitia could exude enough estrogen to make it seem right. The absence of the late Mary Hansen seems huge in person, even if her high backing vocals were ably handled by some young eunuch of a man. But once they started playing in earnest, the mood was as instantly set as it always is. We were Left Bank revolutionaries one and all, taking a time out form rabble rousing to enjoy a fanciful cocktail of some kind. But there was an edge (we could be infiltrated at any moment, and forced to instantaneously rock out!). Also, the show answered a question I myself posed in a High Places review for the L Magazine a few weeks back. Of course there's such a thing as an electric xylophone. Duh, Tim Gane's got a MalletKAT Pro!

Stereolab - "Lo Boob Oscillator" (live at the Fillmore, 10.02.2008)

The song that shifted the night from an amusing bout of putting names to faces to a truly pivotal concert experience, was the epic "Lo Boob Oscillator." A standout in a truly epic discography, "LBO" has graced so many mix tapes and playlists, that it's first few seconds couldn't help trigger a deep wellspring of affection. It's early moments are impossibly light and charming, with what sounds like earnest and pragmatic advice from your Parisian sister in law balanced against "boop-up-ah-oop" noises bubbling from some whimsical vent, hidden from sight. But then it turns, and these gentle souls are immediately transmorphed into sinister Germans, locking into a single, sick groove. The band's love for Neu! spills forth, always slightly accelerating, startling the ice cream sundae sweetness of its beginning and driving it far away. Bradford Cox hugged himself, swaying back and forth on the side of the stage, blissed out. Though he speaks of his teenage heroes often in interviews, the immensity of Stereolab's influence on his band Deerhunter had never struck me so squarely. Especially in the alternately hazy, then pummeling turns of their still-forthcoming record Microcastle, tracks like "LBO" cast a long shadow.

Stereolab - "French Disko" (live at the Fillmore, 10.02.2008)

The "hits" kept coming from there. In seemingly quick succession we were given the high-minded mission statement "John Cage Bubblegum," the band's best guitar based rock out anachronistically named "French Disko," and a tough of high water mark album Emperor Tomato Ketchup's "Cybele's Reverie." As much as huge swathes of the band's back catalog register to me as a single, permeating groove, there are singular moments where construction surpasses mood. The concert gave me many, honed even further from over a decade of seasoning. Even in the loosest of moments, no one could accurately deem the band less than tight. In the most tightly focused numbers, their polish was otherworldly.

Stereolab w/ Bradford Cox- "Jenny Ondioline" (live at the Fillmore, 10.02.2008)

After gracious bows and enthusiastic claps, the band returned, as they must. The night culminated in the sustained force of 1993's "Jenny Ondioline." Cox bounded in from off-stage with golden retriever enthusiasm to play the extra drone, freeing Sadler to absently riff at a previously perched guitar. It was long, intense, and gorgeous--a distillation of the show at large. Wherever the band chooses to go from here, they can be sure that their name will always evokes something specific, vaguely defined as it has traditionally been.

Posted by Jeff Klingman at 01:45 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Depending on how closely one follows some of the more wonky areas of the online music press Santogold's narrative splits between two fuzzily separated camps. First is the M.I.A. comparisons, somewhat unfair for Santogold as the perception of existing in the shadow of another artist with superficially similar aesthetics holds little positive for her other than exploiting the fruits of Mya's ready-built audience. The flip side is everyone who does not use the aforementioned British via Sri Lanka artist as a reference point for Santogold mentions. Besides eerily similar wardrobe preferences with the color purple and patchwork designs playing prominent roles, I'm not so sure why the grouping exists. Is it because of something else?

Both M.I.A. and Santogold are non-white artists whose tendencies to straddle genres while effectively creating new border lines between them creates trouble for critics who like to organize music into neatly defined categories. Urban, world-music, or R&B? Dub, Hip Hop or Grime? Electro, dance or gasp! - Rock?! What have you with this nonsensical classification, especially when the ethnicity of the performer pulls the archivist classes towards particular slots on the bookshelf that would otherwise disqualify for it not the color of their skin? Santi White aka Santogold herself opined on the subject in an interview earlier this year.

"It's racist (laughs). It's totally racist. Everyone is just so shocked that I don't like R&B. Why does R&B keep coming into my interviews? It's pissing me off. I didn't grow up as a big fan of R&B and, like, what is the big shocker? It's stupid. In the beginning I thought that was funny. I'm an 'MC', I'm a 'soul singer', I'm a 'dance hybrid artist'. And some guy said I looked like Kelly Rowland!" [via the Lipster]

Do non-threatening racial elements inherently exist when an artist like Santogold is described as R&B or Hip-Hop but not Rock? What if Santogold was white? Would there be a difference, and if yes, why? The indie community, and to an arguably lesser extent, greater America prides itself as accepting to different cultures and peoples. From a musical perspective these spoken values are righteously qualified by the very real actuality that in no other time in history has the indie, underground, whatever scenes been so inclusive of widely divergent sounds and styles.

For a broader, more socially encompassing example, one might be able to make a similar case for America too, especially if it completes its multicultural destiny by electing the first non-white guy into the White House. Tupac's warning to the black community of it not being ready for a black president will seem like an ancient relic of a backward past for the next generation. Not unlike the dated feel of old views towards women and the so called "place" where they belong. In other words, kids in 2040 won't think it is odd for a black man to be president anymore than people today think mom is a weirdo for working at an office (or running for the highest office(s) in the land). Once society passes a hump that once felt impenetrable, following generations disregard said hump to the point that it disappears completely. This is a good thing.

Maybe we as a country are already there. Maybe November 5th will be just another Wednesday where half the country is pissed at the other and we'll all move along busy with our trivial problems and wait some more for history to catch up with the present while President-elect McCain is busy shoring up his cabinet. I want to be careful to state that my point shouldn't be seen as an endorsement for vote casting solely on the basis of an idealized model of equality, but as a grander view that merits alone and not skin-deep affiliations be considered when making decisions, including calling Santogold anything but Hip Hop. Otherwise maybe Ms. White is right in her (admittedly jokey) racist jab.

Excuse me for the slight digression.

This is not your father's insular punk scene anymore. Disco cats do not get beat up in 2008. Rock vs. rap battles are not taken seriously outside of the hillbilly mullet set glued exclusively to the classic rock stations that for 15+ years have been releasing the "Led" while never straying from the same Pink Floyd cuts. This is, after all, the shuffle generation. One of the few times* I can wholly agree with the zeitgeist framers and their never ending quest to slap digestible labels on cultural movements. (*Mostly due to my contrarian nature, devil's advocate tenure, etc.)

Continue reading "Santogold w/Mates of State, live @ Gothic Theatre, Denver 10.01.2008" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 04:40 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

Alternate title: Setting = Plot.

“Austin is WAY tatted up,” so said a fellow concert goer of mine, and right he was, as it seemed like the entire population of the city was displaying ink as though they ware taking part in some sort of Maori rite of passage. There are many laudatory things to say about Texas’s capitol city: easy street navigation, relatively inexpensive room and board, best record store in the world, for instance. There are equally negative things to say about Austin, among them a butter-thick layer of pretentiousness, subpar airport, too many Longhorn fans. And then there is a third, often overlooked, category of qualification: characteristics of Austin that are rather neutral, including, a number of pleasant and unchallenging art galleries, a roster of restaurants regularly serving hummus, and yes, the fact that Austin is way tatted up. As is the apparent wont of the individuals committing to the life-long body scaring, most of the tattoos are of the lame-ass “tribal band” variety. However, some break the mold and are self-evidently fantastic (in a nerdy sort of way, at least). The superlative incarnation of this second category can be found here:

(For the mathematically impaired, that’s a proof demonstrating why negative times negative equals positive times positive.)

Continue reading "ACL Day 3: 09.28.08 - Sun Going Down, Work Coming Up" »

Posted by Randall Monty at 11:59 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

...when the band sharply reminds you that they can turn into an evil krautrockers on a dime and totally melt your face is the midpoint switch in the sublime "Lo Boob Oscillator." I'll have extended thoughts on last night's show at the venue formerly known as Irving Plaza soon enough. You can catch video of a few songs on YouTube right now, here and here. But the closest I found to a capture of that awesome gear change is a snippet from last week's show in Atlanta. Submitted for approval below.

Stereolab - "Lo Boob Oscillator" (snippet)
(Live @ 40 Watt Club, Atlanta, 9.27.08)

Posted by Jeff Klingman at 09:59 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Alternate title: Democracy and the festival performance.

By 2:30 in the afternoon, I was stuck having to choose between MS.com favorite Sharon Jones & the Dap Kings versus RWM favorite Drive-By Truckers. And while the prospects of getting the best return on my music dollar and seeing James Brown being out James Browned were certainly enticing, the ticket was technically free so my selfish desires prevailed.

Most of the conversation heard in the pre-DBT-show crowd were of the “Finally, a REAL rock band!” variety. I have no idea what the speakers had been doing, exactly, during the previous day, but I do think I understand their collective sentiment. The crowd’s understanding of the term “rock” is obviously one that comes requisite with the modifiers “guitar” and likely, “southern.” Drive-By Truckers certainly brought both of these qualifiers to the forefront, but not without tapping into another prominent theme of the festival: democratic stage set-ups and performances.

