Salon: “Ever since OutKast came out of Atlanta 12 years ago, hip-hop’s beloved duo has been riding one long wave of critical adulation and popular acclaim, each album outselling the last, each album taking a legitimate artistic step forward, and each album confounding expectations. But now, with the tepid and unadventurous ‘Idlewild,’ Antwan ‘Big Boi’ Patton and Andre 3000 (né Benjamin) have done the last thing anyone expected: delivered their first dud.”
Say it ain’t so!
I’m stealing the idea from Tito. Here is an impromptu relistening of AC/DC’s Back in Black.
1. Hells Bells — So Bon Scott is dead, as the track’s opening bells suggest to us. Where does AC/DC go to from here? Well, the mike is placed squarely in Brian Johnson’s hands and, well aware that he’s on tender ground, he’s not content to hog it. In fact, what strikes me listening to this many years later is how Johnson’s vocals are buried in the mix beneath the guitars. The pacing of this opening track is languid, with Johnson settling into the new lineup quite subtly. “I’m coming on like a hurricane,” he says, but you wouldn’t know it from the way Johnson is now carrying himself. The gist here is that Johnson means business and, all tragedy aside, the band plans to kick some serious ass.
2. Shoot to Thrill And finally the amp’s bleedover and the guitar chops at long last find their ground in the song’s opening thirty seconds. The minute that Johnson sings, “Shoot to thrill / play to kill,” the AC/DC we’ve known and loved has returned. How can you not love the moment where the chords that precede the mini-solo just before the three minute mark? And when Young and company go all Who-ish on us with that drumming and Townshend-like chord a mere thirty seconds later , it becomes immediately clear that this — AC/DC’s best record — is a band that has a lot more going behind the minimalism. There’s even a funny homage to Robert Plant’s wails in the song’s final seconds.
3. What Do You Do for Money Honey — Johnson finally finds his groove and the band boosts up his presence with the grand chorus crescendo. The verses and the subdued guitar here allow Johnson to screech with gusto. And it’s clear that a mere three songs into Back in Black, he’s at long last come into his own.
4. Givin the Dog a Bone — As odes to fellatio go, this is an okay but by no means totally compelling track — if only because this lacks the gravitas of “What Do You Do for Money Honey.”
5. Let Me Pull My Love into You — The band plays up the bass and drums for this bluesy rocker. Sure, you can quibble with Johnson’s fey assertions of his own masculinity (“Let me cut your cake with my knife”), but it’s the mood here that matters most. The seven triplets that precede the smashing power chord and the “Don’t you…” lines, the sense that AC/DC has deliberately created a song to have methodical yet languorous sex to, and the closing crashes, suggesting a pre-encore concert slot.
6. Back in Black — I’ve heard this song perhaps two hundred times, but every time I hear it while driving, I cannot resist singing like Johnson, particularly at the “Hey hey hey” mark — even when the car is filled with several people. Whatever its weaknesses, “Back in Black” shares a troubling catchiness with another overplayed (and inferior) FM radio song: Journey’s “Any Way You Want It.” This is also, hands down, the best guitar solo on the album.
7. You Shook Me All Night Long — The other major single from the album. I will confess that I never entirely warmed up to this song, with the exception of Johnson wailing the song’s title over guitar. The song’s arpeggios seem too easy for the boys. This was the tune clearly designed for the radio, but AC/DC were at least respectful enough to leave this near the album’s closing. But the song’s finale, suggesting an entirely new song just before fading out, is a nice freakout
8. Have a Drink on Me — Another great bluesy number great for pool halls and bars. A very nice use of fifth chords, complemented by AC/DCs trademark double two-power chord crash near the end, with Johnson offering a testimonial for the pros and cons of loosening up.
9. Shake a Leg — The song opens with a very deceptive snare-hi-hat combo with Johnson wailing his vocals off the track and settling into a new one, followed by the band. The lyrics, alas, offer little aside from “shake a leg” and the song begins to wear out its welcome about two and a half minutes in and it’s comparatively pedestrian to the song’s interesting opening.
