pretty please with sugar on top

Two Gillian Welch/Dave Rawlings appearances in one month? What am I -- 12 and at my boyfriend's frat party? What is this -- 2008 to 2009, when I hit Largo on a monthly basis? Nope, not even close, but I'll take it for a Dave Rawlings Machine show at the Warfield.

Dave Rawlings Machine, the Warfield, Oct. 19, 2015: According to my records, I last saw the Dave Rawlings Machine (not to be confused with Gillian Welch) in 2010. I think the band came through San Francisco during the interim, but I must've been out of town, because there's no way in hell I'd miss them otherwise. Oh wait, DRM played Hardly Strictly last year, but I was camped out at a different stage for Mavis Staples. It happens! Moral of the story: It's been way too long.



During this interim, the band has transformed. Whereas the first record felt like a charming, casual collection of tunes, the new record sounds more deliberate, more somber, and more complicated, and perhaps it's more of a statement of DRM's evolving musical direction. It's impossible to overlook the Neil Young influence, but better-informed minds can cite better candidates than I can. (Keep in mind that my idea of roots music is the first two Roxy Music albums.) Also, though DRM has always been a collaborative affair, this tour seem to cement the group-oriented feel, with dedicated extra band members Willie Watson, Paul Kowert, and Brittany Haas.

I feel like this record's biggest statement is its growing contrast with the Gillian Welch albums. Yes, they write the songs together and work collaboratively every step of the way, but good luck finding strings or piano on a Gillian record. Early on, when DRM was kind of an occasional treat and side project, their differences were harder to pinpoint, but I can hear it more clearly now (and not only in the voices).

However, the format of their show endures with a sparse setup (now doubled to two tables) and no amps to speak of. Instead, they made do with several microphones, a couple of banjos, a few guitars, a stand-up bass, two fiddles/violins, and probably more harmonicas than we could see.

Dave and Gill often like to facetiously comment on their professionalism, and you'll never mistake their show for a Vegas production -- but that's not why you see Dave and Gill. At times, they have starts and stops and pauses, but overall, it's always a warm, laid-back affair. Dave was clearly the driver, but they shared the spotlight at times. Of course, some dude yelled for "Miss Ohio" early on, but that didn't happen. Instead, Gill's solo song was "Wayside/Back in Time," which is kind of a no-brainer in San Francisco. Also in a nod to San Francisco (probably), they did a Grateful Dead cover of "Candyman," appended to Dylan's "Dear Landlord." Of course, though I can't possibly describe what he does, remember that Dave has a way of working beautiful, unexpected guitar riffs into every song to leave you wondering how he can carry it off.



Willie Watson got a couple of numbers, and Paul Kowert stepped out as the bass voice on "Fields of Fire" and "The Weight." I have to admit that Willie is not my cup of tea, though I know he and Old Crow Medicine Show have a strong following. Paul Kowert, however, was great, and I wish we could hear more of him with both DRM and Punch Brothers. Brittany didn't sing, but she took a couple of highlight turns, such as on "Method Acting/Cortez the Killer."

Among the new songs, "Pilgrim" was my favorite, with the long outro and mingled voices, and both "The Trip" and "The Weekend" are worth your patience as the songs unfold. After the show, I couldn't stop thinking about the trio of songs as a chronicle of road life or maybe an existential journey. Short of sitting down with the lyrics in front of me, I have nothing else to add to the thought bubble, but I'd love to hear any comments on the topic.

Obviously, Dave and Gill are not a pop act, and they don't rely on hits ("Miss Ohio" aside) to attract their audience. Nonetheless, we fans come to the show for certain gems -- often the traditional tunes we never would've heard otherwise. Though a little twang goes a long way for my tastes, I love Dave and Gill doing "He Will Set Your Fields on Fire." I chalk it up the sublime combination of voices and impeccable timing, and it puts a huge smile on my face.

Dave and Gill have amassed such a deep catalog that they're bound to miss a song you were dying to hear, but hopefully, they'll include one you haven't heard in a while, if at all. I gotta admit I've been craving a rendition of "Queen Jane Approximately," but alas, not tonight.* Instead, we got "The Weight," followed by "Go to Sleep You Little Baby," both of which make a ton of sense when you have all those singers onstage.

I can name on one hand all the bands/performers I'd drop everything to see. Make no mistake: Dave and Gill are in that group. Whatever name they take, I'll be there for their next date.

