Sarahindie

When this show was announced, I knew I had to go. The makers of one of my favorite records of all time (their debut, “Future Perfect”) were playing at a really excellent venue (Bowery Ballroom) on my birthday. That’s kismet!

You guys, there is a guy here who is losing it. He is thrashing around while everyone else is, maybe, AT MOST, swaying. Katie likens it to seeing Animal at an Autolux show.

Autolux makes the interesting, poor choice to start with three new songs. With the new album just out a week and a bit ago and not particularly gaining traction, one must assume that the crowd gathered here is largely first album fans. Throw them (us) a bone! Let me put it this way, every new song, at least one person (sometimes up to six) streamed past me to the bar or the exit, but never for the old stuff. A crowd that sat through an opener that made us coin the term “jambient” is leaving midset. (It does not help that the show is running late and it is, presently, half past goddamned midnight and I’m still waiting on “Blanket.”)

And as soon as I type that, they play “Blanket.” The one super hyper guy and his plus one attract a follower. I am forced to consider the line between “crazy dancing guys whom the crowd is giving a wide berth” and “mosh pit.” (I think it’s about four dudes or six drunk girls.)

After four years of being a fan, I finally got to see Autolux headline. It was pretty great! But I still think I prefer bombastic boom and crash of the first album to the slightly dreamy quality of the second.

We accidentally get here in time for Casey Spooner. I don’t mind, having really enjoyed Fischerspooner, but it turns out those feelings are misplaced. He’s singing alone in front of a white drape, accompanied by an unceasing tape that I imagine was put together in GarageBand. His singing is exactly good enough to go under the flashy sounds and slick production of Fischerspooner. This format, with nothing to look at or focus on except him, and the man himself not dancing or moving at all, forces the listener to pay attention to his voice, which is not strong enough to stand up under that kind of scrutiny. I am sitting down by the wall. I forgot how much I hate this venue. It’s a big concrete warehouse down by the river. Why is it so humid? It’s not even hot! Just wet.

The band’s roadies are amazing: one almost perfectly round guy with a classic mullet, one older gentleman with a braid to his butt. Now these are roadies!

DJ Sammy Jo whatever is adorable, and he’s djing off CDs, which feels intentionally throwbacky, like vinyl. He’s clearly from the same era of New York that the Scissors are.

There are two teensy women behind me, which makes me feel bad, as I’m probably 6’1″ in these heels.

I don’t know how much of it is a function of the primarily dance/rave crowd they draw here, but one of the reviewers of this place on CitySearch said that it was impossible not to get bumped into and jostled. Another said that getting jostled was the point. Anyway, I’m definitely experiencing the jostling and disliking it. The problem is that the entrance runs the length of the space, with the stage to the right and the bar to the left. This means there’s no back to hover at. You step in and everyone fills in, forming the crowd around you. You’re fucked.

The biggest hit of Sammy’s set is La Roux’s “Bulletproof.” Insert surprised face.

I always thought that the reason I didn’t wear heels to shows was one of comfort. Turns out, it was actually because of an innate law of physics: if this crowd starts moving and I get shoved, I’m going down.

The backup singers are skinny redheads, like Ana. I wonder if that was in the job description?

Ana announces their intention to run for mayor as some sort of quinpartite entity. Their platform is the repeal of the cabaret laws so we can dance wherever we want.

There are several songs that Jake and Ana treat as solos. She drops back to sing with the backup girls while he sings “Skintight”, dedicated to his boyfriend, then he leaves the stage while she and the girls do a sultry, perfectly choreographed version of “Skin This Cat.” It’s not something I’ve ever really seen from a band before, with the exception of the horrible Plain White T’s. In that case, it was very much a fame grab by the lead singer. Here, it feels more like they respect each other enough as artists and feel secure enough in their place in the group that it doesn’t matter who is and isn’t onstage. (Luckily, the gorgeous Del Marquis is always on stage. Yum.)

HIP WADERS HIP WADERS HIP WADERS. I figured the encore would be an excuse for a costume change, but that is no reason for Jake to come out in what appear to be hip waders with the sides removed.

The Scissors are falling into the Metric problem of playing the weakest new songs after the encore break. This is the time when I need to be distracted from the pain in my feet! I guess if I was doing ecstasy and grinding on a stranger, I could deal with the tom solo and recorded Sir Ian McKellen monologue. But as it is, I just desperately want to go home.