10. Rock and Roll Ain’t Noise Pollution — A relaxed way to close out the album, but it’s extremely sad that the song was appropriated by Nike in a spirit that runs counter to the piss and vinegar comedown.
November 14: new Joanna Newsom album, featuring arrangements scored and conducted by Van Dyke Parks!
RotR fave The Hold Steady’s third album, Boys and Girls in America, will be released in October. The title is a reference to On the Road. (via Proud Papa Jeff)
Am I the only person in the world who thinks that Super Furry Animals’ Gruff Rhys and Damon Albarn sound almost exactly the same?
So I avoid the cultural headlines for twelve hours, scratch my head over why people are suddenly quoting Syd Barrett lyrics, and learn that the great Syd Barrett has died. He was only 60 years old, spending much of his life indoors, withdrawn from humanity.
One shouldn’t discount the importance of Pink Floyd’s The Piper at the Gates of Dawn, an homage to Barrett’s favorite childhood book, The Wind in the Willows. It was the album that launched Pink Floyd and psychedelic rock as a whole. Barrett was the kind of artist who made you wonder if, in a parallel universe, Salvador Dali had chosen the guitar over the paintbrush. With Barrett as bandleader, Piper is a far more literate, playful and innovative album than the austere aural bombast Pink Floyd committed themselves to in the 1970s. One can single out Piper‘s lunatic organ sounds, its jangly noise, or the crazed lyrical and instrumental dissonance that tantalizes from the get-go. (Who could forget the incoherent but strangely poetic “Line and limpid green a second scene, a fight between the blue you once knew?”) Or one can simply kick back and enjoy “Interstate Overdrive” as a driving dreamlike dirge.
Barrett would later put out the strong solo album The Madcap Laughs, recording it with former bandmates Roger Waters and David Gilmour, and another album (which I never got around to listening to) simply called Barrett before disappearing into his inner sanctum, sometimes homeless, always tortured, for good. It’s a pity that Barrett wasn’t able to conquer his demons and carry on further. But a tamed Barrett wouldn’t have created the devilish oeuvre that will carry on for many years to come.
(via Jeff)
[UPDATE: Levi Asher also offers a remembrance.]
Now I’m kicking myself for not seeing them when they played the Fillmore. At least there’s still Quasi.
That Immortal Technique‘s an alright mothafucka.
Goddam you, Pitchfork.
Of particularly creepy (and unintentionally hilarious) note: Lionel Richie’s “Hello.” Nothing says stalker robbing the cradle and abusing his position of authority more than this video.
If you are of a certain age, you will recall that, a few decades ago, Hall & Oates rose mercilessly to prominence, invading the airwaves as the equally disgraceful Captain & Tenille waned (proving that the music industry always has room for at least one abject duo). If, like me, you harbored any hopes that their careers were over for good, it is my sad duty to report that, like Glenn Close emerging from the bathtub, Hall & Oates are touring again. Inexplicably, most of their tour runs through Canada. This mystifes me, as I thought that Godspeed You! Black Emperor, Wolf Parade, the Unicorns, and the Arcade Fire were proof positive that Canadian music lovers had certain standards. Apparently not.
Or perhaps it is Hall & Oates who believe that their climb back into the hearts of those who hold onto their LPs of Huey Lewis, late Genesis and Eddie Money with a brio comparable to Franklin Mint plate collectors will be a smooth and steady one, with Ontario’s cool winds sailing south through Toronto into the unquestioning reception of East Coast listeners looking for bland and inoffensive music. Consider Daryl Hall’s words of wisdom:
“I think a lot of people have different ideas about our origins and our purpose, and what makes us tick musically. So I thought, ‘OK, once and for all, I’m going to define it. And we’re going to go out there and show where we came from and who we are.’ “
I think it’s safe to say that anyone who hears the lines “I can’t go for being twice as nice / I can’t go for just repeating the same old lines / Use the body now you want my soul / Oo forgot about it say no go” knows exactly what they’re in for. That Hall & Oates made millions with such lines is criminal, but that they couldn’t even spend ten bucks on a rhyming dictionary is unpardonable.
Perhaps we should just be grateful that John Oates shaved off that silly moustache.
