This was one varied crowd. Not in terms of ethnicity, it was white on white on white, but in terms of age. Young kids, 20-somethings, 50-somethings, and everyone in between was standing in the long line waiting to get into the Greek Theater, presumably hoping to grab a spot in one of the ornate concrete thrones that lined the edge of the first rings of long, low steps that was the Greek's seating arrangement (more fun then folding chairs). I know that's where I would have sat if I could have had my choice. I know the rail is always fun but c'mon, a concrete THRONE? You get to watch the show like some Greek dictator watching the gladiators. How could you say no to that?
Anyway, I think I know how Wilco acquired such a generation-spanning fanbase. I brought my folks to the show, and they both left Wilco believers.
I first saw Wilco at Outside Lands last year. I'd never heard of them, but 2 out of every 3 conversations I overheard that day was people making plans to catch Wilco, so I figured I could check them out. I did, and I've been waiting to catch them again with some better knowledge of their back catalog. All I knew was they made a delicate, glorious noise.
Wilco is a six-peice band from Chicago. You want a full history, go elsewhere. You want a setlist, go elsewhere. This is what the show was actually like.
It even started out well. Well, not WELL, but with promise. I'll be frank, Okkervil River is not the best band in the world, mostly because a few of their members are downright lifeless: the girl guitarist (plagued by technical problems that demanded she fiddle with her les paul for most of each song), and the two keyboardists had about as much charm as cardboard cut-outs. But the tall, blue-clad bassist had a laid-back attitude that made being up there in front of a sold-out house look easy. Their drummer wailed on his pale-pink kit with a lot of fire, if not a lot of finesse. Still, if there's one reason to see this band it's that frontman, with his strong, clear voice and his effortless, effucient stage pressence. He was so energetic that his shirt was soaked through by the second song. He has real star quality even if his band doesn't.
Alright, we're done with the opening band: time for the guys we all came to see. And it hurts that they opened with Wilco (the song) while I was in the bathroom line, so I didn't get to witness live what I will always associate with Stephen Colbert and a strategically placed HOPE sticker.
There wouldn't be much else painful about the set. Wilco was flawless. Dad pinned "I Am Trying To Break Your Heart" as the moment where he stopped enjoying the show and realized he was watching something incredibly special. My mom couldn't get over the drummer. He was a classically trained percussionist, she could tell, and she was riveted watching him. It was the kind of performance that makes you listen to a band a whole different way. It's the kind of stuff fans for life are made from.
And thank Heebus Dreamer's bad audience karma stayed away this time. This audience knew lyrics, sang loudly to fill in gaps, and clapped (more or less) in rhythm.
As a native So Cal gal, I could have handled a little less bad-mouthing of So Cal from Tweedy ("They're saying 'thank you!' after songs instead of clapping. What's that about?") but the Nor Cal audience, of course, ate it up. And there was an adorable moment where Tweedy admonished the Berkeley crowd "Look what you've done to my son, you dirty hippies!" and a fine boy, around ten and almost as tall as his dad already, came sheepishly from the wings wearing garish tie-died pajamas. "He goes for a walk and he comes back like this!" Everyone laughed. The kid shrugged all dramatic-like and scampered off after Jeff's "Go take a bath!" Adorable.
EDIT: The kid, it turns out, is about 14 or 15, and an avid blogger. He writes about the tie-die incident here.
Jeff Tweedy would reference the joke later, dedicating "I'm the Man who Loves You" to his wife, who was apparently somewhere over near the sound board, adding, "Sorry I let our son become a hippie!" He was also heckling some guy in the front row who had passed out, then shrugged it off, then passed out again. His stage persona was warm, affable, even slightly goofy but completely in command. Like any great frontman, he made the impossible look effortless.
Still, my favorite member of Wilco is still Nels Cline. Their new-ish lead guitarist was poached from the improvisational jazz circuit and plays like a more eccentric Eric Clapton. Not kidding. The man's searing solos were almost always the highlight of any given song. Plus, I love anyone who can rock a pair of bright red pants and still look as stern and intimidating as a tall, wispy blond guy in his middle-ages can realistically look. He had a formidable guitar rack next to him and it wasn't just for show. What a wizard.
Speaking of Wizards, Pat Sansone, the multi-instrumentalist, proved he can rock a guitar with as much charisma as anyone when he's allowed out from behind his keyboard. My mom was so sure he was a teenager, he looked so young from so far away. Bass player too got his moment in the spotlight. In fact, everyone got their moments in the spotlight except the dedicated keyboardist. He just sat behind his keys and played. Well, I guess someone's gotta play rhythm.
The biggest moment of the night was the next-to-last song where every single member of the group grabbed a tamborine or a maracca and all built the tension, holding their instruments high while the percussionist, Glen Kotche, stood on his drumstool with his sticks held high in the air, dramatically backlit. I don't know what song they launched into when Glen came crashing down again on his drumkit, but it doesn't matter. The moment was perfect. And so was the show.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
IAMX at Slims - 6/9/2009
I guess under other circumstances I wouldn't do shows at this clip, but this is my Last Month Here and I needed a pick-me-up. I'd listened to some of IAMX's stuff on youtube, and his dark, sleezy brand of pop appealed to me. A friend on Twitter unexpectedly helped out with a free ticket! So I had no reason at all to miss this show.
The friend was HardRockChick of live-blogging fame, who is, by the way, exactly as cool as you might imagine she'd be. She's sweet and soft-spoken and comes to life when it's time to talk music. After a few false alarms in which I weirded out a few slim, dark-haired people (though I AM sure I've seen the girl in the black ruffled dress somwhere before: she said she was a musician so maybe... Kimos?) we connected stage left.
The opening band was Hypernova, a six-piece pretty standard line-up remarkable for their curls, their glittery-but-driving hollow-body guitar riffs, their pounding drums, and their bespectacled frontman with the short beard, the booming voice, and the face carved out of wood. I think it would take him days of intense concentration to form a smile, even assuming he has it in him at all. They weren't a bad group, in fact they were actually pretty good, but I didn't enjoy them. And I'm not above accusing the frontman's inapproachable, unresponsive face of being the thing that stopped me from really connecting with the group. I'm not sure what this says about me and my standards. Upon hunting down the link to their myspace I discovered they are actually from Iran, which is interesting and makes me sad I didn't enjoy their show more then I did. If there's one place where rock and roll SHOULD flourish, it's in a country where those who play can be publicly flogged.
Maybe some smaller glasses on the frontman. This isn't nerdcore.
