Latest Articles by Sarah Canice Funke
Last night was Radiohead. And it was all we ever hoped it would be.
In Rainbows was the featured album, but Kid A also got a surprising amount of play, with a few nods to earlier eras with "The Bends," "Paranoid Android," and "Karma Police." But it was when the auditorium hushed and Thom Yorke started strumming those first few chords on the acoustic guitar and the synths started shimmering that I really lost it. I was completely not expecting How to Disappear Completely to make the set list.
Ironically enough, I love Radiohead because their music seems so intensely personal, introverted, alienated and self-analytical. To experience it with hoards of other people (including an annoying undergrad who tried to sing along with Reckoner and clap to Kid A--clap to Kid A???) was a bit disconcerting. It also meant we were really far away. My binoculars helped somewhat, but you can't help when tall people start standing on their seats.
So I watched Evan break it down to Idioteque. And one can't ask for a higher cool factor than that.
I do hope to see the opener Grizzly Bear again someday. They got a bit swallowed up by the stadium, but would be awesome in a po-dunk dive somewhere.
...I have resolved to listen to nothing but Radiohead (unless I hear something else by accident). I will memorize each phrase break and loop layer until I hear them live.
Next Wednesday will be some serious excitedness going on in the Kaufmann-Kaufmann-Funke apartment.
So a friend of a friend gave me two tickets to Tilly and the Wall last night. And so, not ones to pass up free tickets of any sort, even if the only Tilly song I had seriously listened to was Rainbows in the Dark, Evan and I went to check them out. After all, a band that was named after a children's book has got to be good, right?
Well, we were thankful the tickets were free.
It wasn't that the quintet from Omaha itself was a bad deal. In fact, they were quite good, especially since one of their musical "instruments" was a tap dancer, Jamie Pressnall, who clicked out the drum beats with her heels on a mini stage.
It wasn't that there was a horrible opener. Well, one involved bad mixing/sampling with a vocalist sporting muffin top, knee brace and a chain mail headpiece. The other opener, however, was extremely good, resembling what might happen if Panda Bear and Geologist ever struck out together.
No, what killed the evening was the sound technician, who apparently was either 1) a sadist or 2) utterly deaf. The guy didn't know how to mix anything and apparently thought oppressive house music at glass-shattering decibels was a good idea for intermissions. Good thing I didn't go in there with an arrhythmia. We wondered how anyone could hate music so much. The second opener band pleaded with them for better mixing. And eventually they got the lower register frequencies fixed only to have the mikes jacked up for Tilly. It wasn't as bad for me, who was simply relieved the tortuous house music was finally over, but Evan was withering in pain over the upper range voices (Tilly has two female vocalists). We eventually cut out after about a half an hour of Tilly.
I almost stopped at the box office to ask who the sound tech was and plead with Paradise to fire him/her. The most fun Evan and I had was standing outside the 'Dise waiting for the Green Line and watching the bouncers change the letters on the marquee to tell the world that Wolf Parade was sold out for Saturday.
Some things may be free but I suppose you get what you pay for.
Heidi, Laura and I enjoyed ourselves some bible belt rock and a little "safe indie pop"* last night at T. T. the Bear's up in Cambridge. The venue was acoustically claustrophobic, resembling what might happen if you got stuffed in a tin can and rattled around with a good helping of sonic mush. No one could understand the lyrics and my ears are still ringing.
But those Ha Ha Tonka boys from the Ozarks can do some pretty sweet close harmonies. "Hangman" off their latest album Buckle the Bible Belt was the best song of the evening--guitars switched off and the baritone rumbling out under the high parts on top. Mmmm...That was good. And we all identify with "Twelve Inch, Three Speed Oscillator Fan" these days.
Someone Still Loves You Boris Yeltsin--who beat out Clap Your Hands Say Yeah for the world's longest band name award--was also a lot of fun, even if a crowd of women showed up from no where to block our view when the band took the stage.
The Boris Yeltsin group played some musical round robin. The drummer played lead guitar and vocals, the frontman took the bass, the bassist can also play the drums. Not every band can switch it up like that. Can you imagine Ringo doing Hey Jude? *shudders* Their drummer was also a lot cuter than Ringo: he looked like a smiley, sheepish hobbit who somehow wandered into a band and never went back.
*Laura's words
AiH has posted their tour schedule over on Pitchfork. I'm normally not one to schedule my social calendar months in advance, but for this Australian indie-pop (twee pop?) band, I might make an exception. If I were living in a perfect world, I would attend the Helsinki venue. What could be more appropriate? You can also stream their latest album, Places Like This on AiH's myspace.
For a more colorful review, see Brae.
Anybody out there gonna catch some Live Earth? I suppose Africa and Bono have gone the way of the 8-track, and we move on to new and improved causes. Yet I find a worldwide concert to raise environmental awareness to be a bit on the ironic and quite possibly self-defeating side. I mean, it's not as if all those people are going to walk to the concert, right? And think of the electric bill. Will Al Gore's carbon credits cover the tab?
However, I do admit I am intrigued, if only for the cameo appearance of Spinal Tap.
I wrote this a few weeks ago, but since I can't really publish this with the local papers in Colorado unless I am a contracted freelancer, I decided to put this up on the blog. Consider it a weak attempt at competing with the much more glamorous Brooklyn Vegan...still working on developing voice...
Noah’s Ark: Animal Collective in Denver
By Sarah Funke
May 22, 2007
Three of the four musicians known as Animal Collective appeared May 21, 2007 at Denver’s Cervantes Masterpiece Ballroom, a decent-size venue whose small storefront belies the sizable dance space within its interior. The crowd was sluggish in arriving, forcing the musicians to hold off the performance for about an hour. For some fans, the wait was torture. For myself, sitting there in the front row, arms resting on the stage, the wait was worse than Christmas Eve. To pass the time, I chatted with four college students who had traveled all the way from Reno, Nevada. These were fans who had come prepared: they had watched the bootleg videos of previous shows and knew their AC inside and out. Conversations revolved around the Paw Tracks and Fat Cat labels as well as similar artists from the New York area.