Sasha Frere-Jones: “The Arctic Monkeys are an independent rock band, a genre in which sunny dispositions are hardly the norm.”
Um, the Apples in Stereo? The Liars? A substantial chunk of the Elephant Six Collective? Clap Your Hands Say Yeah Yeah? Seems to me like there’s a lot of sunny indie rock these days. At least from where I’m sitting.
AIM Magazine: “London rapper M.I.A. has been denied a visa to visit or work in the USA by immigration officials, AIM magazine has learnt. Sources close to the British Sri-Lankan MC said that her lawyers are frantically trying to resolve the situation. No one from her record company had returned messages to comment at the time of publication.”
Seattle Post-Intelligencer: “E! Online reported surgery saved the Rolling Stones guitarist, who perhaps should not be climbing coconut trees in Fiji as he is reported to have done before falling. Reps say only that he was injured.”
Steven Seagal, The Fillmore, June 6: “In late 2005 and early 2006 Steven Seagal embarked on a long held musical dream — to record a “real blues album” honoring and recording with the last of the living legends in Memphis. The resulting album — “Mojo Priest” will be Steven?s first US Album release and will be backed by a 20 city tour in late May and throughout June, assembling an all star band of brothers: Norris Johnson on keyboards, Bernard Allison on slide guitar, Harold Smith on guitar, Edward “Hot” Cleveland on drums, Armand Sabal-Lecco on bass and Angel Rogers providing background vocals — there is no question this is a mighty powerful group.
This Slate article unearths some appalling accusations against Stephin Merritt by music critics Sasha Frere-Jones and Jessica Hopper.
The time has come for the human population to let the recording artist who identifies herself as Madonna drift outside of public awareness. She may have been fun once. She may have inspired many girls growing up in the 1980s to dress differently. She may have let a few provocative shock waves ripple into the mainstream. But I think that now, in A.D. 2006, it can be safely stated that Madonna has now fully served her purpose and has nothing particularly substantive, daring or original to contribute to music or culture.
I can say this because I’ve seen these ridiculous photos and I’ve also seen Madonna live. And by live, I’m telling you that my ass was in the dance tent at Coachella. I had a pretty clear view of the Material Girl for 15 minutes of her 40-minute set, which was a bit like staring at a Thomas Kinkade painting for the same duration. The nausea kicked in somewhere around the 30 second mark.
The hope, of course, was to see what kind of performer Madonna was in person.
The answer: not much of one. Sure, she had dancers. She played the guitar (if playing the same power chords over and over, an achievement well within the bailiwick of any half-ass garage band, can be said to be the sign of a virtuoso). But I felt utterly nothing. Her set felt more like a well-executed computer program.
And I have empirical evidence to back this up. By a strange coincidence, we had arrived at around 11:00 AM on Sunday. The hope was to beat the crowd and charge my cell phone at a corporate-sponsored blue dome so that we could harass a few pals with text messages (and also to see if I could hook up with the incomparable Tito Perez). But sure enough, the Material MILF was there for what we (and several Madonna fans) thought was a routine soundcheck. The area was blockaded with yellow police tape and there were about fifteen individuals, most of them with arms locked across their chests. Okay, so Madonna needs to practice. Three songs perhaps. No more. No big deal.
But Madonna kept practicing and practicing and the blue dome, a mere 100 feet beyond the line, taunted me with its proximity. Hilariously, Madonna even called to her nonexistent audience, “I can’t hear you!” Meaning that Madonna was practicing exactly what she was planning to say to the crowd between songs. (Sure enough, she did call out “I can’t hear you!” to the swelling dance tent, who presumably thought she was being sincere.)
The festival was set to begin at high noon. But the crowd wasn’t let past the line until 12:10 PM, meaning that, because Madonna had insisted on practicing after the gates opened rather than before, the schedule was hopelessly screwed up for all of the unfortunate bands who had to play before her. One bare-chested gentleman, who informed me that he had attended every single U.S. tour since the Virgin Tour, said that the Coachella organizers were initially hesitant to let Madonna perform because such a mainstream megastar wasn’t festival material. As it turns out, Madonna’s lack of consideration proved these dissenters right.