There was a very long interval between sets thanks to all the gear that had to be changed, so Hardrockchick and I filled the time by talking. Our conversation included, in no particular order: NiN/JA (her stories are MUCH more interesting then mine), Tom Morello's badass superpowers, how much Chris Cornell's solo show suffers from a distinct LACK of Tom Morello, how much "Scream" sucked, even live, Trent Reznor's now not-so-secret sense of humor and aggressive tweeting, how funny the concept of "aggressive tweeting" is when you think about it, Boots Riley's sense of fun, Ilan Rubin's raw talent, repeated my interview question and she promised she'd try and get him to answer if she can, Carl Restivo's coolness, how much we love Restivo's bubble-tweets and wish he'd do more of them, both hoping details surface about his twitter party, whatever that turns out to be.
Have I mentioned this Jaimie girl is awesome?
As for the main event, I can sum it up by saying my feet are bruised and covered in dirt. And glitter. I am never wearing flip-flops to this kind of show ever again. I count myself lucky to still own ten toes, but in happier news, Dreamer's Bad Audience Karma was LIFTED! If just for tonight! During the set a girl with a jangling outfit of feathers started dancing with me out of nowhere, then a girl with a short brown bob grabbed my hand and sling-shotted me to the front of the stage where I jumped, jammed and pumped my fist in my wonderful out-of-rhythm way until my poor unprotected feet couldn't take it anymore and I was forced to retreat, mercifully late in the set, only to get snagged on some kindly gay giant's button.
But this blog ostensibly isn't about me, so how was the performer, IAMX?
He was very...small. I mean, Jaimie had told me he was small, but I wasn't expecting him to be AS small as he was. He wasn't a little person or anything, but he's definitely tiny, so much so that I believe Jaimie when she tells me he has to make his own clothes, since most men's clothing doesn't come in a small enough sizes for him.
Good thing the guy melts some serious face. What a performer. His sweet tenor is full of an almost tender despair. His brand of dark pop filled the whole room, two synthesizers working full blast to keep the electric waves coming, but not detracting from the vitality of the live performers: a keyboardist woman in some truly horrific make-up and a guitarist with an open shirt and a headband. They commanded almost as much attention as the frontman did, singing back-ups and leaping on things, clapping and doing whatever they could to get the audience fired up.
It worked. They were fired up. I'm not familiar enough with his catalog to tell you what his setlist was, but the audience adored him and I heard sing-alongs at more then one point. Wow. Remarkable.
When it was all over, I counted all ten toes (thank goodness), bid a fond farewell to the Hardrockchick, thanked the gentle gay giant for unhooking me from his button, looked in vain for the woman who had dragged me to the front row, told Gentle Gay Giant to thank her for me, bought some buttons, and went home.
Good people make for good times. It's a truth.
The friend was HardRockChick of live-blogging fame, who is, by the way, exactly as cool as you might imagine she'd be. She's sweet and soft-spoken and comes to life when it's time to talk music. After a few false alarms in which I weirded out a few slim, dark-haired people (though I AM sure I've seen the girl in the black ruffled dress somwhere before: she said she was a musician so maybe... Kimos?) we connected stage left.
The opening band was Hypernova, a six-piece pretty standard line-up remarkable for their curls, their glittery-but-driving hollow-body guitar riffs, their pounding drums, and their bespectacled frontman with the short beard, the booming voice, and the face carved out of wood. I think it would take him days of intense concentration to form a smile, even assuming he has it in him at all. They weren't a bad group, in fact they were actually pretty good, but I didn't enjoy them. And I'm not above accusing the frontman's inapproachable, unresponsive face of being the thing that stopped me from really connecting with the group. I'm not sure what this says about me and my standards. Upon hunting down the link to their myspace I discovered they are actually from Iran, which is interesting and makes me sad I didn't enjoy their show more then I did. If there's one place where rock and roll SHOULD flourish, it's in a country where those who play can be publicly flogged.
Maybe some smaller glasses on the frontman. This isn't nerdcore.
There was a very long interval between sets thanks to all the gear that had to be changed, so Hardrockchick and I filled the time by talking. Our conversation included, in no particular order: NiN/JA (her stories are MUCH more interesting then mine), Tom Morello's badass superpowers, how much Chris Cornell's solo show suffers from a distinct LACK of Tom Morello, how much "Scream" sucked, even live, Trent Reznor's now not-so-secret sense of humor and aggressive tweeting, how funny the concept of "aggressive tweeting" is when you think about it, Boots Riley's sense of fun, Ilan Rubin's raw talent, repeated my interview question and she promised she'd try and get him to answer if she can, Carl Restivo's coolness, how much we love Restivo's bubble-tweets and wish he'd do more of them, both hoping details surface about his twitter party, whatever that turns out to be.
Have I mentioned this Jaimie girl is awesome?
As for the main event, I can sum it up by saying my feet are bruised and covered in dirt. And glitter. I am never wearing flip-flops to this kind of show ever again. I count myself lucky to still own ten toes, but in happier news, Dreamer's Bad Audience Karma was LIFTED! If just for tonight! During the set a girl with a jangling outfit of feathers started dancing with me out of nowhere, then a girl with a short brown bob grabbed my hand and sling-shotted me to the front of the stage where I jumped, jammed and pumped my fist in my wonderful out-of-rhythm way until my poor unprotected feet couldn't take it anymore and I was forced to retreat, mercifully late in the set, only to get snagged on some kindly gay giant's button.
But this blog ostensibly isn't about me, so how was the performer, IAMX?
He was very...small. I mean, Jaimie had told me he was small, but I wasn't expecting him to be AS small as he was. He wasn't a little person or anything, but he's definitely tiny, so much so that I believe Jaimie when she tells me he has to make his own clothes, since most men's clothing doesn't come in a small enough sizes for him.
Good thing the guy melts some serious face. What a performer. His sweet tenor is full of an almost tender despair. His brand of dark pop filled the whole room, two synthesizers working full blast to keep the electric waves coming, but not detracting from the vitality of the live performers: a keyboardist woman in some truly horrific make-up and a guitarist with an open shirt and a headband. They commanded almost as much attention as the frontman did, singing back-ups and leaping on things, clapping and doing whatever they could to get the audience fired up.
It worked. They were fired up. I'm not familiar enough with his catalog to tell you what his setlist was, but the audience adored him and I heard sing-alongs at more then one point. Wow. Remarkable.
When it was all over, I counted all ten toes (thank goodness), bid a fond farewell to the Hardrockchick, thanked the gentle gay giant for unhooking me from his button, looked in vain for the woman who had dragged me to the front row, told Gentle Gay Giant to thank her for me, bought some buttons, and went home.