* During Robyn Hitchcock's set at this year's Hardly Strictly, it occurred to me that Gillian, Dave, and Robyn all do songs about queens and Elvis. Wouldn't it be great to hear them mashup their tunes? Come on, the world needs "Queen Elvis Approximately" and "Queen Elvis Presley Blues"! I know they can do it -- let's make it happen.

See also:
» this old rain's just about soaked through
» summer noon
» that's the way the cornbread crumbles
» oh me oh my oh

there is light but there's a tunnel to crawl through

This concert report was supposed to have been accompanied by a write-up of Frightened Rabbit's gig in Sacramento. Alas, that didn't work out, and my quest to see this hard-working and well-traveled band in a tertiary market has been foiled again. Lucky for me they're drawn back to San Francisco time and time again, on this occasion landing at the Warfield.

Frightened Rabbit, the Warfield, September 30, 2013: I was a borderline basket case after Frightened Rabbit's last show in town. I didn't want to hear a note from any other band, I was YouTubing their performances like a maniac, and the search for live material took up a significant segment of my day. I may have also attempted (oh god) to mimic their accents when singing certain songs. I was, in essence, my 12-year-old self, if the same technology had been available when I was growing up.



My ardor cooled slightly in the intervening six months, probably for the better; those levels aren't sustainable. In addition, it was an emotional weekend, with the end of the Giants' baseball season and of Breaking Bad descending on the same day. As a matter of fact, I almost forgot my ticket at home on the morning of the gig, which goes to show you where my mind had wandered. The awesome thing about music, though, is that it takes a mere riff to snap your thoughts back in place, and a few days on from the concert, I've returned to that semi-weepy state at the sweep of "Good Arms vs. Bad Arms" or "Swim Until You Can't See Land" -- neither of which were even played at the show.

The band opened with "Holy," as they did back in March, but in the bigger venue, the effect wasn't quite as foreboding, as the smoke and fog dissipated into the high ceilings. One song in, and Scott was already talking to us about his pre-show nap and its accompanying effect, comparing himself to a newborn baby pulled out of the darkness and emerging as the center of attention. Er, look for a track titled "Siesta Rebirth" on the next Frightened Rabbit album?



In fact, Scott was in a talkative mood tonight. Also early in the show, he shared a story about some assholes in Calgary who requested "The Twist" all night because the song was playing when they crashed their boat. I'll give you a second to suppress the wave of nausea surely washing over you right now.

Later, he professed his love for Game of Thrones, but anyone who follows Frightened Rabbit's Twitter feed already knows of that obsession. He also promised to play a lot of songs, as this would be their last tour for a little while, which is always bittersweet news when you're smitten with a band. Logically, you know it's good and necessary, especially if you want to hear new music from the group, but selfishly, you want them to play your town, say, once a quarter (trying not to be selfish here).

Overall, the band stuck with the core setlist that's characterized most of the last year of shows, highlighting tracks from Pedestrian Verse but with a number of unexpected additions. One of those surprises came early, as they rolled out "Music Now" from Sing the Greys, though Scott couldn't count himself among the fans of that record. The band did it anyway, a relatively simple and straightforward track compared to the emotional epics they're better known for these days.



A few songs later, Scott, Grant, and Gordon gathered onstage for a new song, the aforementioned Game of Thrones-inspired track. Scott offered another glimpse into his thought processes as he explained how the machinations depicted on the show could be inspirational, moving you to go for what you want -- minus the violence (and dragons?), of course. I'm not sure how the lovely acoustic "Candlelit" would go over in Westeros, but at the Warfield, it was a haunting showcase of their harmonies and songwriting. (Note: I've never watched Game of Thrones.)

Scott was left on his own for his acoustic segment, this time comprising three whole songs instead of the single track we heard at the Fillmore. Scott asked for requests to kick off, but as expected, the actual song titles were buried in a barrage of voices. A new friend managed to get in "Poke" at exactly the right moment. Scott heard it and jumped in, but there was no way he wasn't going to do that song, for good reason. It's an all-time classic track with great bones: a deceptively simple melody, pinpoint lyrics, and candid delivery. As long as people have their hearts broken, "Poke" will enjoy its spot on playlists the world over. Afterward, Scott remarked it may have been his favorite performance of the song yet. Perhaps he says that in a lot of towns, but as with most of Frightened Rabbit's music, I'm willing to accept the sincerity.