Drive-By Truckers’ Patterson Hood

Continue reading "ACL Day 2: 09.27.08 - Give the People What They Want" »

Posted by Randall Monty at 11:10 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Alternate Title: Where the White People Are

Background: the Austin city limits; Foreground: the Austin City Limits

As tends to be the case at non-Longhorn-related gatherings in Austin, Texas, a vast majority of the crowd at the 2008 Austin City Limits Music Festival last weekend was a group of predominantly young, reasonably affluent white people longing to deny their own heritages in favor of more culturally sympathetic personas. Being that this writer is a member of one of those demographics, is steadily leaving another and slowly (hopefully) moving to the last, yours truly finds ACL to be the perfect mass-ensemble outdoor concert. Even minus the ever-present pretension that permeates out of the Lone Star capitol, Austin City Limits is worthwhile precisely because it so consistently delivers on what every one of these mega-shows promises to do: end-to-end excellent performances by some of the better artists in the business. In the particular case of ACL, it’s the distinct mix of old and new, global and local, combining to create a spectacular individual identity.

Continue reading "ACL Day 1: 09.26.08 - A Proper Start" »

Posted by Randall Monty at 01:39 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Photos by Devon Banks

I've known Sean McBride and Liz Wendelbo for a few years now, through intrepid MS photographer Devon Banks, but I've never seen them perform under their cryptic aliases before--a wrong righted two Fridays past. As Xeno & Oaklander the duo play well sculpted and triumphantly bleak European synth music of the sort that always leaves me smitten. Its roots are deeply dug into the hordes of anonymous Germans, Frenchmen, Belgians, etc., who all seemed to simultaneously discover the easy discomfort a synthesizer could create simultaneously in the late 70s and early 80s. Names like Christof Glowalla, DAF, Malaria!, Grauzone, Ruth, Charles De Goal, or Linear Movement spring to mind. Names that mean little to most music fans now, and honestly, probably didn't ring too many bells even in 1981 Berlin. But for those who love the stuff (I've got a dozen compilations lying around full of it, and this guy has my beat by a mile or two), X & O are about as authentic as you can get.

Shawn glowered and growled in the post-punk tradition, while Liz floated gracefully with airy melody in both English and her first language French. Rich but compact synth tones and propulsive beats girded both. A new record will come soon on NYC's Wierd Records, and I will give you the scoop as I have it. They play again on November 12th at Home Sweet Home on the Lower East Side, and it'll be well worth your time. I'd say so if I had no knowledge that they were delightful party guests, I promise.

Posted by Jeff Klingman at 06:45 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

[All Photos by Chip Diffendaffer]

Due to none but terrific reasons, I was unable to make it to Monolith this year - you know, that awesome indie rock festival at Red Rocks. However, in what qualifies as an incredible case serendipity, I was able to tap our friend Chip Diffendaffer to provide coverage. Chip just so happened to be in the middle of trying his darnedest to single handedly rescue the suddenly frail American economy via a binge of photo equipment acquisitions. The timing was, as they say, perfect.

After the jump, a taste of day 1 at Monolith 2008 - including Cut Copy, Devotchka, Fratellis, A Place to Bury Strangers, Port O'Brien, Presets, Vampire Weekend - by way of Mr. Diffendaffer's ever watchful lens.

[A Place to Bury Strangers]

Continue reading "Monolith: Day 1 | 09.13.08" »

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Blog rock heavyweights from two years ago, Democrats, art, and fresh air. I don't think Alec Ounsworth even tries to sing anymore.

Photos of Cold War Kids, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah at the Unconventional '08 show during the Denver DNC. Silversun Pickups also played

[Cold War Kids]

[Clap Your Hands Say Yeah]

Continue reading "Unconventional '08 (DNC) - Cold War Kids, CYHSY, Silversun Pickups @ Manifest Hope Gallery, Denver 8.27.2008| Photos" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 12:52 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

[All photos by Merry Swankster]

I missed this one during the listings flurry last week. While on the way back from Invesco I practically stumbled into Clipse performing atop a fenced in stage off downtown Denver's 16th Street Mall. The Miami coke rappers were cranking out "Chinese New Year", promoting forthcoming releases, and shitting on their competitors.

More photos after the jump.

Continue reading "Clipse played Denver during DNC, 8.29.08 | Photos" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 02:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

[All photos by Merry Swankster]

I arrived a little late to Rage’s midday show at the Denver Coliseum last week. Too late to pick up my credentials as the band and/or promoters had a firm cut off on doors that was not previously publicized. Still though, I got in. Not through any battle past clouds of tear gas or shock grenades, nor did I bravely confront any member of the ominously present and sizable force of riot-clad DPD officers, but by walking straight through the doors acting the part so as to not appear suspicious. Sometimes what cannot be accomplished through brute force can be carried out with coolheaded confidence alone. Viva la revolución.

Rage’s set was an unsurprising, high spirited call to arms. Though the typically unrestrained Zach de la Rocha kept mum for the most part, when he finally did unleash, it was with fiery oratory style, spewing unrelenting and sweeping accusations at imprecise officials constituting what he described as the "lying racist genocidal murderers who tricked Iraqis and Afghans with promises of democracy". Stern warnings of violence towards the orchestrators of war mixed with revolutionary justifications. De la Rocha plainly placed government officials supporting current war policies on notice by declaring they'd be "in harm's way". "Bullet in the Head" followed. Rage Against the Machine has never been a band keen on subtlety and this concert was no exception. Whether the crowd genuinely heeded such incendiary rhetoric or preferred the visceral experience of sharing sweat with fist pumping thousands is another question altogether.

The first half of the daytime show featured former MC5 guitarist Wayne Kramer, the infamous 1968 DNC protester, joining Rage as they tore through the punk classic "Kick Out the Jams."

MC5 - "Kick Out the Jams"

Upon ending the show the band huddled together for a bow and announced the immediate start of a march to the convention arena led by the veteran protest group, Iraq Veterans Against the War. I bailed, but you can read a detailed account on the march from the Coliseum to the Pepsi Center in this detailed account [MTV News].

[Wayne Kramer with Rage]

Continue reading "Rage Against the Machine, Live @ Denver Coliseum (DNC), 8.27.2008" »

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Whether it's a niche business forum, a large pan-business convocation, or quadrennial political party coronations, all conventions bring groups of like-minded, or at least like-interested people together. Somewhat more specifically, people armed with the holy grail of business travel - expense reports while in fun locales. Not that such perks are even necessary when parties get hosted, ahem - sponsored by free spending corporations and organizations looking for ears to whisper into, or a foot to pass through the influence door.

The DNC's sweep through Denver, naturally, brought with it the aforementioned entertainment scene and the spectacle of people making their case to be on the fun side of the velvet ropes. Exquisite bullshit artists pining for entry to Olympic level schmooze competitions. Warning: metaphors may be mixed without regard to peril.

Last week the Democratic party landed in Denver and this week the Republicans start the same protocol-filled assembly in the Twin Cities of Minneapolis-St Paul, Minnesota. If Denver was any indication - caterers, liquor distributors, high-end restaurants, and rickshaw jockeys are about to bank big. So will the shrinks tending to frazzled clipboard porters nervously tracking headcounts with an eye to both the fire marshall and enough available space for late arriving uber-VIPs. During the DNC this could mean anyone from Jessica Alba to Bono to Democratic governors. A starfuckers paradise or a super economic way to keep entertained, fed and hydrated amidst the complicated glamour of Washington D.C.'s political culture.

The tally of my lifetime's forays to our nation's capital are limited to short pleasurable stopovers and touristy trips full of white marble and museums. After a week (or so) of partaking to just some of the DNC's periphery entertainment options, I feel like I can safely surmise what a semester might be like for Public Administration graduate students at Georgetown. I might also be full of shit. Given the often bloviated subject matter, no matter which view one has, at least the latter is true for the respective opposition party.

Our first DNC event with notable music was last Tuesday's "Concert for a Cooler Planet" at the elegant Sherman Event Complex presented by the League of Conservation Voters. Ben Gibbard and Chris Walla of Death Cab for Cutie performed acoustic. Introduced by a phalanx of members of congress and even the governor of their home state.

The fired up Rep. Ed Marckey (MA) began what would be a long introduction preceding Ben & Chris's set with a litany of attacks on the environmental records of John McCain and George W. Bush by pairing them with sugarplum fairy promises of crisp, delicious air and fresh, clean drinking water flowing from the rivers of a President Obama. Sen. Sheldon Whitehouse of RI followed and the very excitable Rep. Jay Inslee (WA) continually referred to the great "Death Cab for Cutie from Seattle", but it was Washington State governor Gov. Chris Gregoire who finally introduced the duo. I'm not going to infer that Rep. Inslee may have had a few drinks in him since I don't know what his demeanor is otherwise, but he was as animated as anyone can be. Madam Governor Gregoire inadvertently dropped an unintentional diss of the host city during an appeal for Seattle tourism by saying, "we have real music there". Oh snap! I'll be nice and let it slide just this once, attributing the misspeak to Colorado's thin air and its effect on escalating grandiloquence.

[Gov. Chris Cregoire]

Ben and Chris both played acoustic guitars with Chris also spending considerable time in front of the black grand piano. The song selection was exclusively from Death Cab's songbook, making the Walla-Gibbard duo a real treat for fans of the group. No word whether any of the sharply dressed attendees count themselves as such. The songs were played as lovely as you might imagine acoustic Death Cab to be - inoffensive and crisp. Walla and Gibbard both kept fairly mum when it came to politics outside of a few lighthearted moments. Early on Walla not-so-eloquently ruminated on how interesting it was for him to meet with people around the country "who are into the same stuff we're into. Anyway this is our first convention and we're having a lot of fun." Ben added his thoughts much later when mentioning something of a WTF moment when hearing Bon Jovi might be playing "Living on a Prayer" alluding to Sen. Obama's campaign, "we got better than living on a fucking prayer [laughter]."

Photos of Ben Gibbard and Chris Walla and a very unofficial setlist continued after the jump.