Good people make for good times. It's a truth.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
A Night At Cafe Du Nord: 6/7/2009
I had just hung out with this friend last night, but he sent me a text anyway and asked if I wanted to catch a show. Turned out a family friend of his had a band that was kicking off their tour tonight, and he was attending. Asked if I'd go too. Sure, why not. It'll sure be cheaper then trying to bum tickets to see Janelle Monae which was my OTHER plan for the evening, so I hit the road.
The following will contain no coments about lyrics. Like most small places, this basement venue had a problem with drowning out the vocals. It was a low-ceilinged place, fairly dark with a large bar and a pool table stuck behind the stairs like they didn't want anyone to find it. Beers were three dollers, so it was better then Kimos.
First band was the Dave Rude Band. There wasn't much that was particularly rude about it, just loud. They were a three-peice that played pretty straight-up rock. It's kinda funny that for a band bears the name of just one guy, the frontman was the group's least interesting member. The manic metal bassist, hunched over his instrument with a scowl and some serious flare, was much more fun to watch. And the drummer's standing-up behind the kit fury on the skins bellied his well-groomed, Nice Jewish Boy looks. They were pretty good, loud, full of fast riffs and just the right touch of swagger.
I noticed that the next band setting up had an extremely professional air about them: all of their gear was decaled and the design on their kick drum was a lovely mixture of pop art and anime, a description which actually perfectly describes the motley-but-coordinated stage costumes of the band: sequins, dyed-hair in shades of pink, white, and black, eyeliner on everyone while still allowing the band their individuality. Their sound was pop-rock with some synth looping things up and an interesting dark undercurrent provided by the scuzzy guitars and heavy basslines. And this is also one of those rare situations where I have seen co-lead-singers actually work well together: the pink-haired pixie keyboardist and the guitar-wielding, eyelined frontman pass off the mic with their pure, pop voices. The bassist almost exclusively played from a stance so low he was almost doing the splits, the black-clad guitar player had some sort of problem with her ax that recurred throughout the night but she didn't let it slow her down too much as she posed like Dave Navarro and made the most of the tiny stage they were working so hard to rock. The drummer lady was barely visible behind her monster rig. I didn't even realize she was a lady until the set was over. I bought their EP for another listen. Hope to catch them again sometime, hopefully on a bigger stage with a less apathetic audience: Dreamer's bad audience karma continues...
I'm writing this a few days after the fact so forgive the following impressions if they're a bit vague: Triple Cobra is what you'd get if you took a couple old west showgirls and incorperated them very fully into a traditional glam rock band. The girls, with their feathered costumes and coordinated dance-moves seemed to be the band's main attraction. The frontman, who sported conditioned hair and more glittery eyeshadow and lipstick then either of his female sidekicks. He looks kind of like an effemninate Lenny Kravitz and acts kind of like one too. He flings himself all over the place, virtually injuring himself in the spirit of rock. Bubble machines, strobe lights, smoke machines and flying feathers all testify to the sheer chaos of the show, but somehow it worked.
And I got to see my friend again. Three weeks left in SF and counting...
The following will contain no coments about lyrics. Like most small places, this basement venue had a problem with drowning out the vocals. It was a low-ceilinged place, fairly dark with a large bar and a pool table stuck behind the stairs like they didn't want anyone to find it. Beers were three dollers, so it was better then Kimos.
First band was the Dave Rude Band. There wasn't much that was particularly rude about it, just loud. They were a three-peice that played pretty straight-up rock. It's kinda funny that for a band bears the name of just one guy, the frontman was the group's least interesting member. The manic metal bassist, hunched over his instrument with a scowl and some serious flare, was much more fun to watch. And the drummer's standing-up behind the kit fury on the skins bellied his well-groomed, Nice Jewish Boy looks. They were pretty good, loud, full of fast riffs and just the right touch of swagger.
I noticed that the next band setting up had an extremely professional air about them: all of their gear was decaled and the design on their kick drum was a lovely mixture of pop art and anime, a description which actually perfectly describes the motley-but-coordinated stage costumes of the band: sequins, dyed-hair in shades of pink, white, and black, eyeliner on everyone while still allowing the band their individuality. Their sound was pop-rock with some synth looping things up and an interesting dark undercurrent provided by the scuzzy guitars and heavy basslines. And this is also one of those rare situations where I have seen co-lead-singers actually work well together: the pink-haired pixie keyboardist and the guitar-wielding, eyelined frontman pass off the mic with their pure, pop voices. The bassist almost exclusively played from a stance so low he was almost doing the splits, the black-clad guitar player had some sort of problem with her ax that recurred throughout the night but she didn't let it slow her down too much as she posed like Dave Navarro and made the most of the tiny stage they were working so hard to rock. The drummer lady was barely visible behind her monster rig. I didn't even realize she was a lady until the set was over. I bought their EP for another listen. Hope to catch them again sometime, hopefully on a bigger stage with a less apathetic audience: Dreamer's bad audience karma continues...
I'm writing this a few days after the fact so forgive the following impressions if they're a bit vague: Triple Cobra is what you'd get if you took a couple old west showgirls and incorperated them very fully into a traditional glam rock band. The girls, with their feathered costumes and coordinated dance-moves seemed to be the band's main attraction. The frontman, who sported conditioned hair and more glittery eyeshadow and lipstick then either of his female sidekicks. He looks kind of like an effemninate Lenny Kravitz and acts kind of like one too. He flings himself all over the place, virtually injuring himself in the spirit of rock. Bubble machines, strobe lights, smoke machines and flying feathers all testify to the sheer chaos of the show, but somehow it worked.
And I got to see my friend again. Three weeks left in SF and counting...
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Album Review: "The Red Album" by Weezer
(Had this sitting around on my computer for ages. Might as well throw it up here.)
Oh, Rivers Coumo. You're a world-famous rock star and you still stand behind the mic like you're self-consciously stalling until the REAL singer gets back from the bathroom. The only thing that keeps you there is sheer willpower.
But then that's your charm, and the charm of Weezer. These guys were nerdy before nerdy was chic, and it's reassuring to see that their sixteen years and millions in record sales haven't changed that much, even if, as this album suggests, the band is conducting some soul-searching and experimenting of their own.
The opening track "Troublemaker" is conventional enough: a youth-centered, adrenaline fueled thrill-ride centered around a kid declaring he's gonna be a rock star come fire, flood, parental disapproval or grounding. Five or ten years ago, this would have been a sure-fire radio hit and you would have heard boys and girls singing it in the locker rooms of high-schools all across the country. These days high-schoolers are usually too busy browsing myspace and listening to last.fm to care about what's on the radio, but it gets things off to an energetic start before the heavy stuff sets in. It's a song tailor made for and saved by Coumo's delicate but defiant vocal style, delivered as if he himself is desperate to believe he's actually telling the truth.
