Obscurity Knocks: Six by Seven, "The Things We Make"

Welcome back to Obscurity Knocks, an intermittent series of posts highlighting my favorite unheralded albums. Coincidentally, these posts could also be titled British Bands I've Never Seen Live but Really Wish I Had. For this installation, we'll check in on the band Six by Seven, who qualify under both of the above guidelines.

Six by Seven, The Things We Make
Picture this: The curtains open on a group of chorus line of dreamers in 1970s leotards. It's 1996, and I, like so many other directionless liberal arts majors in the Bay Area, became a dot-commer, the effects of which continue to dominate my life. But among the run-of-the-mill rat race-type concerns, I enjoyed one surprising benefit: My Anglophilia rocketed off the charts. Thanks to the then-revolutionary technology known as streaming, the difference in time zones, and the fact that I was stuck at the computer for eight-plus hours each day, I had the perfect opportunity to tune into Steve Lamacq and the Evening Session on BBC Radio 1 every weekday. Not just any radio show, the Evening Session boasted access to exclusive tracks from and interviews with all the big names in British music, as well as a dedication to highlighting tons of up-and-coming bands.

Keep in mind that this was before the days of Napster, MySpace, BitTorrent, and the iPod, when only the chosen few were privy to leaked albums and you had to be an uber-geek to lay claim to a home broadband connection. (Note to self: You are old!) For me, at least, it was an invaluable advantage to be able to listen to music before paying exorbitant prices for the import single. And not just any old music, either--it was stuff I never heard and would likely never air on U.S. radio.

Granted, a lot of it was not very good; my CD collection is littered with discs that are not only unlistenable but unsellable. And the Evening Session wasn't immune to the bursting Britpop bubble; toward the late '90s, they spun horrible nu-metal bands--the very groups I wanted to escape. But for a few years, it was the radio show of my dreams.

I'm pretty sure I first heard Six by Seven on the Evening Session, very likely via "Candlelight." I remember thinking how much they sounded like the Charlatans (UK, I guess) on the single, which is kinda amusing, considering I'm not a Charlatans fan. There must've been something there, though, because I kept listening.

Somewhere along the way, I probably heard the singles "European Me" and "88-92-96," revealing roots more akin to the droney, shoegazer-based variety I love so much. Throw in a Flaming Lips (post-Zaireeka, but pre-The Soft Bulletin, thank you very much) remix of "Candlelight" and you get a pretty promising mix of influences and peers.

Perhaps a little history lesson is needed for those not steeped in the arcana of '90s-era British music. Though the band formed in 1991, Six by Seven didn't release their first single, "European Me," until 1997, followed by a couple more singles and a full-length album--the very subject of this post--in 1998. I don't particularly enjoy framing any artist in the context of another artist, but I'll say this about this record: It would've sounded conspicuously out of place in the Britpop landscape. In the wake, however, of 1997's landmark releases by Radiohead, the Verve, and Spiritualized, The Things We Make presents a logical progression.

Comparisons are cheap, and I admit they're a little tenuous in this case, so I'll try not to linger on the argument too much. What Six by Seven shares with Radiohead is a sonic boldness and a seeming dedication to art rock, and like the Verve, their music is imbued with palpable emotions. Of the aforementioned groups, Spiritualized may be their closest compatriot, albeit with fewer blatant drug references (on Six by Seven's part, that is). It's not hard to pick out the epic buzz and multilayered guitars, but I'll give the edge to Six by Seven in terms of passion.

I can't speak to the band's lyrics, and frankly, I can't recall many of them right now; if you're a word freak, this might be a pass. I also suspect listeners either love or hate singer Chris Ollney's voice, but it works for me, from the roar of "Something Wild" to the crooning "Oh! Dear" to the effects-drenched "European Me" and "88-92-96." As far as I'm concerned, it's really about the whole bundle--the voice, the guitars, the production, the pacing--and the mood that this album invokes. In a nutshell, it's a great package of pop and psychedelia.

Legend has it that "European Me" was heralded by the NME as "one of the greatest debut singles of all time" upon its release. Never mind that the NME makes that claim, on average, every other minute--the song is a great distillation of Six by Seven's trademark sound. The creeping tease, the deliberate pace, the intermittent squiggles of guitar, the seven-minute expanse--it sure sets the scene.

But for a pop girl like myself, "For You" may be my favorite track. There's no doubt that Six by Seven can carry off fractured, agonized dirges, but their power pop shines through on this tune, the closest to a hop, skip, and a jump that you'll find on the album. If I had my way, "For You" would play in the background of every sports highlight reel ever aired.

Rounding out the three faces of Six by Seven (for a total of 126?) is "Oh! Dear," a good, old-fashioned power ballad, or at least the late-'90s U.K. indie band version of one. If angst and abstraction dominate this album, "Oh! Dear" is the antidote, with the most straightforward lyrics of any song on this record. Don't worry, though; the fuzz pedal is still in effect, as is the single, elementary drum beat that characterizes many of the other songs on the record. Also, it clocks in at over seven minutes--but what's your hurry anyway?

I kept up with Six by Seven for a few more releases into the early 2000s, and for a time, my Two and Half Days in Love with You shirt never failed to spark conversation. As I recall, they didn't let up on the distortion on those follow-up recordings, but other impressions escape me. However, blame my attention span, not the band. As far as I'm concerned, they secured a permanent spot on my playlist with "The Things We Make."

Listen (right-click and choose Save Link As):
» Six by Seven: "European Me"
» Six by Seven: "For You"
» Six by Seven: "Oh! Dear"

See also:
» Obscurity Knocks: Marion, "The Program"
» Obscurity Knocks: Adorable, "Against Perfection"
» Obscurity Knocks: The Chameleons U.K., "Strange Times"
» Six by Seven on MySpace

make no bones about it

Jarvis Cocker is back for a show at the Fillmore in San Francisco in the same decade?! Sometimes I love to be proven wrong.

Jarvis Cocker, the Fillmore, July 28, 2009: As you may have guessed, I'm a repeat customer. When I find a band or a musician I really like, I'll come back as often as possible. Jarvis Cocker definitely qualifies for that list, and I intend to attend his concerts--as sporadic as they may be--for some time to come.

Alas, it appears that others may not share this opinion. Whereas his 2007 gig at the same spot quickly sold out, there were still plenty of tickets available for this appearance. The fools!

What they missed was Jarvis in vintage, inimitable form backed by the same band as before, including Steve Mackey and Simon Stafford as previously mentioned in this blog. Granted, his new album doesn't sound a lot like his older stuff, and it rocks a lot more than you'd expect. But the self-aware, slightly camp tone remains intact, as do the herky-jerky dance moves, the rambling monologues, and the adoring followers.



Before the show even began, we overheard a conversation about "Jarvis' throbbing pelvis" and our proximity to it. And by the time the gig drew to an end, we'd witness Jarvis himself engaging genially with the audience: guessing our names (badly), handing out chocolate (to keep our blood sugar up) and wine, accepting a drink, reading a wedding invitation. That last event inspired an impromptu performance of "I Can't Take My Eyes Off You," even as his bandmates gamely vamped at filling out the chords.