Continue reading "Ben Gibbard & Chris Walla, Live @ Sherman Event Complex, Concert for a Cooler Planet (DNC) - Denver 8.26.2008" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 11:18 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

[Photos by Merry Swankster]

[Gathering crowds on S. Broadway from inside Indy Ink]

Pictureplane @ Indy Ink

Pictureplane gained some national attention earlier in the year when Health name dropped the act in a Pitchfork "Guest List" column.

Travis Egedy is the man behind Denver electro act Pictureplane. His set started with a skittering M.I.A. sample and continued with high treble assaults that if visualized, would look like sonic equivalents to dirty lasers firing in slow motion. His muddy, muffled singing bordered on the horrible, but it sneaks through without protest underneath a protective cover of lo-fi, sandblasted rhythms from the mixes. In their current form, vocals will never be the strength of Pictureplane, just the same considering the man's best work transpires when in control of the techno nuclear football.

Health - "Heaven (Pictureplane Remix)"

Pictureplane - "Flashion (You Designed My Mind)"

//Pictureplane - Myspace

Continue reading "UMS: Pictureplane, live @ Indy Ink, Denver, 08.02.08" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 02:30 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

[Photos by Merry Swankster]

Round these parts expectations for quick turnaround of show reviews are squashed as quickly as we are slow posting them. So there's my excuse for UMS tardiness. I've previously written about Hearts of Palm shortly before the Denver Post Underground Music Showcase took place a few weeks back. UMS is a lot like a mini-SXSW for local talents here in Denver. Hearts of Palm headlined the first night at the Hi-Dive with another spirited performance in their celebrated, exuberance-filled style.

//Hearts of Palm

Continue reading "UMS: Hearts of Palm, live @ Hi-Dive, Denver, 08.01.08" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 01:30 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

[Photos by Merry Swankster]

For classification purposes, Titus Andronicus qualifies closest to punk rock than any other rock sub-genre. Several songs sound heavily influenced by the signature Pogues injection of traditional Irish music to punk rock, but Shane MacGowan was a bona fide Irishman and most (all?) of Titus Andronicus is from New Jersey, so Irish-punk, Irish-folk-punk doesn't quite work. Titus Andronicus is loud, powerful, slightly abrasive, and from a superficial level, seemingly always on the brink of disaster. Punk it is.

The Titus show had occurred only a few days after the delicate harmonies of Fleet Foxes filled the Hi-Dive and the contrast is worth noting. Where Fleet Foxes performed like a mellow, melodious machine, Titus Andronicus put on a much edgier, yet at the same time looser show, executing with high levels of concentration though never quite looking like it.

I vividly recall experiencing a special moment during one memorable bath of eardrum busting distortion. Like waves of noise of the fiercest grade. It was beautiful. I didn't realize how much I missed crunchy guitars until they were just a few feet away doing what they were designed to do.

Continue reading "Titus Andronicus, Live @ Larimer Lounge, Denver 07.26.2008" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 01:25 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

[Photos by Merry Swankster]

"We almost didn't make it tonight. We have Aunt Polly to thank for us being here." A few weeks ago Fleet Foxes suffered through the unfortunate inconveniences of broken down vehicles about 80 miles short of arriving in Denver for a show. I cannot allow this story to continue without pointing out it is completely at odds with the transportation ambitions of half of the band's name. In spite of everything, Fleet Foxes showed at the Hi-Dive, early at that.

As far as appearances go, calling Fleet Foxes unassuming is a vast understatement. Under different circumstances an anonymous dude, bearded, long haired, and flannel sporting, would effortlessly blend in with the rest of the shaggy hipster crowd at the Hi-Dive. Fleet Foxes lead singer Robin Pecknold looks just like what you might imagine a bearded, long haired, flannel wearing guy might look like. (Full fashion disclosure: At least three band-members wore vests, resistant to camouflaging with the natives in the clear marks of unofficial musician uniforms.)

Continue reading "Fleet Foxes, Live @ Hi-Dive, Denver 07.22.2008" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 01:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

[photo cred]

"If you're going to be doing the mosh, be careful," I think I heard Spencer Krug say as I was negotiating with a very snippy beer girl at the back of the room. It was a fittingly enthusiasm dampening statement from a band whose work has sort of outpaced its own humble intentions. Back in 2005, Apologies to the Queen Mary had them constantly mentioned in the same epic breath as their friends and countrymen in Arcade Fire. But where Arcade Fire's success lead them to embrace their bigness--their U2 stadium destiny--Wolf Parade seemed to shrink from the spotlight. As I noted in my now cringeworthy first post ever for this site, they frequently countered big show nerves with college kid drinking. They soon scattered into sidebands, a move that seemed at least as much about logistics as it did aesthetics. With the engaging songs of Sunset Rubdown's Shut Up I am Dreaming in my head and some intriguing Handsome Furs demos bleeding in, I once hypothesized that this temporary dissipation would by make Wolf Parade something of a supergroup by default. When finally stitched back together, the weight of their accumulated work couldn't help but launch them into a different stratosphere of attention and success, I thought. Instead, the sideways hyper-personal tendencies of each songwriter's projects modified (and in certain ways diminished) the wide appeal that Apologies promised. While I personally hold At Mt. Zoomer (the fruit of their reformation) in high regard as one of the more accomplished records of a generally off year, Krug himself concedes it's not likely to land them on SNL any time soon.

So what does that mean for Wolf Parade in 2008? As the sold out two-night stand at the truly massive Terminal 5 proves, they still hold sway over a sizable constituency. But it seemed to me that the songs best suited to that mob were the old hits. "Dear Sons and Daughters of Hungry Ghosts" was an instantly agitating element, outshining the charging, but never sparking "Grey Estates" that preceded it. Terminal 5's stringent on-timeness made me miscalculate my arrival, but I'd wager the set opening "You are a Runner, and I am My Father's Son" caused a similar frenzy. Which is not to say that their increased professionalism and musical ability (not to mention blood to Jaeger ratio) didn't let them nail the new record's pricklier moments. If the swaying guitar line of "Fine Young Cannibals" was even more svelte and assured on stage than on disc, the heaving, tangled mass of "Kissing the Beehive" was a revelation. The band ably shaped the ten-minute track's multiple crescendos in a manner they would never have been able to a few years ago at the crest of their renown.

Wolf Parade - "I'll Believe in Anything"
(live @ Terminal 5, 07.31.2008)

But nothing I heard on Thursday night made as much sense in its cavernous surroundings as their closing number, "I'll Believe in Anything." You know you've heard a band's best song when a rabid crowd immediate gives up hope for a second encore and starts streaming for the exits without a fight. I mean what could they come back and play to follow it? As interesting and progressive as the new record can be, it doesn't contain a track that bleeds emotional resonance like that one. At this point, they seem more likely to move back to playing Webster Hall or the Bowery than making another quantum leap to MSG. They'll likely put out records that are increasingly personal and oblique. While the unimpeachable song-writing talent involved assures continued artistic merit, it doesn't change Wolf Parade's current trajectory--a big band, getting smaller all the time.

Posted by Jeff Klingman at 12:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Lots of people love Dave Matthews Band. I have nothing to add really because I'm not a freshman in college anymore.

This marks the end of Merry Swankster.com's coverage of the Mile High Music Festival. We are rushing to score you guys some of the most art-damaged shit we can find to save us from this incursion.

Enjoy the pretty pictures.

Continue reading "MHMF Sunday: Dave Matthews Band photos" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 06:26 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

[Photos by Merry Swankster]

The Roots put on a show that was part hip hop, part soul revival, part extended jam sessions and part cover showcase (Dylan's "Masters of War" played in its entirety, Zeppelin's "Immigrant Song" teased before a "Jungle Boogie" ending). Energy levels in the tent were high, but nothing came close to matching the stamina of the tuba player. There was no way enough pictures could be taken of the tuba player. Reminded me of the great Black marching bands that always looked cool even though they were marching bands.

Continue reading "MHMF Sunday: Roots photos" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 06:18 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

[Photos by Merry Swankster]

Rub your eyes really hard, stare at the sun and its suddenly 1968, or 1990 when the Black Crowes debuted. What's changed? Probably very little, and given the Crowes' approximation to the sound of the Rolling Stones, that suits them and their fans just fine.

Continue reading "MHMF Sunday: Black Crowes photos" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 06:14 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

[Photos by Merry Swankster]

Flobots are a local hip hop/rock hybrid act that has been making waves beyond their home radius in 2008 with the strength of radio hit "Handlebars". Like most of the bands at this festival, Flobots are not my cup of tea. Think "Lucas with the Lid Off" with a political bent.

Flobots - "Handlebars"

Official version here.

Continue reading "MHMF Sunday: Flobots photos" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 06:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

[Photos by Merry Swankster]

I've been a bit harsh towards the Mexican guitar duo Rodrigo y Gabriella, unduly so in retrospect. I previously panned them for relying too heavily on their flamenco interpretations of hard rock classics in order to grip the crowd. It's a bit of a crutch if not a novelty. Luckily the covers were fewer this time around and I was better able to appreciate the interplay between guitars. I don't know how they did it, but the large main stage crowd was definitely feeling it. The photos may deceive, but the gigantic stage did not succeed in dwarfing the group.

Continue reading "MHMF Saturday: Rodrigo Y Gabriella photos" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 05:30 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

[Photos by Merry Swankster]

The adage: "Spoon is a great studio band, but boring live."

Merry Swankster: "False."

Continue reading "MHMF Saturday: Spoon photos" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 05:21 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

[Photos by Merry Swankster]

I caught a few glimpses of Lupe Fiasco's set while gathering the troops outside the tents. Some serious soul funkiness permeated the air.

Continue reading "MHMF Saturday: Lupe Fiasco photos" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 05:18 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

[Photos by Merry Swankster]

This past weekend marked Denver's foray into the ever growing list of large-scale, multi-day, outdoor music festivals. The inaugural Mile High Music Festival took over the Colorado region's musical consciousness in the huge expanse surrounding Denver's MLS Soccer stadium (the unfortunately named Dick's Sporting Goods Park) in Commerce City, Colorado.