I know this album has been touted as "experimental" and a big example of why is song #2: "The Greatest Man that Ever Lived." This song is a self-conscious mix of styles which I am throughly too dull to even attempt to name. Just know there's a lot of them, and somehow, the song works anyway. It's a testament to how good of a hook-man Rivers really is.
Track number 3, "Pork and Beans" is a return to the theme of rebellion, and like Troublemaker it's a rabble rousing rock anthem given an almost desperate edge by Coumo's boisterous but frail character. It's catchy, it's fun, and it's already all over the radio. There is no escape.
Songs don't often give me goose-bumps and make me stop in my tracks, whatever I'm doing, to listen to it over and over again. Track 4, Heart Songs, did that. It's clear as a bell, slightly choral and plays like a hymn to a life lived in music. From the low-profile beginning to the revelation of a crescendo, I love every beautiful moment of this beautiful song.
Next up, "Everybody get dangerous." Again with the defiance, (yeah, get dangerous, fuck the system, yeah!) but with the twist this time that instead of writing about stuff he's done, instead Coumo is writing about stuff he hasn't done..... I think. He might never have tipped cows, but not much else is certain in this up-tempo, intense, very Weezer song. Wither it's real rebellion or vicarious imagination, the song is dark, wistful, and either a thrilling cautionary story or the fantasy of a good boy who sometimes wishes he were bad.
"Dreamin"' is a sonata. No really! It's got the four movements with the speed changes, the form, the up-tempo shifts, the slow dance movement, the quick finale...It's a friggin sonata as a rock song. Wether it's a good rock song, the answer is a resounding "maybe:" if you don't know what a sonata is, the song's shifts will seem random, maybe even disjointed. All in all it doesn't hold together as well as The Greatest Man that Ever Lived, but it makes my classical music loving geek happy, and it'll make you happy too if you're wondering how popular music format changes over the years. Or rather, how it does not.
Now things get tricky, because here something unprecedented has occurred.
Weezer has always contained two camps: one camp containing people named "Rivers Coumo" and one camp containing people NOT named Rivers Coumo. The Rivers make the rules. The Rivers write the songs, play lead, sing, and run the band. The Rivers is god. Don't question the Rivers.
Well the planets must have aligned somehow because holy crap, someone else let the Not-Rivers actually DO things! They are writing! They are singing! How it happened I don't know, but this is the kind of thing I love, because when creative people mix it up, that's when real magic can happen.
Brian Bell, second guitarist, is first to step up to the mic with "Thought I Knew," a cheesy little number with tightly constructed rhyming lyrics and a slight sci-fi folk-song flavor. It's inevitable that his voice will be compared to Rivers', so I'll just say Bell doesn't have that range, but as his voice scrapes the upper limits of his own register, he sounds both sardonic and heartfelt. It's not too challenging a song, but it's easy listening and there's a danger it'll get stuck in your head.
Definitely the most interesting song on the album comes from the bass player, Scott Shriner, and his "Cold Dark World." It's a blatantly romantic song, a man assuring a despairing but beautiful girl that he'll always be there for her, and here's the twist: the song is terrifying. The minor-key cords, the menacing bite the singer gives those sugar sweet lyrics (here Coumo's delicate voice wouldn't have fit) all add up to a rain-slicked horror movie of a song. It's like a glimpse inside the mind of a serial killer stalking his pray with his own sick kind of love, or it's from the woman's fear of strangers, but whatever it is, it's intense and dark and very, very cool.
After all that intensity it's nice to go back into outer space for another folk song for robots. Call me crazy but I like it. It's as mechanized as a robot, but it's a wistful robot with a beating heart and the slower, melodic pay-off is worth it. It's called "Automatic" and it features Patrick Wilson, Weezer's drummer sounding much more at-ease behind the mic then Rivers sounds banging away at the drum-kit. He sings like a singer and his voice has an echo of Coumo's in it's mix of rough and sweet.
Perhaps it's because my ears are attuned to the smaller soundscapes of the Not-Rivers, but when Coumo himself returns with the longing album closer "The Angel and the One," it's not him saying goodbye to a lady he can't stay around for. He gives the upper part of his range a work out as he begs the world not to leave, not to make him leave, and I could make an observation about fame in this time of two-minute attention spans...but I won't, because this lovely piece is so mellow. It's a fine send-off and a reminder that while the Not Rivers may be stretching their wings, there's a reason why this was his show for all those years.
There isn't a single bad song on this album: it's an incredibly varied collection and although it leaks some random parts, I'm awed by the creativity of the thing. As Weezer's forever awkward teenage nerds settle into their stable, comfortable adult lives and weather the music industry's turbulence on the cushion of their large fanbase, it's reassuring to know that just because you're an adult doesn't mean you can't keep dreaming.
Oh, Rivers Coumo. You're a world-famous rock star and you still stand behind the mic like you're self-consciously stalling until the REAL singer gets back from the bathroom. The only thing that keeps you there is sheer willpower.
But then that's your charm, and the charm of Weezer. These guys were nerdy before nerdy was chic, and it's reassuring to see that their sixteen years and millions in record sales haven't changed that much, even if, as this album suggests, the band is conducting some soul-searching and experimenting of their own.
The opening track "Troublemaker" is conventional enough: a youth-centered, adrenaline fueled thrill-ride centered around a kid declaring he's gonna be a rock star come fire, flood, parental disapproval or grounding. Five or ten years ago, this would have been a sure-fire radio hit and you would have heard boys and girls singing it in the locker rooms of high-schools all across the country. These days high-schoolers are usually too busy browsing myspace and listening to last.fm to care about what's on the radio, but it gets things off to an energetic start before the heavy stuff sets in. It's a song tailor made for and saved by Coumo's delicate but defiant vocal style, delivered as if he himself is desperate to believe he's actually telling the truth.
I know this album has been touted as "experimental" and a big example of why is song #2: "The Greatest Man that Ever Lived." This song is a self-conscious mix of styles which I am throughly too dull to even attempt to name. Just know there's a lot of them, and somehow, the song works anyway. It's a testament to how good of a hook-man Rivers really is.
Track number 3, "Pork and Beans" is a return to the theme of rebellion, and like Troublemaker it's a rabble rousing rock anthem given an almost desperate edge by Coumo's boisterous but frail character. It's catchy, it's fun, and it's already all over the radio. There is no escape.