Sir Richard Bishop opened for Animal Collective. He began with a few Spanish-inflected instrumentals on the acoustic guitar, impressing the crowd with his technical chops: fast and furious. Since we were listening so intently, he decided to try out some lyrics. “I’m not a fan of the label Freak Folk, but I get called one, thanks to my friend Devendra,” he said. “So I thought I’d try my hand at it.” So he sang us a song about hanging a preacher man. Then he moved back into instrumentals, including a song that wove “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” together with “Nowhere Man.” Closing with some more furious guitar chops of string-breaking intensity, he exited the stage to make way for the main act.
The band started with an intro based on “Hey Light” (Here Comes the Indian) that segued into a hip-hop version of “Who Could Win a Rabbit” (Sung Tongs). The pronounced beat infused a concrete immediacy that the more buoyant original lacks.
The tour promotes the band’s newest album, Strawberry Jam. The tour also provides a sneak preview of material slated for the album after SJ. But old favorites were not ignored. After a middle section marked primarily by newer songs, “We Tigers” and “Leaf House” closed the concert to thunderous applause. Without guitarist Deakin (Josh Dibb), the group steered towards heavy sampling and some frenetic drumming by Panda Bear (Noah Lennox) and Avey Tare (David Portner). And of course, Panda and Avey delivered their characteristic repetitive chanting, going full force. To those familiar with the ambient washes of Sung Tongs and Feels, the live version of Animal Collective left the washes on the beach and dashed off in heart-pounding frenzy. Fans rolled their heads and pounded the stage as Avey danced to his own drumbeat. Geologist (Brian Weitz) lit the stage with his headlamp.
Fans grew crazy about their animals: one group sketched pictures of themselves and threw the note up on stage for the trio to find. Another crawled on stage after the show and left a gift bag, tissue paper peaking out, obscuring whatever gift of adoration lay within.
Animal Collective declined an encore despite heavy fan demand. Instead, the audience had to be content with an already stellar performance. And really, after such a fast-clipped, heart-racing version of Leaf House, who could ask for more? I certainly walked away contented.
My family is going camping this week to escape the perils of re-doing wood floors. But we camped just outside of Denver last night so that I could attend the Animal Collective concert. I have to say chatting with the fans was almost as interesting as the concert. My dad's bluetooth/cellphone technology is getting me on the internet, but the connection is rather slow. So stay tuned for some juicy and excited words about last night.
I didn't want to use my flash, so this was the best I could do...I was sitting with my elbows on the stage...
Geologist and Avey Tare
Panda Bear
The final concert experience of my Canadian sojourn involved a trip to Brantford with S'Moer and L'Stew to hear the Nathaniel Dett Chorale. This group was by far the most racially diverse I have ever seen, ranging from Brunehildes to East Indians. Oh, the blending! Oh, the dynamic range! Oh, the precision! I really have no more words to describe this fantastic concert and apologize for the grainy quality of the bootleg video that fails to do justice to their marvelous sound. I am sorry, twin, but there are truly some days when I must use my words for more mundane topics.
There were lion statues outside the theatre (though belonging to a different building). Of course, pictures became necessary to our immediate lives.
Stewing together
Lionness
The twins of dorkness
I feel that I might have needed a feather boa, skanky black dress, black gloves, and stiletto heels to truly get into the mood, but I had fun in my jeans...
A bootleg copy of the encore "Abide With Me."
"Oh, that was my mother's favorite hymn!" sighed an elderly woman next to us. And for good reason. One of my favorites, too. Especially this version (Moses Hogan's arrangement).
Go here for the video.
Sarah & Sarah
We enjoyed a night of Michael Kaeshammer (not MC Hammer). In Brantford. Slings and Arrows mentioned Brantford. It's kind of a po-dunk town just west of Hamilton. I think everyone from the city was there, including the mayor. The venue (with signs from the 403!) was extremely small. Sarah and I kept looking for the real theatre because we felt that they had simply stuck a few stacking chairs in the foyer. The concert was sponsored by an anonymous donor, so we figured "maybe ol' Anon didn't donate enough to get inside the theatre. Just enough to make it off the front porch..."
But the concert was good, even if, as Sarah noted, we lowered the age of the audience demographic rather dramatically. And rather disruptively burst out in uncontrollable laughter when Kaeshammer thanked the audience for coming out "on a school night." You can't really take us anywhere.
I also realized that I was displaying traits of my father, who being a general construction manager, can't really spend the night in a hotel without inspecting the grout and wallpaper and leaving a card on the desk when we leave. Once you are in a certain mindset, it is really hard to transition to "fun" mode. After writing program notes for the music department all semester, I found myself reading through Kaeshammer's program, making cursory editorial remarks to Sarah. The number of sheer spelling and punctuation mistakes was appallingly unprofessional. But I sound like Niles on Fraser....and, oh wait, I do that anyway and can't blame my job in the long run.
And Kaeshammer can play himself some piano.
I've decided my true calling in life (if my hand never gets back up to speed) is to learn me some stand-up bass and join a jazz band. To be the pianist would be more fun, because you can do some pretty mean solos on the piano. But I would be content to play bass. I've also decided that I am going to get in the habit of applauding after cadenzas during my next concerto. I feel sorry for classical musicians: so separated from immediate feedback and audience energy.
So, in order not to let Evan be cooler than me, I bought M. Ward's Transfiguration of Vincent and soaked it all in today. Then I discovered this on M. Ward's website:
M. Ward's North American Tour:
Saturday Jan 27 Mod Club Theatre (19+) Toronto, Ontario
Yes, I feel loved.
Because even if Thom Yorke and Howe Gelb hate me, M. Ward is showing me some loving.
Satuday December 17: Giant Sand w/9 piece choir, Thrill Jockey Alt-Country
‘HOWE GELB AND THE SNOW ANGEL LIKE YOU PROJECT’ @ 9:30. An evening with... (with 9 Piece Choir) $17.50 adv @ Tm-Rt-Ss-Hs. $20.00 door
~Lee's Palace, Toronto, Canada
I leave for home the 15th of December. Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!
Howe Gelb, why can't you plan your touring schedule better?
And this is me. It's so cold I am wearing my hat indoors and drinking hot chocolate that I made without cocoa powder. Ask me how I did it sometime. It's like a Mayan elixir or something:
My Sarah twin and I hopped over to Hamilton's Studio Theatre last night in order to catch the spectacular performance of Michael Kaeshammer. The German-Canadian jazz pianist not only has some incredible chops, but he captivated the audience with his rather understated banter.