Originally the plan was for this festival to take place in the more centrally located City Park, but concerns over the loud music's effect on the tender ears of the animals housed at the nearby zoo nixed what could have been a more ideal and beautiful park setting. Whether noise complaints from the captive wildlife, or the more articulate howls from their human counterparts in the mostly residential surroundings of City Park are truly to blame is up for debate and manifestly, moot as far as points go.

That said, while Commerce City is not a part of metro Denver that will ever be included on scenic drive listings, the most excellent features of Colorado's natural wonders are tall enough to stymie feeble attempts at hiding their beauty by simply driving further east. So really, even though the end result was not the first choice, the forty (or so) thousand people who discovered Dick's branding efforts didn't exactly settle for the ugly girl to take to the prom.

Continue reading "Mile High Music Festival happened" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 11:20 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

This was my first time seeing the much lauded Girl Talk in person. I had a distant glimpse of the Girl Talk party a few Coachella's ago, and I knew from the ubiquitous photo coverage to expect a lively crowd. This should be further qualified however. For a few hours on a Boulder, CO Friday night, a sweaty mess of people in vibrant colors looked to be a few obliterated inhibitions short of some wicked, PG-13 rated orgy. Though for all the suggestive dancing and provocative fashion, Girl Talk’s perspiring sideshow crowd was fairly innocent. From the extensive color selections and exposed flesh, it is quite obvious which demographic is keeping American Apparel in business. For reasons of practicality amidst the July heat, I cannot with good conscious fault anyone’s style choices.

Girl Talk's show felt like an underground tour through radio hits of the last twenty-five years, and then some. With the guidance of Gillis as pop music ranger, the audience embraced each and every unlikely mash-up with a mixture of honest nostalgia, and sheer joy as the party train rolled into a frenzy. Tag Team's amusing, and somehow strangely legendary, "Whoomp! (There It Is)" blasted from its origin inside the Girl Talk control board (duct taped macbook) until I couldn't indicate any particular bent towards ironic enjoyment of the ‘93 (1993!) hit. I have no choice but to conclude people were genuinely moved to dance in a whirled frenzy, as mentioned, without any notion of satirical statement. These days, I find it refreshing for this to even be possible.

Continue reading "Girl Talk, Live @ Fox Theatre, Boulder 07.11.2008" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 03:36 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

It's near impossible to be the only one enjoying anything in New York. There's an exposing article devoted to every sublime sandwich shop housed in the back of a Vietnamese electronics store, and supposedly secret sales have lines two days before they open their doors. It's might be even tougher to be the only correspondent reporting back from a worthwhile cultural happening. Bands who couldn't fill a community center in Des Moines see their tickets evaporate within seconds of sale and half the crowd seems to be recording streaming video that will be posted in hours. Greedy elitists one and all are forced to grumble and accept that some one else is hip to their find. That's just the way that it is. So, my initial reaction to being one of maybe 8 people present for last week's set from superb Norwegian pop duo Sissy Wish was selfish delight. The blog masses had devoured Robyn and exalted Yelle, but singer/songwriter Siri Alberg's sharp confection have yet to attract a line of online ants, I guess.

But as the she and her Scandi bandmate promptly filled their opening slot last Tuesday night at the Knitting Factory's Tap Bar I couldn't help but feel sorrow that more people weren't present to witness such genuinely exciting and accessible music. Drawing heavily on last year's (domestically unavailable) Beauties Never Die, Siri's set was designed for a much bigger crowd. Though the music was generally filtered through one of the stages two present laptops, the setup was far more thoughtful than your usual Williamsburg Mac experimentalists. There were keyboards, electronic drum pads, and three vocal mics wired for different effects, as well as an electric guitar the striking Norwegian shredded at her discretion. The elastic beats of terrific single "Float" had real weight. The rock moments of Forkcasted anthem "DWTS" weren't canned at all. What impressed my most was that even in a relatively slick "pop" performance, she wasn't afraid of veering towards blasts of white noise for effect. It was sugary at times, but never safe. If some domestic record exec is trolling the web right now, looking for a readymade star, you can guess who I might suggest.

As big as the songs sounded, it was Siri's goofy intensity that sold the neglected performance. Starting in a frilly black jacket and gradually stripping down to an oversized "I [heart] Tech-No" tee, she was perpetually charming the room's void. As painful as it can be to take in a overreaching drone show in an empty room, it's perhaps even more awkward in a way for hits to fall to the floor unloved. As much energy as she could give her enthusiastic hip-hop dancing during would-be singalong "Yayaya," as much emotion as she could wrench from the winding chorus of "Table 44," it was still tough to watch her grasp for the reaction these tracks are sure to generate in the land of milk and herring. Despite the shoddy turnout Siri was cutely humble throughout. "We just met Mary-Kate Olson outside," she gushed. "I've only ever seen celebrities in the movies!" So if no-one but me was similarly giddy to be in her presence, at least the trip overseas wasn't a total loss.

A smattering of songs from Beauties Never Die, to hopefully start a new trickle of fans for Siri's next visit...

Sissy Wish - "Float"

Sissy Wish - "Beauties Never Die"

Sissy Wish - "Table 44"*

* Klein, I meant to bring this one up back before the "44" post. Oh well, nothing was dethroning the Zombies. This is quite capable as a runner up.

Posted by Jeff Klingman at 04:05 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

Photos lifted from the Flickr account of Suicide fan "Frankie Teardrop," please check out the rest of his photos here.

OK, so I know how the internet at large fucking hates reading about anything that didn't happen within the last 24 hours, let alone an event that went down a whole week ago. I'm also quite aware that the show in question has been well documented in all corners of the timely reporting world, and even presented in full as mp3s for free download by nyctaper. I know these things. But it was too extraordinary a show, among all the swell, but ordinary shows I see on a regular basis, for me to let it pass with only a tiny video nod. Don't worry, it'll be short and disjointed, just like you like it.

First, a note about Dan Deacon who "performed" at 6:30, due to stringent McCarren Park curfews. As such, all I know of his show was what could be heard over the loudspeakers as I waited in line to pick up my contest-won tickets. (This line was huge, by the way, much bigger than standard will call, which was empty. I'm convinced that no one under thirty actually paid for the show. More on that later.) After beats distorted within an inch of their life sputtered out, you'd hear a fat, nasal voice giving bizarre dictation to the scant early birds. "Okay, yeah, form a human bridge! No, tighter! OK, now when I count to six, you're gonna run under that bridge and then become a part of it yourself! Faster!" I am now convinced that standing in line outside the venue is the best possible way to experience a Deacon show. (Sorry, Dan. I think "Wham City" is an interesting track. Kisses.)

Tom Tom Club

- I did not pay for this show, it was gifted to me by the fates, so I went into the Tom Tom Club set with a degree of unusual zen. Any radness they might provide would be totally value added. Thus, I didn't bristle when their line-up contained several red flags from the reunion band threat list. Chief among them: A superfluous 20 something DJ, sorry "turntablist," and a wanktastic hired gun guitarist who may or may not have been Stephin Jenkins from Third Eye Blind.

- Tina Weymouth remains cool. Like, really cool. With her sparkling sequin dress and her tasteful sea-foam bass, she was undisputed hot shit still. Chris Frantz, not so much (but as a former Talking Head, obviously cooler than, like, me or you).

- When first reading another accounts of the show, I assumed its description of the athletic dreadlocked gentlemen who sang on several tracks as "Mystic Bowie" was some kind of a snarky nickname. Like "Bowie" because of his smooth glam R& B voice and "Mystic" because he kind of looked like a genie. Turns out that's the man's actual name. Apt, I guess. I wanted badly to scoff at M. Bowie, with his ever present grin and pants that looked like the end result of hunting jesters at a Ren Fair, but it turns out he really did have a pretty good glam voice. I strongly suspect it was the only reason the band played a note perfect, yet still deeply baffling, cover of Hot Chocolate's "You Sexy Thing." His quick-fire reggae-rap interludes, I could not abide. Weirdly not during "Wordy Rappinghood" though. Go figure.

- But like I said initially, it was all value added. From that immortal first record (and really if you assume its just a couple novelty hits padded to album length, you're flat wrong) we got the obvious and undeniable "Genius of Love" and "...Rappinghood," as well as the sweet left-field inclusion "L'Elephant." Al Green's "Take Me to the River" was nice enough too, I guess, for the More Songs About Buildings and Food link alone. I paid nothing, and was well rewarded.

Beloved song of mine they did not play:

Tom Tom Club - "On, On, On, On..."

Devo

- Devo needed no caveats. As a paying customer I could have left light the ludicrous 52-dollar ticket charge and still have been satisfied.

- But you know, experience-wise, I'm not convinced the high ticket prices were such a bad thing. (Easy for me, a contest winner, to say.) The place may have been filled to the brim if the digits in the ticket price were transposed, but it wouldn't have been filled with real Devo fans. I'm positive now, that even I'm not among their ranks. They were all scary, maladjusted suburban dads and assorted shut ins in power domes cheering louder for "Gates of Steel" and "Mongoloid" than they did for "Whip It." It was like an alternate universe Rolling Stones show in there, and I have to say it was pretty awesome. I strongly doubt that any of our current heroes will inspire such long-clutched emotion (I almost typed devotion) in their middle age. Think there'll be throngs of people driving in for the 2038 Liars' reunion? I don't.