There was also the matter of my uncharged cell phone. But that’s a triviality.
And did I mention that Madonna started her set 30 minutes late after Paul Oakenfold cut his set short due to Madonna’s delay (and to accommodate her)? It was 110 degrees that day. We were in a tent. Madonna had the audacity to tell the crowd, “It’s so fucking hot in here!” As if we had somehow failed to espy the copious sweat spewing from our bodies or the sun digging its rays into our arms.
Unlike other heterosexual men, I’m not ashamed to confess that I went through a Madonna phase — not outright zeal, but a strange appreciation nonetheless. While I never simulated masturbation in front of a crowd or wore a bra over my T-shirt, a part of me was nevertheless fascinated with Madonna’s protean image shift with each album. It was a technique clearly cribbed from Bowie, but never had a female megastar attempted it.
But here’s the thing: Madonna is no longer protean. She is no longer fresh. She has become as predictable as a Jude Deveraux novel.
Her last album, Confessions on the Dance Floor, containing such atrocious lyrics as “I don’t like cities, but I like New York / Other places make me feel like a dork,” as well as electronic samples that felt about as fresh as a soiled pair of boxers, was catchy — the same way botulism is catchy. Meaning that the tunes nestled into my head the way lice squirm through a neglected toddler’s locks. Which is to say that it took a rather rigorous procedure to get the infestation out of my noggin.
Honestly, what is Madonna’s purpose these days? How is shallow pout constructive? There were kids at the show climbing up the scaffolding. Yes, I can tell any grandkids I might have that I saw Madonna live. But I’d rather tell them how good Damian Marley was (who I URGE you to see live): a performer who really wanted to entertain the crowd, a band with a fantastic rhythm section, and an act unafraid to shake a political stick.
For these and many other reasons too numerous to dwell upon, it must be averred that Madonna is pretty much useless to American society. One hopes that she will go away, but she can’t and she won’t. What is particularly criminal is that Madonna isn’t even capable of appealing to base instincts anymore. (And that’s saying something, because this assertion comes from a fool who thought he had the stamina of a 22-year-old and was, as a result, found in a supine position, sore and nearly incapable of walking, just before Tool came on. Apparently, twelve hours of live music and almost continuous dancing will do that to you.)
Therefore, it is up to contemporary audiences to reject Madonna in all her myriad forms. Only then can the true musicians begin to rock the planet.
when i woke up this morning
i was confronted with the news that although we’d make a boatload of money touring, i wouldn’t be able to buy that table at crate and barrel because the album was released to the internet
i won’t make as much $$$
and that will break my heart
it will break john frusciante’s heart
it will break anthony kiedis’s heart
and it will break the heart of chad smith
we all wanted a nice table to set the bong on
and now we can’t
because you downloaded it
yes, we worked for seven years hoping that we could buy that table at crate and barrel
i have wanted this table for seven years
can you blame me for crying?
it is a painful pill to swallow
not having this table
we have released tracks in crappy itunes format
but let me bitch to you about how bad it will sound
and how i will not be able to buy my table
yes, you have prevented the red hot chilli peppers from buying a new table
how can you live with yourself?
who was the idiot who prevented me from buying my precious table?
i am sad for i will have to use the ikea table for another two years
what if i have a heart attack?
what if anthony kiedis has a heart attack?
the crate and barrel table was good for us
if we fell on it while having a heart attack
it would cushion us a bit more
please see us live three times
sincerely,
flea
An interesting excerpt from The Bob Dylan Encyclopedia (coming from the Continuum Books people), suggesting that Dave Stewart’s only worthwhile function in the music world was to back Dylan.
Kim has tracked down a single from The Streets’ new album. It’s an interesting new direction, but I’m a bit concerned. You see, part of Mike Skinner’s appeal is his no-bullshit lack of melody. Now the wanker has started singing instead of rapping, which sort of takes away from the grime and grit that made the first two albums so appealing in the first place. Skinner’s now saying, “You can’t stop fucking pop stars.” That’s a far and unfortunate cry from the passive and humdrum hell he captured so well in “Could Well Be In.”