In between, of course, was the music, kicking off with "Angela" and making his way through selected tracks from both solo albums; there were no Pulp tracks, however. Jarvis would also ask us to contribute a hum to one track, hold forth on Bach's contributions to modern music, and strike up conversation about the sax. In addition to his singing and frontman duties, Jarvis played guitar, keyboards, cymbals, and a percussive gourd (a guiro, according to Google search results). Don't worry--Jarvis hasn't gone world music, but I'd venture to say his artistic evolution continues.



Some time after the gig, I realized that we were in the presence of a showman, a rarity among the earnest singer/songwriters I favor. He doesn't shy away from the attention, and he doesn't deny his leadership role. I'd probably dismiss those same moves on anyone else, but somehow, Jarvis carries it off--and puts other supposed rock stars to shame.

See also:
» let him read your palm and guess your sign

Obscurity Knocks: Marion, "The Program"

If you're reading this, it probably means I haven't gone to a gig in more than two weeks. Here, then, is the third in the Obscurity Knocks series, featuring my favorite neglected albums.

Marion, The Program
Ahh, the '90s--it may have started with shoegaze, but any Anglophile can tell you that it was louche, loutish Britpop that gave the world notice. (Those same Anglophiles are also likely to inform you that Britpop was only a brief movement in British music and not, in fact, the blanket term that pervades in the United States.) Granted, by the late '90s, it was clear that the Brits had drank too much of their own Kool-Aid or, um, other stuff, but for a sizable block of time, I wanted whatever they were having, though preferably blended and with a cherry--and while you're at it, could you stick an umbrella in there too?

Marion was not at the forefront of Britpop. They didn't date models--or, rather, models didn't date them. They didn't instigate and milk public feuds with other bands. They weren't regulars at the Groucho Club. They didn't save Glastonbury. In short, they were more indicative of the typical band vying for media attention, rather than the handful of tabloid regulars dominating the charts. I remember seeing the odd write-up on the band, but they mostly escaped my notice until Sharon turned me on to them. By then, it was 1999, a full year after The Program was released in the United Kingdom (though it never found an American label), and Marion's best days were behind them--not that we knew it at the time.

The Program would be their second and last album, and for this effort, they could lay claim to a noteworthy hook: fellow Mancunian--and need I mention legendary Smiths guitarist?--Johnny Marr as producer. I suspect his influence tempered the band's more jagged edges, but I'd like to think Marion's natural evolution and developing sophistication as musicians played a part too.

Whatever the case, the histrionics of their earlier releases are mostly absent on this record. Whereas every song on This World and Body, their debut record, started off in a jolt of guitar, the songs on The Program showed greater musical variety and maturity, incorporating layers of acoustic guitar, synthesizers, and harmonies.

Singer Jaime Harding's vocal style was always closer to the arch, patently British readings of Suede's Brett Anderson or Aladdin Sane-era Bowie than Oasis's populist pub rockers, for example, but on this album, he reins it in to the point that he's veritably cooing on "The Powder Room Plan" and the title track. Never fear, however; this isn't a Pat Boone record, and on songs such as "Miyako Hideaway," he shows off a newfound naturalism in his singing, while "All of These Days" retains the band's post-punk energy.

But when you have Johnny Marr at the helm, you know there's going to be some bad-ass guitar on the album. That's apparent from the lead-off track, "The Smile," which creeps in on a cloud of radio static, only to be cleaved apart by a snaking, confident burst of guitar, backed by a slow portent of a rhythm--something wicked this way comes. Guitarists Phil Cunningham and Tony Grantham do themselves proud on this album, supplying simultaneously forceful and melodic riffs, perhaps most effectively in "Miyako Hideaway" and "The Powder Room Plan." Elsewhere on the record, they craft the lovely "Sparkle" and the taut, moody "The Program" around the acoustic guitar--simply gorgeous.

To those who read the inaugural installation of Obscurity Knocks: I wasn't kidding about the Chameleons being one of my greatest musical touchstones. I admit I may hear the Chameleons where others don't, but I can't help it--it's part of my musical DNA at this point.

Anyway, the Marion/Chameleons crossover moment comes about two-thirds of way through the dreamy "What Are You Waiting For?" The instruments drift to the background, and the keyboards sound out the transition. It doesn't even last 10 seconds, but it instantly transports me to the introduction to "In Answer" from the Chameleons' Strange Times. I'm pretty sure that's when I fell in love with The Program. (I was so smitten, in fact, that I pushed it on two other close friends, both of whom embraced it as well.)

I never saw Marion live, but a couple of years following my introduction to the band, Sharon gave me a bootleg of their show at the Troubador in Los Angeles, circa 1998. Watching the video, it's impossible to overlook how exceedingly pale and painfully thin Jaime appeared, even for a British rock star. By the time I saw this tape, the band had already dissolved, and Jaime's drug use was a simple matter of fact, but the show confirmed some of the worst suspicions. To this day, I can't listen to the lyrics of "The Program" ("Ever get the feeling you're losing control?") without wondering about its autobiographical implications.

Apparently, the band has reformed, and they're writing new songs and playing gigs in England, though they've once again faced more obstacles (Jaime had open heart surgery?!). I'm not holding my breath, but I would love to see them for myself one of these days. In the meantime, I'll go back to enjoying all my favorite tracks from The Program.

Listen (right-click and choose Save Link As):
» Marion: "The Program"
» Marion: "The Smile"
» Marion: "What Are We Waiting For?"

See also:
» Obscurity Knocks: Adorable, "Against Perfection"
» Obscurity Knocks: The Chameleons U.K., "Strange Times"
» Marion on MySpace

carry on, inside of your heart

You don't want to know the cross-country maneuvers considered before this date emerged as the last show of British Sea Power's North American tour. Or maybe I don't want to say. But I'm glad I made it. And because I occasionally feel the need to produce noises that might convince other people (read: myself) that I don't have problems, let's get this out of the way: I didn't go to Boston, Buffalo, or Pittsburgh, OK?! (Oh, but how I wish I had.)

British Sea Power, Maxwell's, May 19, 2008: You know that book 1000 Places to See Before You Die? I'd like to write the music world equivalent: say, 100 rock clubs to visit before you become a yuppie and move to the 'burbs (i.e., die). In fact, it'd make a fine companion piece to my proposed coffee-table book on setlists. Anyway, Maxwell's in Hoboken, without a doubt, is on that roster, and it's about time I found out for myself. I'm somewhat surprised that it took a British Sea Power show to get me out here, but better late than never.

I pay plenty of lip service to the Second Night Rule, but a corollary to that is the End of Tour Show--see it if you can! This is a principle I don't get to test out often since (1) that guy in L.A. doesn't tour, and (2) I'm pretty picky about venues, thus precluding many gigs put on by that band out of Chicago. Instead, I usually have to hope a band I like chooses to end its run in San Francisco--not bloody likely, lemme tell you.

But I'm not limited to seeing gigs in my hometown, and that's the whole point of stretching out my "vacation" to take in this show. My already high expectations for this concert were shattered by the time the show ended, in a chaotic mix of roadie standup, nearly 20 minutes and multiple waves of "A-Rock" pandemonium, and more piggyback rides than a four-year-old's birthday party.