- "Gut Feeling" is one of the most exhilarating rock songs ever written. It's so perfect that I've always sort of resented the "Slap Your Mammy" section of the recorded version. I mean, you just finished this amazingly elegant kiss-off of a song, and then you're dragged down into a silly goof. It just cheapens it for me. But live, I finally got it. You can't have all that boulder-down-a-hill accelerating energy without a culminating crash. Cutting off the song after "Gut Feeling" in concert would leave the audience two pumps shy of a hand job. (Sorry for the locker room talk, but I'm considering that the ratio of girls reading this will roughly equal the ratio of girls at the concert. )

- The key to easy longevity seems to be avoidance of showy high notes in your songs. Mark Mothersbaugh can't quite flail like he used to, but he had no problem piercing the target of every quizzical yelp in the band's songbook. It was record-perfect all night. Those are some goooood records...

- It is too bad that Live Nation's curfew gestapo had to cut the show one song short, purportedly denying us "Booji Boy" singing "Beautiful World." Weirdly though, I almost felt like Booji Boy emerging to pull bananas and Twizzlers from his pants and throwing them at the crowd was a fitting finale.* You couldn't top "Gut Feeling/Slap Your Mammy" anyway.

Beloved song of mine they did not play:

Devo - "the Day My Baby Gave Me a Surprize"

* This was the first time an act has thrown food at me since I saw Kool Keith in '01. Then it was bags of uncooked chicken.

Posted by Jeff Klingman at 05:45 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Mollie from Ponytail looks unsure of that guy's "pants"...

Day photos by Devon Banks

If you're still tired from a concert that happened four days ago, is that a testament to the quality of the day or to the deterioration of your body in general? I'm inclined to say both. But my creeping decrepitude aside, 36 bands in 14 hours would take a toll on anyone. OK, so that's how many bands played the 2nd annual After the Jump Fest, but we've got to dial that down a bit. With periodic bouts of frantic troubleshooting and general laws of physics, I probably personally witnessed 20 (in full, or more likely in part) at most. But the beauty of teaming together with 19 other documenting web sites is that the Rashomon effect of numerous overlapping accounts provide the definitive composite that one fragile recollection could not. You can ask Spin Magazine even.

Here's how I remember it, anyway...

Bell

Olga and her boys kicked off the fest in the dark and cozy confines of Galapagos' main stage. The band's live show has evolved beautifully from the first time I saw them play, on the inaugural Neon Lights bill. She began seated on the floor with laptop, as drummer Jason Nazary coaxed some engaging clicks from his digital set up. Two intimidating long haired giants snuck in behind her to add some heft and crunch eventually, but as the band name suggests, it's Olga's show. She's compared to Bjork more often than anyone else, which is understandable. That allusion has more to do with "bigness" of voice than strangeness, though. For a small girl, she can certainly fill a room.

Hiding From the Sun in Galapagos

Lissy Trullie & the Fibs

I think the entirety of Lissy Trullie's rooting section was girls over 6 feet and under 115 pounds (and if that's not an endorsement for attending the next Fibs gig...). But that signifies nothing but the fact that fashion stylist/burgeoning rock star Lissy Trullie is well-known in New York style circles and a bit of a mystery still to the indie rock unwashed. The sharp pop songs that accompany her intriguing tomboy style should easily correct the disparity. Probably my outdoor stage highlight for the day, though truthfully I mainly kept to the dark.

Dinowalrus

OK, so I missed the majority of the drone Valhalla conjured by Dinowalrus, but my girlfriend/photographer classified it as "bitchin' " and I've no grounds to contradict...

Snake & Jet's Amazing Bullit Band

The polite and cheerful Danes whose gear I helped unload early in the day bore little resemblance to the two man dance party that later took the Music Hall stage. The drummer's six-paneled digi pad was surprisingly heavy, and the singer (Snake? Jet? I should have researched...) had dozens of impressive rock star maneuvers somehow hidden in the back pocket of some dangerously tight pants. On a scale of one to delightful, they were wildly amusing.

Monotract

A sleeper pick for the most underappreciated band of the day had to be Brooklyn's Monotract. Nancy Garcia and Roger Rimada made a glorious racket in the cave-like confines of Galapagos, while most of the boots on the ground had migrated to catch Bryan Scary or Chairlift. Fine choices, both, but I wasn't moving--spellbound by frontwoman Garcia's PJ Harvey-esque intensity. It was occasionally obtuse, I'll admit, but with enough songcraft and stage presence to remain continually compelling.

Power Douglas

I couldn't make it over to the Music Hall in time for Power Douglas, but there's at least one cameraman in the world who will never forget it.

Fiasco

Fiasco's main selling point is teenage abandon, and there were no disappointed customers during Saturday's set. I like the above picture especially, as it seems Lucien Buscemi is receiving psychic guidance from the Norse God of rocking out. The Sky Father has counseled his charges well, as sacred head banging abounded.

Ponytail

Ponytail's feel good set of the festival also drew the biggest crowd of the free day fest (with Pela's N. 6th Street performance coming close). There had been an ever shifting mass of people cruising in and out of the venues at a whim all day long (just as we'd envisioned), but once the magnetic Maryland band started screeching like they meant it/they were on fire, the Music Hall filled and stayed filled.

As tight as the band was, as fierce the guitar shifts, as thudding the beats, it was impossible to watch them without giving the majority of your focus to possessed pixie Mollie Siegel. She was dressed like she just came from 5th period gym class, and spent the entire set hopping around the stage with body language that translated roughly to "I am a gorilla, and I will grab your balls." Her insane yelping vocals were animalistic as well. The pithy quip around my immediate circle of smarties was "Liars meet the Lion King." Which is not to say that everyone didn't have a great time, just that we like pithy quips. Just a pleasure of a set, really.

Continue reading "Postcards from the Festival" »

Posted by Jeff Klingman at 02:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

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 (13)

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

[Click for larger]

"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

[Click for larger]

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)

Matt makes a heaven joke.

Monolith is over. Excellent lineups, creative use of indoor space, and a final blowout (however wordy) by the Flaming Lips capping things off last night. Hopefully these will define the festival as it focuses on improvement for next year. Ancillary to the music was the serious amount of legwork exerted by attendees going up and down the venues' stairs to get around the different stages. Fitting for Colorado to add hiking as an inadvertent central aspect to an event, but at least it wasn't hot, so pick your poison.

I believe that overall Monolith was a success and will be defined as such. Definitely from the point of view of the artists who were all quick to point out gratitude for being able to perform amongst such incredibly beautiful surroundings. Serving as constant reminders for the locals not to take the natural treasure of Red Rocks park for granted.

However excellent the lineup was, nothing about Monolith conveyed the feeling of a real "festival". If the long term goal of Monolith includes efforts in making it a destination festival which attracts audiences located outside immediate driving areas, organizers will need to seriously think how something unique can added to the experience. Coachella and Bonnaroo are the big boys of American music festivals for reasons that transcend the music. They are all encompassing. Even after the final note, the feeling lives in your soul as a fond memory, later gelled into anticipation during the months leading up to next editions. Simply adding stages and stretching show schedules into the early afternoon does not a festival make. I don't know if kettle corn, funnel cakes, and hippie knick knacks (none available at Monolith) change things, but slapping the word festival on all day music concerts doesn't either.

Look for lots of detailed coverage on performances as well as more pointed commentary on the good and bad from Monolith's debut on Merry Swankster tomorrow, and all this week (or at least sometime in the not too distant future if our consistently unreliably track record is anything to go by).

Posted by Merry Swankster at 06:37 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)

All of the advance warning for Shocking Pinks' first ever New York City show consisted of a last day MySpace bulletin, a late afternoon PR e-mail, and a humble post from the Brooklyn Vegan. Considering that this non existent push was for a band whose pre-existing records are totally unavailable even in the wilds of New York, it would be fair to say that if you weren't deeply in the know, you weren't gonna know. It probably should have been obvious to us that there was no way that this impromptu event was going to be prompt. We sat in the tiny Orchard Bar, nursing waters and head colds for over an hour before our more intuitive and snugly panted contemporaries filled the room to the degree that the thing could begin.

Frontman Nick Harte, managing to look painfully goth even in a Paul McCartney t-shirt, stood to the pink lit stage's far right, while members of New York City's Panthers set up stage left as his makeshift (but probably ongoing) live band. The visual disparity between the band and its leader was stark. Harte; rail thin, sleepy, and introverted. The Panthers; stocky, sweaty, and intense.

Sonically, the two factions were on seperete pages as well. Aborted set opener "Emily" sounded thick and confused until it was called off entirely, as the band was apparently playing a completely different song. An understandable gaffe considering there'd only been less than a week for the unit to gain coherence, but kind of a rough break in context. The game of hipster telephone that was the gig's advertisement ensured that there were at least two cameras to every four attendees capturing every false step for prosperity (if that's what getting posted on various music websites can be called). Once the kinks were worked out, the short set was indeed buzz worthy.

Replacement opener, "Victims," was quick and rad, Harte's imploding shoegaze posture bizarrely matched with the bounding enthusiasm of his troupe. They added muscle to his thin but gorgeous DIY melodies. "This Aching Deal" was transformed from bedroom New Order, to well, louder bedroom New Order. "How Am I Not Myself," "End of the World," and even another go at "Emily" were all immensely charming and romantic with a second guitarist handling all of the record's keyboard melodies. The added six string textures made everything seem impossible dreamy.

The show ended in an orgy of feedback wankery, each guitarist crouched in front on an amp, back to the audience, pounding in rapid down strokes like twelve year old boys in the throng of self discovery. The white noise continued for four or five minutes, long enough for people to start filing for the exits. But you can't have an event designed solely for buzz and interest piquing without a little self indulgence can you?

Expect to hear much much more about the band as their DFA debut compilation Singles nears release.

