Grizzly Bear w/ Beach House: Live @ First Avenue

From a couple of weeks ago. Originally published on In Review Online.

When I first heard that Beach House would be opening for Grizzly Bear at First Avenue, my immediate response was, “Ooo, dreamy!” Representing two less than mainstream stands of melodic pop music, they are a perfect match for each other. Grizzly Bear was in town a few months ago, a mere week after the release of their critically acclaimed new CD and tickets sold out faster than you could even attempt to say Veckatimest. But the show got mixed reviews, employing words such as ‘boring’ and ‘sloppy.’ Ouch! I had seen Grizzly Bear a couple years back, opening for TV on the Radio, and although their performance has faded from memory, I certainly would have remembered sloppy. I chalked it up to heightened expectations and got a ticket so I could see for myself. I was as smitten with Veckatimest almost as much as everyone else and I was very eager to see Beach House, who’s 2007 Devotion swept me off my feet.

Ultimately, the First Ave show did sell out, but not until the night of the show. As I confirm my drinking age to the man at the door, I notice that tickets are still being sold at the door. The crowd is sparse and I easily find a spot near the front. Either people aren’t as excited Beach House as I am, or they are really laid back. They are playing Blade Runner on the large screen that drops down in front of the stage until the band is ready. I am lost in thought about the surreal unicorn scene when the screen comes up and Beach House comes up on stage. A percussionist joins Victoria Legrand and Alex Scally on stage, as the three of them squish into the very small space allotted to them among Grizzly Bear’s accoutrements—instruments and a plethora of funky bell jar lights hanging from poles. Beach House has tried to establish their own space on stage by placing a large white triangle center stage behind Victoria and her keyboards as Alex hunkers down on a chair to her right with his guitar and his Saturday Night Fever white sports coat.

I’m a lazy music fan. I listen without much investigation. So when Beach House opens with “You Came to Me” and Alex’s head is drooped over his guitar—far from available microphone—my blind assumptions about the band are off. Victoria does the vocals, not Alex. It’s like the optical illusion of the old woman/young woman: you’re brain immediately sees one and locks in on it, and seeing the second is a huge discovery. As I stand and watch her sing, I wonder how I could have ever inferred otherwise. Incredibly compelling, Victoria has a way of drawing out her voice that is similar to Erika Wennerstrom of Heartless Bastards, another lower than average female vocalist. My intuition was correct: this is dreamy. Their rendition of “Gila” is thoroughly swoon-worthy. Alex’s gentle plucking emerges sugary sweet from his guitar. They employ some iPod accompaniment in the way of beats that gives them a fuller sound.

Victoria’s face is covered by bangs too long to be called bangs so it is hard to see her expressions during the random banter. They insist that the next song is perfect for making out, but then Victoria gets stuck on what day it is. “Is today Monday? Monday is perfect for making out. Is it Monday? It’s Wednesday? Oh. Well, okay, it’s not Monday, but it is hump day, if you know what I mean…” The idea of making out or humping at First Ave is almost nauseating, but Beach House seems like the best option for a soundtrack, venue notwithstanding. They pulled the plug after a very short hour. The set included mostly songs from Devotion, but also a handful of exciting new songs that set me heading for the merch table in hopes of finding a new EP or full length. Not yet. Beach House signed a deal with Sub Pop and will have a new release early 2010.

Milling around, I realize how crowded it has gotten since I arrived. I have given up my front and center spot for a more subdued back-by-the-bar position. Grizzly Bear promptly takes the stage at 10:30 and they shoot straight into “Southern Point.” The opening song to Veckatimest is a stunning song and pulls you in for the remaining 11 tracks. They attempt to do the same thing live, although I’ve always thought there has been value in the common logic of burying the show-stopping songs mid-set—the best for last mentality—but I am all for instant gratification, and that is exactly what “Southern Point” offers. Spotlighting Daniel Rossen’s unique vocals (that remind me more and more of Stephen Stills, the most underappreciated letter in CSNY) and the delicate crescendo and harmonies. They settle back and reel out some of their best songs from Veckatimest and Yellow House including a version of “Knife” that emitted a glow from the chorus that was absent the rest of the show. The wired Bell Jars that titivate the stage with more clutter than decoration flicker in random waves with the music.

Self-conscious rock stars that they are, the four piece visibly perked up when Victoria from Beach House came up on stage to lend vocals on two songs. Her presence on “Two Weeks” seems so natural, I make a mental note to check the liner notes on Veckatimest to see if she on the recorded version. (She is.) Ed Drost who has been irrepressibly focused the entire show is breaking into a smile as the two join forces on “Slow Life,” a song on the upcoming Twilight: New Moon soundtrack. (No joke.) It’s a fantastic song. Someone involved in the Twilight film is doing a very good job of introducing the tweens to artists that they might normally not be exposed to. (In addition to Grizzly Bear and Beach House, the soundtrack includes songs from Thom Yorke, Lykke Li, Killers, Bon Iver, St. Vincent, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, Sea Wolf, Ok Go and more.) Victoria’s more organic present as a performer is a marked contrast to the studious workmanship of the Grizzly Bear guys, and I’m sorry to see her leave the stage after two songs.