First off, I want to say that Maxwell's lives up to its legendary billing. You can have your state-of-the-art, pristine mausoleum of sound--I'll take these dark, tiny caves any day. In fact, British Sea Power's decorative flags looked especially bright against the pitch-black stage. I often wonder how U.K. bands feel about playing such small rooms over here when they could be selling out much larger spaces back home, though I suppose these intimate dates can be a treat--or, at least, an adventure, especially for groups as renowned for their live shows as British Sea Power.

In any case, the band betrayed no trepidation, despite lots of problems with the monitors and mics, kicking out "Atom" as the opener of a fairly run-of-the-mill setlist (on paper anyway). Actually, that's my only and very minor complaint about the show. Sure, we got "Open the Door" again, but they left off the magnificent "True Adventures," especially appropriate for tonight's full moon. And speaking of Open Season, I love that "Oh Larsen B" has found its way back to the nightly rotation. They need to play that one as often as possible.



I've devoted a lot of blog space to "Impossible Germany" and the way it lights up just about every Wilco show I see. "The Great Skua" belongs in that same category. Its beautifully rendered gravitas anchors each gig, a contrast to the tumult to come. If anyone ever doubts the band's musicianship, they need only listen to that song; it's a four-minute miracle.

Don't let this staid account fool you; from the beginning, all signs pointed to an especially loose, goofy show--even by BSP's standards. A notice at the merch booth alerted shoppers to the evening's fire sale, as the band tried to dump as many superfluous items as possible before they flew home. If you weren't aware of this before the show began, Nobby aired a reminder early in the set, when he removed his shoes and offered them for $2 each, with the promise that more items would be available later. (He ended up giving his loafers away gratis.)

Back onstage, the band repeatedly called their tour manager to the mic to tell jokes, and they engaged in tons of banter with the crowd and one another. They granted a request for "Open the Door" to a particularly faithful fan, though at the same time, Yan shot down a bunch of audience-submitted suggestions, claiming his choices would ultimately win out. Yan sort of jinxed himself, though; immediately following this declaration, he stumbled through the first lines of "Canvey Island" as the giggles overtook him. Meanwhile, Nobby acted the diplomat, advising the guy who wanted to hear "The Spirit of St. Louis" to wait about about six more songs.

All this exposition is my way of putting off the hugely daunting task of trying to capture the dangling disarray. We got hints of it during "The Spirit of St. Louis," when the gesticulating kid behind me (who also happened to elbow me in the head--though he apologized for it--in his earlier attempts at "dancing") stepped up to the mic Nobby had set out at the front of the stage and tried to interject some non sequiturs during the quiet part of the song, only to be shushed by Nobby himself. The tune itself was especially awesome, though, as Nobby sidled up to Woody, and the two of them attacked the song's opening thunderclap.

As ever, though, anarchy ascended during "A-Rock." Though "Spirit of St. Louis" got the ball rolling, moving Nobby to scale the speaker and play the guitar on his back before taking down the flags, the deluge hit with "A-Rock." Here, Nobby made several forays into and out of the crowd--sometimes on his own two feet, sometimes not; sometimes alone, sometimes with company.



I wish I had eyes in the back of my head because for the next 20 minutes, every corner of the room saw some action. The remaining band members mostly stayed up front, picking up different instruments than they usually play: Yan on keyboard and cornet, Abi and Phil on guitar. Jeffrey Lewis joined them for a stretch before being carted away by--like you need to ask?--Nobby, who, in turn, dragged an audience member or two back to the stage with him. Their sound guy also broke through the crowd to play guitar while wearing a couple of cardboard boxes (think Flight of the Conchords' "Robots" costume).

Hamilton remained on bass for much of this derangement, but he gave it up at some point and, after a long while perched at the stage's edge, tumbled back into the crowd. We supported him as best as we could, but I'm not sure how he did after the first several layers of people. All I know is that I looked back at some point, and he was on his feet, hopping up and down with a very amused concert-goer.

A little after that, probably while I was watching Nobby engaged in some other drunken caper, I felt a couple of bodies pushing toward the stage--it was Hamilton again, with Abi slung over his shoulder in the classic "me Tarzan, you Jane" arrangement. But that was only the beginning. Once they got to the stage, she urged him to climb on her back, an offer he didn't refuse, and the two of them twirled dizzily in front of us. The ride wasn't over, though; Hamilton soon jumped over to Phil, who had been thrashing away on a guitar. Hammy clung on for a stretch before standing up on Phil's back to touch the low ceiling. I can't recall how events unfolded after this, but there's no way I'll forget Hamilton planting a piece of duct tape on Paul's forehead as he left the stage.

During this episode, a half dozen audience members had rushed the stage, some to play instruments, others to gawk. But with the barrier grandly and irrevocably broken by the band members themselves, it hardly mattered. It was one big party.

Pragmatically, I'd say the Brooklyn show, which mixed an amazing setlist with the band's trademark hijinx, was the best balanced of this run, while the Manhattan gig was their most technically accomplished. Philly, for that matter, was no slouch either. And hey, who can forget those early California dates? But when I think back to this tour, I'll inevitably land on two dates: Visalia and Hoboken. The gigs themselves couldn't have been more different, but in both instances, I saw a band unlike any other on the face of the earth.

Chicken or egg: Does liking certain musicians lead me to see them in concert so often, or does seeing certain musicians so often make them my favorites? It's likely the former, but oddly, the repetition exacerbates those feelings, instead of decreasing them. It helps that those musicians I've latched on to have made live shows an integral part of their schedules, so I don't lack for opportunities to get my gig fix. Unfortunately, I can't claim this privilege with British Sea Power. I'm not about to see them in England (to the best of my knowledge?), and it's hard to say when they'll return to the States. As always, I'm glad I indulged while I could. Come back soon, British Sea Power!

Jeffrey Lewis opened the show tonight, accompanied by a full band. They performed a few songs from the Crass album, as well as Jeffrey's own tunes. As with Abi in Brooklyn, his seemingly simple songs revealed their depths and possibilities when bolstered by other instruments. He sounded great tonight.

Note: The sounds from this night were expertly captured by nyctaper. Download it now!

See also:
» do you like my megalithic rock
» we walked under neon skies
» we're going on a trip out
» your winter overture
» fans of alcohol
» Download the show at nyctaper.com

do you like my megalithic rock

My original enabler and co-conspirator chose to ditch me for Texas barbecue and other heartland delicacies, but I was able to rope in an old friend to help me brave the home of the hipsters for my third British Sea Power show of the trip. Thanks again, Sharon! Sorry I didn't warn you about the short pants beforehand.

British Sea Power, Music Hall of Williamsburg, May 11, 2008: Get off at Grand Central, take the 6 to Union Station, catch the L to Bedford, and walk a few blocks to the Music Hall of Williamsburg. If you have time, browse the racks at Academy Music.



Those were my instructions to get to this show. Besides being right on the money, they're words I don't hear much in California. Heck, even if I wanted to take BART to shows in Oakland or Berkeley, I rarely get the chance, as bands don't usually play more than one gig in the Bay Area on any given trip. Why do you think I went to Visalia?! Stupid manifest destiny!