Songs don't often give me goose-bumps and make me stop in my tracks, whatever I'm doing, to listen to it over and over again. Track 4, Heart Songs, did that. It's clear as a bell, slightly choral and plays like a hymn to a life lived in music. From the low-profile beginning to the revelation of a crescendo, I love every beautiful moment of this beautiful song.
Next up, "Everybody get dangerous." Again with the defiance, (yeah, get dangerous, fuck the system, yeah!) but with the twist this time that instead of writing about stuff he's done, instead Coumo is writing about stuff he hasn't done..... I think. He might never have tipped cows, but not much else is certain in this up-tempo, intense, very Weezer song. Wither it's real rebellion or vicarious imagination, the song is dark, wistful, and either a thrilling cautionary story or the fantasy of a good boy who sometimes wishes he were bad.
"Dreamin"' is a sonata. No really! It's got the four movements with the speed changes, the form, the up-tempo shifts, the slow dance movement, the quick finale...It's a friggin sonata as a rock song. Wether it's a good rock song, the answer is a resounding "maybe:" if you don't know what a sonata is, the song's shifts will seem random, maybe even disjointed. All in all it doesn't hold together as well as The Greatest Man that Ever Lived, but it makes my classical music loving geek happy, and it'll make you happy too if you're wondering how popular music format changes over the years. Or rather, how it does not.
Now things get tricky, because here something unprecedented has occurred.
Weezer has always contained two camps: one camp containing people named "Rivers Coumo" and one camp containing people NOT named Rivers Coumo. The Rivers make the rules. The Rivers write the songs, play lead, sing, and run the band. The Rivers is god. Don't question the Rivers.
Well the planets must have aligned somehow because holy crap, someone else let the Not-Rivers actually DO things! They are writing! They are singing! How it happened I don't know, but this is the kind of thing I love, because when creative people mix it up, that's when real magic can happen.
Brian Bell, second guitarist, is first to step up to the mic with "Thought I Knew," a cheesy little number with tightly constructed rhyming lyrics and a slight sci-fi folk-song flavor. It's inevitable that his voice will be compared to Rivers', so I'll just say Bell doesn't have that range, but as his voice scrapes the upper limits of his own register, he sounds both sardonic and heartfelt. It's not too challenging a song, but it's easy listening and there's a danger it'll get stuck in your head.
Definitely the most interesting song on the album comes from the bass player, Scott Shriner, and his "Cold Dark World." It's a blatantly romantic song, a man assuring a despairing but beautiful girl that he'll always be there for her, and here's the twist: the song is terrifying. The minor-key cords, the menacing bite the singer gives those sugar sweet lyrics (here Coumo's delicate voice wouldn't have fit) all add up to a rain-slicked horror movie of a song. It's like a glimpse inside the mind of a serial killer stalking his pray with his own sick kind of love, or it's from the woman's fear of strangers, but whatever it is, it's intense and dark and very, very cool.
After all that intensity it's nice to go back into outer space for another folk song for robots. Call me crazy but I like it. It's as mechanized as a robot, but it's a wistful robot with a beating heart and the slower, melodic pay-off is worth it. It's called "Automatic" and it features Patrick Wilson, Weezer's drummer sounding much more at-ease behind the mic then Rivers sounds banging away at the drum-kit. He sings like a singer and his voice has an echo of Coumo's in it's mix of rough and sweet.
Perhaps it's because my ears are attuned to the smaller soundscapes of the Not-Rivers, but when Coumo himself returns with the longing album closer "The Angel and the One," it's not him saying goodbye to a lady he can't stay around for. He gives the upper part of his range a work out as he begs the world not to leave, not to make him leave, and I could make an observation about fame in this time of two-minute attention spans...but I won't, because this lovely piece is so mellow. It's a fine send-off and a reminder that while the Not Rivers may be stretching their wings, there's a reason why this was his show for all those years.
There isn't a single bad song on this album: it's an incredibly varied collection and although it leaks some random parts, I'm awed by the creativity of the thing. As Weezer's forever awkward teenage nerds settle into their stable, comfortable adult lives and weather the music industry's turbulence on the cushion of their large fanbase, it's reassuring to know that just because you're an adult doesn't mean you can't keep dreaming.
Monday, May 25, 2009
The New York Dolls at the Grand Ballroom 5/24/2009
This is officially the most rock-filled week of my life. One would think I'd be rocked out by now, but hell, are you kidding me? The New York Dolls at a venue I wander by all the time? The New York Dolls? C'mon, of course I'm not gonna miss this one.
Me being me, of course I get the timing wrong and show up late: I missed the opening act and the New York Dolls were already 20 minutes into their set, so I grabbed a ticket ($30- more then I expected!) and went dashing directly into the ballroom.
The music hit me like a wave. This is a band that was built from the ground up for rowdy dancing. It's like time-travel: just like how B.B King offered a portal to the jazz dance-halls of the 50s, the New York Dolls will give you a glimpse of the New York rock clubs in the early 70s. You have to conjure the sticky floors, drag queens and drug dealers on your own, but you feel the mood.
And again with the bad audience karma. Round it goes, where it stops, nobody knows. The room was respectably about 3/4s full of mostly older white men and their mates. There were many Ramones-esque leather jackets in evidence. And the only people who were dancing were off to the left of the stage.
Well I sat through B.B's dance hall. Damned if I was going to sit through the Dolls. I also didn't want to be that dick who was jumping around amongst strangers who don't deserve it, so I needed to find some jumpers.
I finally found some in the very front row. That's how I ended up dancing with a goateed, handsome Russian boy who was very drunk and danced as badly as I do, so we were a good match. His sister arrived dressed in a self-made "Rock n' Roll Nurse" costume, which made me like her instantly. So I got my dancing in.
And I what a glorious soundtrack it was to dance to. This band is nothing short of fantastic live, and never let anyone tell you differently. So what if the drummer got ahead of the song on occasion? Train-wreaks are a Dolls tradition and no one does 'em with more flare. These guys strut, they pose, they preen, they wear gorgeous glammy trashy outfits and some stellar hats. David Johanson's throat is coated with sandpaper and honey, and with his heavy Staten Island accent and infinite swagger he can still kick your ass and look fabulous doing it. Technically speaking I think he's a better singer now then he was when he was young: age, smoking and tragedy have given his voice more texture and an edge of mortality that gives the slower songs their bite. He still dresses in low-riding jeans and women's blouses. He still owns the spotlight with the effortless charisma of a born star.
