Dinosaur Jr. attracted a mixed crowd of young and old to First Avenue Wednesday night. As could be expected, there were plenty of bushy beards and flannel shirts milling about, but there were also a number of goatees and shaved heads in attendance to remind one that the band's following extends well beyond the current younger generation of concertgoers. Fittingly, the Massachusetts trio played a variety of songs from its '80s heyday - as well as some great cuts from its '90s back catalog - alongside more recent material in a show that had a little something for all its fans.
Andrew Stockdale's presence on stage is neurotic, tireless, burgeoning with mysterious creativity - and effortless energy -- a persona that was that on display Saturday night when the skinny jean-clad frontman led his Aussie counterparts on a trip down Amplified Highway.
In the past year I've been to only a handful of shows that really stand out, and seeing as how I've been to more concerts in my lifetime than the number of pills choked back by Johnny Cash, Hank Williams and Mindy McCready combined, it's usually not the performances anymore that make a show memorable - it's the crowd.
Girls' debut single, "Lust for Life" (no relation to Iggy Pop's ode to recklessness), has been in heavy rotation on
The Current for the past few weeks, but there's a good chance that the
song might never have made it to our airwaves if it hadn't been for the
outpouring of online press that has recently surrounded the San
Francisco band. Likewise, the pre-music chatter from the 7th St. Entry's sold-out crowd on Saturday
was full of Minneapolis music fans mapping their web-based connections,
exchanging screen names, and discussing the websites where they had heard
Girls' first LP, simply titled Album. Even if the majority of
them loved the collection of sun-stroked pop, there was an air of
cautious hesitation. Could the band's live show live up to the hype
that had been heaped on them?
When the Dirty Projectors walked on stage last night at the Cedar, they launched straight into their first song, "Cannibal Resource." As David Longstreth gently strummed his electric guitar, the audience immediately recognized the chords and let out a cheer. It was a full house, the show having sold out well in advance, and for the duration of the set the room was electric from the energy of the Brooklyn sextet's musical acrobatics.
To say that the Dirty Projectors' music was virtuosic would be
something of an understatement. Longstreth's songwriting has long been
complex and often an acquired taste, but with last June's Bitte Orca his compositions grew in both maturity and accessibility. Last night, this translated to a breathtaking group dynamic as the band
executed its meticulously arranged songs to perfection, the music's many layers coming together with effortless spontaneity.
Waiting in the cavernous Northrop Auditorium for Steely Dan to take the stage Sunday night on the Minneapolis stop of their "Rent Party '09" tour (on this night featuring front-to-back the classic album Aja and on other nights, The Royal Scam), I felt a little out of my element. Not surprisingly, I was surrounded by your parents. Not my parents - I'd likely never see them at a Steely Dan concert - but yours. And where I didn't see my parents I saw people my age, but they were yuppies. They were recently-graduated lawyers who drink chardonnay in their downtown condos while rocking out to classics like "Rikki Don't Lose That Number" and, when it gets a little late in the night, maybe a little Steve Miller, "The Joker" specifically, while the "crazy" friend passes a gigantic bong.
It's only a matter of minutes before someone asks me if I'm ever going to get married! If I've met a nice young man yet! If I'd like to be set up with the newly-divorced young partner at their firm!
As was to be expected, Friday night's show at the Cedar Cultural Center was bittersweet. It was one of the first hometown shows for Minnesota native-turned-LA resident JoAnna James, and was the last show, hometown or otherwise, for the fractured Wars of 1812. While Chris Koza's name was at the top of the bill for the evening, it was clear that a large portion of the audience had come to see the momentous sets by his two talented openers.
JoAnna James was visibly nervous during her set, giggling between songs
as she paused to shake out her limbs and tell half-conceived stories
that meandered into fits of giggles. She was joined by guitarist Josh
Peterson, who accompanied her acoustic guitar strums with bluesy
electric guitar riffs and solos, and the two played off of each other
effortlessly. James mixed in a few new songs throughout her set, and
the new material showed off a more subtle, soft side to her sultry,
powerful voice, including a syncopated, homesick song about her recent move simply titled "St. Paul."