Cry me a river, Momus. There is a very specific reason why I don’t own an iPod, a Zen Micro or even a shitty Discman. (I did own one of the latter, but I destroyed it about three years ago in mock anarchist mode in front of a few friends when it began malfunctioning.) It’s because I enjoy room tone and the sound of natural space, even that occupied with a dim tune coming from an overhead garret. It’s because I love riding the subway and the buses lost in a book or fascinated by a group of people or overhearing some salacious cell phone conversation. It’s also because I value my ears. When I do any kind of audio engineering, I want to bring a fresh concentration to what I do. I don’t think humans were designed to be exposed to constant 24/7 audio input. I suspect, however, that the MySpace generation born just after me doesn’t yet know this.
It should be noted that humans can, in fact, say no to things such as television and portable audio recorders. One can also befriend neighbors and come to terms with precisely the kind of volume level that might aggravate them (or likewise). If a schmuck like me (who is often socially inept) can find a common level of respect among his neighbors, then so can Momus.
In other words, I take objection to Momus’s premise that the American landscape has been irrevocably saturated by music. I live in the Haight. It can get quite noisy from time to time. But I did take care to move into a pad that had affordable rent and solid walls. Forward thinking and planning can get you into desirable environments. Tolerance too.
But here’s another existential trade secret: by exposing my ears to the natural din of conversation during my MUNI commutes and within my inner sanctum, any sort of audio onslaught, whether it be my neighbor blasting jazz or the Fiona Apple obsession the folks at my local coffeehouse is not only more tolerable, but it can be tuned out, provided that some sanctuaries still remain.
I’ll be more concerned if they start piping wretched elevator music into the subways.
Deerhoof is perfect music if you slept a mere three and a half hours the night before. The more sleep you have, the less sense it makes.
Dogs were barking, guests were parking
and my wedding was about to start
Dogs were barking, monkeys clapping
Then I got up on table and I said:
I’ll meet you 10:45 on the Broadway Canal
in a disco radical transglobal
Gogol Bordello is my new favorite band.
Vidiot has a fantastic post outlining the history and avarice concerning the song “Mbube” aka “Wimoweh” aka what most American listeners know as “The Lion Sleeps Tonight.”
Associated Press: “But it was a bizarre addendum to the statement, totally unrelated to the suit, that drew the wrath of Velvet Revolver lead singer Scott Weiland. Rose recalled a day last October where Slash, whom he hadn’t spoken to in almost a decade, showed up unannounced at his door at 5:30 one morning. Rose claimed that during their conversation Slash tore into his VR bandmates, calling Duff ‘spineless’ and Weiland ‘a fraud,’ among other things. Despite Slash’s hard-partying reputation, Rose insisted his former bandmate did not appear under the influence when he allegedly made these comments during this pre-dawn meeting.”
It had been a long while (well, only a mere two months, but for a music freak, that’s an eternity) since I had seen a live show. And I suppose this desire, along with the recent discovery that you could escape exorbitant Ticketmaster charges (i.e., $10 for a $20 show!) at the Fillmore by buying tickets directly from the box office, led me to select Nada Surf (opening acts: Inara George and Rogue Wave) as the band to get back into the game with. Agent Tito Perez, who I later learned wasn’t really a fan for bands serving that halfway point between party band and indie pop, was kind enough to accompany me. But as it turned out, Mr. Perez’s wisdom on this point far exceeded mine. And we were both duped as a result of my ill-fated excitement.
Nada Surf, as a live experience, turns out to be a band that has little to offer to anyone over the age of 24. Their lyrics come across as more puerile in person (or perhaps reveal themselves as such). Their stage presence is hackeneyed and culled from strange sources. Bassist Daniel Lorca, for example, regularly smokes cigarettes, shooting out great plumes while playing as if this gleeful self-immolation is some kind of musical innovation. But in lieu of Slash’s wild hair or soulful guitar solos, we get a dreadlocked idiot bouncing up and down without élan, much less a point, while offering straightforward bass lines while muttering asides like, “Fillmore! Fuck yeah,” and without, say, the admirable goofiness of bald Rogue Wave bassist Evan Farrell, whose spastic stage presence was easily the highlight of a mostly mediocre evening, but only when compared with the lifeless performances of his compadres. Their vocalist/guitarist, Matthew Caws, is an adenoidal adolescent long overdue for an elocution class, much less a lesson in subtlety.
