come around

Note: This post went up last week but was apparently eaten by the Blogger outage. Let's try this again.

First off, thanks to Julie for the extra ticket, even if it came about due to her lack of oversight. I appreciate the night out and the opportunity to check out a marathon performance by the eternally charming Rhett Miller at the Swedish American Hall.

Rhett Miller, Swedish Music Hall, May 7, 2011: Here's a scene that plays out at every concert you'll ever attend: You're waiting around -- maybe for doors to open, maybe for the bouncer to check IDs, or maybe for a beer -- and you overhear a fellow gig-goer bragging about how many shows they've seen by certain bands or musicians. Invariably, that massive number adds up to, say, three or four different appearances by the artist in question. I'm not typically impressed by the tally.

Granted, I'm the last person who should pass judgement on another person's concert choices. I admit it -- while I was queuing up, sweating over on-sale dates, plotting itineraries, and basically killing myself in anticipation of a 90-minute set by musicians I've probably seen a million times before, other people were probably leading full, multidimensional lives. Also, considering the current state of the music industry, repeat customers are highly desirable, so anyone who comes back more than once is worth pursuing.



Anyway, I'm going to be that guy -- er, gal. According to my records, this is the third time I've seen Rhett in concert, though that number seems awfully skimpy and doesn't include any Old 97s gatherings; I must've hit those gigs before I started this blog. In the case of Hardly Strictly Bluegrass, I was present for their set, but it didn't warrant a whole entry.

However, I can claim an out-of-town date and even a rare configuration, neither of which should be held up as any sort of achievement. Rhett and the Old 97s have an ardent and long-standing fan base; in fact, I count a few of the faithful among my good friends. They can rattle off stats and song titles much more readily than I can. Despite this deficit, I have to say that this may be the best gig I've seen from Rhett yet.

Many factors led to this proclamation, but I have to start with the sheer number of songs Rhett pulled off. I didn't keep a setlist, and I can't tell you how long the gig ran, though I'd place it in the neighborhood of two hours. In a rock show, two hours is nothing to sneeze at, but in the solo setting, when Rhett is banging out the tunes at a scorching pace, the titles pile up.

Rhett may or may not have brought along a setlist, but he seemed to veer from it several times to follow lines of memory or to expand on themes. One of the motifs he came back to was a fixation on disasters; for example, "Just Like California" led to "Buick City Complex." In at least one instance, an audience request appeared to inspire an instant song selection ("Terrible Vision"), and Rhett credited Twitter with another choice for the night ("Meteor Shower"), though he needed a lyric sheet to carry off the latter. For the life of me, I can't remember what moved him to go with "Making Love to You," but I recall he provided a charming intro.

Speaking of charm, Rhett was in full Storytellers mode; maybe this isn't so surprising to Rhett's regulars, but I can't say I've seen such a display from him before. Between the barrage of songs, he managed to work in tales of the Sharon Osbourne talk show, his dating life with UCSC Banana Slugs, and his debt to Steve Miller. He also oohed and aahed over the vintage-looking room, gushing over the gorgeous wood detail and dark varnish -- then broke into "Nightclub" and distanced himself from any notions of burning down the room.

I've heard from at least one person displeased with Rhett's solo career, especially the debut album. I happen to love that record for obvious reasons, but after tonight's performance, I finally understood what could've inspired those complaints. I'm a pop girl at heart, so the bountiful harmonies and catchy arrangements on The Instigator are completely up my alley. However, after hearing the rawer elements of Rhett's songwriting, I admit the shift would be off-putting if I'd previously been listening to the Old 97s' patented ruckus. It's a good thing we don't have to choose these days, as both Rhett and the Old 97s are actively touring and recording. With any luck, I'll yet make it to that fifth gig!

See also:
» this is what i do
» tell it to the radio
» it took almost seven hours to sing

the message

I'm not going to update the tally of these shows, nor will I make any other declarations on what will become of these gigs. The previous dates have been chronicled, so I'll stick with a report of the 2011 gathering at the Hotel S'n'S for an evening with Jeff Tweedy.

Jeff Tweedy, Hotel S'n'S, April 23, 2011: First off, Jeff didn't play us the new Wilco album, as he had in years past. Apparently, the band is still in the studio, but we did get a sneak preview at a couple of new songs (more on that later).

However, if you've been following this blog over the years, you know the drill. Food, friends, and music (not necessarily in that order--but not not necessarily either): Done, done, and oh boy, done. Alas, many beloved original cast members didn't make it this year, and they were missed (and even celebrated, but more on that later too). In their stead, a wave of new faces and friends joined in.

The roster aside, no two appearances have ever been the same when we get together. Last year, there was a certain poignancy with what we thought would be the final show the Tweedys put on for us in this setting, but a general ease has been the overall vibe for a while now. At times, we wondered if all parties had become too comfortable, but as someone who's allergic to drama, I prefer the laid-back approach.