John Darnielle came back for a "bonus track" Saturday night at the Cedar, the sold-out house cheering him on after a rousing version of "This Year" had finished the first encore. When he returned alone to the stage, the mastermind behind the Mountain Goats chose to play the Hold Steady's "Positive Jam," even though he couldn't remember how the song went.
Playing a song by the local favorites was more than a gimmick on Darnielle's part. For the better part of two hours, he and his North Carolina ensemble had held the audience captive. Now, as he fumbled through one last number, laughing and debating the lyrics with the front row, it was an opportunity for his fans to join in the fun.
Take your most jaded music snob, who wouldn't give two sneezes for the low-altitude, tried-and-true rock of Kiss. Take any Pitchfork reviewer, who sees the histrionics, fire-breathing, and pyrotechnics as nothing more than a cleverly executed marketing ploy. Scour the music scene for the most adroit, self-assured listener, and with enough beer and persuasion, you'll illicit at least one honest statement about the 35-year old hard rock quartet: Kiss has a good thing going.
There's a fine line between boredom and confidence, and last night at the Triple Rock, Har Mar Superstar and Kool Keith spent the evening teetering on that razor's edge in a mercurial, uneven show. At times raptly entertaining, at times stunningly flat, both performers seemed to beg the question of themselves: were they letting their well-earned stage presence carry the show, or were they just phoning it in?
There's a follow up question: if you've paid $20 for the privilege of watching them, is there a real difference?
It's over, but denial is still running high for fans of the Uptown Bar. It felt like business as usual these past few weeks as many of us fit in as many of the final shows the club had to offer as we could. It seemed impossible as we chatted with friends in the comfy booths we had grown so accustomed to that it would all soon be just a memory. How many times had we come to this spot over the years to see our favorite bands? Countless. But last night was the last time, and the finality of the show was palpable.
The Raveonettes' show at First Ave Monday night was as much a matter of visual aesthetic as it was the band's signature brand of noise -pop. Black hair tousled and his guitar slung carelessly over his shoulder, Sune Rose Wagner wore a black and white striped t-shirt as he spun his one-note leads. Alongside, snow-white blonde Sharin Foo stood regally in black and cooed her twisted love songs.
It was an assured, well-practiced performance by a pair who exuded a cool femininity, the two cutting dark silhouettes as the stage lights washed them out in reds and blues and exploded into white strobes when the band unleashed its frequent flurries of distortion. Combined with the music's shifting loud-soft dynamics -- alternating between soft, sugary melodies and piercing feedback sirens -- it made for an all together thrilling show.
It is interesting to consider when things started feeling wrong at the Saul Williams concert presented by Afropunk at the Varsity Theater on Sunday night. It may have started early in the night, the first time that MC Tchaka Diallo, who was acting as host for the evening, thanked their sponsor Budweiser. The Converse sponsorship was tolerable -- if you can get money to finance a tour, more power to you Afropunk -- but Williams has never seemed like the kind of man who would endorse American light lager. The feeling that audience expectations may have been out of sync with the touring show Afropunk put together was compounded when, after impressive and impassioned sets by local acts Dearling Physique and No Bird Sing, out trotted Houston, TX, band American Fangs, who delivered high-energy, Vans Warped Tour-tested, MTV2-ready pop-punk with little discernible political content or formal innovation.
"How do you like this weird-ass show?" P.O.S. laughed from the First Avenue stage Saturday night.Coming back into town for his first show since March, the man also known as Stefon Alexander explained that he chose the local bands that he was excited about, so the bill swung from the boom-bap of Prof and St. Paul Slim to the evangelical prog rock of Moonstone and the dancing glitches of Slapping Purses. It proved a stong lineup of local talent, although whether or not he had chosen the lineup, it was P.O.S.'s show and we were all just along for the ride.