His partner in crime, the only other living member of the original Dolls line-up is rhythem guitarist Sylvain Sylvain: a short stout wiseguy with a vintage hollow-body and more enthusiasm for rock then a fourteen-year-old at a Jonas Brothers concert. the impression that he's a much better player then he chooses to be. He has got the technical goods, but for him style comes first, and his the bond between David and Syl is the beating heart of the band. David showed it too, always directing the spotlight Sil's way, declairing things like: "For this next song, Sylvain will play an acoustic guitar...and it will be so beautiful, that angels will come out of the walls and sprinkle angel dust upon everyone here." He was almost right.
Lead Guitarist Steve Conte (replacing the essentially irreplacable Johnny Thunders) wore a jaunty hat and his hair just so, and played his guitar like he could barely control it, even turned it upside down on one of the lights, rubbing the strings against the edge. The best thing I can say about him is he honors Thunder's memory while still having a kind of inept glory all his own. Sami Jaffa, the bassist, wore a pink waistcoat, a wide stance and a sneer. The drummer was bald, lofty, and aristocratic. They're as colorful a crew as you'll find anywhere.
It's hard to be objective about the Dolls. I have a soft spot for these guys so large it's not really a spot, it's like a huge bean-bag in my stomach.
When coming back onstage for the encore (orchestrated by Syl) David talked about how they'd never played this song live before. They were waiting for San Francisco, and I gotta hand it to the crowd: what they lacked in movement, they made up for in volume. He said to try and imagine what this song would look like. He said "This is an exorcism of despair!" and launched right into the rocking, which turned into "Personality Crisis," their single most recognizable tune/trainwreak and yes, it was magnificent.
Bruce Springsteen wrote that for a performer, your exhilaration is proportional to the void you are dancing over, and these guys (two of them at least) dance over the largest void imaginable everyday. These guys keep going out of love to their new band, as in synch with the spirit of the old group as you could wish. As important a group as they are (being the cradle of both punk rock and glam metal) they've never enjoyed the superstardom they deserve, and it's too bad because these guys are a masterful live band. Don't forget it.
Me being me, of course I get the timing wrong and show up late: I missed the opening act and the New York Dolls were already 20 minutes into their set, so I grabbed a ticket ($30- more then I expected!) and went dashing directly into the ballroom.
The music hit me like a wave. This is a band that was built from the ground up for rowdy dancing. It's like time-travel: just like how B.B King offered a portal to the jazz dance-halls of the 50s, the New York Dolls will give you a glimpse of the New York rock clubs in the early 70s. You have to conjure the sticky floors, drag queens and drug dealers on your own, but you feel the mood.
And again with the bad audience karma. Round it goes, where it stops, nobody knows. The room was respectably about 3/4s full of mostly older white men and their mates. There were many Ramones-esque leather jackets in evidence. And the only people who were dancing were off to the left of the stage.
Well I sat through B.B's dance hall. Damned if I was going to sit through the Dolls. I also didn't want to be that dick who was jumping around amongst strangers who don't deserve it, so I needed to find some jumpers.
I finally found some in the very front row. That's how I ended up dancing with a goateed, handsome Russian boy who was very drunk and danced as badly as I do, so we were a good match. His sister arrived dressed in a self-made "Rock n' Roll Nurse" costume, which made me like her instantly. So I got my dancing in.
And I what a glorious soundtrack it was to dance to. This band is nothing short of fantastic live, and never let anyone tell you differently. So what if the drummer got ahead of the song on occasion? Train-wreaks are a Dolls tradition and no one does 'em with more flare. These guys strut, they pose, they preen, they wear gorgeous glammy trashy outfits and some stellar hats. David Johanson's throat is coated with sandpaper and honey, and with his heavy Staten Island accent and infinite swagger he can still kick your ass and look fabulous doing it. Technically speaking I think he's a better singer now then he was when he was young: age, smoking and tragedy have given his voice more texture and an edge of mortality that gives the slower songs their bite. He still dresses in low-riding jeans and women's blouses. He still owns the spotlight with the effortless charisma of a born star.
His partner in crime, the only other living member of the original Dolls line-up is rhythem guitarist Sylvain Sylvain: a short stout wiseguy with a vintage hollow-body and more enthusiasm for rock then a fourteen-year-old at a Jonas Brothers concert. the impression that he's a much better player then he chooses to be. He has got the technical goods, but for him style comes first, and his the bond between David and Syl is the beating heart of the band. David showed it too, always directing the spotlight Sil's way, declairing things like: "For this next song, Sylvain will play an acoustic guitar...and it will be so beautiful, that angels will come out of the walls and sprinkle angel dust upon everyone here." He was almost right.
Lead Guitarist Steve Conte (replacing the essentially irreplacable Johnny Thunders) wore a jaunty hat and his hair just so, and played his guitar like he could barely control it, even turned it upside down on one of the lights, rubbing the strings against the edge. The best thing I can say about him is he honors Thunder's memory while still having a kind of inept glory all his own. Sami Jaffa, the bassist, wore a pink waistcoat, a wide stance and a sneer. The drummer was bald, lofty, and aristocratic. They're as colorful a crew as you'll find anywhere.
It's hard to be objective about the Dolls. I have a soft spot for these guys so large it's not really a spot, it's like a huge bean-bag in my stomach.
When coming back onstage for the encore (orchestrated by Syl) David talked about how they'd never played this song live before. They were waiting for San Francisco, and I gotta hand it to the crowd: what they lacked in movement, they made up for in volume. He said to try and imagine what this song would look like. He said "This is an exorcism of despair!" and launched right into the rocking, which turned into "Personality Crisis," their single most recognizable tune/trainwreak and yes, it was magnificent.
Bruce Springsteen wrote that for a performer, your exhilaration is proportional to the void you are dancing over, and these guys (two of them at least) dance over the largest void imaginable everyday. These guys keep going out of love to their new band, as in synch with the spirit of the old group as you could wish. As important a group as they are (being the cradle of both punk rock and glam metal) they've never enjoyed the superstardom they deserve, and it's too bad because these guys are a masterful live band. Don't forget it.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
NiN/JA Tour : Shoreline Ampitheater: 5/22/2009
This one has been The Big One for me for a good long time. Ever since I tripped on a twitter and fell headlong into Nine Inch Nails fandom, I have been waiting for this show.
The fact that it has Street Sweeper Social Club is a surprise bonus. One reason, two words: Tom Morello. That guy is everywhere. This has got to be something like his eighth band and normally I'd mock him for that but this time I totally don't care because every show needs more Tom Morello! It's the law or something.