Here's a blanket statement if ever there was one: I love introspective singer/songwriters and sad music in general, but the stuff that sends me usually combines the extremes--the loud and the soft, the pastoral and the rocking, the effete and the virile, the brash and the considerate, the ridiculous and the sublime. Tonight in Williamsburg, we had it all. And then some.

But let's back up a little. When I see a touring band more than once, I don't expect them to reinvent the wheel every night, though a few favorites did/do so (Pavement never repeated a setlist, and by now, you've heard plenty about that guy in Los Angeles). Prior to this outing, my single recollection of seeing British Sea Power more than once on the same tour led me to believe they didn't change up their set much. Of course, at the time, they had one album to promote, so their choices were limited. Five years and two albums later, they haven't veered too much from that formula, but they sneak in a classic or two every night.

And boy, what classics we got in Brooklyn. The first Yan prefaced by saying it was a song that felt right for a Sunday night, which paved the way for "Childhood Memories," one of the tunes (along with "The Lonely") I've rediscovered in the last couple of months. I always cite Echo and the Bunnymen as the influence I hear most prominently in British Sea Power's music (especially in the ad-lib section of "Oh Larsen B" live), but the Smiths' sway has recently jumped out at me, especially on this song. Sorry, I hate to namecheck, but in this case, it's not a bad thing to be reminded of one of my favorite bands of all time.

The band saved the other chestnut until nearly the end of the night. They hadn't played this one, apparently, in two years, but regardless of the time frame, I was thrilled to hear "Lately," especially now that I can fully enjoy its sprawling, chaotic glory. I mean, I've always loved it, just because it meant that anarchy beckoned, but my appreciation of it as a song has skyrocketed. "Lately," of course, bled into "A-Rock," which--well, at least they weren't bleeding by the end of this one.

It occurs to me that in my blinding fascination with this band that what I see as humor and eccentricity might come across as preciousness to others. Certainly, they've toned down their sartorial choices, and the pastoral touches aren't a part of their show anymore. But their music, especially the first album, has always undercut any suspicions about tweeness, and all other doubts are vanquished as soon as you them. The awkward games of unilateral hopscotch, the unsuspecting arms and shoulders recruited for interactive tomfoolery, and the general clamoring and clawing are not the signs of a fey, retreating band. Rather, they're the calling cards for a band that doesn't think pratfalls have to take away from a performance.



Anyway, that's my long-winded and affected way of saying, HOLY SHIT, THEY TORE THE MOTHERFUCKING ROOF OFF THE PLACE. Excuse the shouting, but I can honestly say that was the best British Sea Power gig I've ever seen. On the musical side, we got Phil adding a playful touch of omnichord to "No Lucifer" and Abi sounding beautiful on "Waving Flags." And there's no disregarding the artful swell and wane of all those favorite tracks.



Topping off the musical goodness, however, was the kind of physical display that makes me swoon and grin at the same time. Look up in the sky--it's Nobby going over your head, perhaps on his own accord, scaling whatever piece of the room that can support him, or with the help of various audience members lifting him through the crowd. On stage, Phil's moved away from his station to thrash and strum, Hamilton's hopping around, and Yan's digging in. Nobby's returned to share a microphone -- and maybe some saliva? -- with Hamilton, but once he moved off, Abi joined in instead (for the singing, that is).



Finally at the end of the night, when the devastation had been wrought and Yan tripped over a fallen mic stand to land directly in Hamilton's lap, Nobby twisted it all into a big ol' bow. No, he didn't help his friends up; rather, he grabbed their limbs and attempted to swing them from side to side -- as one does. You couldn't have wished for another outcome.

Both Jeffrey Lewis and the Rosebuds opened for British Sea Power once again, and they were especially awesome tonight. Jeffrey was accompanied by Abi on several songs, and her playing added a wonderfully soulful touch to his simple compositions. He also showed a "documentary" about the history of Rough Trade Records, which struck a sweet chord, especially since I first saw him open up for another labelmate.

The Rosebuds played to an appreciative audience peopled by many fans who came expressly to see them. I've liked the band since I first saw them open for Teenage Fanclub, and I was glad that they joined the bill for this tour. I'm looking forward to their new album, due this summer.

See also:
» fans of alcohol
» we're going on a trip out
» we walked under neon skies

we walked under neon skies

Before Chicago and Los Angeles dominated my travels, New York City reigned as my go-to rock tourism stop, thanks to the generosity and understanding of friends who live in the area. Lately, though, the visits have been fleeting, so it felt great to settle in for several days and for the second British Sea Power show on my schedule.

British Sea Power, Bowery Ballroom, May 10, 2008: There's a considerable flip side to seeing shows in New York, however. Firstly, when you're used to intimate spaces, the clubs here tend to dwarf comparable venues in other cities, then you have the preponderance of lame scenesters or jaded industry folks. Thankfully, the latter concern has been less prominent these days, probably because I don't see many buzz bands anymore (did I ever?).



Bowery Ballroom, however, remains the hallowed hall where I lived out several memorable moments, including a cameo appearance in the pages of the late Melody Maker, as well as an impromptu guest slot on the sleigh bells. Sigh. Even without those recollections, I fell in love with the room all over again as soon as we hiked up the stairs from the bar.

If last night's look tipped its hat ever so slightly to early 20th-century Russia (barely--I'm stretching here), tonight's wardrobe choices were directly influenced by the world of sport, Yan professed early on. Both Yan and Hamilton wore headbands, though more in the early-'90s Hillary Clinton vein than, say, Bjorn Borg. Meanwhile, Yan and Phil had kitted up in soccer jerseys (I think?), and the back of Nobby's shirt was marked with a large piece of tape bearing another player's name. Yan actually furnished further details on who was who, but they flew right over my head. Sorry!



Tonight's setlist change-ups included the return of "Remember Me" (like I'm ever going to complain about that one) and "Leaving Home," the first time I've heard it in my handful of shows on this tour. The latter provided a nice reminder of how Hamilton's songwriting has progressed from mellower numbers to the rockers and anthems on the new album. Then again, I love it all.

When I saw British Sea Power earlier in this tour, we got a couple of relatively well-behaved shows, which proved to me they can still make my head swim with reverb and melody sans the hijinks. The last two months of incessant playbacks on the iPod further drives home that point.

But after the follies in Philly, I have to admit that, though I remained floating, I hovered a little closer to the ground following the Bowery show. As Paul pointed out, they were technically better tonight in New York City--the aforementioned "Remember Me" was blistering, "The Great Skua" held us rapt, and I know I heard voices singing along to "Carrion." But I have to admit that I missed the raw mischief, though I have absolutely no complaints about the rest of the show. It's not often that you get to see a band who can soar both musically and physically. Can you blame me for wanting to get my fix?

Note: You can download an excellent recording of the show from nyctaper.

See also:
» we're going on a trip out
» your winter overture
» fans of alcohol
» Download the show from nyctaper.com

we're going on a trip out

When British Sea Power announced the dates for their massive three-month U.S. tour, I joked with some friends that it was a good thing they were starting on the West Coast, as that would give me ample time to cobble together a rock tourism jag, should I be so enraptured after their California gigs. If you were any of these friends, however, you knew that I wasn't kidding. At all.