The second song was all Scott, as he chose "Scottish Winds," giving away the band's homesickness. The acoustic set concluded with "Late March, Death March," a much more spontaneous selection and a performance that convinced me to revisit the tune.



I'm loathe to dictate a band's setlist (a la the assholes in Calgary), but by the same token, I really want to hear certain songs. With Frightened Rabbit, "Fast Blood" is one of them, and I was elated by its return to the setlist, orgasmic entendres and all. In fact, those older songs continue to mesmerize: "The Modern Leper," "My Backwards Walk," "Old Old Fashioned," to name a few. Now I can add "State Hospital" and "Oil Slick" among others to that list. "Oil Slick" in particular has snuck up on me; with its slinky guitar and rising coda, it'd be a huge pop hit in my alternate universe.

The band closed with the trifecta of "The Woodpile," "Keep Yourself Warm," and "The Loneliness and the Scream." With "Keep Yourself Warm," Scott explained how they were trying not to play it for a year, but eventually gave in -- a smart move. It's a favorite for a reason, not least because of the blunt sexual imagery and searing, highly repeatable lines ("You won't find love in a hole" and "It takes more than fucking someone/to keep yourself warm"), and it never fails to inspire a visceral response in the audience. There's an amazing video on YouTube of the crowd doing all the work for Scott in an intimate hometown show; I don't think we get anywhere near the Scottish fans' connection, but every time I've seen the band, we make a decent effort.



I kind of want to go into an extended treatise on the song's shift from a hymn to a highland wail to an anthem to a disco track (a similarly dancey beat takes over in the last third of "The Twist," by the way), only to double back on itself, but I'm not qualified to do so. I also want to remark that the brothers' bond might be one of the reasons the drums and percussion more prominently anchor the band's songs as opposed to other acoustic/songwriter-based setups, but that too is beyond my abilities. However, I will note that tonight in the instrumental apex of the song, Scott quoted from the song itself and not another artist's work, unlike at previous shows.

Speaking of visceral tracks, "The Loneliness and the Scream" was the closer I wanted to hear, mostly for the screaming part. That song is pure release, whether you're tuned into the driving rhythm or the echoing calls. The opening band the Augustines returned to the stage to shout and drum and hug and jump and drink -- all completely valid reactions to this powerhouse.



Before I finish up, I need to note a few more aspects to this show. The Warfield was perhaps half full for this show; the floor was brimming with fans, but not uncomfortably so, while the balcony was at a fraction of capacity. You can point to several reasons why: This was the band's third visit (by my count) to San Francisco in less than 12 months, there was no real new material to promote, it was a Monday night, and this is a heavy concert season. The turnout didn't seem to faze the band, but it did make me wonder where the new fans will come from next.

For instance, Frightened Rabbit just toured with the National, but I've heard barely a peep about the reaction to the openers. Heck, I'm guilty of the same (I don't really have time to write about the Augustines, except to say that I've never seen anyone so happy to play the Warfield as the lead singer, who grew up in the area), but a part of me was hoping they'd get a little more recognition for all their time on the road. With a solid fan base, a new record, and (one hopes) growing exposure, Frightened Rabbit will surely fill up the Warfield -- or better yet, do two shows at the Fillmore -- eventually, but tonight's gig served as a reminder to keep expectations intact. I've seen enough U.K. bands unable to gain a foothold in the United States that the sight of a underpopulated hall gives me pause.



Finally, I managed to be one of the 20 fans who ordered tickets fast enough to get into the meet and greet before the show. We ended up watching about 40 minutes of the soundcheck, which was simultaneously cool and banal, as is the case with most soundchecks. The actual meeting and greeting followed, and I can't stress enough how lovely they were to everyone. I realize it's not the most natural environment, but the band was nothing short of humble and gracious. I actually left while most of the fans were still there, and I have no idea how much longer they stayed. My earlier question about where the fans will come from? This wasn't a bad way to sew up the faithful.

To the Scots: Please come back soon, as often as you'd like. For anyone else who might be reading: This is a band to treasure.

Thanks to the contributors at setlist.fm for their work on the setlist for the Warfield show.

See also:
» lots to do with magnets and the pull of the moon
» we adopt a brand-new language
» let's get old fashioned
» before i change my mind

one sunday morning

Now we're talking -- this is a place I know well, where I've fostered lots of great memories, and am bracingly familiar with all the rules about lining up and getting in. If you don't mind the (euphemism alert!) colorful foot traffic around 6th and Market, the Warfield is a prime spot to catch a show, and it's about time Wilco played once more within San Francisco city limits.

