The Friendly Fires w/ The xx: Live @ The Triple Rock

November 30, 2009

When it comes to new bands, spontaneous ticket buying hasn’t always worked to my advantage. Somewhere between compulsion and reality, a band’s stock can drop like a rock either on a personal level or in the eyes of the masses. So back in August when Sam C. Mac at In Review Online was going on about sliced bread and a new band called The xx, I noticed that said band had just been booked for the end of November with The Friendly Fires at the Triple Rock. I picked up a ticket (and the album) only to get distracted and forget all about it. When the show was announced as sold out, and I initially cursed myself for not buying a ticket only to realize that my spontaneity had paid off this time. Almost behind my back, The xx blew up into one of the hottest tickets around, flooding the indie rock music scene with warm fuzzy excitement as well as tongue-clicking controversy when, after reportedly playing “approximately” 300 gigs at CMJ, they canceled some shows and lost a member due to “exhaustion.”

The Triple Rock is a small catchall club that hosts just about any kind of band that fits under the broad label of rock. It’s a self-service joint where you stand alongside band members at the bar buying cheap PBR before they scurry on stage to facilitate breakdown and set up of their own equipment. I show up shortly after doors opened ready to see a line formed outside the door for the highly anticipated opening band. The first surprise as I rounded the corner is there is no line, but my second surprise is the two massive tour buses parked outside that stretch far beyond the length of the club. Once inside, I noticed that stage right (near an exit door where the buses hummed) had been taped off for “staff only.” It was clear that The xx had no intention of making use of the Triple Rock’s modest facilities or cheap PBRs and planned on staying on their bus until show time. Most of the equipment for both bands had been set up: The xx gear crowded to one side of the stage and the Friendly Fires on the other side, partially covered with a tarp.

Set times were listed as 9pm for The xx and 10pm for The Friendly Fires, and as the clock edges closer to launch, the club fills. One of the band’s crew puts out set lists and tunes the guitars and a freelance photographer for Spin works possible angles behind me. Finally, the lights came down and the trio takes the stage with no fanfare of their own. Decked out in all black, The xx, visibly serious and focused, are not so much somber as they are low-key, with very little expression or acknowledgment of the audience. Given their age and the chaos that has surrounded them in the past few months, it is hard not to read into their subdued character. Romy Madley Croft and Oliver Sim take the front of the stage with Jamie Smith situated just behind them with his synthesizer and keyboard set up on two box stands with a lit up “x” on each one. The lighting at the Triple Rock is pretty rudimentary, but this was absurd: whether by accident or design, the three members are almost entirely in the dark except when Sim moves up to the mic and catches the edge of a spotlight.

The xx don’t exactly have a sound that is new, but it is undeniably fresh. The atmospheric music and the languid vocals traded between Crofts and Sims has a dreamy, if not a little bittersweet, nostalgia that pulls you in. They roll into “Intro” and then straight into “VCR,” the first two tracks off their album. There is an added layer of irony when Croft sings “I think we’re superstars,” but she gives little notice to it, irreverent in what I read as concentration, not apathy. Listening to the songs live, I realize how openly they are wearing their hearts on their sleeves—“Shelter” nearly breaks your heart with its candidness. Four songs into their set I am surprised at how good they sound for a band that recently lost one member. That thought no more than crossed my mind when Sim steps up to the mic, addressing the audience for the first time, and says, “We only recently became a three piece, so we might fuck this one up.” The song he is talking about is “Crystalised,” one that prominently showcases what was probably the duel guitars of Croft and now x-member Baria Qureshi. Sure enough, they start the song only to stop and have to restart. There is no improvising here, but once they get started it sounds better than most live renditions of songs. They float through eight songs ending their very short 40-minute set with “Infinity” and a finale that includes Sims grabbing some drumsticks and working a personal moment of catharsis on the one symbol they have set up in front of Smith. And then, poof! They were gone. Back on the bus, probably looking at the map for the next gig.