British Sea Power, Johnny Brenda's, May 9, 2008: In the two months since British Sea Power's San Francisco date, a lot has happened. In March, I crossed the legally contestable line between pleasantly charmed to thoroughly besotted, with all the baggage that entails (scouring the Internet, mapping itineraries, learning bird calls). April and May, however, brought a number of major shows that, in addition to reminding me why I do stupid things for music, helped bring me back to earth. Or some semblance thereof. The two-month interim has also helped cool my jets and will hopefully prevent me from typing anything mortifying. Bwahahahahahahaha.

But to prove that some shred of sanity remains, I'm happy to report that I won't be submitting my application to the Third Battalion any time soon, as I highly doubt I'd survive training camp. For one thing, I can't hold my liquor. For another, the sports references would be lost on me. But dammit, I'd love to see some of the band's weirder shows in England! Clearly, British Sea Power is in on the secret of tertiary markets--a subject near and dear to my heart. (Hello, Marfa! And, if all goes according to plan, Alaska this summer.)



So anyway: Philly! When my best friend went to grad school here, I occasionally flew in to visit and to drag her to shows in and around the tri-state area. I always liked that Philly hosted a lot of the same names as New York City, but in much smaller clubs and with a lot less hype. Johnny Brenda's fit this pattern to a T. The tiny stage, the saloon-like feel, the relaxed air--no wonder I didn't break a sweat while my flight was delayed for three hours in Chicago. (It's also a good thing I hadn't planned on attending the World Cafe show.)

Though the logistics didn't worry me much, I gotta admit I nursed a different set of apprehensions going into this show, as I often do prior to any trip, regardless of who's playing. Had I overcommitted? Was I being greedy? Can't I be happy seeing shows back home like everyone else does? Long story short: No, a probable yes, and no.

All doubts dissipated even before the opening notes of "Lights Out for Darker Skies," when Noble, Yan, and Hamilton, guitars donned raffishly, convened for an impromptu lineup, flashing wan but warm smiles at each other before shuffling off to their respective quarters. Then again, maybe the stage was so small that they had nowhere else to go. In fact, early on, Nobby remarked that he'd like to see the members of the Polyphonic Spree on that sliver of stage (my tip: pyramid formations). But when those familiar power chords followed, I got a ringing reminder of why Do You Like Rock Music is, by far, my favorite album of the year.

The band offered a couple of variations in their shows since I saw them in California. For one, they played the effortlessly charming "Open the Door," a song that a mere two months ago Paul was swearing he would never hear live. Lucky bastard!



The other variance was the band's rediscovery of its wild side, not that I ever doubted its absence. I'll chalk up the relatively proper San Francisco and Visalia shows to jet lag instead. I've been following their U.S. exploits, so I know they've been indulging their impishness across the land, but it was a wonderful thing to see again. So despite Noble's claims of sleep deprivation, he worked up enough energy to scale the heights, play from the balcony, tote a sizable amp, and sweep Yan up in his arms. Yan returned the favor by hoisting Nobby over his shoulders in a classic wrestling maneuver.

There was actually quite a bit of audience participation tonight, most notably when Nobby decided it was time to crowd-surf. We (the royal "we"--I never got a hand on him) punters obliged, supporting him across the floor and boosting him back up to the second-floor railing; he managed to take over from there and plant himself on the balcony. Before this happened, though, Nobby (with a knowing nod) presented his guitar to Paul for safekeeping, and somewhere in the craziness of "A-Rock," I picked up Phil's signal to hand him his cornet.

Oh man, it felt good to be back, and even better: Tonight was only the beginning.

See also:
» your winter overture
» fans of alcohol

throw those curtains wide

If forced to name an early signal of my decline as a concert-goer (aside from shows by that one band or that one guy), I'd single out Elbow's tour of the United States a couple of years ago, when I failed to get tickets before the gig sold out. Oh how I rued that day. Fortunately, the band has returned with a new album and with plenty of tickets to go around.

Elbow, Bimbo's 365 Club, May 8, 2008: I first saw Elbow opening for Doves, and their bond was easily evident, notably in their penchant for crafting sweeping, atmospheric songs with a strong rhythm-based foundation (for British bands, anyway). Elbow, however, could lay claim to one other asset: Guy Garvey, for his lyricism, his vocals, and his outright charm.

I mean, I love Doves, and they remain high on my list of favorite bands (which is saying a lot when I haven't seen them play in three years), but I'm not blind to their weaker points. That is, you get the distinct impression that they're more at home in the studio than playing in front of people. What they may lack in onstage charisma, however, they compensate for in terms of pure musical power.



I'm not averse to that arrangement, but a little bit of personality has its rewards. Guy Garvey has more than a hint of this allure. Hailing from Manchester -- a city not known for its charm -- he possesses an understated, natural magnetism that never feels forced and that appeals to both men and women. More than one declaration of love this evening came from a dude. Also, Guy's lyrics are often breathtaking in their detail and pathos.

However, Elbow hasn't sustained my interest as well as Doves, and it's not just the lack of tour time either. For whatever reason, the songs haven't hit me in quite the same manner as the earlier albums. Then again, a band's recorded output is only one factor of its appeal, and it may have nothing to do with whether I care to see them live.

In that regard, Elbow still makes for a compelling live band. Tonight, they started off with a trumpet flare, as each of the five band members lifted a cornet to the roof and blew a note to kick off the proceedings with "Starlings," the lead-off track from The Seldom Seen Kid. From there, the set highlighted tracks from the latest album, with a few older tunes, including "Mexican Standoff," "Leaders of the Free World," and "Newborn."

The most beseeching audience requests were for "Powder Blue," coming from at least one person on my side of the room, as well as someone from the opposite half. There were probably more, but their voices were the loudest and the most persistent. To the dude on the other side of the stage, Guy shared his reason for turning down the offer; I'm going to mangle his hilarious retort, so I'll only mention it involved testicles.



At the very end, Guy urged us to give into cheesiness (note: I love cheese) and sing along to "One Day Like This" from the new album. At least from where I stood, the crowd didn't hesitate to follow his instructions. In fact, the outpouring of voices, requests, and general affection from the audience put me to shame, but it also made me glad to know that they're still winning over American audiences. With any luck, I'll once more buy tickets in time when they next return.

See also:
» here comes the action

a new decade

Not that you would know it from the '90s love that persists in this blog. Some day, I'll embrace the fact that I'm clearly susceptible to reunion shows, no matter how much I doth protest. Then again, there was no back talk when the reformed Verve announced its return to San Francisco for a warm-up show, about 10 years since the band's last appearance in the city.

The Verve, the Warfield, April 23, 2008: Every spring, San Francisco hosts an unofficial music festival: Coachella North. Your mileage will vary from year to year, but with a little effort, it's possible to cherry-pick among the bands booked by the big festival down south and who happen to schedule local dates as well. For us delicate flowers who can't be exposed to real climates, this is a major boon. Coincidentally (or not), it's also the time of the year when my thinly concealed Anglophilia pipes back up.

I'm not actually the biggest Verve fan among my friends. That title goes to my dearest Mori, who considers them one of her two all-time favorites; she even saw their legendary show at Slim's back in 1993 or thereabouts. I took a little while longer to come around, but A Northern Soul is one of my treasured discs. I didn't even mind Urban Hymns and all its ensuing hype; as many times as I heard "Bittersweet Symphony" on the radio or saw the video on MTV, I didn't get sick of it, and I was happy for the guys, though I probably also liked to remind the newbies that the band had done superior work (yawn).