The first set of the act, guitar player Harry Manx, casually appeared clad in a navy blue tuque, flannel shirt, and dungarees. He performed on his banjo, his 20-string Indian-inspired guitar, and a home-made contraption he'd fashioned out of a cigar box, broom sticks, beer bottle caps, and a tire clamp he'd purchased from Canadian tire.
Tall and angular, Michael Kaeshammer ambled on stage in a pin stripe suit, exuding the cool sophistication of a dark lounge. Not only did he demonstrate rather impressive technique on his crazy doubled octave scales and those trills he played so fast his hands faded into fluttering blurs. He was also up for experimental feats of performance gymnastics. At one point, Kaeshammer was straddling the piano bench with one hand on the piano keyboard and the other on the synthesizer keyboard behind him. Not one to miss a beat, he began playing in unison on both keyboards. Then he turned his piano into a momentary drum kit, tapping on every different part, holding the strings down so as to get a wooden sound out of the keys, and plucking the strings in time. I told Sarah that when John Cage did that kind of stuff, people found him incomprehensible, but here was a jazz performer playing the strings of a piano to great applause: the audience was really digging it up.
With two such eclectic performers, putting the two together for the second half of the concert yielded, as Harry Manx told us, a folk blues boogie with a little Indian raga thrown in for good measure. The energy between the two performers was very tight. When Kaeshammer would launch into an extended improv section, Manx would make a great show of tapping his foot, looking at his watch, and then and only then finally picking out a new chord on the fret.
I, for one, was tapping my foot the whole time. I bought a CD, even though jazz is best experienced live.
I apologize in advance for the incredibly "lo-fi" quality of the following media. But I want to share Colin, blurry or not, with the world.
The Culling of the Fold, brief excerpt of Colin hanging himself with the mike chord, as he goes "down to the river...." It was, as always, more mesmerizing live. But you still get a taste of the stage antics.
...but what the blazes is wrong with Mozart???
Sometimes the folks at Pitchfork just really get me with their "hypermasculine" aesthetic. I'm listening to the Beatles poppy boyband stuff out of sheer retribution...(which rather ironically includes their cover of Chuck Berry's "Roll Over Beethoven.")
I apologize for all the piecrust blog promises I made on Sunday. In order not to pull a complete Evan Donovan,* I'll give you a two (or three or four) sentence run-down on everything.
* :P
African Guitar Summit: There was only one drawback to what otherwise would have been a perfect concert: The venue was not suited for the uptempo dancable West African rhythms these guys were cranking out. The Music Hall was a old theatre in line with the Tivoli. Can you imagine trying to groove in the Tivoli. A few brave souls got themselves out into the aisles, and one rather ample African woman nearly stole the show with her hip dancing skills. Being with a group of grad students, I wriggled miserably in my seat, trying to dance in a semi-recumbant posture. But after the encore, I figured, I'm already standing and I don't care if I'm with a bunch of grads; the official concert is over and I'm dancing. So I went up to the front and drew on my Latin dancing repertoire. And that was an interesting thing (which another grad student noticed): the West African rhythms were very easy to put to Latin dance steps (bolero, merangue, salsa). I don't know why the similarity was there, but my body felt it. And I was so much happier down in front, dancing away. I could see the musicians better; the musician/audience rapport was stronger. The excitement and fun was a tangible entity down front.
The charasmatic Kitchener church: well, though I missed Collin performing for the youth conference at this church (his band 33Miles played at the same time as African Guitar Summit, a required concert for my world music class, and though I don't like to be a fair weather friend, sometimes grades trump love), I met up with him at the 11am service, which was radically different from the Dutch Reformedness I've been steeped in lately. I almost had to pinch myself to make sure I wasn't back at the concert: people were dancing up and down during the worship music. I wondered: why do I enjoy dancing at a concert so much and feel so uncomfortable about it when it happens in church? And at one point, I think they started praying in tongues, but I'm not really sure: I just couldn't understand it at first, then the English started. It was quite an experience.
Collin's a special friend (he met his girlfriend, whom my family's known since she was one, through our family) and when the pastor highly commended the band members' character before the entire congregation, I was pretty proud. They've signed with Sony and their album is slated to hit the shelves in March/April.
Friend who is taking me back to her house for Thanksgiving: Another Sarah who is getting a second bachelor's, in education, at Redeemer. She's actually a little older than me, so I finally don't feel like the old fogey in the group.
Me to roommate: Hey I'm off to the Small World Music Festival with my classmates!
Roommate: Oh, I remember that song from when I was a kid. I HATED that song...
Me: Um....no....that's actually NOT world music....
My world music class (so much easier to put it that way than to rattle off Music and Subjectivity in the Global Context) went to a concert in Toronto. Since it is part of the class experience, we went on a departmental dime, much to the rejoicing of some of the living-off-credit-cards-because-we-don't-get-paid-till-Thursday graduate students.
Stuck in the wall surrounded by Brazilian groceries and Portugese Soccer Clubs, the Lula Lounge was easy to miss. And we did miss it, at first. The inside was painted in intense solids with tapestries and oriental lanterns forming the bulk of the decorative scheme. Kinnie Starr, a First Nations woman, sang first. She was probably in her late twenties or early thirties but she seemed young and unaffected. She related stories of her tomboyish childhood. She didn't strike me as someone who could play an instrument, but her capital was her voice. She sang to a few chords strummed on a guitar, she sang to dubbed tracks, she sang to nothing at all. And the final song, her voice mingled with the recording, obscurring the live/canned performance dichotomy. Only when you watched her face did you discover she was the one singing back-up to the recording's lead singing.
Then Tanya Tagaq entered. If any of you are familiar with Bjork, you may remember Tagaq from Medulla. If I had been feeling somewhat ambivalent about Kinnie Starr, I was blown away by Tanya Tagaq. You just have to see Inuit throat-singing performed live. The recording destroyes the visual, which is such an essential component of the experience.
Inuit throat-singing originated as a game that the women would play with each other when the men were away on extended winter hunting forays. It is a contest between two individuals, to see who can make the other break concentration and laugh. The singing patterns get more and more complex and can go on for some time. Tagaq related how she wasn't so good when she first started: "I was always laughing."
My first and deepest impression of the event was an awe of its sheer altheticism. Tagaq sang continuously for the entire set. The man behind me whispered to his friend, "So, this must be a one track CD, then." I cannot even begin to describe the throat-singing parts: I considered what heavy breathing mingled with animal snuffles and snorts might possible sound like and decided to give up on finding anything more accurate. And Tagaq's stage presence was commanding, mesmerizing.