Wilco, the Warfield, January 29, 2012: How has it been 10 years since Wilco last played the Warfield?! A lot has changed since then -- er, in the world at large, I suppose, but you don't come here for socio-political analysis, so let's bring it back to a narrower focus. Not only has the band undergone well-documented shifts among its personnel in that time, but I've experienced something similar in my own insignificant way. Where I once had to drag kind, generous, well-intentioned but ultimately indifferent friends to the shows, I can now look forward to joining a roster of self-selecting nutjobs braced for this choice slab of Mid-Market. The dream is real!



Then again, maybe the differences aren't so dramatic. For one thing, the fully functioning smoke machines brought me right back to the hazy photos I took with my film camera back in 2002; it's probably a good thing the band now enforces a no-camera policy. Also, I thought the "Sunken Treasure" opener sounded familiar. I brushed it off as a blurred memory from more recent gigs at the Greek Theatre, but the Internet has confirmed my suspicions -- according to Wilcobase, the band had kicked off with the same title back in 2002.

After the lively show in San Jose, I was surprised by Wilco's moodier presentation for San Francisco. We were remarking on it among ourselves when Jeff spoke up and admitted to a "morbid" set. Not that he disavowed it, nor did we expect the band to suddenly turn into a pop machine -- they wouldn't be Wilco and we wouldn't be fans if it was all sunshine and light. Still, it wasn't what I expected of the group's return to one of its most faithful and long-standing fan bases outside of Chicago.

Despite this slightly downtrodden setlist, the band managed to pull out a bunch of tunes I wanted to hear, including "Either Way," which is one of my favorite titles from the current lineup. Once more, the audience chimed in beautifully; trust me, when you live in San Francisco, it's not unusual to tell yourself maybe the sun will shine today and the clouds will roll away. I always hope "Either Way" will enjoy a more regular spot in the rotation and not become a forgotten track -- I'll take this as a good sign.

From a purely selfish standpoint, "Misunderstood" came a day late, but I liked that they threw in a couple of A.M. tracks for the longtime fans surely among the throngs. Additionally, the "Laminated Cat"/"Impossible Germany" combo could be a masterclass in fantastic guitar licks.

The rocking tracks came out later in the show, but once again, "The Lonely 1" iced the evening. It was a lovely touch at the Palladium, but it better matched the mood of this often gray and foggy town.

See also:
» my mother's sister's husband's brother
» so flattered by fate

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

from the past a rumor comes

I've cooled on reunion tours in the last few years, but I reserve the right to change my mind, especially when it comes to a band whose music I've loved for more than two decades. That band is Crowded House, and after missing their last two tours of the United States, I mended the errors of my ways by hitting their gig at the Warfield.

Crowded House, the Warfield, August 23, 2010: Regular readers of this blog may or may not recall the days of when MTV played actual music videos, but the legends are true: There was such a time! As a burgeoning music nerd, I crammed in as many hours in front of the TV set as I could, though that might not be saying much since my family didn't have cable. Trust me--I watched plenty of videos. Funny thing, though, I don't care for many of those bands anymore, but I'm still very fond of Crowded House.

You have to take the following paragraph with a huge grain of salt because I don't trust my memory on this front. As I recall, however, when Crowded House finally broke through in the United States circa 1986-1987, their earnest, unpretentious sound signified a huge departure from many of the groups I usually liked at the time. Of course there were predecessors in the jangly, folksy vein, but none of them hit heavy rotation on MTV, which made all the difference in the world. I was hooked, and the fascination has carried through for, well, decades.

Clearly, this history is not mine alone; take a look around a typical Crowded House show, and you'll likely see a majority of faces of a certain age, myself included. Listen in, though, and you may decide this is no mere nostalgia tour. For a band with only two official hits in the United States, Crowded House can sure get a lot of people singing along to their songs, even their deep album cuts.

You sort of expect it with the likes of "Fall at Your Feet" or "Four Seasons in One Day," both of which Neil intentionally handed over to the audience. However, I heard plenty of voices around me for the moodier and less obvious numbers such as "Nails in Your Feet" and "Kare Kare." Personally, I was happy to hear so many songs from Together Alone, which occupies a special place in my memories; the band's looser musical direction on that disc doesn't hurt either.