I could offer sad excuses, such as the fact that I have a weakness for arpeggio-based bands and the fact that, even now in my early thirties, I am still trying to prolong certain immature impulses, which may explain the whole halfway “party band” thing I am still coming to terms with. But I must thank Nada Surf for delivering an austere lesson: A party band is a party band is a party band. I walked away from the show feeling nothing more than the paper-thin razzle-dazzle that one easily outgrows. The hollow dupe of hubris-laden vocalists and, most criminally, a sound engineer who boosted up vocals with excessive treble that agitated my ears, as if I was being bombarded with an array of unwanted whispers, and, most unpardonably, the shameful sham of reverb for tunes that, to my ear at least, did not require much of a larynx stretch. Unless, of course, the live limbo bar has been raised to a rather comfortable two-octave range.
A few words about the Fillmore, which may further explain the Nada Surf decision. It’s a good venue. Nearly every music freak knows its history, but it’s also the place where strange things always seem to happen for me. The band that once told the audience that, “If you want to hang out with us, we’ll be out front.” Not just once, but repeatedly. In between each song. As if the prospect of hanging “out front” would somehow allow one to parse this band’s allure. Or, as I later observed that evening when I went “out front” (not, I assure you, to hang out with this band but to relieve myself), scantily clad and underaged girls throwing themselves at the frontman. The band that once screamed to the crowd, “We’re from Walnut Creek! And we’re angry!” (Indeed.) There was also the incident about a year ago of the attractive blonde, seven years my junior and surprisingly sober, who once groped me while simultaneously trying to get me to dance, apparently smitten with my T-shirt, which had an obscure cultural reference on it, and what she referred to as my “amazing brain.” I found this somewhat sad and yet the perverse side of me couldn’t resist its sordid appeal.
And, as I shall soon relay further, Thursday night likewise possessed a seamy undercurrent that more than made up for Nada Surf’s deficiencies.
But before I get to Nada Surf, let me talk of the two bands that preceded them.
We arrived as a woman named Inara George sang songs, accompanied by a keyboardist who did not move, much less perform, and a moribund guitarist, both of whom I felt very sorry for. Her tunes were wholly undistinguishable from each other, much less an open mike night at a coffeehouse. This was a singer who had clearly spent many years in a bedroom impersonating Bjork, Dolores O’Riordan and Laetitia Sadier, and had failed to come up with a distinct voice of her own. As I said to Mr. Perez, “This chick gives chick pop a bad name.” Her lyrics were immediately suspect because she seemed to be under the false impression that the words “fashion” and “reaction” rhymed. Further, in between songs, Ms. George kept insisting to the audience that she was not drunk. Drawing attention to one’s weaknesses to a lukewarm audience is, in my view, a pretty suicidal move. But that wasn’t the least of Ms. George’s self-sabotage. She then proceeded to crack a lame joke about Paris Hilton, which received no laughs. She then said, “If Paris Hilton is in the crowd tonight, I’m sorry. I think she’s pretty cool.” Oscar Wilde, Ms. George clearly is not.
If there was a positive during during Ms. George’s peformance, Mr. Perez and I made known our secret appreciation for Joanna Newsom (who may actually be related to Mayor Gavin), who has seemingly disappeared from the face of the earth after the excellent album, “The Milk-Eyed Mender.”
Sometime around Ms. George’s performance, I had the first of two whiskey sours, in large part because the high audience contingent of youths ten years my junior was making me feel like an old lady and I figured I should imbibe along these lines.