She started unaccompanied but her DJ (grooving by his Apple laptop) soon started layering tracks underneath her voice, to accentuate the complex beat. The gutteral percussive singing was interspersed with long melodic fragments in English and other languages.
On the ride back, we talked a bit about the performance. "To the Inuits, that form of singing was simply a game, a relation of community between the group members. But transferred to our particular context...well....it was extremely sexualized," observed the professor.
And it does seem strange to me that in Western culture, the exotic is so often equated with the sensual. But there was a particularly captivating moment during the performance in which Tagaq caught Kinnie Star singing along in the audience. And as if someone had unplugged the lights, the whole aura completely desexualized, replaced by playful competition as the two singers locked eyes and began a sing off. Back and forth, trying to drown the other out, singing with, over, and for each other. It was as if for one brief moment, we got to see what Inuit singing was really about, transported out of the performance mode and transformed into observers crossing deep cultural boundaries.
That's perhaps a bit magical. But the others agreed (even the professors) that that special moment had struck them as well.
And now I have to get ready for class. I'm giving a brief discussion on an article regarding language choices in music. I'm going to play a track from the English-speaking Finnish band Nightwish and a track from the Romanian-speaking Romanian band Ozone. Both are popular, but both made different decisions about language. I might also play some Jay Chou that I got from Sanskey. Someone mentioned we should play Sigur Ros' () album. I once wrote a poem entitled [^] and thought I was so cool because no one could ever pronounce the title. But then I found about Sigur Ros and was a bit disgruntled. Cies la vie, n'est pas? And don't tell me the French is misspelled. I already know that.
Last night Abbie and I caught the last of our summer concert "tour." We've had some good ones. Tonight wasn't one of them. It's not that the venue Red Rocks Amphitheatre wasn't gorgeous: carved into the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, the outdoor theatre overlooks miles of plains, including downtown Denver. After the sunset, the light show from the city rivals anything the band could do. The weather was thankfully fair and gently warm, not a cloud in sight. It wasn't as if Flaming Lips disappointed us in terms of spectacle: from green balloons to confetti to dancing santa clauses to fireworks and blinking lights, the band delivered random unreality. "Abbie," I said, "It's as if I've gone to sleep and can't figure out whose dream I've waken up in." And the set list was a good mix from several of their albums, plus one tribute to Queen, a singalong version of "Bohemian Rhapsody." No, what really ruined the evening for us was the simple combination of pot and pornography. Somehow Abbie and I ended up seated in Marijuana Central. The only people not stoned were those immediately to our left. Now, I don't care if someone wants to smoke pot in the comfort in his or her room, but weed smoke is ten times more vile than nicotine. And we didn't even get the benefit of second-hand highs. We just got headaches and some nausea. Perhaps we might have overlooked this condition of general malaise, but in addition to video clips of bronco busters, Japanese racecar drivers, and frogs, the film footage that accompanied the music included several clips of naked women. Apparently these segments were quite popular with a number of (male) members of the audience, but Abbie and I just felt sick. If you have to resort to sex appeal, you really just aren't creative in my book. And so after Flaming Lips ended with "Do You Realize?", we stuck around for a few songs by Ween (who had an awesome light show), and then sneaked out of the theatre. We beat the traffic and made it home, listening to Cake in the car.
It's not as though the concert was a complete disaster: there was a lot of audience interaction and singing along. The opening band, the Go! Team, was extremely fun, with Mr. Rogers'-like decorating schemes: the band members all sported bright primary colors, and the kick drums were painted to look like traffic signals (green with the word "Go" in white lettering). The lead singer had a bright green skirt, purple top, and knee-high white boots. I loved the boots.
Unfortunately, the pot smoke really did us in. And the porn flicks were not a good addition. I'm not sure if I want to return to RedRocks. Perhaps it's best to stick to small venues. That's why I think Fiery Furnaces was the best concert experience of the summer, with Sonic Youth a close second. Flaming Lips, I may appreciate your fantastic showmanship, but I'll stick to listening to your CDs.
Abbie shall henceforth and forever more be my photographer.
Fiery Furnaces. Denver. Bluebird Theatre. June 20, 2006.
Beautiful
Matt Friedberger in concert
Sonic Youth. Denver. Gothic Theatre. June 27, 2006.
Awesome Color, bassist (Michael).
Lee Ranaldo
Thurston Moore's hands
Lee. With a shirt like Harold Tuggy's.
Thurston. Also with a Haroldian shirt.
Considering that when I called Abbie and told her we were going to hear The Fiery Furnaces together, she admitted that she had never heard of them before, Abbie certainly was enthusiastic about last night's concert. And it was a good one, although I silently wished the acoustics were slightly better, because I ended the night with a distinct ringing in my ears from the mishmash melee of accumlated noise. Although, come to think of it, dense layers of sound aren't too far off the band's aesthetic, so perhaps the reverb of the smaller room enhanced the experience rather than detracted from it.
The concert took place in Denver's Bluebird Theatre, a venue I will describe as an underground bar with stage and pit. I say underground in order to describe the type of music that passes through (based on the posters plastered on the front window), not to indicate the location of the building, which was street level. A showbiz marquee with lights announced The Fiery Furnaces' ensuing performace to all who passed by. The atmosphere inside was cozy and intimate. The back drop for The Fiery Furnaces was a black banner with lyric quotes scrawled over it in neon red and yellow foreground shaping double F's and green background. (To any and all who remember it: the banner reminded me of Rob Holmes' role in the presentation on Kafka the Five Points dominated group did for Existentialism with Dr. Partain, Fall 2003. Writing and writing and writing that continued endlessly.) The color changes had the effect of fragmenting the text into two or three word phrases such as "chocolate bitter" or "bleak church."
The opening band Phantom Buffalo hailed from Portland, Maine. Their first song started with an usually long instrumental introduction, which I loved for its mellow cyclical harmonic progression. "It's like Canon in D for electric guitar," I told Abbie. "Except I actually like it." I almost bought a CD. Now I kind of wish I had, because I really loved that song. You can find "A Hilly Town" on Phantom Buffalo's webpage, but in concert, the intro was longer and there was a bit more reverb.