But, it all comes back together, ending the set with their huge, party-in-five-minutes rendition of “Filthy/Gorgeous,” complete with Ana ripping her top off and confetti cannons. Everyone goes home happy.

I finally got around to listening to Arcade Fire’s new album, The Suburbs. The first five seconds are jarring because they’re not at all what I was expecting. I expected that orchestral sensibility, but it shows up like a alt-country record, all guitars and possibly a banjo (and definitely a steel guitar), very Arcade Fire Moves to Omaha. Their traditional strings have largely been stripped out in favor of country staples. But underneath, that huge, expansive sensibility is still there. It feels languorous, like swimming on the hottest day of the year. And then it veers into almost Springsteeny territory. I heard a definite echo of the Gaslight Anthem. I thought my favorite cut would be “Sprawl II”, where Regine takes over lead vocals and everything gets electronic and a little dancey, but in fact it was the second track, “Ready to Start,” which is a proper “I can take control of my life” anthem and almost made me cry. If it’s not a single, I’ll eat my hat. (Psych. I don’t own any hats.)

Tomorrow, the moment I’ve been waiting four years for and now kind of fear: I listen to Autolux’s sophomore effort, Transit Transit.

Let’s be honest with each other, as friends. I have been doing a really terrible job of covering current albums. While the reasons are both many and none, I have had the fire lit under me. I realized that there is less than a month until Lollapalooza and I have lots of bands on my “to see” list whose current albums I either haven’t yet heard or haven’t talked to you about. I am on a quest to fix that. Below, the first four.

Spoon – Transference: It is, as has been said, as flawless as every other Spoon album. But I’m listening with one ear toward the festival and this might not translate well. It’s kind of jammy, and if, like most bands, the live version is even jammier, people might head for the bar. Hipsters aren’t down for that noise.

MUTEMATH – Armistice: Oh man, you guys! I meant to pick this album up when it came out forever ago and I’m kinda kicking myself. This album is ferocious. It’s the same sort of easy listening scenepop that they always made, and this should pretty much replace The Format in everyone’s hearts, but there’s all this complexity, like horns in random places and weird haunting songs. And every single song has the undercurrent of their drummer’s unbelievable energy and mastery. I’m in awe. They just got upgraded to must see.

The National – High Violet: This is alt-countrier than I expected, but not in a bad way! I expect tons of girls in knee length skirts and bandanas at this set, just swaying. It’ll be a cool mellow set, the perfect thing for the evening when the sun starts to set. (Bonus: they play right before Sunday headliners Arcade Fire!)

Foxy Shazam – Foxy Shazam: Confession time: Part of the reason I haven’t been Johnny on the spot currently is that I am having job stresses and, when that happens, what I need to light a fire under my ass and keep me kicking life in the posterior is this album. If this doesn’t make you want to tear your shirt off or start swinging around a pole, snarling, then you might be deceased. This band is silly enough to just be a novelty act (one of the members is named only Daisy. He is a dude), but that throws you off kilter and then the rock hits you broadside. Plus, it’s music about being awesome and taking names and I have thought more than once about getting a tattoo of the best lyric on the album. (“Life is a bitch, but she’s totally doable.”) Also, if this band is ever in your neck of the woods, GO SEE THEM. Even if you never got around to listening to their music. Trust me. Just … trust me.

We arrive in time for a band that I think is Harvard. (Dear promoters, if you want me to see all your openers, then schedule them so I can get out of work and still get dinner before the show.) They have the mumbley delivery and electronic beat of early decade hipster favorites like Piebald and Minus the Bear, but with way heavier guitars (possibly pasted in from a Mars Volta album). I had heard mixed things about them, but I like this sort of thing. These sorts of things. Whatever. It is hot as balls down here. Unfortunately, the songs often devolve into noodly guitars and chaos. The last song begins with noodling and chaos, so I’m lost before I am found. You can just imagine how it ends. A girl I presume to be the hottest band member’s girlfriend (hottest band member’s girlfriend sells the merch) is standing on a chair behind the merch table and dancing. She gets down during this song.

This feels like the most professional gig I’ve seen Empires play outside Chicago! It gives me hope. Also, Allison corroborates a popular theory when she says “Everyone involved with them is hot.” (The actual theory is that band leader Tom Conrad has no ugly friends.) I especially dig how bassist Connor Doyle is dressed as though he’s on summer break from Harvard in 1963. Super dapper.