About a third of the crowd leaves while The Friendly Fires set up the rest of their gear and spreading out onto the entire stage. My introduction to The Friendly Fires had only come a couple hours ago as I lingered on their MySpace page and listened to the songs they had to offer. The dance rock songs sounded good to me, and I am ready to stick around and give them a listen. What I am not ready for is the band coming on stage like a crazed three-man party. As soon as drummer Jack Savidge starts banging out the beats, lead singer Ed MacFarlane starts gyrating, cutting a rug like nobody’s business. For a moment, everyone, who had just been lulled into a state of tranquility by The xx, is in shock. MacFarlane is shaking his money-maker like no other performer I have seen, with Savidge and guitarist Edd Gibson exerting their own rabid energy into their instruments. I couldn’t find much compulsion to move myself, nor could most of the audience and MacFarlane chides us for it: “Come on! It’s like a library out there.” Despite the fact that there are some very enthusiast fans willing to please, no one in the house is going to win a dance off against MacFarlane. A bass, a sax and a horn fills out their raucous melodies. At one point, Gibson picks up what I think is a blender and uses it on his guitar. The Friendly Fires finish their set, barely going longer than The xx, but they cap it off with a lively encore.

The Friendly Fires’ energy is somewhat lost on me as someone not familiar with their songs, and they just leave me feeling worn out, but I am left with a lasting impression of The xx. It is hard to guess what the future hold for this young band and their short but solid set yielded few clues, but I hardly see them burning out or fading away any time soon. One thing is clear if you have looked at The xx’s tour schedule for the next few months: the three members left are not daunted by exhaustion. Literally hours before the sold out show at the Triple Rock, it was announced that The xx would be back in the Twin Cities in April, at a slightly larger and nicer venue, as headliners with jj—yet another ticket that will be hard to pass up.

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.

Health: Live at The 7th St Entry

Originally published on In Review Online.

I probably wouldn’t have considered myself a big Health fan until I fell in love with their recent sophomore release Get Color. Their self-titled debut from 2007 was loud and eclectic, but failed to leave enough of an impression for me to return to it. Get Color is far more cohesive and accessible, that is if you like a little noise with your dance rock. Like a much louder Battles, Health makes it clear that volume matters—the first line on the inside jacket of the CD is “This record should be played at a minimum of 90db.” I couldn’t have been more excited when I read that they were going to play with Health re-mixer and label-mate Pictureplane, at The 7th Street Entry. This is my kind of show: small, loud and energetic.

I approach The Entry glad that I am on my bike, because traffic is not moving. As I get closer, I realize that the snarl’s epicenter is right outside The Entry and the adjoining First Avenue. Cop cars surround First Ave as a mass of people, most with their faces painted in black and white, pour out on to the street screaming things I clearly do not understand. For the first time, The Entry acted as a sanctuary away from the chaos. “What the hell is going on?” Without an ounce of amusement, the woman at the ticket window said, “All ages Insane Clown Posse show.” Wow. My first contact with the famed Juggalos and Juggalettes! I had often heard about the rabid and dedicated following that ICP has developed, but it all existed outside of my circles. No longer. The cops were busy monitoring the crowd of largely under-age fans and the approaching 10:00pm curfew. Thankfully, I do not have to worry about any of that.

The Entry’s ambiance is much more mellow compared to the street riot brewing outside. Opened to accompany the much larger First Avenue, The 7th Street Entry is the fabled cavern of The Replacements and the so-called Minneapolis sound of the early 80s. Over the past 30 years, just about every band of humble beginnings has played here. Its modest capacity makes it one of the best places to see live acts and I am here to testify that I have seen some of the best shows of my life in this small little room.