The Fiery Furnaces entered the stage to a recorded PA style announcement, interspersed with fragmentary parodies of commercials, sports announcers, and other radio styles of public speaking. I was wondering how the band was going to perform in live concert, since I couldn't imagine them hauling a prepared piano around with them. Well, the prepared piano was left at home apparently. But Matthew Friedberger (lead guitar) and Jason Lowenstein (bassist) managed to pull off a good deal of electronic reverb that preserved most of the timbral diversity that characterizes the band's sound.
The band performed songs from all of their major albums since Blueberry Boat (they may have performed songs from Gallowsbird's Bark, but I am not too familiar with that album). According to Abbie, I perked up noticably for "I'm In No Mood" (from the latest album, Bitter Tea), which didn't get great marks at Pitchfork, but happens to be one of my secret favorites. Eleanor's fragmentary, punctuated vocal style certainly demands attention and the transitions back and forth from the more lyrical "I was so drunk last night, etc." section to the declamatory "There's a chill in the air" keep me on my aural toes. I did sorely miss the prepared piano on that one, though. Abbie, a Michigan State grad, was happy to hear them play "Benton Harbour Blues."
The band came back for an encore, much to Abbie's displeasure: "Either you are done or you are not done. But don't make me clap twice for you; it hurts my hands." This is why Abbie is my friend.
Afterwards, I got to talk to Matt Friedberger. See previous entry for details.
Tuesday night my concert buddy Abbie and I crashed downtown Denver for a concert. What was on the docket? Snow Patrol. Scotch/Irish indie rock, if not at its finest (still partial to Franz Ferdinand), at least full of gentle wit and soul (maybe a bit too much soul bordering on emo, but that's personal opinion).
This band merited not one but two openers. I found the first band, The Duke Spirit from England, to be the more intriguing one. Augustana, while more polished and more well-known to the audience, was frankly not as interesting. Why? I think it was the lead singer that gave The Duke Spirit its awkward charm: Leila Moss had a raw voice that in the fast and heavy sections could give even Grace Slick a run for her money. I liked it. The band made me wonder about female leads in male bands. This article asks some of the same questions. Moss also carried a tambourine that she occasionally played. Made me think of the tendency to regard singing as "not real work." I mean, how many singers do we see just singing? A guitar, a tambourine, a harmonica--all these alternative instruments to legitimize the singers' status as musicians.
For some reason, which I failed to trace conclusively but suspect was due either to the band's enunciation abilities or to the sound set-up, the opening bands came out "heavy on the beat, and light on the words." I like words, but had to do without them for half of the concert.
Snow Patrol's performance was bigger in every way: more lights, better sound, more stage antics. Gary Lightbody, dressed in a snow white Oxford and jeans, set the mood with a little Music and Movement on the kick drum. The concert followed the common pattern: start with something familiar to your audience, move through the lesser known material, and end with the most popular thing you've got. So after he hopped down from the kick drum, Lightbody sang us "Chocolate" (the lyrics of which provide the name for the album Final Straw). Then we got "Spitting Games," "Hands Open," "Headlights on Dark Roads," (whose opening lyrics provide the title for this entry), "Grazed Knees," and "Chasing Cars." Since most of the night's material came from the 2003 album Final Straw and the group's latest work Eyes Open (2006), "Shut Your Eyes," "How to Be Dead," "Make This Go On Forever," and "Ways and Means" followed. Lightbody was no Colin Meloy or Howe Gelb when it came to interlude banter, but he did dub an audience member "an origami wizard" after this person threw a carefully folded song request onto the stage. However light the audience interaction may have been, the UK accent made it all just seem brilliant. The kicker "Run" came second-to-last and solicited audience participation on the chorus:
Light up, light up
As if you have a choice
Even if you cannot hear my voice
I'll be right beside you dear.
The band closed with "You're All I Have." The snowflake silhouettes from the light show swirled on the ceiling in myriads of colors. I was tired from standing, but it was a good night.
Well, I had wondered why Neko Case didn't really look like Neko Case. At the time, I thought that maybe it was because she had cut her hair and maybe I just couldn't see very well. But the answer is really because, well, she wasn't.
The following links are just so that I remember to come back and listen to them, but you can use them to listen, too. It's a free country. :)
Clap Your Hands Say Yeah
Arctic Monkeys
White Stripes/M. Ward
My Morning Jacket
Death Cab for Cutie
Iron and Wine/Calexico
Sigur Ros
Sufjan Song of the Day
ARIZONA AMP AND ALTERNATOR
we'll put a clamp on your old fret
we'll recharge the battery in your tremulator
we'll tune up your rusty machine head
we'll get right to it sooner or later
if you all feel mostly misunderstood
through it all you know it's too good
to just nix it
well... if it ain't broke
don't fix it.
if the white one thinks you're black
and the black one thinks you're white
and the country man thinks you're rock
and the rocker says you're just not right
if the yellow one thinks you're green
and the green one says you're yellow
and the kind one thinks you're mean
and the mean one says you're mellow
does the red one think you're true blue
and the blue one thinks you're well read
well what were you to do ?
compromise your hue instead ?
do you alternate somewhere in between
with the best old sound anyone has seen ?
then that is your country.
that is our zone.
ARIZONA AMP AND ALTERNATOR
Sunday night, Howe Gelb of Giant Sand played at the Horseshoe Tavern in downtown Toronto. The venue itself was a cozy affair, tucked in between a FCUK outlet store and a CIBC (Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce--I use this bank). However, I began to feel that the location was less than ideal when, as I tried to locate the place, I saw homeless people walking up to cars when the lights were red. I don't mind talking to homeless people, but I'd rather not do it at night when I'm by myself. If I venture up to Toronto again, I'm definitely taking someone with me, even if they've never heard any of the music I like. 'Twill be my mission to enlighten.
The concert listing styled Howe Gelb as an alternative country troubadour. I guess that eclectic description just about sums it up. The former lead singer and lyricist for Giant Sand has a gravely baritone that entones his lyrics rather than pitching them on a melody. Think Rex Harrison, but an octave lower. Unlike Harrison, who always sounds as though he is reciting Shakespeare for a class play (must be the British accent and the crisp, precise diction), Gelb plays around with vocal timbres: he whispers, he gravels out, he distorts and amplifies his voice with microphones. His instruments were a guitar and a keyboard. He played both, sometimes at the same time.