This Northern Soul/Urban Hymns balance dominated the first half of the show, as the band alternated between titles from the two albums. Sadly, there was no material from the early records, but that, too, was expected. Rounding out the set, we got two new songs, one of which didn't yet have a title (I think), while the other bore the Verve trademarks.

The Northern Soul material sent me ape-shit every time, especially when they opened with the propulsive and entirely appropriate "A New Decade." When the next song from that album turned out to be the resounding "This Is Music," I made a silly phangirl prayer that we'd heard them do the album in its entirety. That didn't happen, but we got a pretty great selection nonetheless, including my absolute favorite "On Your Own" and "Life's an Ocean," in its undulating, hypnotic glory.



Urban Hymns got quite the workout, and they came close to hitting every song on the record. To my surprise, I barely remembered that album, even the supposed hits. I mean, I like to pooh-pooh it, but I listened to it a lot back then, and I love certain tracks, such as "Weeping Willow" and "Space and Time." Where we were situated, at the front of the room, just about every tune got the sing-along treatment, but "The Drugs Don't Work" brought out a full chorus of voices, including that of a very drunk girl who tried to rush the stage. Fortunately, she was shooed away before butchering the song too much for the fans in our area.

One of the major draws of this reunion is seeing Nick McCabe playing with the band again. Obviously, his musical contributions helped define the band's identity, and his swirling, psychedelic guitar work, paired with Richard's distinctive lyrics and vocal delivery, as well as the driving rhythm section set the band apart from the other groups coming out of England, both in their early incarnations and later when the commercial acclaim followed. First too swaggering for the shoegaze era, then overly metaphysical for the Lad Rock years, they were always a genre unto themselves. It was an uneasy balance, but it worked for a little while.



And it worked again tonight, as Richard showered Nick with admiration and respect, calling him "the best guitarist in the world." When Nick's string of technical difficulties followed, Richard soothed the audience (not that we were anything less than adoring) by reminding us that it took this long for the band to get back together, we can wait a little while longer to make sure everything is perfect. Overall, they were in great spirits, conferring with each other between songs and hugging one another at the end of the set.



There are two main reasons to go to a reunion show: You saw the band the first time around and want to relive the memories, or you never saw the band and want to find out why they matter at all. I've gone to shows under both circumstances, though in the glut of reunions these days, I tend to favor the former situation when it comes to forking over the cash for tickets. I can't tell you how many times I read the music news and wonder why a band I never cared for in the first place is getting so much attention for coming back together (Stone Temple Pilots?!?).

I'd totally understand if the same complaint were lodged against the Verve. After all, they're essentially a one-hit wonder in the States, and some (of the less enlightened) would say they rode in on Oasis's coattails in the '90s. I beg to differ, of course, and would likely launch into an extended lecture about the mutual admiration that has long flowed between the two bands, but that's neither here nor there. But even if I didn't have that pedantic streak, I'd go to this show just because I was so blown away by their '97 gig at the same venue.

Oddly, though, almost as soon as the show started, I realized how little I recall of that concert or of the couple of other gigs I've seen of the band, as well as Richard solo, as impressive as they were. Maybe it had something to do with being on the rail tonight; maybe I just missed the band. Whatever the explanation, it felt as if I was seeing the band -- especially Richard -- in a new light. The force of the music felt familiar, but for the first time ever, Richard's charisma hit me hard.



I apologize for fixating on the frontman, but it was impossible not to do so tonight, even when I knew that Nick McCabe was coaxing out such gorgeous riffs to my left. Though I have who knows how many magazines adorned with Richard Ashcroft's face and read countless stories trying to capture his presence, they did him no justice. His facial features -- those insanely high cheekbones, the strikingly prominent nose, and the distractingly full lips -- taken apart might sound like a caricature, especially when set on his stick-thin figure. However, they worked entirely in his favor as he commanded the attention of 2,000-plus fans. I couldn't stop watching him, especially when he went into that faraway zone and stepped through his dance (?) moves. And for extended spells, I couldn't think of him as anything other than his nicknames: Captain Rock, as Noel Gallagher called him, or Mad Richard, as he was known in the U.K. music press.



I don't put a whole lot of faith in reunions; I'm of the school that's convinced a band will fall apart under the same tensions that came between them the first time around. Regardless, I wish them the best of luck, and I know I'll be back for more, should they return.

See also:
» let him read your palm and guess your sign
» give in, into that good feeling

fans of alcohol

In my years as an Anglophile, rock tourism felt almost like a race against the clock, as I tried to milk as many gigs out of bands who came to the United States, at best, every three to four years, if they returned at all. Not that I maintained anywhere as aggressive a schedule as I do now, but I definitely clocked some miles tracking the Brits (and Scots). Given that track record, it seemed almost effortless to hop in a car, cruise down the Central Valley, and catch British Sea Power in as random a locale as I can remember.

British Sea Power, The Cellar Door, February 29, 2008: If Paul hadn't agreed to come with me, I would've likely hit British Sea Power's three gigs on the Los Angeles-San Diego circuit. But that would've been easy and far more predictable than a $5 show in California's farm country.

At first, that unpredictability looked pretty promising, as we spied the setup: a 200-capacity bar with a raised middle dance floor. The stage comprised a foot-high section that hosted the drummer, the multi-instrumentalist, and lots of amps, while the singers, the lead guitarist, and the violinist would occupy the main floor--exactly where the audience would stand as well. In fact, the line of demarcation between the band and the audience appeared to be a flimsy monitor cord. You can't get much closer than that. The perimeter of the room, meanwhile, was peopled by patrons sipping at their wine, drinking their beers, and watching the big-screen TVs. Odds are they were not here for the show.

And as the hours unfolded and the supposed set time passed by, we started to worry. By 10:30, a full hour after the printed start time, they were still soundchecking and adjusting the monitors, and I mentally made plans to find a hotel/motel somewhere along CA-99, as I was sure we'd never get out in time to make the drive back to San Francisco in a coherent state. My prayers were answered, however, by one of the promoters, who thanked us for our patience and announced that British Sea Power would go on first.



So it was around 11:15 that the band took the stage. I've purposely kept myself out of the loop about British Sea Power's current touring setup, so I'm not sure how anarchic their live show remains, but I was struck by how mannered they appeared: no shrubbery, no taxidermy, not even those adorable cricket uniforms they used to wear, though I suspect it had to do with the not-quite-rock-club setting.

But whatever misgivings I had about the room mostly vanished as soon as the music started (following an 11th-hour mix-up when it appeared Yan's mic wasn't working) and they tore into a mix of tracks from the new album, Do You Like Rock Music?, and the first release, The Decline of British Sea Power. Oddly, Open Season merited only one track, despite an audience member's request for "Oh Larsen B" (one of my favorites as well). The new songs sounded great, the band poured their energy into the show, and the crowd ate it up.



