Some Songs Considered - Posts Tagged 'live review of sorts'

July 28, 2009

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“Your Fucking Sunny Day” – Lambchop
(Words/music: Kurt Wagner, available on Thriller, Merge Records 1997)

This is the last in my series of posts about bands on Merge Records (thank you for indulging me) and I planned on yesterday’s being the final one, but I need to write about the single best moment of my week in Chapel Hill. I anticipated that Superchunk would be awesome and they didn’t disappoint. However, I was not expecting the best set of the week to come from Lambchop, the musical project of former floorer Kurt Wagner. Until I started receiving the SCORE boxset earlier this year, I couldn’t name a single Lambchop song. I soon fell for “Your Fucking Sunny Day” on Phil Morrison’s mix, at first because of the title and then because of its strangely addictive melody. It’s a difficult song to pin down – it’s kind of funky, kind of orchestrated. The most compelling part of the song, for me, is the way Kurt Wagner sings it – holding out certain phrases, letting some notes sneak out as a yelp, and still staying faithful to the melody the entire time. In three and a half minutes, Wagner gave a sense that his personality ran deeper than the cursing in his song titles and the humor mentioned in every synopsis I read after listening to this song.

None of this, however, prepared me for what I saw last Friday night at Merge’s anniversary show. Wagner came on stage backed by ten musicians (which I’m told is half as many as accompanied him at the Merge 15th anniversary) and played a 40 minute set that left half of the crowd a dancing mess and the other half petrified in awe. I expected Wagner’s songs to shuffle from genre to genre, but I didn’t expect every different style to have such life and enthusiasm. The slow songs sounded gorgeous (and, when I could make out the words, melancholy and heartbreaking), and the lively songs swung like a jazz trio after weeks of rehearsals. Over a forty five minute set, Wagner and his band made us laugh, tugged at our heartstrings, and made jaws hit the floor. Appropriately, Lambchop garnered the loudest, most enthusiastic ovation to end their set of the week, with Wagner beaming beneath his thick frames and trucker hat. I’m convinced that the people in the audience had no clue what was coming when Lambchop was introduced. By the end of the set, Wagner leaped out of his seat when shouting out the lyrics to the Talking Heads’ “Once in a Lifetime,” seeming like a man speaking in tongues (and, appropriately, one-upping David Byrne’s evangelical preacher performance in the music video). It was a surreal moment that ended a memorable set – one that melted even the most cynical of hearts. I’ve been surprised by shows before and naively thought that it couldn’t happen again – not with the free flow of information and the ease of acquiring music on the internet. I was wrong, and went home ready to explore Wagner’s catalog. I’m excited to digest his albums and, perhaps, be surprised again. Still, I’m not sure any record can duplicate what I experienced in person last Friday.

More on Lambchop: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

July 27, 2009

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“This is Not a Test” - She & Him
(Words/music: Zooey Deschanel, available on Volume One, Merge Records 2008)

On Murmur, R.E.M.’s Michael Stipe sang the line, “not everyone can carry the weight of the world,” and this line popped into my head when trying to think about songs like “This is Not a Test.” Sometimes, we equate weightiness with quality – if it’s not deep, it’s not worth it, and there’s something to be said about art that works in layers and tackles difficult topics. This completely marginalizes music that’s breezy and fun – these types of songs aren’t meant to trigger an existential crisis, but instead these songs are designed with enjoyment in mind. We feel at ease when we hear a light hearted pop song, and it’s a way for us to connect emotionally to the things in our lives that make us happy – a vacation with a loved one, a childhood memory, etc. These songs reflect another part of the human existence that often escapes the critical eye, and even if it’s only fleeting, these songs lighten our spirits and brighten our days.

“This is Not a Test” reaches back to 1960s pop music and evokes the same kind of light-hearted mood in its listeners. The guitar chords are bright and cut right to the forefront, the backing vocals make it seem like a campfire sing-a-long, and the kazoo interlude shows how Deschanel and M. Ward aren’t taking themselves too seriously on this one. Deschanel’s voice suits this type of arrangement – she has a flimsy voice with a slight country inflection, but on a track like this she sounds sweet. Most importantly, Ward and Deschanel understand their purpose. They’re not out to make the lost Bob Dylan album from the ’60s – they’ve set out to make a throwback pop record. When she tries to tackle soul songs out of her league, Deschanel sounds overwhelmed on Volume One, but she sounds right at home when the mood lightens up.

While Ward and Deschanel understood their role on record, their live performance closing out the XX Merge anniversary festival missed the mark. Deschanel, who spent most of her time on stage bouncing like a five year-old and making painfully awkward stage banter, was backed (with a couple additions) by members of M. Ward’s band. The previous night, Ward and his band played a blistering set of his blues-folk hybrid, showcasing the musicianship of every member of his band. Unfortunately, they tried to play all of Deschanel’s songs the same way and Deschanel was unable to command the presence – either vocally or with her body language – appropriate for such a forceful performance. As a result, Deschanel sounded amateurish and skittish. While the album plays to her vocal strengths, the live performance exposed all of her weaknesses. Watching Ward’s band play these songs was like watching an elephant gun shoot out nerf balls, resulting in an underwhelming performance. Worst of all, the band attempted to turn “This is Not a Test” into a rollicking dance number. It sounded like a karaoke version of the song, completely drained of the spirit that makes it enjoyable on record. It was a rare disappointment in an otherwise impressive string of shows.