While I was sitting with my party at Chai's Thai around the corner from the 400 Bar, some folks at the next table took a couple looks over at us, and leaned in conspiratorially, asking if we were going to the Split Lip Rayfield concert later. We answered yes, and they asked what kind of crowd they could expect that the show. There was some hemming and hawing, until finally someone said, "Um, I dunno, a bunch of guys with beards, and some lesbians?"
The Dodos brought their much-vaunted live act to a packed house at the Turf Club Tuesday night, and they didn't disappoint. Deftly wielding their mix of folk, country blues, metal, and African Ewe music, the California trio put on an electrifying performance that held the audience at rapt attention.
Armed with a handful of Budweisers and a bottle of Jim Beam, Times New Viking unleashed its variation of a scorched earth policy on the 7th St. Entry Sunday night. Playing just over 20 songs in less than 50 minutes, the Ohio three-piece tore through its set with all the verve one has come to expect from them, though at a slightly lower volume than their albums have suggested.
There were lights and smoke machines, and cameras attached to their guitars to project close-up shots onto a massive back screen. But all Rodrigo y Gabriela really needed to stun the Pantages crowd was their zillion-stringed acoustic guitars and unbelievably fast fingerwork. Their instruments are drums, bass, and melody in one, carefully interwoven into delicious, catchy, danceable music.
Have you ever noticed going out to see a band you're unfamiliar with on a total whim can make for a great evening? Like, let's say you're a dude who's into college indie rock and somehow find yourself at some hair-metal dive in a far corner of Northeast prying some greasy old Rush groupie's fingers from your beer and your belt buckle. It's not what you're into but you opened your mind and life's path for a new experience and funny tale (it'll be funny to you after some Tide and a shower). As music fans, we need experiences like this. Sometimes hitting the shows we'd otherwise skip is exactly the shakeup our scene-stupefied brains -- and ears -- need.
The crowd was small last night at Lee's, but their oddball intensity made up for it. Buck mingled with the mix of hipsters and hicks before his show, getting comfortable, and when he finally settled into his nest of monitors, amps, and instruments onstage, he spoke at some length on the connection he felt between Nashville and Minneapolis, noting several upcoming local shows by big-name alt country artists (Wayne Hancock, Hank III, Dale Watson).
There's a lot of ebb and flow in our local scene, as bands rise to popularity and fade back into the fold, and at any given time there seems to be a handful of bands that are thrown into the spotlight and lavished with attention from the entire community at large. A friend of mine has a theory that there is a music mafia in Minneapolis -- a collection of writers, tweeters, and movers-and-shakers that seem to have an unspoken agreement to promote certain events and musicians at certain times -- but in reality, it seems that our scene is small enough that we are able to dote on a couple of bands at a time and that a few blog posts, videos, and reviews (what the jaded would call hype) are enough to push them to the forefront of our collective consciousness.
The last place I expected to see clean cut new comer Adam Young and his Owl City superstar live act was the same place that conjoins the words caboose and booze as it's moniker. Alas, with his digital devices glowing blue and a well rehearsed complement of accompaniment, Young's daydream ditties lit up the darkest corners of a sold-out venue.
Seriously, you'd have thought the Beatles had shown up...
Trying to describe the music of the South African band BLK JKS ("Black Jacks") is nearly as challenging as trying to pronounce their name without inserting the implied vowels; you get stuck as soon as you start. At various moments they distinctly invoke Living Colour, The Clash, The Police, TV on the Radio, and Bad Brains, but never long enough to pin down. Just when it starts to sound familiar they space out into dubby echoes or take off running in a torrent of African rhythms. Although they defy your expectations of music from Africa by incorporating so many Western influences, they satisfy the desire for something new and otherworldly.
There are bands you will never get to see live. Nirvana, for one. And for awhile, it seemed that Sunny Day Real Estate--another Seattle band, whose breakout album came on the heels of Nevermind--would forever be consigned to this category.