Thankfully, Ms. George concluded her interminable set. Rogue Wave then appeared. Rogue Wave hails from the East Bay and I had been intending to see them. I can recommend their album, “Out of the Shadow.” The live Rogue Wave is, with the exception of the aforementioned bassist Evan Farrell, fairly lifeless. Vocalist Zach Rogue hides like a coward behind the smooth polish of overdone reverb. It’s a shame, because he doesn’t have that bad of a voice. The backup guitarist and the drummer frequently switch positions, but, outside of Farrell, this is the only real animation that you are likely to encounter from this band. Apparently, Rogue and company didn’t get the memo that the shoegazing thing died out around 1993.
I am not certain if Mr. Farrell might find a way to urge his fellow bandmates to amp themselves up. He had, as Mr. Perez observed, good clapping moves. And any bald musician contorting his body like a fey fish deserves many plaudits from this cultural chornicler.
Unfortunately, Farrell also had to play bass. And his moves were naturally occluded by this and the telling awareness that his fellow bandmates were tragically inert.
Perhaps the solution here is some mad roadie running around on stage threatening to electrocute Rogue Wave’s remaining members if they refuse to move. In fact, this might be a dependable approach used across the board to break bands out of the dreadful habit of staying in place. If you’re going to perform, then, dammit, perform!
We now come to Nada Surf, of which I have very little to add. They did have an intriguing stage setup which I thought might factor into the show. Five round mirrors were placed behind the band, as if to suggest some conceptual angle that would play out later in the show. Alas, it was little more than a literal reference to “In the Mirror,” a track off their album, The Weight is a Gift.
For their first two songs, Nada Surf started off with a nice sound. Rich guitar, vocals balanced, and of course the aforementioned stage animation from Lorca, which offered great relief to the rectilinear antics of Rogue Wave. But after the second song, Caws raced over to the sound guy and the band made a tragic mistake. Suddenly, Caws’ vocals dwarfed the entirety of the mix. This was unfortunate, because Caws was riding high on reverb and it soon became apparent how childish his lyrics were (“I want you lazy science / I want some peace / Are you the future? / Show me the keys”) and how deficient his vocal timbre was.
“Concrete Bed,” in particular, suffered from the mid-set remix. The song, for those of you who have heard the album, relies on a very catchy guitar hook to drive the song forward. For whatever reason, when the sound guy was asked to change levels, it came at the expense of the levels on Caws’ guitar. And without the jangly rhthym guitar, the song felt as if it was missing something.
Was this a vocalist’s arrogance or a case where Nada Surf’s monitors were malfunctioning, simply not reflecting the mix the audience was hearing? I didn’t see it, but Mr. Perez observed the drummer pointing upwards as Caws was negotiating with the sound guy.
But the end result was that I came away not really wanting to listen to Nada Surf anymore, feeling very much an adult surrounded by children. Because the secret to their success (careful production in the studio) had been exposed, revealing a band that was utterly anemic in person. There are some bands that are like this, unfortunately. Which begs the question: If you’re unwilling to expose your band’s vulnerabilities on stage, why tour at all? Mistakes are one of the reasons people go to see live shows. I hereby declare a moratorium on the use of excessive reverb in live shows.
While my interest in Nada Surf’s live act flagged considerably by the fifth song, I did espy a very creepy situation going down on my left. Apparently, a man, who was somewhere between the age of fifty and fifty-five, was trying desperately to talk with someone who appeared to be an eighteen year-old girl. The girl was with two other friends. And I thought at first that this man was escorting his daughter to a live show. He seemed quick to prove that he was enjoying himself by bobbing his head up and down and shaking his body. But it soon became apparent by the girl’s body language (frown on face, trying to avoiding this man’s repeated efforts to chat her up) that she was uncomfortable and that she didn’t know this guy. It wasn’t a case of mere avoidance. It was a case of this girl not really having any other place to shift to on a crowded floor.
Then the girl’s two friends disappeared. And I watched the girl repeatedly brush her hair with her hand as the man held up first three fingers and then five fingers. He then pulled out his wallet and returned it back to his pocket. Was this a proposition? It certainly looked like it. Could it be that older men attend the shows at the Fillmore with the express purpose of picking up young women? If so, I’m sure this wasn’t a first. This unsettled me. But before I could find out a definitive answer, the show was over.