More on She and Him: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

July 24, 2009

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“Art Class (Song for Yayoi Kusama)” – Superchunk
(Words/music: Superchunk, available on Here’s to Shutting Up, Merge Records 2001)

It took about three minutes for word to spread upon walking into the Cat’s Cradle last night. “Superchunk is closing tonight,” and with that a sudden burst of unexpected energy rode through my body. The rush of being hours away from seeing the band (I would have put good money on them playing on Saturday night) made everything a little sharper, even when sitting down with a beer. The Broken West’s power pop, Richard Buckner’s guitar explorations, Guv’ner’s muted trumpet, Versus’ heavy pop, and the 3Ds fuzzy melodies all helped build the anticipation for Merge’s flagship band. Superchunk came on at quarter of one but it might as well have felt like the middle of the afternoon.

Superchunk blew through a set of old favorites - “Precision Auto,” “Detroit Has a Skyline,” “Driveway to Driveway,” etc – and new singles “Crossed Wires” and “Learned to Surf” and sounded equally as ebbulent and muscular as in their heyday. Not surprisingly, nothing from Here’s to Shutting Up showed up in the setlist (although the keyboard was out for “Watery Hands”), widely considered Superchunk’s “mellow” album. It’s a shame, because some of that album’s best songs would have fit in well in the middle of the set. The upper-mid tempo “Art Class” would have dialed the energy back only half a notch and provided a perfect “why so serious” sing along in the crowd. In addition to fitting in with the rest of the setlist’s melodic assault, “Art Class” captures the spirit of the entire week-long celebration. “Life is the art that you make,” sings McCaughan as his band plays with the same intensity they’ve exhibited over the past two decades. Much has been said and written about Merge’s continued success and the role of a label run by musicians and fans, but Superchunk proved last night that they are far away from hanging up their guitars and solely concentrating on the label (I hope). If nothing else, they have plenty more art to make, and plenty more nights to make us pogo along.

More on Superchunk: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

July 23, 2009

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“Born on a Train” - The Magnetic Fields
(Words/music: Stephin Meritt, available on The Charm of the Highway Strip, Merge Records 1994)

Night one of XX Merge was a night largely built around intimacy. Ranging from Lou Barlow’s solo performance to the small choir of voices Oakley Hall assembled in their band to the Rosebuds’ coaxing of the crowd to accompany them, this opening night put “small” songs into the spotlight. Looking back, this was the perfect night for the Magnetic Fields’ performance as a quintet of strings, piano, and voice. In the past, some of Stephin Meritt’s aesthetic choices in his arrangements prevented me from delving deeper into his catalog. Sometimes, the synthesizers and drum machines work well, but often I find that they mask Meritt’s beautiful songs. Last night, Meritt and vocalists Claudia Gonson and Shirley Simms took center stage, letting Merritt’s eye for beauty and wry sense of humor shine in the spotlight. The crowd in the front of the Cat’s Cradle played right into their hands, laughing at the humor in “California Girls” and “Yeah, Oh Yeah,” and Meritt even smirked delivering the lines about living in a dive bar in “Papa Was a Rodeo.” Last night, the songs sounded like the precious creatures Meritt sculpted (the same ones that are sometimes hard to find underneath the synthesizers). In this setting, the songs felt fragile, beautiful, lonely, and heartbreaking – often in rapid succession and often simultaneously.

“Born on a Train,” a song that wasn’t performed last night, is one song that works with its electronic arrangements. Like most of Meritt’s best compositions, “Born on a Train” paints loneliness in a melancholy light, comparing emotional disconnect with the restlessness of perpetual travel. Musically, the song kind of feels like traveling on a train with the persistent percussion and the fast moving sounds around it. In this case, the synthesized sounds help make it sound like a chamber-pop composition. However, the synthesized sounds combined with the real strings give it a woosy, daydream feel. In this state, it’s hard to imagine what’s real and what’s a dream. It gives the narrative an interesting bend – does the narrator feel heartbroken or does he truly accept his wayward state? Then again, it could all be a dream – the narrator may be dreaming of having to leave a lover he’s never met as he’s roaming down another nighttime road that looks the same as all the others. If that’s the case, it’s an even more heartbreaking story of someone so lonely that they dream up people to miss.