I honestly must say that the gig was not quite what I expected. I've only heard Howe Gelb in the context of his band, Giant Sand. He was playful, I knew, because he played with words, sounds, meanings. But for some reason, I expected him to be serious in concert. Yet Gelb was, well, funny. Almost Victor Borge funny. And the high/low, serious/comedy prejudices in me were gently shaken.
Gelb, in bolo tie, black button-down shirt, blazer, jeans, boots, and derby hat, started off at the keyboard with an improvisatory, jazz tune. A nice little boogie, 12 bar blues. He worked the audience, till everyone was tapping their feet and generally not paying much attention. Then, the blues "crushed" notes hardly disguising the tune at all, the strains of "Are you sleeping?" sneaked into the theme. What the heck?? I think. But "House of the Rising Sun" immediately followed. Then I realized that the bass hand was doing a rhythmic and harmonic pattern that reminded me an awful lot of something Chopin would do, moments before the strains of the Funeral March hit my ear. But never to stay with any one theme for too long, Gelb leaned into the microphone and started singing "Summertime, and the living is easy. Fish are jumping, and the cotton is high..." The effect was really a musical collage, or else a game of "Name That Tune." Midway through, Gelb started wiggling his fingers and did a glissando with his index finger, sliding up the keyboard until his lonely finger stopped on the last key. "He is not imitating who I think he is!" I inwardly protested, but then Gelb winked at the audience and, deadpan expression, cut off my argument: "Chico. Not Harpo." Fragments taken from all genres and references to pop and high culture wove their way in and out of that opening jam.
Gelb was relaxed, experimental. If he didn't like the way a song was going on the guitar, he just quit. A trip to the keyboard and a few bars of "Moon River" put him back in the mood for another song. He meant to start off with a medley of songs about marriage. He plugged his guitar in and experimented with reverberating synthesized sound for a few minutes. "That was the first song about marriage," he said. Then he sang "a live muss" followed by "tower of song."
At one point, Gelb was messing around with a cool-sounding harmonic riff. "This is good," he said. "I should write a song for it." Having both hands full playing the guitar, he walked over to the keyboard and began picking out a melody with the headstock of his guitar. He probably could have kept it up for a while, but he quit while everyone was impressed and moved into "a quiet remote."
"We used to have a joke back in the States," said Gelb, and he strummed a few chords on the guitar. "I really like school; it's just the principal of the thing I can't stand. And that about sums up America today. [Pause for laughs.] I've decided that political boundaries shouldn't exist. Switzerland. America. Ireland. Melbourne. Canada. [Various other countries whose names I forget]. We all listen to the same music. Whatever music you listen to, that's what your country should be."
And he sang about a zone where no one quite fit into any of the boxes established by other people. It was a zone where "the country man thinks you're rock, and the rocker says you're just not right," an Ari-zon(e)-a zone. A true country song...about countries.
And that song of ecleticism summed up Gelb's performance for the night.
Not quite classical. Not quite jazz. Not quite rock. Not quite country.
A little of everything and something for all.
Play with sounds.
They are our friends.
Last night, after returning from my international trek to visit sisters over my Reading Week break, I got back into my car and drove to Toronto to see and hear Belle and Sebastian play with The New Pornographers. The venue, a nightclub entitled descriptively The Docks (yes, it was by the water, Vincent), was packed to capacity. A couple that had driven up from Ohio complained about the Canadian lack of mosh pits. It probably has to do with the Canadian tendency to apologize if you step on their toes. Free-for-all bumping into other people doesn't fly too well up here in the frigid North. Oh, well. The younger, Vancouver-based band opened for the Scottish indie-rockers (heaven forbid they ever be labeled Twee pop!) with all the enthusiasm and stage-struck awe of the new kids on the block. Opening immediately with "Jackie, Dressed in Cobras," A.C. Newman kept the banter with the audience to a minimum; he stopped only to mention several times how glad the band was to be touring with B & S. "It didn't really hit me until they started playing around with 'Stars of Track and Field,' and then I realized: Holy Sh**! We're playing with Belle and F***ing Sebastian!" The balance for the first few numbers was weighted heavily towards Kurt Dahle, who drowned out the vocals until he pulled back his enthusiastic drumming. One of the band members played an intriguing instrument that I couldn't quite place, noting only that it looked like something Erik Kucks* would own, a keyboard attached to a tube that one blew through. The mystery was solved, however, when Newman took the instrument into his hands and remarked, "Time for the ceremonial passing of the melodeon," before breaking into the mysterious, somber intro to "The Bones of an Idol." Neko Case's rich voice makes that song one of my personal favorites. All the pictures I have seen of her on the internet show her with long hair, but tonight she had a pixie cut, giving her a boyish but elegant Audrey Hepburn-esque beauty. The band primarily played tunes from their newest album Twin Cinema: "Use It," "Twin Cinema," "Bleeding Heart Show," "Three or Four," "High Art, Local News," "Streets of Fire," mixing up the fast and loud judiciously with the soft and slow. The band finished solidly with "Sing Me Spanish Techno," a song that always amuses me because it doesn't really sound either Spanish or Techno, but there are days when I can certainly relate to the lyrics: "Listening too long to one song."
