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I came to the party late on American Analog Set. A couple years ago I was invited to an event deep in Brooklyn for a publicity company celebrating their tenth year in business. Broken Social Scene played for a small crowd of jaded music writers. Andrew Kenny was there; his fiancée (wife?) was one of the publicists at the agency. I didn’t really know him outside of being “the guy who covered "Line of Best Fit" on a split EP with Ben Gibbard.
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While few major artists would dare even attempt to play a concert that included none of the songs that made them famous, PJ Harvey overwhelmed a Seattle crowd by doing just that on June 16th at the Moore. With John Parish handling lead guitar, Harvey unapologetically blasted through a set limited to material from their two collaborative albums, the recently released A Man A Woman Walked By and the 1996 Dance Hall At Louse Point.
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New Zealand (and sometimes Aussie) trio Bachelorette charmed their way into my heart last Saturday at the Triple Door. They opened the show for the bewitching Maryland native Bill Callahan, and I couldn't have picked a better inaugural Triple Door experience than that. Even though we arrived right as Bachelorette went on, we were seated at the front row of chairs, with a bird's eye view of the performers.
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David Byrne is the kind of performer that causes you to scratch your head when considering your expectations for one of his concerts. Will he pull a Bob Dylan and render old favorites abhorrent and unrecognizable? Is he, ala Dr. Frankenstein, ashamed of the creations that made him popular? What will he say about his former affiliation with his Band that Shall Not Be Named?
The answers: no, no, and well, if you don't have something nice to say... Byrne exceeded any and all expectations, delivering a show that was so incredibly high energy that the audience was barely able to contain itself in its seats. Seattle danced, people. DANCED. We are a city notorious for being stoic at best at the best of concerts. Byrne’s spectacular musicians and the high quality of the Eno-collaborated songs were so infectious that people popped out of their seats like something had bitten them. The ushers were hard pressed to keep the happy pandemonium under control, initially, and, by the end, had given up entirely.
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The Feral Children and White Rabbits (shown above) are two groups who are at their best calibur during their shows; their music and talent cannot truly be believed unless witnessed in person. Both are heavily instrumental bands with a multi-percussionist backbone, and both have a fiercly spirited way of playing their version of indie rock. These bands brought their sound to life Monday night at the Crocodile with a vivacious enthusiasm.
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This show was so good, I actively sought out and purchased a poster. A poster! Do you even remember the last time you did that?
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Saturday night at The Vera Project featured Port O’Brien opening for Papercuts. The crowd was thin but enthusiastic and these California-based bands held their attention rapt. While Papercuts tend to be more 60s inspired shoegaze and Port O’Brien sidesteps an easy country rock label by being so noisy, they share a heaviness that impressed itself onto The Vera viewers. Whether it be a pound of fuzzy reverb, in the case of Papercuts, or a pound of toms, in Port O’Brien, pound for pound these bands are heavyweights.
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There’s one thing I’ve learned over the years; When Ben Kweller comes to town you go see the opening band too. He doesn’t mess around. He consistently brings great opening bands you’ve probably never heard of, but give them a chance and you might find yourself at the merchandise table buying their album. Jones Street Station was no exception. When I rolled up to Chop Suey on Monday night, there was a line out the door and by around 9 o’clock Jones Street Station was hitting the stage to an almost full Chop Suey.
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The Pica Beats steal the show and my heart. The Pica Beats, a band whose sound leaves a gentle wake behind it, followed them. Often compared to The Decemberists, The Pica Beats have a majesty all their own. First, Barrett doesn’t sing like he’s got a mouth full of “r’s”. Second, his lyrics are not as narrative driven as Maloy’s. Also, The Pica Beat’s are more rooted in a mystical, otherworldly quality, brought on by the use of sitar.
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I’d like to register a complaint against the sound guy at the Crocodile on Friday. No matter where you were standing it felt like your ears were clogged, or your head was wrapped in cellophane. Having never seen Grand Archives live before, I wrote off a lot of their shortcomings to the poor sound quality. However, upon reflection, I have to say it was truly just a boring show.