I have to give my friend a lot of credit for making this show such a memorable one. Crowded House has long encouraged audience requests, and they took up the challenge early on in the gig with an attempt at Marvin Gaye's "Sexual Healing." My friend was much more proactive with her request, providing a sizable scroll of paper with the lyrics to "Tombstone" written out in large, legible letters. Neil couldn't refuse, and the crowd got to hear a true rare gem.

I can't resist the urge to connect the dots between my most adored performers, and I'm pretty sure those years of listening to Crowded House paved, in part, the path to the musicians I love so much these days. In fact, it's not just conjecture; Neil Finn has collaborated with my two favorite artists, and I've been able to witness at least one of those partnerships on several occasions. Heck, we even sort of forced a crossover moment with the other songwriter in question last year. I may or may not be back for another Crowded House tour, but it's no exaggeration to say that they've been a part of my musical DNA for a long time now and to come.

See also:
» i've got it bad
» that year

who led you to this hiding place

A mere 48 hours before Neko Case's show at the Warfield--er, I was waiting for a delayed connection in Salt Lake City. But a bit of change before that, I was about as far away from June gloom as you can imagine. One of the better substitutions for those sunny skies and warm rays? Neko Case's amazing pipes, of course.

Neko Case, the Warfield, June 10, 2009: Officially, it's been three long years since Neko's last solo appearance in San Francisco, but the truth is the Bay Area has been luckier than most regions, as she's clocked shows here at the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival and with the New Pornographers. Still, it would be ridiculous to suggest that any of these are equal to seeing Neko in the spotlight.



That absence, though, has clearly proved fruitful. Few of the fans I know could've predicted Neko would be selling out theaters on this go-round, but these larger stages were hardly going to waste. Occupying a healthy chunk of real estate, in addition to the numerous guitars and instruments required by her band, was a video screen seemingly built in a forest, flanked on each side by painted trees and on top by a cordial crowned owl. Each song got its own gorgeous video treatment that was a surprise even to the musicians. (This is usually where I'd post a picture, but photography was forbidden.)

Neko brought back the old touring crew, including Jon Rauhouse and Kelly Hogan, along with one new face: Nora O'Connor, also from Chicago. Nora moved in and out for certain songs, but Kelly's role was much more pronounced, joking and quipping. Singing too--such glorious singing.

You'll never hear me complaining that I liked an artist when they specialized in a certain sound (i.e., before they sucked), and I'm not going to start now--but I have preferences. Thus, the selections from Blacklisted sent me swooning, even if Neko uncharacteristically forgot the words to "Deep Red Bells" and messed up the intro to "Lady Pilot."

Neko's newer songs, though, certainly showcase her skills as a songwriter in a way that her earlier performances had not. It was easy to assume she was just a voice--albeit an amazing one--so it's pretty sweet to see her picking up a guitar and leading the band. I don't suppose we'll see her kicking out the drums again, but I guess that was another life.

But the bottom line is that we came to hear Neko belt it out, and we weren't disappointed in that regard. The best musical moments of the night were probably any instance of Neko, Kelly, and Nora locked in three-part harmony, such as on "People Got a Lot of Nerve" or "That Teenage Feeling." But that list of highlights would also have to include the silly asides shared between Neko and Kelly, whether about cougars, drummers, or songs written about Kelly's dog. I wouldn't mind dropping in on their coffee klatch.

The opener was Imaad Wasif, previously seen in Folk Implosion and Alaska. Tonight, his band comprised two other people, one of whom I recognized: good old Bobb Bruno on bass. I didn't catch the drummer's name, but I can say that this band, Two Part Beast, rocked the fuck out. I'm not sure how their sound went over with the rest of the audience, but their jolt of a set was a great start for the evening.

See also:
» my own blood is much too dangerous
» feels lucky to have you here
» use it tonight

among all the urchins and old Chinese merchants

I hope everyone had a great Thanksgiving. I'm thankful to be all caught up on my blog again. And remember: There are only 30 more concert days in the year!

The Decemberists, the Warfield, November 25, 2008: About a year ago, the Decemberists were set to tour the country with their Long and Short of It tour: two nights each in a selection of cities, the respective evenings devoted to songs of specific lengths. Sadly, they had to call the whole thing off early on, reportedly due to an illness in the band. It's hard to be bitter about such a turn of events, especially since it seems like the band inevitably returns to the Bay Area in one form or another before long. This past spring, Colin Meloy visited and played some lovely shows, but it was great to see the rest of the gang join him for this round.