Shocking Pinks - "End of the World"

Previously:
"Like a Movement Without the Bother of All of the Meaning," "Video: Shocking Pinks - "End of the World"

Posted by Jeff Klingman at 01:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Our long, unabated tradition of non-expeditious follow ups continues. Now that we are two Saturdays removed from DPUMS, the colloquial acronym for the Denver Post Underground Music Showcase, it is fair time to tell you what went down. Seeing as how Merry Swankster's Denver resources lie in the eyes and ears of just one person, a comprehensive wrap up of all the action that went down at all the South Broadway music venues would be impossible. But that doesn't really matter does it? Along with the usual suspects putting on shows (Hi-Dive, 3 Kings, etc), an eclectic mix of shops in the area lent their real estate for added square footage to the DPUMS event, serving as refreshing backdrop to Denver's burgeoning independent music scene.

Stepping out of the standard venues was a cool experience and gave the showcase a unique character with minimal effort. Without getting into additional benefits of boots-in-the-door exposure for these shops, their one-day engagement as music venue allowed for interesting set pieces for performing musicians. Most impressive was IndyInk's display of skateboards as canvas pieces. Hung in a grid pattern on the walls of the shop where dozens of wheel-less skateboards, or would that be called just a 'board'? The concept worked so well it appeared specifically designed for this moment. Always count on random art installations to brighten up the joint. I've always been a fan of non-traditional spots for live music settings, overly romanticized visions of roof top jams are partly to blame, but DPUMS lo-fi conversions drove the point home further.

Though most of the M.S. crew have at one point or another passed through the mecca of music showcase orgies that is SXSW, I have yet to pull the trigger and experience Austin's annual musical bacchanal. From I gather about SXSW, its where I imagine the inspiration for DPUMS lies. Both the spirit and layout of SXSW seems to form the backbone of DPUMS' vision, albeit a spec size version compared to the legendary craziness of Austin in March. (I should have an answer on this directly from the source shortly (hint hint).

After the jump: DPUMS from the vantage point of the Merry Swankster. Pictures are included at no charge with the exception of Porlolo's lovely performance (forgotten memory card!).

Continue reading "Underground Music Showcase @ Various venues, Denver, CO" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 02:23 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

[Photo cred: Jeremiah Garcia]

I too attended the Keyspan Park Daft Punk show Thursday (look at me, whoo!), and a review is definitely forthcoming. While I cannot promise the painstaking effort that Sebastian put into the Coachella set, but here's a link to the complete bootleg set.

Posted by Keith O'Brien at 11:20 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

* Again due to a girlfriend/photographer workstrike/vacation, photo is Flickr-napped from a man called Jalapeño, whose work you can see here.

Welsh indie pop sensations Los Campesinos! would headline the Mercury Lounge the night after I saw them play to a sparse room in an unusually early opening gig. So there would be no ecstatic sing alongs from the newly dedicated, and not enough arms to support the crowd surfing that was depicted in floating pictures from Saturday night's show. It was a warm up gig, a chance for the band to feel out the space and pick up a few extra bucks. It was also a free pass for me (which explains why I didn't care).

The young band was awfully enthusiastic from the start, members filling every corner of the stage in the manner that we've come to expect from their Arts and Crafts label (home to platoon-ish bands such as Broken Social Scene). Frontman Gareth sported a Casiotone for the Painfully Alone t-shirt and a truly awful haircut. One disembodied strand of hair jutted from one side of an otherwise close cropped head, only to be swept over the front of the face. It came perilously close to personifying a made up hipster hair style I've long longed for; the ironic combover. His male bandmates weren't as folically challenged, but also much more non descript, looking like the sorts who could have been in any indie band from the UK anytime in the last 15 years. Luckily, the were framed by the comely violin player Harriet on the right and the truly delicately beautiful Aleksandra on keys to the left classing up the joint. Also, according to press materials all of their last names are Campesino, so they really had no choice but to form this band.

The early set number, "We Throw Parties, You Throw Knives," was a prime example of the real charm the band can occasionally display. Enough energy to get feet to moving, a dash of delicacy provided by the string swells, and some smart lyrics. Gareth Campesino sings like a less sarcastic Eddie Argos, which could grate on the nerves in the set's duller compositions, but suited this track just fine. The non ironic (or was it, I can't even tell anymore) slip into the Lesley Gore's "It's My Party (and I'll Cry if I Want to)" was especially delightful.

You'd think that competently covering one of my favorite band's very best songs would be enough to win me over, but the band's energetic take on Pavement's "Frontwards" managed to leave me cold. As much as I enjoyed mouthing the words along, the sped up ramshackle version tanked a good deal of the song's unchecked romance. "I've got style/ miles and miles/ So much style that it's wasted..." is just not a line to start pogoing to, after all. Perhaps I'm just being picky though, as it was quite warmly received.

More unequivocally good was the mighty anthem, "You! Me! Dancing!" Harriet did her part to sell the opening minute's stately bait and switch, playing somber violin notes straight out of some daftly titled Mogwai track. But when the fun comes bounding in, motion is hard to suppress. Gareth and Aleksandra traded lines and doe eyes in between his elastic spastic act, taking every few minutes to calm down to a serene place before launching off again. It's in joyous compositions like these that a possiblyu bright future for the band may lie. They're a bit precious and a tad excitable at this point, but there are songwriting chops here, I'm sure.

Posted by Jeff Klingman at 04:15 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

* Devon Banks was out of town, so these swell photos have been Flickr-napped from one Jamie Kleiman, whose work you should further investigate here.

The word I keep coming back to when seeking to describe the Handsome Furs' New York City debut last week is "sweaty." The Mercury Lounge was certainly cooler than the city street and though full, there weren't so many bodies that you felt perpetually trapped in the sphere of your neighbor's body heat. The recently married duo that comprise the Furs had a fair amount of glisten to them, but no more so than anyone exerting effort under stage light. It's the music itself, that gives the perspiring feeling. Alexei Perry's rough mechanical beats and bloody synth throbs are the hot sweat, sweat from dancing in motion in a warehouse or someplace that's not quite sanctioned for top line sound. Dan Boeckner's jagged guitar bursts the cold sweat, sweat born from anxiety and desperation. As soon they took stage and launched into Plague Park's "What We Had," there wasn't a dry brow in the house.

They played each and every song from Park, in arrangements that were quite faithful to their recorded versions though in a slightly altered order. Dan Boeckner attacks his guitar, shaking it violently as if the sharp chords are lodged tightly inside and he desperately wants them to fly free. His gaunt appearance resembles nothing so much as a young Iggy Pop who decided that not eating was a better plan than exercise and thus has no strength to be that kinetic. His energy is more internal and intense than flashy. But focusing on the sketchball looks or jerky movement does injustice to the fact that the man writes affecting and anthemic melodies. It was impossible to listen to a song like "Cannot Get Started," to Dan emoting with his hungry heart on black sleeve, without being reminded of Bruce's earnest populist hits.

Dan's lovely wife Alexei looks like trouble. From my dimly lit vantage point in the crowd, it took me a good deal of internal dialog to decide that the large wing configuration on her chest was a chunky necklace and not an aggressive tattoo. A crowd member bellowed that she looked like Cleopatra, which was fairly accurate as well, to complicate matters. She played her broken synths and bargain drum patterns as intensely as her mate, thrusting her hands down violently as if practicing CPR on a dummy with no give. Songs like "Dead + Rural" were entirely dependent on the push she gives them. There was a palpable sweetness on stage as Dan interacted with his new wife, so I'd feel awfully guilty getting crude to describe the effects of performing with such commitment in a flimsy tank top. The word "pendulous" shall not appear in this review, you have my word.

The one new song performed was entitled "Heaven" and billed by Boeckner in advance as "sounding like New Order," though it actually sounded like Wolf Parade, or you know, Handsome Furs. It was also improbably explained as being written about seeing the Jeremy Piven vehicle Smoking Aces in sunny Estonia. "You know how Jeremy Piven is sorta good in Entourage? Well this was like that but worse," said Boeckner with surprising pop culture acumen for an occasionally Luddite lyricist who emphatically wants to "black out a million screens." Despite the English language being littered with suitable rhymes like given or livin', there were no discernible references to the life and work of Mr. Ari Gold.

After they'd cycled through all of their known works to an ecstatic crowd reaction, they decided forgo the usual encore fan dance by proclaiming that there was only one other song they even knew how to play, namely the aforementioned Tom Petty classic, "You Got Lucky." Though the kids can't help but sound slightly spooked and creepy, the sentiments behind the song were obviously heartfelt. In between teeth gnashing guitar solos or stuttering beats, there was the unmissable delight of two people who realize that good love is indeed hard to find, and luck is as good a word for the eventual bond as any. These tender drops in the otherwise dark pool aptly illustrated that New York was also got quite fortunate that the long paranoid arm of the law finally chilled the fuck out enough to let the lovebirds enter our country from the wilds of the north at long last.

Posted by Jeff Klingman at 12:45 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Just when I thought I mastered the science of precise arrival for a show start I get slapped in the face. I’m referring to the fact I missed a good chunk of Bishop Allen’s set on Tuesday. Reasons being: only one warm up act and it always takes an extra fifteen minutes to get out of the house when you think you’re ready. Pack the camera, grab extra batteries, the car keys, finish that beer, pat the dog, lock the windows, hide the gimp, and on and on.

We walked into the Hi-Dive right after the section of “Like Castanets” where the trumpet solo introduces the Santiago inspired theme. First impression of the band was that live, they do not hold up to the crispness of their recordings. Of course this is somewhat expected, but I’d be lying if I said the forcefulness and nuances of Justin Rice’s vocals that I’ve grown to love were present onstage. It’s possible the high Colorado altitude had some effect, which was noted by the band as it is by every other band that comes to town. Seriously people, we hear it EVERY SHOW. I know it takes some getting used to, but it gets old for us locals. At least spin it with a parlay of local-humor with the one about the hucksters who tricked you into eating Rocky Mountain oysters or something, otherwise the mention reeks of a set up for a later excuse on why the show wasn’t up to par.