In a slight variation from the past few years, Jeff informed us he would open with a song of his choice from the submitted requests instead of kicking it off with a random party. In turn, the person who had chosen the mystery request would pass it along, duck-duck-goose-style. Easy enough, we figured.

I don't think anyone recognized the song immediately, but seriously, how could we, considering it hadn't been played it in more than a decade? The opener, as it turned out, was "This Ain't No Lounge Ax," previously performed twice (as far as we can tell from bootlegs), inspired by Susan Miller Tweedy's old nightclub, and coincidentally, my nomination. Dedicated readers may even recall I tried to request it last year, but was denied.

I'm completely biased on this count, but it sounded fantastic, especially considering Jeff had been reacquainting himself with the tune just minutes before the show (so I'm told--I didn't see it myself, and I'm glad for the surprise). The song also set the goofy, tongue-in-cheek tone of the night, and the slightly revised lyrics suited our show perfectly. In fact, at the end, Jeff remarked that the tune had withstood the test of time, and I think I detected some pride in his voice. I hope it doesn't take another decade-plus before the work is unfurled once more, but if he happens to dust it off at a show I'm not attending, don't forget where the revival began! My only concern is that it may bring up bad memories for Susan--I hope she realized it was meant as a laugh.

From there, I picked Wafer, and he tapped Judy, setting off the trend from the first set: Asian power, including a couple of Caucasians married to Asians or mixed Asians. [Editor's note: Some non-Asians and non-Asian-related people made the cut.] We rocked it! Or rather, our requests rocked it, including Judy's long-awaited "Corduroy Cutoff Girl"; the so-called LouFest version of "Casino Queen" (taking a cue from "Subterranean Homesick Blues") from Mike; Patty's crowd-pleasing "Summer Teeth," bolstered by our backing vocals; Andy's request for a new song, which turned out to be an uptempo track that may be called "I Might"; and Paul's inspired suggestion of one of the most effective and enjoyable earworms of all time, "Cruel to Be Kind." Whew!

Sometimes I claim I could go home happy after hearing a song or two at a show. In related news, I sometimes lie, so I won't attempt to roll out that fib now. But if I had made good on that claim, I would've missed such in-the-moment events as Ruby's uninhibited dancing or Alison's three-part request plan, which culminated in a iPhone-abetted group rendition of "Ripple" that would probably give any Fillmore West or Greek Theatre singalong a run for its money. I also would've been deprived of Kris's sweet request for "Wish You Were Here" in honor of the friends who couldn't attend, as well as his ballsy move to take the lead vocals, at Jeff's behest.



And I most certainly would've lost out on some of Jeff's more memorable moments, such as his serenade to Zelda for "Either Way," his wholesale disowning of "Train" from his Uncle Tupelo days (sorry Dick!), a fractured rendition of a Replacements tune in response to a question about a song from his youth, and his game attempt at an LCD Soundsystem takeoff called "Jeff Tweedy Is Playing at My House," in concert with Sam and her drum machine. That last one somehow became an old-school rap medley that owed more in its delivery to Jackie Mason than Melle Mel--go figure.

Oh yeah, we heard one more new song that may be titled "Capital City," which betrayed a Randy Newman-esque lilt, and several more unabashedly gorgeous works, including the always hypnotic "More Like the Moon" and the Grammy-winning "You Are Not Alone." I don't do setlists except for that one guy in Los Angeles, but trust me, several more gems comprised the final tally, which you can find elsewhere on the Internet--or even on my blogroll--if you do a little searching.

Photo by Joshua Sarner

The weekend was hardly over, and we had more meals, music, and activities (again, maybe or maybe not in that order) on the schedule--that is, it was another wonderful weekend in Chicago. Even though I have no predictions on whether we'll do this again, I know I'll be back to Chicago soon enough. In the meantime, feel free to check this space and see for yourself; I too am pretty excited about discovering the answer.

The full history
» i wish that i knew what I know now
» people say i'm crazy doing what i'm doing
» all the ladies and gentlemen
» that year
» springtime comes
» turn our prayers to outrageous dares
» every day is dreamlike
» it's been a while

talking trash under your breath

The Coachella runoff is in full effect in the Bay Area, with a few particularly overbooked nights around town. Personally, I felt no such conflicts and even cut back on my concert plans. However, as with Noise Pop, I always feel a little disappointed when I don't hit at least one of the annual satellite shows. This year, Broken Social Scene's date at the Warfield fulfilled my goal.

Broken Social Scene, the Warfield, April 13, 2011: As this blog proves conclusively, I harbor long-standing fascinations with certain musicians, but they're the exceptions. The truth is most artists occupy a middle ground--I like their music but don't feel especially loyal to them. Then there's another trajectory: A band will make one or two albums that stay with me forever, and for that, they win my undying loyalty and affection, even if I never listen to anything from them again.