More influential than profitable, Sunny Day virtually created emo, but never lived to capitalize. The individual members went their separate ways, to play in Dave Grohl's Foo Fighters and entertain solo careers. Then, against all expectations, they reunited. Last night they played First Ave, and it was worth the wait.
Mike Massey, working the door at the Dakota and looking pretty natty for a guy who prowls the stage as the howling frontman for Twin Cities gutter-blues band City on the Make, tells me that during last night's Buffalo Collision set an angry woman came up to him and demanded her cover charge back because, she said, "This isn't jazz."
Which makes me think: Can you imagine a similar scene over any other genre of music? That would be like going to the Turf for, well, just about anybody from Tapes n' Tapes to Dosh to the STNNNG to the Replacements and demanding your cover charge back because it's not the Dave Clark Five.
I mean, what is happening when a brilliant, forward-thinking, adventurous, tender, primal, beautiful band like Buffalo Collision is judged as being out of place because of an idea some patrons have about what the club they're playing should mean?
A couple hundred fans who purchased copies of Phoenix's most recent album, Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix, were treated to an intimate acoustic performance this afternoon at the Electric Fetus in Minneapolis. The quartet played a handful of songs, most off their new release, and even the bouncier electro songs sounded great in the pared-down setting with just two acoustic guitars and a little keyboard. The band are in town to play First Avenue tonight, and lead singer Thomas Mars said they have been waiting their whole lives to play the Minneapolis rock club.
Here's the set list (or set liszt, perhaps) from today's in-store performance: Lisztomania, One Time, Long Distance Call, Playground Love, 1901.
Afterwards, the band stuck around to sign custom-made lithograph posters, which were designed by local artist/actor/blogger/Gimme Noise contributor Carl Atiya Swanson.
It's been more than seven years since legendary Alice in Chains vocalist Layne Staley died due to a drug overdose--but this isn't simply a bygone notion to the faithful hundreds who showed up in support of the Seattle grunge rockers last night at First Avenue: it's a repetitious tribute.
Indeed, many donned black tees bearing the face of their fallen keystone, but much was to be reckoned with the current lineup. With the leather-clad, afro'd up William DuVall now at the vocal helm, the rest of the original members (Jerry Cantrell, Sean Kinney, Mike Inez) looked as collected and confident as if they had just finished up Jar of Flies.
There's not much more that I can say about my fandom for Ani DiFranco that hasn't already been covered in my column this week, so I'll keep this recap brief, lest I veer into gush-mode once more. Sunday's set at First Avenue was one of the best I have seen locally (yes, I've seen her in two other states), and she seemed to feed off the energy of the rock club. "I love that, like, three of you have little romantic tables," she said, gesturing to the small group of seated folks in the balcony. "Everyone else is fucking standing."
In contrast to her last few local shows, which have all taken place at theaters, DiFranco took advantage of the big open room and played her set with a fierce, sweaty intensity. She seemed to mix in more up-tempo material to accomodate the standing crowd ("Look at you, all up on your hind legs!" she remarked between songs), including a particularly funky version of "Fuel," "Names and Dates," and "Two Little Girls."
Bold, incriminating statement number one--we struggle to think of a criticism one could level at ICP that can't be levelled at most major F.M. rappers currently crowding KMOJ. Like almost all platinum selling MCs topping the charts, ICP suffers from the same lack of lyrical talent, the same sleepwalk stage presence, the same fall-back tropes.
So why is ICP subject to such especial criticism? After sitting through last night's First Avenue show in its entirety, we really don't have any idea. If you closed your eyes, ignored the soupy carnival aesthetic, the flat truth is that the music isn't all that bad.
The 80s new-wave-rave duo The Pet Shop Boys came out swinging at the State Theater on Wednesday night like it was their last performance, the entire experience as much a visual adventure as it was an aural one. The whole two hours was like taking 10 hits of acid and being teleported into a 1988 Nintendo console where the sound is unforgettably crisp and the only game is infinitely Tetris. Not since Daft Punk at Coachella had I seen an electronic act put as much thought into their stage setup.
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