Street Sweeper has really gelled since I saw their premiere in Seattle. Boots Reilly has got some seriously happy feet and watching him dance is fun just by itself, but with the volume turned up, his rapping's like a cold fast river. The Freedom Fighter Orchestra (now wearing different uniforms) have really come into their own. Carl Restivo especially flaunts that Gibson like HE'S the star, which is a big change since the first time I saw him, looking stoned and slightly vacant in the Filmore in SF way back in October 2008. This band has come a long way. My favorite song of theirs is STILL a cover (M.I.A's "Paper Planes") but they've proven themselves a real band, not a vanity project.
Nine Inch Nails of course were who I came to see: Trent Reznor and his crew of less-buff but equally pale side-kick/minions. It hurts me to admit that I think they got upstaged. Don't get me wrong, I ENJOY Nine Inch Nails music hugely and wore myself out jumping around to "1,000,000," "Discipline" and "Head like a Hole" (A song I was anticipating, "Survivalism" ended up sounding a bit like a train wreak) but...well, I donno. Something was just missing.
It wasn't Ilan Rubin: NiN's current drummer is 20-years of human-shaped whirlwind: all curly hair and flying sticks, and watching him get up from his stool to...I can only describe it as "scamper" over to the keyboard during "March of the Pigs" then scamper back to his drums was adorable AND rockin'! And that's an irrestable combination for me. Look out Jay Weinburg, you're not the only intensely talented percussionista prodigy out and about these days.
As for Trent Reznor himself, all I can say is that if ever a man was born to do a job, Reznor was born for this one. He's the Dark Prince counterpoint to Springsteen's sacred radiance, commanding the black fires of the underworld like no other performer out there. Modern times have produced no heirs. If he's serious that this is his last tour, then the music-loving world is about to suffer a huge loss, because his mix of rage, ironic tenderness, and genuine raw musical talent is worth seeing at least once in your life and I'm glad I can now say that I've done it.
It was pretty good. I was happy. Jane's Addiction, it turned out, would leave me happier, and not just because the two ladies in front of me were smoking a lot of weed. The show was a fantastic three ring circus with a more colorful lighting design and some surprisingly non-intrusive integration of a shadow-movie screen playing clips from Natural Born Killers and other films I've never seen.
Perry Farrel is easily one of the best frontmen I've ever seen. He makes the task of getting an audience to love you look effortless. Where Reznor kept himself to his brief speach about this "maybe" being his last tour (simultanius response is "boo!" and "Yeah right") Perry Ferrel chatted away like he was everyone's long-lost friend. Topics of his speeches included going easy on Obama ("Give him a chance, he can't be worse then what we had") his love of San Francisco ("We'd be your house band if you'd have us!") Bill Grahm ("I knew him, I know two of his kids, and his spirit lives on!") age ("I'm fifty, I hope I'm still going to shows like this when I'm 60!") and "faggy clothes" as an expression of freedom ("I'd rather die then give up my corset!"). The crowd adored him. His voice, though slightly distorted by a heavy echo effect, has an element of boyish sweetness that clashes with his decadent attitude. He's just a character, and he LOVES San Francisco. He should come back so we can elect him mayor.
Dave Navarro is always worth a second look. He seems to be frozen permanently in his mid 30s, and plays with his buff tattooed torso on full desplay. His stance is as wide as any classic punk rocker, and with his blistering, generally high-pitched guitar he sounded like a scar of sound, or a blinding flash of light. His playing is what gives the music it's teeth.
Perkins was playing in his underwear and hammering on two bass drums like he was two drummers glued together. He also couldn't resist mugging for the stage-camera to his left: he kept fixing it with deep stares, his head turned just so. Eric Avery, the original bassist and single reunion hold-out before now was the only one who didn't look like he was having an absolute blast. When Perry came to his side of the stage to bring the spotlight, Eric completely ignored him. He remained hunched over his bass, seemingly lost in the music and not really paying attention to anyone, even the audience until he decided to sit with his legs dangling off the stage. But he never lost the trademark Jane's Addiction deeply melodic groove, not even once, and it's easy to see how it just couldn't be the band it is without him.
The ignoring thing might have been in my imagination. Again, the ladies in front of me had a lot of weed. I left the venue feeling really good about the world.
This is being billed as Nine Inch Nails's farewell tour, and the comeback for the original Jane's Addiction (several attempts at replacing Avery have failed). Who knows what the future actually has in store for these two groups, but just this night, now was enough.
The fact that it has Street Sweeper Social Club is a surprise bonus. One reason, two words: Tom Morello. That guy is everywhere. This has got to be something like his eighth band and normally I'd mock him for that but this time I totally don't care because every show needs more Tom Morello! It's the law or something.
Street Sweeper has really gelled since I saw their premiere in Seattle. Boots Reilly has got some seriously happy feet and watching him dance is fun just by itself, but with the volume turned up, his rapping's like a cold fast river. The Freedom Fighter Orchestra (now wearing different uniforms) have really come into their own. Carl Restivo especially flaunts that Gibson like HE'S the star, which is a big change since the first time I saw him, looking stoned and slightly vacant in the Filmore in SF way back in October 2008. This band has come a long way. My favorite song of theirs is STILL a cover (M.I.A's "Paper Planes") but they've proven themselves a real band, not a vanity project.
Nine Inch Nails of course were who I came to see: Trent Reznor and his crew of less-buff but equally pale side-kick/minions. It hurts me to admit that I think they got upstaged. Don't get me wrong, I ENJOY Nine Inch Nails music hugely and wore myself out jumping around to "1,000,000," "Discipline" and "Head like a Hole" (A song I was anticipating, "Survivalism" ended up sounding a bit like a train wreak) but...well, I donno. Something was just missing.
It wasn't Ilan Rubin: NiN's current drummer is 20-years of human-shaped whirlwind: all curly hair and flying sticks, and watching him get up from his stool to...I can only describe it as "scamper" over to the keyboard during "March of the Pigs" then scamper back to his drums was adorable AND rockin'! And that's an irrestable combination for me. Look out Jay Weinburg, you're not the only intensely talented percussionista prodigy out and about these days.
As for Trent Reznor himself, all I can say is that if ever a man was born to do a job, Reznor was born for this one. He's the Dark Prince counterpoint to Springsteen's sacred radiance, commanding the black fires of the underworld like no other performer out there. Modern times have produced no heirs. If he's serious that this is his last tour, then the music-loving world is about to suffer a huge loss, because his mix of rage, ironic tenderness, and genuine raw musical talent is worth seeing at least once in your life and I'm glad I can now say that I've done it.
It was pretty good. I was happy. Jane's Addiction, it turned out, would leave me happier, and not just because the two ladies in front of me were smoking a lot of weed. The show was a fantastic three ring circus with a more colorful lighting design and some surprisingly non-intrusive integration of a shadow-movie screen playing clips from Natural Born Killers and other films I've never seen.