The fact that Grizzly Bear can’t match the perfection of their recordings is more a compliment to their studio skills than a criticism toward their live prowess. Much of the layering and intricacies are lost in the show—which is to be expected—but the fact that they seem hesitant to commit to a live persona, either harmonizing folk powerhouse ala Fleet Foxes or unrestrained experimental romp ala Animal Collective, leaves them tossing off a pseudo rock show that fails to highlight their strengths. I recently saw Jonathan Caouette’s documentary/montage All Tomorrow’s Parties which celebrates the freeform UK music festival through ten years of footage. At the end of the film there is a scene where Daniel, Ed and Chris of Grizzly Bear, armed only with an acoustic guitar, sing a song on the beach. It was beautiful. Why aren’t they doing any of that? I couldn’t help but think that this snippet was better than anything I had seen tonight.

Chris Taylor shyly speaks up and says, “I know you guys probably hear this a lot…” Yes we do. Everyone loves Purple Rain and Prince, and this is what First Ave represents to most visiting acts. But Prince hasn’t played here in years and probably never will again. The band seems to lumber to the home stretch, closing out with a sweet “On a Neck, On a Spit.” It is a bouncy lullaby that the whole crowd is into, causing obligatory protest of cheers as they leave the stage. They send us home with “Fix It,” a song from the early days of Grizzly Bear. Far from the melodramatic aura of Purple Rain, First Ave is far more grounded in solid, satisfying music tonight. Beach House rocked my world enough that I could forgive the minor lapses in Grizzly Bear’s performance. If the magic is in Grizzly Bear’s recordings, then most fans are going to more than happy to see an apparition of the same brilliance, myself included.

Fleet Foxes: Live at First Avenue

I saw the Fleet Foxes last week and wrote this review of the show for In Review Online.

The Fleet Foxes have receded from the limelight, but you can feel that it is only temporary as artist and audience alike bide their time until a new release. It was just a little over a year ago that the Fleet Foxes debut self titled full length CD took the world by gentle storm. With only a two song single in the time since, they return to Minneapolis to sell out a venue three times the size the club they played last fall. Graduating from an intimate venue to a place like First Avenue—where the stage is chin height and the musicians instantly become larger-than-life rock stars—is an inevitable but odd step forward for this self-effacing band. I gladly signed up for the second opportunity to be lifted to the sky by Robin Pecknold vocals, but I was also curious to see how their show translated in the larger venue.

Sold out shows at First Ave mean a lot of people and a lot of sweaty bodies maneuvering for the same space. My agoraphobia sets in almost immediately, so I purchased an overpriced 22oz Fat Tire in order to have a decent bottle to swing at the unruly fans. Oh wait, wrong show. The crowd, filled with love for the Fleet Foxes, was one of the most benevolent that you are likely to find at a packed rock show.

Swedish psych-rockers Dungen opened with sassy authority. It turns out that reading that article in the New York Times on the anniversary of Woodstock over dinner proved precognitive, as Dungen powered onto the stage with a display of hair and hip shaking that would put any hippie to shame. Leader of the pack, Gustav Ejstes, alternated between piano, acoustic guitar, electric guitar, flute and tambourine—which usually included the aforementioned hip shaking. Their brand of folk jam easily won the audience over and when invited to sing along (in Swedish) we tried our best.

The Fleet Foxes were invited up onstage with little fanfare to play various percussion instruments for one song and they left as quietly as they appeared. It was a tease. We wanted to see the Fleet Foxes, but not shake maracas or tap wood blocks together. As enjoyable as Dungen was, when the Fleet Foxes took the stage with the a cappella “Sun Giant” it was like a breath of fresh air. Their beautiful harmonies live were as much a surprise now as they were a year ago. I have never seen four guys harmonize like the Fleet Foxes. It is utterly breathtaking.

The sound was full and crystalline and they had no problem transforming the dark cavernous space into something more cathedral-like. The long pauses between songs—tuning, guitar changing and the like—is an open door for drummer Josh Tillman to initiate or propel a live commentary, but the first two breaks were awkwardly silent with only a couple thank yous from Pecknold. A sense of comfort settled in as audience members started talking to the band and they stated talking back. Their sharp-witted conversations makes you want to go out for coffee with them, but maybe not with 1500 other people. Tillman felt it necessary (after a slight diversion about Target and Miley Cyrus) to share an experience in Times Square where a passerby said, “Look, it’s the Jonas Bothers in 15 years.” to Tillman, Pecknold and Pecknold’s older brother.

Mid-set the band left the stage and Pecknold did two songs by himself: an incredible rendition of “Tiger Mountain Peasant Song” and a new song that was equally as beautiful regardless of its unfamiliarity. The songs Pecknold performed by himself were an undeniable highlight of the show. The humble acknowledgement to the heart and soul of the band gave his solitary presence a potency that you miss with the other four members in full regalia.

The Sunday night show at First Ave was their last show with Dungen and their last show stateside before heading to Europe for a month and then back home to record. They played an hour-long set and returned with the most perfect encore. Pecknold first did “Oliver James” solo, and then pulled everyone back onstage, including Dungen, for one final song. Ejstes, who had changed into a Public Enemy shirt, proclaimed the Fleet Foxes “The best band in the world!” and gestured to all the band members. Without missing a beat, Tillman said, “He’s pointing to The Black Crows. They’re standing backstage.” Their gleeful performance of “Blue Ridge Mountains” ended with a bone fide group hug, one that we felt just as much a part of.