Let me make this clear: I love British Sea Power. Very few bands, especially ones that I haven't seen for three years, incite the same mania in me. Ask me about their live shows, and you can expect to hear my voice go up a couple of octaves and my speech to speed up, as well as see my eyes take on that glazed, out-of-body expression usually associated with cultists. It would be an understatement to say that I keenly anticipated this show, odd room or no.



But as you might expect in room not entirely suited to live rock performances, the sound was not great. British Sea Power isn't exactly known for its subtleties live, but we lost a lot of details in the songs, such as the soaring harmonies of the choruses, not to mention major contributions by the viola. As we were standing at stage right, we could hear the trumpet nicely, but I don't know if it was as prominent in other parts of the room. On the other hand, the band's trademark piercing guitar chords cut through the din with typical laser-like precision, thus reminding us of what they do best. The band handled both the frenetic rockers and the atmospheric epics with ease, though I favored the barn burners in this case.

I suspect the room's layout also prevented the band members from engaging in some of their usual shenanigans, though Noble, not to be discouraged, managed to climb up on the stage's back wall and play a whole song from that position.

The audience, it must be said, deserves a ton of credit for its enthusiasm. Even the promoters threw themselves into the show, rocking out from the first row. A peek around the main floor revealed hearty sing-alongs, fists raised aloft, and awkwardly convulsive dancing. It was great to see!

The band wrapped up around 12:30, which was fine by us, as we had quite a few miles to cover to get back to San Francisco. But with such a fun show under my belt, the drive turned out to be no problem at all, especially with the band's entire catalog on shuffle. Thank you, Visalia and British Sea Power, for the delightful excursion!

See also:
» from the books you don't read anyway
» your winter overture

Obscurity Knocks: Adorable, "Against Perfection"

In my most dedicated years as an Anglophile, I remained untouched by many of the biggest U.S. musical trends. Were you listening to hair metal in the late '80s? I was stuck on Madchester's comings and goings. Grunge? It was all about shoegaze to me. Nu metal? Those were the golden years of Britpop, baby! Not that the stuff I listened to was necessarily better--for Pete's sake, I knew the words to songs by Ned's Atomic Dustbin! And I missed out on a lot of great hip-hop. Regardless, for this installment of Obscurity Knocks, I'm turning back the clock to 1993 to reminisce on Adorable, hailing from Coventry, England.

Adorable, Against Perfection
There's a reason I kicked off this series with the Chameleons: Their signature guitar sound would become the musical trope that I subconsciously followed for many years--until I finally made the connection and consciously sought out bands reminiscent of their sound. Adorable, for me, were one of the first bands to emerge after the Chameleons who exhibited this crucial feature, which is why they're the second band in this series.

Before the spread of the Internet and file sharing, I bought nearly every used copy of Against Perfection I came across--not because it was a collector's item or valuable by any monetary measures. Rather, I truly believed that I would be able to find it a good home, if not alongside multiple copies of the exact same CD on my own shelves, then with someone who would fall under its spell as soon as they heard the wonderful riffs on the record. Fortunately, I didn't stumble upon the disc that often because I could never really convince anyone to give this CD much of a listen.

Adorable came up during the shoegaze era, not quite 10 years after the Chameleons, during which the phrase "sonic cathedral" (or, if you prefer, "cathedral of sound") was popularized and, eventually, lapsed into cliche. Guitars were prominent--or, at least, more notable since the vocals were buried so deep--during this movement, and Adorable wasn't alone with a sound that could be traced back, in part, to the Chameleons and their contemporaries. In Adorable's case, that inspiration came from Echo and the Bunnymen.

I was a fan of many bands housed under this umbrella, but Adorable was the only group to incite such a Pavlovian response in me. Simply, they were one of the only ones who came close to anything approaching pop music. (Catherine Wheel is one of the others, but their preening performance in concert turned me off.) Sure, the others turned up their effects pedals and erected a wall of sound in which you could lose yourself, but Adorable had honest-to-god choruses and hooks to complement those massive musical constructs.

For better or worse, the vocals can make or break a band for me, and Piotr Fijalkowski's voice reeled me in. At times, he sounded steely and accusatory ("Favourite Fallen Idol"), other times melancholic and resigned ("Still Life"--and by the way, the guitar on that song has to be an ode to the Smiths' "Back to the Old House"), and on my favorite tunes, unabashedly exuberant ("Sunshine Smile" and "Glorious").

Singling out guitars and vocals has to be the music blogger's equivalent of shooting fish in a barrel, so I'll add that the bass lines (supplied by Piotr's brother Wil) may be the most underrated aspect of Against Perfection. In fact, I'm pretty sure those rubbery notes initially caught my ear when I heard Adorable's semi-hit "Homeboy" on American radio. The bass makes an impact on the mellower songs too, such as the aptly titled "Glorious."

I don't recall being particularly struck by the lyrics, but I know that a friend recently got married, and Adorable's "Breathless" figured in the ceremony. Also, I never got to see Adorable live, though I remembered they played my hometown of San Jose, Calif., in some free radio event--too bad I had moved away for college by then.

I didn't know much about the band when they were together, and it was long after they broke up that I found some interviews and learned that they were somewhat reviled among the U.K. music press for, ironically, their cockiness. This blackballing probably didn't help their case, but regardless, they lasted for only one more album, Fake. Piotr and Wil formed another band called Polak, in reference to their heritage; last I heard, Piotr had his own bookstore in Coventry. Update: A quick Google search says a solo career may be in the offing.

Apparently, we may soon see a shoegaze revival. My Bloody Valentine has reformed and is playing dates across the United Kingdom, though the usual suspects in the U.K. music press continue to bitch and moan about it. And if you've been in the clubs, you may have heard the sound echoed by newer bands. Wherever this resurgence may lead, I'm pretty sure Adorable won't be one of the groups caught in the upswing, but I strongly suspect I'll continue to listen to them for many more years to come.

Listen:
» Adorable: "Glorious"
» Adorable: "Homeboy"
» Adorable: "Sunshine Smile"

See also:
» Obscurity Knocks: The Chameleons U.K., "Strange Times"

where voices fill the air

For those playing along at home, I've reached the halfway point for gigs this month--only five more to go before the end of the year!

Richard Hawley, Cafe du Nord, December 12, 2007: Let's get the Boorish Pedant portion of this blog post out of the way first. I've witnessed Richard Hawley in two other incarnations: as guitarist of Pulp at the Finsbury Park show in 1999 and, less famously, with the Longpigs, who ruled my musical world circa 1996 to 1997. With Pulp, Richard seemed to be biding his time with old friends, but I got the impression that the role was a good fit at the time--especially on the heels of his tenure with the Longpigs.

I loved the Longpigs, but if you're looking for earlier indications of Richard's troubador leanings, you'll have a tough time finding it in the group's jagged guitars and highfalutin wordplay. In the four-piece band, Richard was easily the most skilled and experienced musician on the roster, but the lead singer (and main songwriter) dominated the shows and the recordings.

The Longpigs weren't unknown in the States, clocking several tours, charting with a modern rock hit single "On and On," and making their way into an Ellen von Unwerth-snapped layout in Vogue alongside supermodel Stella Tennant (pictured here), though their names are unlikely to register with all but the most dedicated Anglophiles these days. Add to that their supposedly unabashed pursuit of the rock star lifestyle, and you can understand why Richard has somewhat disavowed those years now that he's savoring his hard-earned solo acclaim. In fact, though he mentioned during the show that it's been about 12 years since he's played San Francisco [actually, it's been almost 10 years exactly since the Longpigs' last tour here--Britpop Ed.], he didn't at any point refer to either his former bands by name.