More on The Magnetic Fields: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

May 24, 2009

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“Slow Show (Live)” - The National
(Words/music: The National, originally available on Boxer, Beggar’s Banquet 2007)

Last night at a show in Boston, the National’s Matt Berninger prefaced “Slow Show” with a story about a guy who e-mailed him asking him to dedicate the song to him so that he could propose to his girlfriend at the show. Berninger held off on replying until right before the show and asked (perhaps jokingly, perhaps fortuitously) if it was “still on.” The guy wrote back and said that no, adding that his girlfriend dumped him and (the sucker punch) took another guy to the show. The audience, who Berninger had in his hands from the opening note, groaned on cue. Presumably, the spurned boyfriend honed in on the “you know I dreamed about you / for twenty-nine years before I saw you” line with good reason – as a non-sequitur, it’s an incredibly endearing sentiment and a beautiful statement of love. However, “Slow Show” isn’t as simple as this one line; in fact, it sounds more like a relationship ready to fray than one ready to tie the knot..

As with most of the National’s songs about love, “Slow Show” sets its sights on tension rather than contentment. Berninger’s characters seem genuinely conflicted and often try to reconcile one emotion with another (or an emotion with a contradictory action). In “Slow Show,” his protagonist feels distracted and awkward at a party, thinking about mistakes, nervousness, and ultimately going home to his lover. He declares that he made a mistake yet never gets specific about it, and ultimately it doesn’t matter. It’s his general confusion and his longing that borders on desperation that makes me question the relationship’s stability. It’s clear that he’s in love, but the way he describes it with such desperation makes me think that he’s longing for something that’s lost. Again, the specifics aren’t necessary here because Berninger sets the mood with his lyrics, creating specific images yet leaving enough room for the listener to put him or herself in the narrator’s place. It’s this balancing act between the specific and the general (along with some excellent arrangements) that makes Boxer so captivating. Even if these songs aren’t typical “love songs,” they approach love from more nuanced places. While we need both bright love songs and sad breakup songs to match (or alter) our moods, songs like “Slow Show” fill in the gaps when love isn’t as simple as “I love you” or “I hate you.”

More on The National: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

February 17, 2009

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“Upon Viewing Brueghel’s Landscape with the Fall of Icarus” – Titus Andronicus
(Words/music: Titus Andronicus, available on The Airing of Grievances, Troubleman Unlimited 2008)

While I love melody (think of how many times I’ve used “catchy” to describe songs over the past month and a half), I also have an affinity for loud, noisy songs. That’s not to say that I like anything turned up to 11 – I’ve tried to understand hardcore a few times and came to the conclusion that it’s not for me. My preferred type of noise still contains a melody. The noise might fracture, rearrange, or obscure it, but there’s still a melodic force driving these songs. I guess I find these songs fascinating for a couple of reasons. First, I think it’s interesting to see how far melodies stretch before breaking. That’s not to say that I like all my pop songs played loud and fast (I tend to abhor punk covers of pop songs) – it’s kind of a case by case basis. Sometimes, the song needs a lush arrangement or a sparce performance to do it justice. Sometimes, the melody serves as the thread holding together the rest of the chaos; it becomes more of a structural element than a spotlight focus. In these cases, the melody lets the band explore different sounds and create a composition that benefits from the cacophony.

Still, as a student of literature, I’m drawn to noisy songs because when done well they tend to hold their secrets in close like a short story. These works reveal different aspects with each exploration, depending on the point of entry. Appropriately, Titus Andronicus combine allusion (perhaps to excess) with their raucous and noisy songs. Like Icarus, Titus Andronicus aim their sights high on The Airing of Grievances, an album bursting at the seams with desperate (and sometimes despondent) vocals, barreling drums, and layers of furiously fuzzed out electric guitars. One might even say that the album sounds like Icarus’ melted wings after he flew too close to the sun – the album spends its 45 minutes sounding on the verge of collapse, while vocalist Sarim Al-Rawi sounds on the verge of an emotional meltdown as well. However, the album works because it revels in its near collapse; it’s almost as if Icarus approached the sun, felt his wings melt, and howled the entire way down like he was on a rollercoaster rapidly dropping. It sounds like a band pushing themselves to the brink and enjoying every feedback-laden moment of it.

One notable thing about the Brueghel painting referenced in this song is that Icarus is a tiny spec in the landscape – without the title, we wouldn’t even know he was there. In a way, Brughel seems to undercut Icarus’ ambition by painting him as a tiny detail within a larger landscape – it’s nice that he strove for greatness, but the world goes on without him. After seeing Titus Andronicus this past weekend, this makes sense, as Al-Rawi constantly put his band into contex with commentary between almost every song. He pointed out friend in the audience, made numerous reference to being from New Jersey and having spent time in Massachusetts (they were playing in Boston), and addressed the crowd with self deprecating charm and a hint of scorn. They played cover songs that framed their upbringing (tearing through Springsteen’s “Badlands”), their musical style (by letting one of their songs seamlessly transition into “Wipeout”), and their understanding of musical history (by covering “Roadrunner” by Boston’s own Modern Lovers). He even repeatedly told the crowd that they needed to leave early because their hometown paper (The Glen Rock Gazette) was taking their picture and it “meant a lot to [their] moms.” Their set was an energetic burst of these combustible songs, but it seemed like Al-Rawi wanted to put his band into context by painting their landscape as much bigger than their own glorious, thrill-seeking drop to the ocean.

More on Titus Andronicus: Allmusic | Amazon MP3 | Emusic | Last.fm

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