I’m not saying the show was not up to par however. I don’t pretend to be an expert on audio engineering but I wouldn’t be honest if I said the show lived up to my expectations. Though I must debase my criticism somewhat as I missed both Broken String standouts: the plucky "Click Click Click," and recent MS Pick, "Rain." The irresistibility of both those tracks is maddening, as is their omission to my evening. Sigh. What are you gonna do?

I can commend Bishop Allen for the excellent structure for the show, something sorely lacking in many young bands. Like a great mix CD a good setlist is key to holding an audience. Momentum builders like “The Monitor” (“about a building in my hometown in Brooklyn”) and “Things Are What You Make of Them” crested with the punchy “Middle Management” and “Clementines” before ending the up tempo numbers with “Choose Again.”

In any other lifetime “Choose Again” would be a Johnny Cash song. Starting a song with the words, “I’ve been down to Memphis/ It’s where my family goes to die” is pretty ballsy and badass, the kind of qualities Cash epitomized. Lyrics like: “Heaven ain’t got no space for me/But there’s plenty of beds in hell” are juxtaposed with the ‘keep your head up’ refrain of finding light in the poorly chosen darkness. “If at first you don’t choose right, choose again.” Is this is a set up for a movie scene or what?

Continue reading "Bishop Allen - Live @ Hi-Dive, Denver, CO - 08.07.07" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 02:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Monday, August 6
The Beltholes @ Larimer Lounge
The Fray @ Red Rocks
Great Northern/The Comas @ Hi-Dive

Tuesday, August 7
Bishop Allen/Page France @ Hi-Dive
Larry Keel & Natural Bridge @ Fox Theatre
Rufus Wainwright @ Fillmore Auditorium

Wednesday, August 8
Dios Malos @ Larimer Lounge
Missing DuFrenes @ Herman's Hideaway
Mr . Pacman @ Hi-Dive
Patti Smith @ Boulder Theater
Reed Foehl @ Fox Theatre
Rush @ Red Rocks
The Street Dogs @ Marquis Theater
Video Hippos @ Rhinoceropolis

Thursday, August 9
Ezra Furman And The Harpoons @ Hi-Dive
Jason Isbell/Centro-Matic @ Larimer Lounge
The Rentals @ Gothic Theatre
The String Cheese Incident @ Red Rocks

Friday, August 10
David Grisman Quintet @ Boulder Theater
Harry & The Potters @ Denver Public Library
Meese @ Bluebird Theater
Pena @ Larimer Lounge
Red Cloud West @ Hi-Dive
The String Cheese Incident @ Red Rocks

Saturday, August 11
Denver Post Underground Music Showcase @ South Broadway - Various venues
Little Fyodor And Babushka @ Larimer Lounge
The String Cheese Incident @ Red Rocks

Sunday, August 12
The String Cheese Incident @ Red Rocks

Schedule appears courtesy of Mystik Spiral.

Posted by Merry Swankster at 11:37 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Judging from the fashion choices of the teenage skewing crowd on Tuesday night, specifically the risque (RE: hooker x raver) numbers on several young women, Paris Hilton's powers of skank inspired evening wear are much stronger than I ever thought possible. It all reinforced my plans for the life of a potential future daughter. Her closet will be monitored daily by a rotating team of guards and she will be trailed at all times when leaving the house to ensure a quick change in the car is not a viable go-around to my controlling tactics. You'll see no pictures of the vinyl, underwear, garter belts, or knee-high boots here because flaunting kiddie porn laws is not something we are interested in.

Two of my favorite French robots where on hand at Red Rocks this week for a long awaited show between the coolest wedges of rock on the planet. While one could easily argued that the men behind the metal masks could be just about anyone, since simply looking like the Daft Punk duo doesn't appear all that difficult beyond the skill needed to get into a motorcycle suit and don a helmet. For showmanship criteria there is the need to appear in constant groove with the music, a medically screened aversion to epileptic seizures triggered by flashing lights and maintaining the impression of electronic music manipulation. Enlist someone to make sure the pre-recorded Daft Punk playlist is accurately patched through the speakers and your "Daft Punk show" is practically complete. Add people, optional mind stimulating fertilizer (beer, other things) and you're all set. That said, and stressing the mindblowing light show, nameless DJ stand-ins rocking the robot costumes would still be worth the price of admission.

Any further discussion of Daft Punk on this website is beyond duplicative at this point. But for posterity reasons here is the summary short and sweet like: Daft Punk at Red Rocks was very much like the legendary Coachella show, except the element of surprise was gone, hordes of people were not being sucked in from other sub-par performances, and at one point both Frenchman flipped a switch turning their robot suits into red neon outlined Tron-bots, which was awesome. The performance of "The Prime Time of Your Life" was an extended version and very, very sick.

Enjoy the pictures. Lots more after the jump, along with remaining summer tour dates. Au revoir.

Continue reading "Daft Punk - Live @ Red Rocks, Morrison, CO - 07.31.07" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 02:45 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

After a relatively light week of music in the Colorado area, this week is absolutely loaded, hence the visual. Hope everyone caught up on sleep. Schedule appears courtesy of Mystik Spiral.

Monday, July 30
Big Business @ Larimer Lounge
Patty Griffin @ Chautauqua Auditorium
Silversun Pickups @ Ogden Theater
Snow Patrol @ Red Rocks

Tuesday, July 31
Aqueduct/Smoosh/Blitzen Trapper @ Hi-Dive
Daft Punk/The Rapture @ Red Rocks
Hank Williams III @ Gothic Theatre
High On Fire @ Larimer Lounge
The Lovemakers @ Marquis Theatre
Patty Griffin @ Denver Botanic Gardens

Wednesday, August 1
Green Carpeted Stairs @ Larimer Lounge
Modest Mouse/Band Of Horses @ Red Rocks
The Subdudes/Matt Nathanson @ Fox Theatre
Willy Mason/Fionn Regan @ LuLu's Kitchen

Thursday, August 2
Jeremy Fisher/Sea Wolf @ The Hill
John Hiatt/Shawn Colvin @ Denver Botanic Gardens
Kris Kristofferson @ Boulder Theatre
Paula Cole/Ryan Adams @ Fox Theatre
Slidelle @ Larimer Lounge

Friday, August 3
Augie March @ Larimer Lounge
Ryan Adams/Old 97's/DeVotchka @ Red Rocks
Steve Earle/Rodrigo y Gabriela/Lori McKenna @ Fox Theatre

Saturday, August 4
After Eden @ Larimer Lounge
Colin Hay @ Soiled Dove
Eisley @ Marquis Theatre
The Fray/Meese @ Red Rocks
Marc Broussard @ Fox Theatre

Sunday, August 5
The Fray/Born In The Flood/Dualistics @ Red Rocks
Hot IQ's BBQ Show @ Larimer Lounge
John Hiatt/Shawn Colvin @ Chautauqua Auditorium

Posted by Merry Swankster at 09:40 AM | Permalink | Comments (5)

[Click image for high resolution glory]

Not content with backing just one music festival this summer, Merry Swankster.com is happy to help present the Denver Post Underground Music Showcase. Reppin' both NYC and the Mile-Hi, cause that's how we do...

Official Press Release:

Denver Post UMS more than triples in size, marries your mom, programs her VCR

DENVER, Colo. – Hear that? It’s the sound of an exploding underground music scene, complete with arson-quality accelerants and heart-shaped shrapnel in yr stonewashed jeans.

The Denver Post’s seventh annual Underground Music Showcase returns to South Broadway in downtown Denver on Sat., Aug. 11, 2007 with more than triple the number of bands and double the venues. Last year we wrangled 25 of the Mile High City’s most exciting indie rock, folk, electronic/DJs, gothic country, punk – you name it – into venues like the Hi-Dive, Three Kings Tavern and the Skylark.

This year we return with over 80 bands, DJs and comedians in a dozen venues, all for only $10 per wristband ($12 day of the show), which allows you to move freely from venue to venue without cover. We’re expecting 2,500-3,000 music lovers this year, up from the 1,000 that showed up in 2006. The best part? 100 percent of the door proceeds go to the bands.

On Aug. 5 the Denver Post will also run the results of its comprehensive annual Underground Music Poll, which queries 100 area critics, writers, musicians, label and venue owners to determine which act deserves the mantle of Best Local Band. Previous winners include Munly & Lee Lewis Harlots (2006), Matson Jones (2005), Dressy Bessy (2004), Planes Mistaken for Stars (2003), DeVotchKa (2002) and Sixteen Horsepower (2001)..

If you’d like to write about the festival, contact one of the nice people above. And please forward to his to anyone else that cares about local music…

A partial list of bands and venues is below [after the jump -MS].

//DP-ums - website (live after 7.20)

Continue reading "Denver Post Underground Music Showcase" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 06:30 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Someday in the far future we will tell tales to our children about 2007…

Once upon a time in the ‘00s 'global awareness' concerts for various causes were scheduled simultaneously around the world and rolled out at a yearly clip (clip will be an old fogey term in the future). Downloaded music was only a small percentage of overall music sales. Having a blog was considered somewhat novel and not, like it is today, assigned at birth. Before taking over and renaming the tallest building in Chicago, Pitchfork Media was an online-only purveyor of taste. Hard to believe I know, but the story I tell is true.

Mentioning Pitchfork's early days bring to mind a band called Battles and the 9.1 score their Mirrored album received that year. I remember the Best New Music qualifying score meeting mass confusion amongst many of my friends. Deep down in their hearts they didn't understand the cause for such high marks, confused they were by this (superficially) melody-challenged band, but never would they publicly state their feelings due to the social shaming that followed disagreements with the kings of discernment...