Just to be clear, I checked all expectations at the door and knew not to anticipate a return to the mid-'90s. Besides, I've heard Richard's solo work, so I had an idea of what was in store. But just in case I or any other ex-Britpoppers in attendance still clung to decade-old ideals, Richard quickly dispersed them when he and his band took the stage, each age-appropriate member dressed in proper jackets or, in a couple of cases, suits. Of the lot, Richard, decked out in impeccable sharkskin and sporting a slick quiff, cut the most polished profile.



The '50s fixation ran a lot deeper and touched nearly every song in the band's set, from the atmospheric ballads to the rockabilly stomps. Richard's musical influences have been cited in just about every review and interview I've read, so I won't bother to rehash them here. The bottom line is that Richard and his band brought the songs to vivid life with gorgeous, eloquent notes and Richard's rich, evocative voice. And between songs, Richard engaged the audience with his patently Northern sense of humor, simultaneously caustic and affectionate.

Not to linger on the '90s too much, but I couldn't help but think back to Richard's work with the Longpigs. If I recall correctly, Richard contributed a couple of b-sides to the Longpigs' recorded output, which I now realize is a right shame. The other major realization was how much of his own muse Richard must have had to suppress in his time with the band and how much of a reward it must be for him to finally make the music he loves, complete with stand-up bass, lap steel, and even his own array of hollow-body guitars--instruments not commonly handled by British bands around the fin de siecle.



The band truly brought it home, appropriately, on the closing number, "The Ocean." Where they had beautifully serenaded us for the preceding hour, "The Ocean" placed them squarely in the here and now. The sprawling epic delivered what you hope for from every closing number: It was so enveloping and satisfying that you had to admit there was no way to follow it up.

Ferraby Lionheart opened the show, and for this, the second time I've seen him, he brought three other players to fill out his sound. Though we didn't get a Madonna cover for this outing, the warmth in his voice and compositions remained readily apparent.

what's a wonderwall anyway

There are certain shows, I realize, I've imbued with much more significance than nearly anyone else would deem reasonable, and one such gig is the Ben Folds Five/Travis double bill back in 1997, which I happened to catch at the Fillmore almost exactly 10 years ago (give or take a week). OK, there are likely numerous Ben Folds fans who consider the band a major stepping stone in that particular singer/songwriter's development. But Travis? Weren't they just Oasis wannabes or, just as bad, forerunners to Coldplay? Didn't they, like, cover Britney Spears once? Has the NME ever considered them cool? And which one is Travis? Regardless, I stand by my proclamations.

Travis, The Fillmore, November 20, 2007: This show had originally been slated for the Warfield, which surprised me on two levels: That the promoters would schedule a Travis show at a venue of that size when the band hadn't exactly rescaled the heights of popularity they enjoyed back in 2001, which remains the only time they've played the room; and that Travis was coming back to San Francisco at all! When they were last here in May, they didn't sell out the Fillmore, despite the buzz around their long-awaited (by some) return.



As a fan, it didn't bother me one bit, and by all appearances, it didn't affect the band either. Their enormous lighting scheme was clearly meant for a larger room, but that may have been the only vestige of greater expectations. In fact, the band proceeded with what I gather to be their original plans for a grand opening: They dimmed all lights in the room, save for the massive spotlights onstage; cranked up the intro music (the 20th Century Fox theme, followed by the Rocky anthem); traveled the perimeter of the dance floor; and emerged at the opposite end of the stage in bright boxing robes. They had no plans to back down.



From there, they launched into a similar set to the one they did last May, though with maybe a slight emphasis on material from The Boy With No Name. I can't recall the exact differences, though I remember being struck by the inclusion of two tracks from the often overlooked 12 Memories ("Re-Offender" and "Beautiful Occupation"), and Fran said they were trying out "3 Times and You Lose" for only the second time or so that night. He did, in fact, mess up one line, but he took it with a self-effacing grin. We managed to get in a hearty singalong to "My Eyes," but apparently, the old favorite "Why Does It Always Rain on Me" was less familiar to the audience, which probably says something about Travis's changing fan base.

Another welcome title revisited was "20" unplugged, but the audience had an odd reception to it tonight. In May, we listened raptly to pick up Fran's every word and note, but this evening, a few voices in the audience were less willing to go along with the premise, loudly (and drunkenly) posting their protests. Fran took it in stride, though, and simply sang. In the process, he attained the desired effect: the room's full attention.

Early in the show, when it looked like not too many surprises were in store for the night, I thought to myself that I don't mind not traveling to see them anymore. Then they had to work their magic and pull out a few asides that gave me some pangs and made me sort of want to hit the road again.

Top of that list would have to be the busker-style "Flowers in the Window." After "20," the other band members rejoined Fran onstage and gathered around a single mic. While Neil kept time on the tambourine, Fran sang the verses, and Dougie, Andy, and Klaus (the keyboardist) joined in on the chorus; of course, we in the audience helped out when we could. This unvarnished performance not only revealed the song's melodic lilt, but also highlighted the chemistry and--I'm gonna say it--love among the band members. Hands down, it was my favorite part of the show.



The other element, which permeates every second of nearly every Travis show I've seen, is the band's exuberance. Actually, it goes beyond exuberance; it's their bonhomie, as well as the evidence of their ties to each other, and in my experience, no other band comes close to matching their levels of joy and delight in simply sharing the stage with one another.



I suppose you could make an argument about, say, musicianship trumping these warm 'n' fuzzies, and I'd understand where you're coming from. But at this point in my concert-going life, I know that what moves me to catch repeat performances from specific artists is the spirit they bring to the stage. When it comes together, it's as real as any instrument the band is playing or any note they might hit.

OK, enough of my sputtering and back to the music. I would've loved to hear "Battleships" again, and I missed "Happy" too--not so much for the song itself, but for the Mexican jumping bean impersonations it brings out in Fran, Andy, and Dougie. Alas, there was no "U16 Girls" tonight, but they wisely kept "Good Feeling," complete with mid-song spotlight on Klaus. Of course, "All I Want to Do Is Rock" made the list as well, but I don't think they'll ever stop doing that one--nor would I want them to.

Before, during, and after the show, we heard lots of people talking about how many times they've seen Travis and how far they've traveled to make the gigs. We allowed each other snarky asides, but I hardly blame those fans, and this is a band I can't feel jaded about. I'm unlikely to join these fans in their long-distance endeavors, but I'll certainly be back to see the band again.



Maximo Park opened the show, and though I wanted to like them, they did little for me. I couldn't even remember their one song that caught my attention a couple of summers ago, though I think it might have been the penultimate song on their setlist. To their credit, though, they grew on me as their show proceeded. What I originally interpreted to be preening and grandstanding on the singer's part came across as less of an ego exercise and more of an attempt to bring the audience into the show by the end of their performance. Mainly, though, their show drove home the point that an entire generation of British music has pretty much passed me by--and I don't regret it one bit.

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» give in, into that good feeling