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As I mentioned before, I've been a Lemonheads fan for about 17 years, and had never seen them live. I was bursting with joy entering the Tractor on Friday night, not realizing that I'd end up nearly in tears by the end of the night.
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I first saw Sean Horton, otherwise known as DJ Nordic Soul, perform at the Moderat/Truckasaurus show last month and really felt that his DJing was one of the highlights of the entire gig. He transitioned from slow and easy to bass-thumping rhythms, spinning treasures like Gui Boratto, Mu, Justice and Modeselektor. With that listing of tracks, I think I've found my DJ of choice in Mr. Nordic Soul.
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Despite the minimal setup, Jens delivered. This is a man who loves to play live. You could tell by the vacant savant smile that projected from his oh-so-Swedish features, out over the crowd. He opened with, “I’m Leaving You Because I Don’t Love You,” and transitioned suddenly into “The Opposite of Hallelujah.” Both songs off of Night Falls Over Kortedala got the crowd enthused as Jens ended playing air xylophone.
Another testament to Jens Lekman’s love of performing was his delight in audience sing-alongs. As long as Jens was singing the audience wouldn’t shut-up. But at the last chorus of “Black Cab” he went silent and the epic scope of the song’s finale was lost as the audience failed to fill in. It was as if they realized just how tone deaf they were once Jens’ sweet, pitch perfect vocals weren’t there to drown them out.
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Anyone out & about this past Thursday night? Talk about freaky weather - everything was all kinds of crazy, heady, ocean-scented wind gusts through the city mixed with golden-pink sunset bliss. The walk down Pine Street was perfectly lit, with the breezes knocking us sideways between the buildings on cue, leaving us semi-flushed in all the right ways as we pushed through the doors of the Paramount for the Neko Case show.
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At an all ages show at Neumos on Monday night, Phil Elverum, Mt. Eerie’s center of gravity, stood behind a white milk crate filled with Mt. Eerie and The Microphones vinyl. Promptly at 9:20, he and his new lineup took the stage to play their debut show as a band.
And you could tell they hadn’t played live before. The bassist exchanged nervous glances with the mostly inactive keyboardist. The keyboard player’s shining moment was when the slight notes she played eked out between excessive reverb and the roar of two drummers, during “Mouth of Sky.” This is one of the softer songs they played. The tempo of their set never settled. Every other song ripped into a heavy and cacophonous roar only to be followed by the sparse lyricism of Elverum’s fragile vocals during more minimal songs.
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And on with our San Francisco Popfest coverage coming to a close, here's our post about the Saturday evening show at the Rickshaw Stop featuring the Smittens, The Magic Bullets, My Teenage Stride, Northern Portrait, and our very own Seattle darlings, Tullycraft.
Tonight was the night. The crowning glory of indie pop. I'd been calling this night the best show of the year long before it even happened.
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Day 3 featured an early afternoon show with Sourpatch, Champagne Riot, and Gregory Webster!
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Day 2 of SF Popfest coverage featuring Springfactory, Bunnygrunt, The Orange Peels, ballboy, The Tartans, The Hot Toddies, and a bit of karaoke mischief.
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Oh Monday! Dear third day of camping, hair unwashed, everything I own smelling like sunscreen. After packing everything up post-haste we hoofed it to see one of the two early shows that day, the Heartless Bastards. I'd heard scattered ruminations about them but didn't know much and I'm patting myself on the back for checking them out. The Heartless Bastards are a Cincinnati-by-way-of-Texas band fronted by Erika Wennerstrom, whose soulful Patti Smith/Chrissie Hynde voice unites with the rough and tumble southern sound of her Austin band to form a rich and raucous kind of alt-country that is anything but boring.
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I'm from Texas and all, but sitting on a rock in 85 degree heat with no shade, clouds or wind isn't my idea of completely awesome. Especially when after all that I walk back to the sticky hot tent to drink and then pass out in my sleeping bag, only to await the next day of the same. So that's my excuse for missing Calexico (but my amigo Sam caught them and wrote about it ). On with St. Vincent!
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