Broken Social Scene is starting to cement its place in that first category, but it wasn't always this way. On the one hand, I've listened to and enjoyed much of their catalog, but You Forgot It in People remains the record from their discography that I want buried with me in my memorial pyramid, even though this tidbit has a habit of slipping my mind. Maybe it has something to do with the nature of ever-changing collectives, where band members come and go, complicating that silly act of pinning your dreams, hopes, and schoolgirl crushes to any single person. Maybe it's their erratic recording schedule. Maybe it's because they're from Canada.

Nonetheless, I've now rediscovered its wonders twice, despite a burning love for it around the time of its release. Dammit, I put two songs from that album on mixes (back when I made mixes)! The first reawakening was kick-started by their performance at Outside Lands in 2008. More recently, they provided the soundtrack to a movie I can't get out of my brain (see earlier ode to Canadiana). This time, especially after the Warfield show, I think it's finally stuck.



For a period of several weeks this past winter, I was a moist-eyed, trembling-lipped commuter, ready to stream the waterworks to the sounds of "Anthem for a Seventeen-Year-Old Girl" or "Shampoo Suicide," and convinced it was the soundtrack to my life. It's reached the point where I can vocalize all the instrumentation on certain songs, from the guitar solo to the bass line to the drumbeat. (Full disclosure: I can do this for several albums.) Bobby McFerrin has nothing to fear, but it's hard to resist the melodies embedded in the gorgeous instrumental swaths that mark so many Broken Social Scene songs. Also, it helps me embrace the tunes when I can't make out the damn lyrics!

This (re)immersion in Broken Social Scene's catalog hasn't exactly made me a connoisseur, but it's resulted in one major difference: For the first time, I was watching the band not for merely the spectacle or out of idle curiosity, but as an invested fan. With this revised outlook, the creative core of Kevin Drew, Brandon Canning, and Andrew Whiteman was particularly prominent, and since I still can't always figure out who handles the singing, it's nice to get visual confirmation of the lead vocals.

The horn section, at times showing off choreographed moves, was probably the biggest attention grabbers of the less permanent crew, but of course, it helped that they played against such a strong foundation. Last but not least, it'd be criminal to overlook Lisa Lobsinger, bringing the female voice that elevates critical portions of their catalog. Broken Social Scene has a stellar record in finding and nurturing amazing female singers; if history is anything to go by, keep an eye on Lisa.

This blog is clogged with accounts of earnest acoustic performances, and don't get me wrong--I love the heartfelt material, but one can't live on folk songs alone. Watching Broken Social Scene, I realized they deliver tunes that appeal to the head and the hair the brain and the booty. Sometimes it comes from a bubbly beat ("Stars and Sons," "Texico Bitches"), or it can be spelled out explicitly in the lyrics ("Lover's Spit," "Me and My Hand").

Then you hit the likes of "Hotel," which can easily take its place among the best sexy-time songs I've heard in a while. I don't know what the trending topics on Twitter were at the very moment the band played the song, but if #fuckmusic lit up the charts, you can thank the guy next for his contribution (according to what he told his friend). Coincidentally (or not), the song came after the band joked about Prince and Chaka Khan, even treating us to a a few beats from "Controversy."

Throughout the entire gig, the crowd had eaten up the band's every move, and the musicians responded in kind. Brendan Canning, for example, thanked the familiar faces in the audience, including the often forgotten balcony. He also invited everyone out to drinks afterward, though he didn't disclose the meeting space.

Kevin Drew, meanwhile, praised San Francisco for its longtime support and promised to play for as long as possible, as he said it would be Broken Social Scene's last show in town for a while. To that end, the band didn't bother leaving the stage before the encore and instead kept plugging away.

Play they did--Kevin had mentioned earlier in the set the expense of exceeding their allotted time, but he didn't appear to heed his own words, as the show ended around 11:15, or 15 minutes into overtime for the union crews (I think?). Also, though he'd been trying to keep his bronchitis at bay with tea and lozenges all night, Kevin's lungs finally gave out on "It's All Gonna Break," which he had to call off for, er, a song I didn't recognize. Whatever its title, this closing tune brought Kevin into the crowd, where he fist-bumped much of the front row and sang on the rail to the rest of the room. Let it be known they went out--but not down--fighting.



I'd initially planned to stake out a spot off the main floor, but opted to hit the rail when I noticed plenty of open spots for the taking. I'm glad I did; I don't think I would've enjoyed the same connection from the first tier back. Double bonus: The very nice security guy in my corner indicated I should stick around for a couple of minutes, then handed me the setlist without any prodding. You can keep your Coachella--I'll take the local route any day.

See also:
» used to be one of the rotten ones
» song for america