I think the girl in front of me has a A Perfect Circle tattoo. Need to google that when I get home.

I won’t lie, I’ve heard singer Sean Van Vleet sound better. But considering that they’ve been touring pretty much uninterrupted for five or six weeks, he’s in great nick. Plus, he does this amazing thing. Instead of just being scratchy or unable to hit a note, he has this built-in vibrato. Also, it is so hot in here, that halfway through the set, the guitarists start to droop like the twentieth hour of a Depression dance-a-thon. But they keep trying! This money will be so important to their families! Like, ok, I do Excel for a living. I sit at a desk with a Nalgene full of water. And if it were this hot at my desk, I would go home in a tiff. The fact that they can still flail and give 110% is unbelievable. I need to sit down.

P.S. to Mom: I forgot to concert call, but they all want me to apologize to you about Sunday!

The Whigs are visually arresting. The lead singer plays with his guitar up under his armpit so he can lift his knee to waist height and hop around on one foot. The bassist looks like a young Iggy Pop. The drummer has teenage waster hair, the sort made famous by Shaun White. He looks like he should be loitering in front of a 7-11. Their music starts out a little bland, and gets quiet for one piano-driven song, but then they ramp up to a huge, rocking finish. Their undeniably Southern sound makes for a good match with the Kings, but their songs aren’t as smartly crafted, so my mind wanders.

The audience is adults of all ages. Lots of couples. But right in front of us is a bunch of skinny middle-aged women, the kind who proudly refer to themselves as MILFS. Their obnoxiousness speaks to a pride in who they are, a statement that, yeah, they’re hotter and more fun than everyone else. It makes me feel like I’m in not the right place. I’m 28, black, single, and live in a major city. I have nothing in common with these people except a shared love of this band, and with middle-aged couples, I can’t tell if they love the band or if it’s just an excuse for a grownups’ night. And I know that the other people at this show haven’t given me a moment’s thought. This is diametrically opposed to the way I felt at last week’s teen-heavy Empires shows. There, I know that the crowd loves the band in the intense way that only high schoolers can, but they are judging, looking for interlopers and sneering in the way only teenagers can.

I guess my long-winded point is that I never feel like I belong at shows, until the music starts, and then I stop giving a shit.

I can tell it’s going to be bright because the drums and all of the amps appear to be on a lighted riser. But then the backdrop falls and reveals a wall of old, rusty spotlights. I dig for my sunglasses.

The show starts with red plumes of fire and an outpouring of red smoke, and then their traditional opera entrance music. Then there’s more red smoke behind the band.

This show is horribly lit, but beautifully shot. There have to be six cameras either mounted on the stage or with cameramen and they’re shooting amazing close up black and white footage.

Dear Caleb Followill: Is your mom still cutting your hair, because it’s getting a little Ben Frankliny.

The first new song sounds like their older stuff, bouncy and grungy. I love it. It fits in the canon and no one can argue that they’ve changed or sold out.

The sunglasses come in handy when the wall of lights finally get going during “Molly’s Chambers.” Also, I remember when that song came out to a wall of indifference from America. It’s weird to have 5000 people screaming along with it.

So glad I didn’t wash my hair this morning. I’m gonna need to wash the smell of pot out of it tomorrow.

Matt Followill is wearing a plaid shirt with a hood. It looks like this is Seattle and 1996 and he’s running away from home.

The next new song they play has a real element of the 1960s teenage death song, with the swingy guitars and tight rhythm. A little departure! The one after that is a proper hard rocker. Jess and I are excited for the new album.

Caleb pleads vocal trouble on “4 Kicks”, which is worrisome because this is the second show of the tour.

He asks us to sing “Sex on Fire,” probably because he loathes this song, but ends up doing it himself.

For the final new song (for which the big array of lights opens and shit), which is a song about the South, they bring their buddies The Whigs on to play with them.

The encore gets raucous, with respectable members of the community losing their shit around us and the man in front us demanding we dance and the band playing their hearts out. At the end, little white fireworks pop oit of the lighting rig, probably to suggest the old fashioned klieg lights exploding from the sheer force of rock. And then I realize that nothing I can type will compare to seeing this band live and letting yourself have the time of your life.