On the whole, this outing shared some characteristics with the band's last swing through San Francisco. For example, Colin ventured into the crowd, we were commanded to wiggle our fingers during "The Perfect Crime" (I readily complied this time, wary of being reprimanded again), and "The Mariner's Revenge" got the full treatment, including Chris Funk's whale impersonation, the crowd's screams, and Colin, John, and Nate's fancy footwork. And taking a cue from his solo tour earlier this year, Colin dropped a touch of the Smiths in between songs, this time quoting from "Meat Is Murder." Once more, I ate it up.



But the differences weren't too shabby. For one thing, I loved the setlist, which encompassed sing-along after sing-along from all the albums. The longtime favorites ("July, July"), actual singles ("Billy Liar," "16 Military Wives," "Valencia"), and geographically appropriate picks ("California One/Youth and Beauty Brigade") were no surprise, but I definitely didn't expect to hear, for example, "On the Bus Mall," which I've always loved. They even aired "Dracula's Daughter," which had been granted with some coyness back in the spring. Colin asked us to lift our voices for several songs, and I detected no signs of stage fright in our section of the room. Also, I'm not sure what inspired the nod to Fleetwood Mac (one of my recent obsessions) and "Dreams," but as I too have learned, one can't live on '80s references alone.

Speaking of participation, Colin more than once requested that we put our arms around the person besides us. He's demonstrated time after time that he can command a room filled with adoring fans, but even he was surprised by the rate at which we pounced on one another. Make of that what you will. Fortunately, I was flanked by two cousins (mine and the McCormicks', respectively), so I proceeded without hesitation.



Every show I've seen in the past month has referenced the recent election, and this gig was no different. In one of the more partisan displays I've been a part of, Colin led us in a round of call-and-response. Following his declaration of "Yes we can," we answered, "Yes we did"—and it still felt wonderful.

I often hear people complaining about bands touring behind oldish albums. I have no problem with this premise; in fact, when it comes to my preferred acts, I kinda love it. Ultimately, it's your decision; you don't have to go to the show if new material is a requirement. The Decemberists ostensibly had some new songs to try out as part of their singles series, which kicked off with "Valerie Plame." Thus, they debuted some tracks, and Colin informed us that more would be coming in the spring with the release of their next album. From what I could tell, the newbies were fun and jaunty, especially in comparison to the prog leanings on the last album. However, I offer my usual caveat on unreleased tracks: Don't mind me. Besides, we'll get to hear them for ourselves in the next few months anyway.



Loch Lomond opened the show, as well as a debate on how to pronounce their name. At their best, the group's combined harmonies were magnificent, worthy of a prodigious choir and not the eight people comprising the band. At their worst, they make Belle and Sebastian sound like Scandinavian death metal in comparison. Their violinist joined the Decemberists for one song, and the rest of the group returned to the stage to contribute their divine tones to "Sons and Daughters."

See also:
» i've written pages upon pages
» hear all the bombs, they fade away

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

use it tonight

Surely, this sighting deserves at least a mention in the annals of the continued mainstreaming of "indie" rock: Next door to the Warfield, where the New Pornographers played an enthusiastically attended show tonight, the Crazy Horse Gentleman's Club advertised a girl-girl pair named "Sara" and "Teagan." Coincidence? Their salute to Canadian indie rockers? Just plain good marketing? You decide.

New Pornographers, the Warfield, September 17, 2007: Let me state the obvious: Indie music and commercial success are uncomfortable bedfellows. I know that I couch my wavering ardor for bands in terms of venue snobbery, but let's be honest--I often have problems sharing "my" bands with a growing fanbase. With the New Pornographers, however, that's the last thought that comes to mind; their sustained ascendancy, along with Carl Newman's emergence as a top-notch songwriter, is one of my favorite feel-good stories of recent times, and I loved seeing the Warfield fill up with their wide range of fans.



Not that it was always this way. During the show, Carl referred to an earlier gig, and I recalled the same date when Julie first picked up tix for us to this outing. Back in 2002, the New Pornographers, along with My Morning Jacket, filled out an incredible triple bill with Guided by Voices at the Warfield. The show was a little sad because the place wasn't even half full, even by the time Guided by Voices hit the stage; I vividly recall sitting up in the balcony with, at most, a dozen other people and looking down upon the sparsely populated main floor. Even worse, the New Pornographers' sound fell flat in the cavernous room. It's also the show where I had to leave around 12:30 or so because I was so exhausted, though GBV were still slogging on at that point. Sometimes you just have to call it a night.