I arrive slightly late, missing opening act Juiceboxx, a punk hip-hop hybrid from Milwaukee, and one-man band Pictureplane is setting up his gear, not on the stage, but down on the floor with people crowded around him. Even though it is a bit of a lull, people are getting their groove on to R. Kelly that is playing in between sets. Jupiter Keyes from Health is running the merch table and admonishing himself for not knowing how much stuff costs. “I should know how much stuff is, but I don’t normally… John will be back in a second.” He sold me by simply being sweet and self-effacing.

Picturplane’s modest setup amounts to a couple of effects boxes, a small keyboard, a mixer, a mic, two sets of colored lights, and most importantly, his iPod nano—replete with crinkly shiny paper hanging from his x stand. He requests that R. Kelly be turned down so he can test his equipment, and shortly thereafter, cues up the beats and starts rocking. Live, his electronic house music is less gloss and more fuzz. Initially he had people hopping, but by the end of the set most had gone listless to the pumping beats. Blame it on the homogeneity of the songs, or the lack of interest in the actual performance, or the fact that he was dancing harder than anyone else in the audience, but somewhere between R. Kelly and iPod fiddling, Pictureplane loses this very-ready-to-dance crowd.

Once the floor has been cleared. People start mashing towards the front. I hadn’t noticed, but The Entry is quickly filling up. I find a spot literally on top of a large speaker (large enough to share it with one other person) at the very front left corner of the triangular stage. The four members of Health are coming on stage, all business. Since Pictureplane was down on the floor, there is really not much set up. I’m not sure what it is all about, but they all have a lot of tape on their guitars. Modifications? I have no idea. They all do a quick test of their guitars, gadgets, drums, mics and they seem to be ready. But then singer-guitar player Jake Duzsik says, with no humor, “We’re not supposed to play until 11:30, so were not just hanging around.” And they leave the stage. The bar no doubt wants to pilfer our money for another overpriced beer, but those 15 minutes seem to last forever.

They reappear, 11:30 on the spot, and like mad animals rip into “Death+.” John Famiglietti, who plays bass and runs a whole mass of effects equipment, is thrashing around like a mad man, and everyone in the audience can’t help but follow his lead. All four members are a torrent of energy that is being channeled through their various instruments, and they barely stopped for applause. The crowd is eating it up. I am sort of perched above it all, but occasionally it became too much for my fellow speaker-sitter and he would leap head first into the crowd. There hardly seems to be the mass needed to catch him, but he emerges unscathed and scrambles back up beside me only to do it again five minutes later. Jupiter and John both have equipment and instruments set up on the floor, instead of on stands, in front of them, and at one point both of them are crawling around on the floor—Jupiter playing keyboard and John running effects. Burly drummer BJ Miller is equally kinetic, but never leaves his seat. During “Nice Girls,” Jupiter picks up a couple drumsticks and pounds out the beats with BJ on a drum of his own, and he looks like someone getting ready for war.

The energy in the room is completely contagious, as if the members of Health, the audience and the music are molecularly resonating at the same velocity. Although they play nearly every song off Get Color—I think—the set is disappointingly short. People beg for another song, and they deliver almost immediately. When I go outside and see them taking a breather by the back door, I reassess the very short (but satisfying) set. Health’s show was a rare display of a band willing to perform an exhilarating 45-minute sprint instead of an uninspiring 1½ hour walk—a classic case of quality not quantity.

Check out their video for "Die Slow" from Get Color.

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.

Camera Obscura: Live at the Cedar Cultural Center

My review of the Camera Obscura show at the Cedar a couple weekends ago is up on In Review Online. In a weekend where I went to three shows (Santigold, Holy Fuck and Camera Obscura), this one was the overall winner. I met up with fellow blogger and friend Joe who makes me feel a little more normal about my schizophrenic musical taste. (I'm pretty sure we were the only two people in the room who had been at Mastodon, Wolves in the Throne Room and Camera Obscura!) He also did a summery of the show here.

It was a good evening. All I wanted to say about the show I said here. In the photo on the left, Tracyanne is holding the awesome avocado maraca I mention in the review.