Having been happily primed, I was ready for Belle and Sebastian. Or so I thought. But when Stuart Murdoch, dressed in a black-and-white horizontally striped shirt, black cordoroys with a chain in the back pocket, and a black derby perched atop his head, entered with Stevie Jackson (contrastingly dressed in a power suit like he was ready for a business luncheon) and joked with the audience in his Scottish brogue, I stood a little straighter. The band started off with "Stars of Track and Field," which to me is classic Belle and Sebastian: intimate, acoustic introduction that builds in intensity as the song progresses, crooning voice, lilting melody, long instrumental riffs featuring the trumpet usually, or the violin. The intimate quality was still there, but on the live stage, the whole song was larger and more intense. The stage was illuminated by coloured lights that coordinated with the harmonic or instrumental textural changes in the music. Reminded me of something Alexander Scriabin would have tried, if he had given up the quest for the mystic chords of nature and taken to composing indie-pop instead. And Stuart Murdoch was breaking it down on stage in ways that would have made Catacombs** or Five Points** proud. However, the ensuing numbers showed me what a side-liner, on-the-fence, noncomittal, pick-and-choose my favorite tracks from If You're Feeling Sinister, Dear Catastrophe Waitress, and Fold Your Hands Child, You Walk Like a Peasant and discard the rest kind of fan I really was (I hadn't even listened to their newly released The Life Pursuit). I had never been so utterly blown away by Belle and Sebastian before: the immediacy of the band, the charisma of Murdoch, the effectiveness of the aural and visual colour coordination, the power of the drumming, the constantly changing instrumental texture succeeded in accomplishing what the albums alone had failed to do; by the end of the night, I was a full-blown B & S fan. After a few numbers, Murdoch took to the keyboard, holding up sheet music with the cover of Fold Your Hands Child printed on the outside. "This is for decoration," he assured us, "not because I don't know the words or anything." Whether he used his cheat sheet or not, "The Chalet Lines" proceeded beautifully. Jumping through their steadily accumulating discography, the band performed selections from all their major albums: "I'm a Cuckoo," "If She Wants Me," "Sukie in the Graveyard," "Dylan in the Movies," "The Boy With the Arab Strap," and "Wrong Girl." The electronic funk in "Song for Sunshine" made me wish the venue hadn't been so crowded; I wanted to grove. Though Murdoch sang most of the evening's songs, some of the females in the audiences expressed the desire "Let Stevie sing!" and so Stevie sang. I am currently experiencing a severe memory lapse regarding what Stevie sang. I think it was "Seymour Stein," but I could be mistaken. I do remember that Stevie dedicated the song to Sheila, who was in the audience somewhere. I also remember that Stevie stopped after a couple of bars into the song, turned to Murdoch on the bass, and asked, "Are you on?" The two got into a "heated discussion" regarding the volume of Murdoch's instrument. "Are you criticizing my bass playing?" Stuart asked. "No, I love your bass playing. That's why I want to hear it. Besides these people payed good money to hear the song, and so they want to hear it done right." Afterwards, in order to prove his exceptional bass playing skills, Murdoch tried to start "Judy and the Dream of Horses" on the bass. Fortunately for us, he gave up after a few bars, and reached for the acoustic instrument behind him. They ended with that number, but the crowd screamed so loudly for more, that the band returned to the stage for a double encore. The audience shouted out suggestions while the band reset their instruments, but Stevie's little rendition of "Oh Susanna" on the harmonica ought to have warned everyone that "Me and the Major" (a song with some serious harmonica riffs) was in the works. The band closed for good with the appropriate "Get Me Away From Here, I'm Dying."
I left The Docks to discover my car under two inches of snow. I drove the hour back home with a freezing windshield and didn't crawl into bed until 2am, but the night was well worth it. I can die happy now.
*Covenant student who plays various types of accordians.
**Guys' halls at Covenant which are known for enthusiastic and creative dancing.
--my aunt, sometime in the mid-1960s.
Thursday, Dec. 8, marked the 25th anniversary of Lennon's death. To commemorate the event, I went to a concert put on by the local artists. The venue was small, dark, and close, and since I sat at a table right in front, I was practically on stage with the performers. Can't get much better than that. Two grad students joined me at my spot, and since they reminded me of Tiffany A. and the Jolly Swan, we immediately made friends. The former played violin and guitar and knows nearly every Bob Dylan album by heart; the latter was a cellist. However, as they were physics and astronomy grad students, respectively, no amount of common musical interest could prevent me from feeling rather out-left-brained.
Nobody can do Beatles' songs like the Beatles. But each performer brought a unique interpretation to the particular songs they chose. Some of the covers were more successful than others. For instance, playing "Ticket to Ride" on the banjo was just a bit....odd. Yet an acoustic guitar rendition of "Julia" was arrestingly beautiful. One of the electric guitarists effectively plucked his way through the "Bach" riff in the middle of "In My Life" and a flute filled in the melody for the "Mersailles" intro to "All You Need Is Love." And though I sorely missed Ringo, one particular rendition of "Hard Day's Night" on acoustic guitar made me pay more attention to the vocal line. A female duo calling themselves the Beat Elles performed "Run for Your Life," noting that such was the only way to side-step the extremely unPC lyrics.
None of the songs that featured strings were performed: no "Eleanor Rigby" or "Yesterday" or songs from Yellow Submarine.
But "Norweigian Wood," "Strawberry Fields," "I Am the Walrus," "Help!," and "Come Together" were all there. Schloop-a-bum-bum.....stzzz...Schloop-a-bum-bum....stzzzzzz.
Here come old flattop, he come grooving up slowly.
Also a whole bunch of stuff from Imagine, but I must admit to not having followed John too closely post-Beatles, and thus recognized very little of this material.
"You can tell a lot about a person by the Beatle he/she likes," said one of the performers. "If you like Ringo, you're normal. If you like George, it means you're spiritual. If you like Paul.....well, now, it means, it means you're ('Popular!' came a shout from the crowd)..yes, popular. But if you like John...if you like John, it means you're edgy."
Today I saw Steve Reich. He did not do much. Students from the University of Toronto and local high schools performed his music, and he came up on stage afterwards and bowed to much applause. Tomorrow he will perform his music, at the Canadian premiere of his newest work You Are (Variations). I should return....but, the price is a bit stiff for me. So instead of watching one of the most influential 20th century composers play his own compositions, including one only a handful have heard till now, I went to the free concert of his classic repertoire and merely saw him bow to the audience. But it was enough for me.
I got to hear the following:
1) "Clapping Music" Extremely intricate clapping patterns performed by students of a local high school. Their rhythmically ordered clapping was met with an enthusiastic and chaotic response.
2) "Music for Blocks of Wood" Something like Stomp in the technique of layered rhythmic patterns that interact with each other to create macrolevel patterns.
(3) "Guitar Counterpoint" Imagine bass electric guitar patterns treated with minimalist repetition and gradual change.
(4) "Piano Phase" Two pianos start with sequential motives that form a single phrase (ie, first Piano One plays A, then Piano Two plays B, to create A-B). As one piano speeds up, the motives gradually become simultaneous (A and B played together), and then gradually return to sequential order.
(5) "Nagoya Marimbas" Marimba players are fun to watch, especially when they have extended scale passages and must hop around on stage, from the lower range of their instrument to the higher range.
(6) "New York Counterpoint" An ensemble of clarinets. The bass clarinet used to provide an ethereal rumbling foundation to the sporadic melodic fragments in the upper voices.