No such endurance test this time out, however. Even after two openers, the crowd bopped along boisterously to the New Pornographers' mix of peppy, catchy, and at times anthemic songs from the band's three albums. The new one, Challengers, is a hair mellower than their earlier works, and the band jokingly acknowledged it at one point when they tried to prep us for the self-proclaimed power ballad. Ever tongue in cheek, though, their warning quickly degenerated into a semi-paean to--could there any other Bay Area icon?--Journey. I seem to recall the New Pornographers have gone down this road before, but Carl cut them off this time. Still, extra points go to Neko for referencing the Journey scarab and Dr. Pepper lipgloss during this interlude.



My favorite songs on Challenger have surprisingly turned out to be Dan Bejar's tunes, so it was great to see him intermittently drop in to perform his tracks. He was nowhere as drunk as he was at the Bimbo's shows, but it didn't take long for the beer bottles to accompany him to the stage. In other lineup news, it looks like Kathryn Calder is now a permanent addition, but I had no idea that Jon Wurster was occupying the drummer's seat.



If I have any complaint about the show is that the New Pornographers' sound tends to favor treble, so some of the vocals fell on the shrill side at the Warfield. It was especially noticeable whenever Neko took the lead, as her warm, rich tones contrasted sharply with the angular assault on other songs. I wonder if, say, the Fillmore would've treated them better in this regard.

Overall, though, it was great to see San Francisco lap up this great show and to receive some love from the musicians themselves, who acknowledged that we were some of their earliest supporters, especially compared to "bullshit cities" such as Louisville and Cleveland (Carl's characterizations, not mine). If I ruled the world, the New Pornographers would be the No. 1 pop band in the land, but since I don't, it's not bad knowing that they command at least a small fiefdom out here.



Fancey, fronted by the New Pornographers' own Todd Fancey, was the first opener. He took lead vocals and guitars, while three other people (two girls and guy) rounded out the group. They bear all the signs you'd expect from a New Pornographers-affiliated band (pop hooks, harmonies), but I can't say they were particularly memorable.

The second opener was Lavender Diamond from Los Angeles. If you go by appearances, they're one of the more incongruous mix of individuals you might expect (the indie rocker, the older guy, the hippie, the one from the drum circle), but somehow, their sound worked--for the most part. It probably helped that the singer's voice was so pretty. The lyrics are not groundbreaking, and they lost me at times with their talk of sunny days and flowers, but by the end, I was squarely on their side.



Oh, and to conclude this report, I need to mention that we saw Jim Eno of Spoon watching from the side of the stage; I think he even brought out some beers to the group toward the end of the show. And before the gig, we spotted in the crowd Carl Newman with his new bride taking in Fancey's set.

See also:
» listening for too long to one song
» salvation holdout central

hear all the bombs, they fade away

In general, San Francisco is a good town to catch national and international touring bands, but if you're planning a visit and want to guarantee the maximum number of concerts possible, you should avail yourself of two prime windows of opportunity: Noise Pop and the weeks buttressing either side of the Coachella Festival. First up: the Decemberists.

The Decemberists, the Warfield, April 26, 2007: Before I become an avid concertgoer (i.e., got a car and made it my mission to stalk see lots of bands), any group that I caught on more than four occasions had to be one of my absolute, tip-top favorites. Oh, how times have changed. Still, every now and then, it surprises me when I crunch the numbers and realize that I'm pushing the double digits for appearances with certain musicians. Case in point: the Decemberists.



Certainly, I like the Decemberists, especially their shows. Unless you're a cold-hearted curmudgeon, it's hard to resist their affability and rapport with the audience. The thing is, I'm nowhere as big a fan as the numbers would suggest, and I feel like a fraud next to the truly devoted souls, especially the ones mouthing along to every lyric. I know, I know--what a non-issue! But when you're used to being the dorky fangirl who wants to hear obscure covers and b-sides, it's a weird position to be in.

Apparently, this was not reason enough to keep me away, though in a departure from usual practices, I opted to attend only one of the Decemberists' two shows in town (the second night, naturally). In return, I was rewarded with yet another fun, engaging gig by a band who clearly knows how to treat their audience.