I got an Infection once where it seemed that my heart had swollen and was beating against my ribs. It felt just like this.

I didn’t mean to liveblog this, and it wasn’t even supposed to be a concert really, but then it started and I needed to share.

Kristeen Young opens. It’s like if Bjork replaced Amanda Palmer in the Dresden Dolls. She’s wearing a body shaper under a sort of paper doll dress made of cut out body parts from magazines that have been laminated into a sheet. There’s a matching pointy hat. While I probably wouldn’t buy an album of her hooting and electronics, the point here is obviously the live show.

Also, I deeply covet her keyboard tricked out to look like the front of a classic car.

The crowd is doing that fill-in-from-the-back thing, which is awkward, as we are standing up against the stage.

Between the acts, I was thinking about why women don’t do the high spectacle of drag. The next performer is Cherie Lily and she does something called Houserobics. It seamlessly blends the mediocre songwriting of gay house with the timelessness of “Let’s Get Physical.” If she were a drag queen instead of a Jap from the metro area, this would be awesome. Also if she was a Real Housewife and this was her single, totes awesome. As it is, underwhelming. But her dancers are amazingsauce. And everyone on stage is wearing head to toe American Apparel. This isn’t surprising; I usually can’t figure out what anyone would wear AA for *besides* 80s themed aerobics. But because of the revealing-and-lycra-ness of AA’s clothing, we the audience get way too intimate with the group’s sacred spaces. Awks considering it’s barely 9pm.

I dared not take notes during Jujubee. I whispered my love of her to my friend Steven and she caught me. I got the evil eye. She made up for it with the fabulous eye later. She did Jazmine Sullivan’s “Bust Your Windows” and Whitney’s “It’s Not Right (But It’s Okay).” She taught me volumes about how you can look smaller through big hair and poofy skirt and she was fantastic.

If this was a concert, everyone I know would kill to go. But it isn’t. It’s the Twilight Saga: Eclipse soundtrack. It is available for 24 hours for free listening at Heatworld.

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The Vibe Lounge is not a particularly odd venue, as Empires/Long Island venues go. What is odd is that this is a matinee. Doors opened at 3. But it is directly across from the train station, so totally handy for me! And the pre-band music is the new leaked Gaslight album.

There are maybe 40 people here, one boy. Wait! Two. But I think they were in an earlier band. The bands before Empires seemed to be approximately 15. We sat outside and watched a band’s dad come to pick them up.

Oh God, it is so hot in here. The band that was supposed to play before Empires never showed. So Empires has some time to futz around on stage waiting for their set time. The kids in the back on the lounge couches are playing Uno. I might play Yahtzee on my phone.

I love the point during setup when drummer Ryan Luciani takes his shoes off. That’s how I drive!

In the first song, wild, unpredictable and insanely talented touring bassist Connor Doyle jumps onto one of the stage’s little steps and rock out so hard that he breaks his guitar strap. By the end of the first song, I can tell that at this, the last show of the tour, they are going to rock their balls off. I don’t have much in the way of notes because I was dancing until I was drenched with sweat. I haven’t done that in years.

The bouncer comes down and rocks the eff out. I have never seen that happen before.

Before the encore, tourmates TV TV bring a round of whiskey shots onstage. I love the last nights of tours.

After the amazing, energetic, wild set, we need to decamp outside to cool down. TV TV’s Josh Ocean comes over to berate us for not having stayed for his set once on this tour. Guilty as charged, so we head back inside.

There’s something about their second song that reminds me of the hardcore glam-metal sound of the 90s (Marilyn Manson? Trent Reznor? Can’t figure it out.) The rest of their set is whatever we’re calling pop-punk now, but without being so deeply … upsetting. (Misogynist, untalented, date rapey.) They seem like genuinely nice guys, unlike current pop-punk darlings All Time Low and Boys Like Girls, to name a few. Some random juicehead in sunglasses gets up on the raised step of the stage and just watches from there.

Vibe Lounge protip: The bathrooms are air conditioned. Blissful.

Afterwards, we run into half of Empires at the tasty nearby MacArthur Park bar and can buy them a celebratory drink before they get back on the road for four days off, then another tour, this time with another set of NYC local boys: Lights Resolve. If they’re coming anywhere near you, GO!!!

Rae and I talk about starting a blog to showcase the terrible venues we’ve been in. There will be a special post for Hangar 84. Continue reading