I am writing an analysis paper on "Variations for Winds, Strings, and Keyboards," so a chance to hear some of Reich's other works and to catch a glimpse of him was a special treat.
Not to be outdone by Linnea, I, too, offer my personal account of the concert experience.
The performance took place at Avalon, near downtown Boston. My guess is that 500-600 people packed into the standing room pit and the balcony in order to hear this Portland-based group of singers.
During the performance of the opening band, Cass McCombs, Linnea and I discussed whether the singer's mustard sweater was more characteristic of Alex or Lowen.* We finally decided on Lowen, but noted that the striped sweater of the second guitarist might easily pass for Alex. Only three members comprised this band, and they sat close to the stage's edge. Their gentle folk style and proximity to the audience made the music seem more intimate. I was highly pleased to see the female artist play the trombone. During the intermission between Cass McCombs and the Decemberists, Peter and the Wolf played over the loudspeakers. Linnea and I had fun relating childhood impressions of this music in addition to semi-conducting our favorite parts (well, maybe that was just me). We were just getting round to the cat's failed attempt to pounce on the bird (for the second time through) when The Decemberists were finally ready.
This was my first encounter with a live version of The Decemberists, and I enjoyed their quirky costumes and stage decorations. Colorful birds transformed microphones into woodland trees, and an array of tiny lights created the starry skies behind. The costumes evoked historicism of a Goodwill variety: find a few clothes that work together and use your imagination to recreate the rest. Perhaps you can't pin the exact era down, but you recognize that the characters are from a different time and place. Elements of Russianism, street life mafia (and by the way, if you wear a fedora, I will fall in love with you), prairie, and Western all found a place in the mishmash. Colin Meloy entered in a red-and-white wide-striped shirt, Edwardian England style. I was looking for the straw hat, but alas, it was not there. Indeed, later he removed the striped shirt to reveal a purple button-down shirt with a wide tie. His thick-framed glasses, sideburns, and straight-cut medium length hair made him look slightly like a cartoon character I was sure I had seen before, but couldn't quite place. He was very relaxed with the audience, getting close to the edge of the stage and donning an audience member's hat during "A Cautionary Song" (correct me if I'm wrong on which song it was, Linnea). After opening with "The Tain," "We Both Go Down Together," and "Leslie Ann Levine," Meloy remarked, with drawling and well-timed humor, "We seem to have quite a few songs about sad...and...doomed relationships tonight. So, everyone who is in a sad...and...doomed relationship, these songs are for you. You can relate in your own sad and doomed way. Except you might note that all of these songs end in death. We don't recommend that. Just dump the guy (or girl). Don't jump off a cliff or drown." "The Bachelor and the Bride," "The Bagman's Gambit," and "Eli, the Barrow Boy" followed. (The Decemberists really do seem to enjoy ballads that end in death. But then, any good ballad worth its salt does the same, and The Decemberists draw off several elements of the ballad tradition, including the shape of the melodies and the diphthong-emphasizing intonation of the voice.)
I was extremely grateful that the program consisted mainly of Picaresque songs, being most familar with that album. I had my fingers crossed, hoping they would play my own favorite, "Engine Driver" (it was the first Decemberist song I ever encountered, and it still evokes that first love phenomenon whenever I hear it.) When towards the end of the second half of the concert, Meloy strummed those familiar opening guitar chords, I screamed and jumped with the rest of the crowd.
Audience participation was enthusiastic that night. I could hear several people singing along to their favorite songs. Others danced. Enthusiasm was more difficult to achieve in the latter activity merely because the venue was so crowded. I kept bumping into people if I tried to do anything more than in-place shuffling. Leading into the chorus of "July, July," the audience followed Meloy with a little call-and-response before joining in fully for the "July, July" bit. And during the encore "A Mariner's Revenge Song," we all screamed, as per instructions, as if we "were being swallowed by a whale."
What made the concert unique for me was the interpolation of Peter's theme into the violin solo section of "A Bagman's Gambit." The snippet of melody tied what had happened earlier in the evening to the concert. The effect was a bit surreal, because it revealed that the concert itself was not a self-contained unit; it could refer beyond itself. Unless, one wanted to argue, the intermission music was part of the concert. But it seemed cut off from the performed music by virtue of being played in the performers' absence, before they had entered the stage. Anyway, the occurrence raises some interesting questions that silly people such as me like to contemplate. I had a tremendous amount of fun, double-quadrupled by the fact that I was able to go with a friend. Memories last longer when formed in pairs.
And now I have "July, July," as sung by the Decemberists in October stuck in my head.
*I realize that my readership has grown past the covenant sphere. Thus, I have determined to explain people or places more adequately in the blog. Linnea, Alex, and Lowen are all Covenant students.
**Much thanks to Linnea, as well, whose memory and familiarity with Decemberists is greater than mine. I used your entry to make sure I got all the songs noted in the right order.
Tatiana Trevor and I journied via doubledecker bus to Chipping Norton last night in order to catch a production of "Pirates of Penzance." Though my very favoritest Gilbert and Sullivan is "The Mikado," "Pirates" comes in a close second. The theater was a small, intimate community type affair. The actors were ecclectic community type affairs, as well. Amongst the blooming roses of the Modern Major-General's daughters were some actresses in their 60s or 70s at least. What fun! The only downside was that the singer playing Mabel was making both Tatiana and myself squirm in sympathetic misery--"drop your jaw, don't strain, etc." The part of Mabel is hard, but when the audience is consistantly made aware of the fact, something has gone wrong.
For some reason, watching any Gilbert and Sullivan always makes me want to watch "Chariots of Fire." The two are inseperably connected in my mind.
At any rate, I will have "With cat-like tread, upon our prey we steal" in my head for a while...
Or "On information vegatable, animal or mineral, I am the very model of a modern major-general."
Or "Poor wandering one..."
Or "How beautifully blue the sky,"
Or "A paradox, a paradox, a most ingenius paradox.."
Or "Here's to a first rate opportunity
To get married with impunity,
And indulge in the felicity
Of unbounded domesticity.
You shall quickly be parsonified,
Conjugally matrimonified,
By a doctor of divinity,
Who is located in this vicinity."
http://math.boisestate.edu/gas/pirates/web_op/mid/pp9_10.mid
The English language is absurd...