I'll cut my future self off right there in effort to stay on subject. Plus I'm sure my future audience was cleverly smiling and nodding while really digging that nano-bot iPod kicking tunes directly into the brain. For the record – I’m still eagerly awaiting for the day when it can become a reality.

If your only exposure to Battles was the Animal Collective sounding "Atlas," you might be like one of these friends I mention above, bored with the vocal tinkering production of cartoonish voiceovers. Alas, the point of why Battles matters would then be missed completely and that would be unfortunate. The few “vocals” that remind of Animal Collective are the work of avant-garde performer Tyondai Braxton, and his mark on Battles should not be thought of as a focal one.

Continue reading "Battles - Live @ Larimer Lounge, Denver, CO - 07.08.07" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 04:17 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Dan Deacon's interactive display of sound and body manipulation took over the Hi-Dive last week for a rare 16+ show. The somewhat all-ages show warranted a temporary border fence dividing the older skewing (and very thirsty) bar patrons from the much younger crowd watching from the stage area. This parched majority had the effect of making you feel either old or young, depending on which side of the empty/full argument you most often associate with. An ancillary result of this alcohol compliance measure was the cage-like barricade offering a buffer from Dan Deacon’s antics for the legal side of the aisle. By providing relative safety for those on the bar-side of the Hi-Dive, the barrier offered protection from the constant danger risked by all who witness the mania of a Dan Deacon show from up close. After all, this is the man with an undeclared seditious agenda to destroy the phenomenon of cross-armed “amuse me” hipsterdom.

Dan Deacon looks like a nerdy pied piper who travels the world looking for a place to very noisily play with his toys. Deacon’s arsenal of colorful gadgetry fits somewhat neatly on a small table set up in front of the stage rather than on it. Manning the instrument board and swapping sound effect microphones for the duration of most songs, it almost feels like he morphs into superhero music geek when performing. By superhero music geek I of course mean MC Retardo. Creating a world of literally enveloping performance art via video game sound effects, cartoonish vocals, inane Adam Sandler-like gibberish and medication-free A.D.D. existence made easier for a one man band by employing the modern trend of iPod cued backing tracks.

Continue reading "Dan Deacon - Live @ Hi-Dive, Denver, CO - 6.28.07" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 06:53 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Along with Emily Haines (Metric) Leslie Feist is probably best known for sharing female vocal duties with Canadian collective Broken Social Scene. She goes simply as Feist when on her own and on her own is where you will find Feist at the moment. Unlike the lyrical themes of Feist's songs - never settled, thus never having time to love - the troubadour lifestyle she is known for has gained her a rapt following. Holding fort atop one of 2007's most critically praised albums, The Reminder has captured the imagination of many with an irresistible combination of sparse indie-pop framed by her raspy and seductive vocals. Words like adorable, pretty, clever, intelligent, sweet and endearing form just part of the wonky dissections of praise heaved onto Feist. If you think this build up is a cunning set up before I introduce the dreaded 'o' word (hint:rhymes with "rover ate it") then friends, I'm afraid to say it is not. Chalk up the Merry Swankster as another convert adding to the growing write ups focused on Feist's magical ability to do no wrong and just about everything right.

Friday night Feist headlined a sold out Boulder theater packed with an adoring crowd. Grizzly Bear were scheduled to open but had to cancel at the last minute after suffering from vehicular dysfunction after the previous show in Minneapolis. Because of an early tip to M.S. HQ regarding this unlucky situation we were able to substitute a tasty dinner of tapas and cocktails in place of the warm up act. Of course this also meant I have nothing to report on the provisional act doing the filling in at the Boulder theater. Word on the street was that Feist's band performed a set. No idea, but I can recommend several excellent small plate selections, hot and cold, from a restaurant that will remain nameless until that Merry Swankster branded food blog ever takes off. Still though, it came as unfortunate news to the Merry Swankster crew. That being said, and with no disrespect towards Grizzly Bear, by the end of the night we were so enamored by Feist's incredible show that our denial of a Grizzly fix was but an afterthought. Sorry fellas! Trust that we yelled loudly for you on that voicemail (more on this later).

Listening to The Reminder on record and one cannot be faulted for thinking a live Feist show might fall flat. Potential is always there for washy mixes hiding the nuances of her fluttery voice or loud crowds spoiling the optimal listening environment. On a less critical note there is also the expectation that you'll experience, for lack of a better term, a boring show. Such are the reasons live shows are the wondrous events they are. Perceived misconceptions shattered in the pure escapade of the artist to listener experience. The pace of songs and showmanship by Feist and her band struck all criterion points like a mystic dart repeatedly nailing bulls-eyes all night long. During a particularly beautiful sans-band solo performance, Feist was onstage all by her lonesome sounding like she channeled the living ghosts of Simon and Garfunkel's "Bridge Over Troubled Water" - I think it was on the "The Park." Exuding a unique hushed atmospheric feel on these quieter tunes that at first appear meager until riches of heartbreaking feeling and stunning tone get discovered.

[Continued with pictures, MP3, and video after the jump]

Continue reading "Feist - Live @ Boulder Theatre, Boulder, CO - 6.22.07" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 10:12 AM | Permalink | Comments (4)

[Photo cred]

Hot Chip - "Over and over"

Hot Chip are five nerdy dudes lined up behind an arsenal of keyboards. In spite of the non-traditional set up they somehow pull off an entertaining show. Last night they played Denver's Gothic theater and this song brought the house down. Feel the heat!

Posted by Merry Swankster at 01:19 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Brakesbrakesbrakes are a band from England - a far and distant land where people drive on the other side of the road, say obscenities like “cunt” without sounding as bad as Americans, and where the band's name is 66.6% shorter in length. Turns out another band calls itself the Brakes in the US so Brakes became Brakesbrakesbrakes when they crossed the pond. Not an unprecedented occurrence as previous groups like Charlatans UK, et al, can attest. America’s colonial history with Britain is too littered with such examples. Countless towns, cities and even states are named in a similarly boring manner. All one has to do is look at a map of the eastern seaboard. New England and New York are just a few examples. Anyway, truncated and clean is how the Merry Swankster likes things, so I will refer to the band as they’re known at home for the purpose of this dispatch.

Last week saw the Brakes trudge through a late spring snowstorm in the high country of Colorado before safely arriving into Denver. I'm still a fairly recent Denver transplant so I tend to forget how the unpredictable temperament of Mother Nature armed with mountain conditions effects incoming travelers from the west. Though Denver's elevation may be a mile high, the perception of it being in the mountains is incorrect. The city marks the beginning of the plains - when traveling eastbound, end of the plains when heading west – with the majestic Rocky Mountain Front Range dominating western vistas and dictating Denver’s meteorological status. Sometimes changing by the hour. The popular saying ‘round these parts, “if you don’t like the weather, wait 30 minutes.” The diametric opposite of this profile would be Los Angeles, with no weather or seasons known by her well tanned residents (fires, earthquakes and landslides notwithstanding). Together, the two contrasting cities create a sort of universal macro balance, leveling things out in the grand scheme of things.

Despite fourteener sized obstacles, the Brakes endured the conditions to present fans a fantastic evening of their signature punk via-the-pub rock music at S. Broadway's Hi-Dive. While in the mercy of wild weather that produces snowfall in June, lead Brake Eamon Hamilton told a tale of looking forward to a meeting with this Dave character while driving through the mountains. Upon arriving and learning there was no Dave he was disappointed (a typo on the tour itinerary referred to the June 6 gig at a nonexistent “Hi-Dave”), an anecdote he would refer back to throughout the evening. Most memorably when he stood stoically at the edge of the low stage and momentarily stared blankly towards the corner of the room waving his right hand, looking like a cult leader on a Kool-Aid rush. With a hint of madness in his glazed over eyes he greeted his imaginary friend, “Hi Dave.”

[Continued Here with pictures, MP3, and more]

Continue reading "Brakesbrakesbrakes - Live @ Hi-Dive, Denver, CO - 6.7.07" »

Posted by Merry Swankster at 12:53 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Before last night's Hi-Dive show I thought I was going to see BrakesBrakesBrakes, Pela, and Electric Soft Parade. During the show I realized an unannounced sideshow would include a terribly intrusive and aggressive photographer.

I have been to countless shows in my life, everything from tiny dingy bars and gigantic festivals and everything in between. Never in my life have I witnessed anyone with the gumption that this particular photo hound displayed.

Dude would lean into the stage to get inches away from the bands so he could attack them with a barrage of flashes. Before I’m accused of being a finicky music dork, I should tell you that the guitarist of Electric Soft Parade yelled at the guy after a particularly vicious strobe of hits. Perturbed and at wits end he yelled directly at him, “Flash! Flash! Flash! Flash!”

Between songs he turned his focus to the crowd. Looking for candid reactions from people not thrown off by the massive camera eye in their face I guess. The spectacle was terribly distracting. Unfortunately we didn’t have a microphone to yell into so instead I took pictures of him and am now blogging it. Jot it down as a modern-era passive aggressive response.

It got worse when he removed the flash and raised it in the air, blocking viewing angles at the small club. When finished snapping he rested his ass against the stage while the smug look on his face screamed, “I got called in for this?” I think he could do much better in a paparazzi crew. Those dudes don't care about anything.

I never claimed to be an expert on photographer etiquette, but is this acceptable behavior? The flash removing thing was especially infuriating. My only regret is that I didn't get more in his face with my flimsy digi-Canon.

[My own dispatch and M.S. non-obtrusive photographs coming shortly.]

Continue reading "Denver's most annoying photographer" »

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