Perry Farrel is easily one of the best frontmen I've ever seen. He makes the task of getting an audience to love you look effortless. Where Reznor kept himself to his brief speach about this "maybe" being his last tour (simultanius response is "boo!" and "Yeah right") Perry Ferrel chatted away like he was everyone's long-lost friend. Topics of his speeches included going easy on Obama ("Give him a chance, he can't be worse then what we had") his love of San Francisco ("We'd be your house band if you'd have us!") Bill Grahm ("I knew him, I know two of his kids, and his spirit lives on!") age ("I'm fifty, I hope I'm still going to shows like this when I'm 60!") and "faggy clothes" as an expression of freedom ("I'd rather die then give up my corset!"). The crowd adored him. His voice, though slightly distorted by a heavy echo effect, has an element of boyish sweetness that clashes with his decadent attitude. He's just a character, and he LOVES San Francisco. He should come back so we can elect him mayor.
Dave Navarro is always worth a second look. He seems to be frozen permanently in his mid 30s, and plays with his buff tattooed torso on full desplay. His stance is as wide as any classic punk rocker, and with his blistering, generally high-pitched guitar he sounded like a scar of sound, or a blinding flash of light. His playing is what gives the music it's teeth.
Perkins was playing in his underwear and hammering on two bass drums like he was two drummers glued together. He also couldn't resist mugging for the stage-camera to his left: he kept fixing it with deep stares, his head turned just so. Eric Avery, the original bassist and single reunion hold-out before now was the only one who didn't look like he was having an absolute blast. When Perry came to his side of the stage to bring the spotlight, Eric completely ignored him. He remained hunched over his bass, seemingly lost in the music and not really paying attention to anyone, even the audience until he decided to sit with his legs dangling off the stage. But he never lost the trademark Jane's Addiction deeply melodic groove, not even once, and it's easy to see how it just couldn't be the band it is without him.
The ignoring thing might have been in my imagination. Again, the ladies in front of me had a lot of weed. I left the venue feeling really good about the world.
This is being billed as Nine Inch Nails's farewell tour, and the comeback for the original Jane's Addiction (several attempts at replacing Avery have failed). Who knows what the future actually has in store for these two groups, but just this night, now was enough.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Kings of Leon at Bill Grahm Civic Auditorium, San Francisco: 5/21/2009
Some things are all about timing.
I've seen obscure indy bands rock bars, playing to crowds that exist only in their starry-eyed dreams. I've seen veteran rockers raise the roof like they were born to do it.
I've never before seen a band like this one. They've been rock royalty for years now in places like England and Europe but an American breakthrough always eluded them, until now. Their 4th studio album finally produced their first bone-fide radio hit, and sent them on this current tour, their first head-lineing arenas across the country, and they clearly relish their new status as stadium rockers. They've finally made good, they're touring hard and partying harder, their crash is still pending. This is what a band at the very hight of it's abilities looks like.
It looks really good. Kings of Leon are what you would get if you threw southern swamp rock in a blender with gritty urban sleaze and just a twist of high technology. It's the restrained antidote to overblown flyover rock, and it's convinced me that West Coasters like me don't really know what we're talking about when we talk about "southern music." There's something dark and almost cosmic in their sound that's unlike anything else I've ever heard. In a world before the music industry collapse, they would have been headlineing eons ago.
Kings of Leon is a family band consisting of three brothers, plus one cousin, all named Fallowill. Caleb Followill is the lead singer, and as such did most of the interacting with the audience. He was falling-over drunk, but it didn't seem to slow him down or affect his now-famous, counter-intuitive old-man wheeze of a singing voice. He kept thanking the crowd, remembering how they played San Francisco a few years back... as an opening act. "We were always opening acts." And latter, "I know there's a lot of stuff you can spend your money on right now, so thanks for spending it on us." It was all very well-intentioned. He even mentioned that the group has the day-off tomorrow, so they might end up partying with some of us. Well not me: I'm heading off to see some NiN/JAs. But it's fun to imagine anyway.
But mostly the stage banter was disposable. He gets points though for saying "This one goes out to all those people sitting down...you guys in the front, you probably don't give a shit about this one." They were wrong. Everyone cares about "Sex on Fire." It's the stuff we came for. It's mind-blowing.
Have I mentioned the show rocked? Some groups, you see them once, and you know you'll be a fan forever. That's it.
Who knows what the future has in store for Kings of Leon, but they've proven there's at least one real band left in the world who made their fortune the hard way and now get to reap their reward.
I've seen obscure indy bands rock bars, playing to crowds that exist only in their starry-eyed dreams. I've seen veteran rockers raise the roof like they were born to do it.
I've never before seen a band like this one. They've been rock royalty for years now in places like England and Europe but an American breakthrough always eluded them, until now. Their 4th studio album finally produced their first bone-fide radio hit, and sent them on this current tour, their first head-lineing arenas across the country, and they clearly relish their new status as stadium rockers. They've finally made good, they're touring hard and partying harder, their crash is still pending. This is what a band at the very hight of it's abilities looks like.
It looks really good. Kings of Leon are what you would get if you threw southern swamp rock in a blender with gritty urban sleaze and just a twist of high technology. It's the restrained antidote to overblown flyover rock, and it's convinced me that West Coasters like me don't really know what we're talking about when we talk about "southern music." There's something dark and almost cosmic in their sound that's unlike anything else I've ever heard. In a world before the music industry collapse, they would have been headlineing eons ago.
Kings of Leon is a family band consisting of three brothers, plus one cousin, all named Fallowill. Caleb Followill is the lead singer, and as such did most of the interacting with the audience. He was falling-over drunk, but it didn't seem to slow him down or affect his now-famous, counter-intuitive old-man wheeze of a singing voice. He kept thanking the crowd, remembering how they played San Francisco a few years back... as an opening act. "We were always opening acts." And latter, "I know there's a lot of stuff you can spend your money on right now, so thanks for spending it on us." It was all very well-intentioned. He even mentioned that the group has the day-off tomorrow, so they might end up partying with some of us. Well not me: I'm heading off to see some NiN/JAs. But it's fun to imagine anyway.
But mostly the stage banter was disposable. He gets points though for saying "This one goes out to all those people sitting down...you guys in the front, you probably don't give a shit about this one." They were wrong. Everyone cares about "Sex on Fire." It's the stuff we came for. It's mind-blowing.
Have I mentioned the show rocked? Some groups, you see them once, and you know you'll be a fan forever. That's it.
Who knows what the future has in store for Kings of Leon, but they've proven there's at least one real band left in the world who made their fortune the hard way and now get to reap their reward.
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