In the surprise department, I'd have to nominate "The Island," which I don't particularly like on the album. Live, though, the song's ambitious arc worked better, starting out somewhere in the territory of "Come Together," then veering toward a grand organ solo that brought to mind "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida," before the band regrouped to take the form of a chamber quartet backing Colin. I had been dismissive of "The Perfect Crime No. 2" as well, but in person, I read it as an homage to the Talking Heads, and they carried it off a lot more convincingly than on the record.

Oh yeah, another surprise: Colin calling me out for refusing to play along with his instructions for a specific hand movement (pictured left). He was so engaged with the fans upfront that I assumed he wasn't paying attention to us in the next tier. Wrong! Of course, I had to give in under his watchful eye and direct admonishment. Fortunately, he also noticed when I joined the chorus for the final refrain of "Sons and Daughters," so the transgression may have been forgiven. (He doesn't need to know I'm a sucker for a singalong.)

I expected more of an emphasis on The Crane Wife, but overall, we got a decent sampling, including a duet with Shara Worden from My Brightest Diamond on "Yankee Bayonet" (which Trish was surprised to learn was about a dead soldier). The upshot: The rest of the setlist comprised old favorites, such as "The Bachelor and the Bride," "July, July," and "Shiny." Denise informed us that other classics, such as "Grace Cathedral Hill" and "The Chimbley Sweep," showed up the first night.

The band deserves some credit in at least one other category. Many groups, as they gain fans and play bigger venues, end up relying on a script and churning out a generic show. Not so here, at least from what I could tell.

Colin has definitely grown into his role as frontman (stalking the rim of the stage, offering his guitar to the front row, taking pictures of the band with a fan's cell phone, responding to audience banter, and perching at the edge of the stage), while the entire band has retained its looseness and sense of humor. Nate Query turned in 10 push-ups, John Moen (my favorite!) almost got a cover of Lionel Richie's "All Night Long" started, Jenny Conlee fell for the well-worn concert trick of returning from the encore first while the rest of the band waited backstage and let her squirm in front of the expectant audience, and Chris Funk donned an ill-fitting and not at all convincing tarp to play the role of the whale for "The Mariner's Revenge Song."

I have to admit I was prepared to pan this show before I even got there, but I can not tell a lie: It was a blast. Even the age factor didn't make a dent, as a lot of older fans (not just parents) came out for the gig. My venue snobbery may prevent me from seeing the Decemberists ever again, but tonight, they were just the ticket.

An odd event happened before the show tonight: A Town Car pulled up in front of the Warfield, the driver exchanged some words with the Warfield staff, and from the car emerged John Lithgow for a few moments. They got back in the car, and we assumed that they had the wrong address. After I told Maudie the story, she suggested that maybe they meant to take in the production of Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf instead. Sure, why not, right?

But shortly into the opening set by My Brightest Diamond, we noticed Mr. Lithgow on the main floor. As it happened, his son was the bass player in the band, and he was there as a proud father, snapping pictures. As for My Brightest Diamond, they seemed an odd match for the Decemberists. They showed no signs of the folksy songcraft the Decemberists are known for; in fact, they were balls-out rocking and rather abrasive. The singer's voice reminded me of Nina Hagen's, though their Nina Simone cover came off nicely.

See also:
» a writer, a writer of fictions
» down the hyde street pier
» have you tasted the finest of trout

i hear you sing a golden hymn

Banyan, 12 Galaxies, September 17, 2005: I went into this with no idea what to expect. Sure, it's a supergroup, and they had played the Monterey Jazz Fest the night before, but c'mon, I wanted to check out Nels Cline. Man, is he one hard-working fellow. Even without the Wilcos, I think he's been through the Bay Area at least three other times this year. To think how often he'd be here if it weren't for those commitments!

Banyan comprises the drummer from Jane's Addiction (Stephen Perkins), Mike Watt, Nels, three horn players whose names I don't recall, and at 12 Galaxies, another guitarist. Stephen Perkins is very much the linchpin. His drum set was front and center, and he was flanked on his right by the horn section. Standing behind them (and hidden from my view for much of the show) was Mike Watt on bass. On Perkins's left were Nels and the other guitarist. The horns were very prominent, but more germane to my interests, Nels was definitely a background player. I barely heard him at all for the first song, and he often deferred to the other older gentleman guitarist for various passages. But he put in his trademark frenzied guitar attacks on a few songs, as well as the more melodic stuff.

I know very little about jazz, so my opinion on the music should be taken with a truckful of Morton's, but from what I could tell, a lot of the songs sounded much more aggressive and rock-based than what I associate with the jazz genre. They covered a range of styles, from mellow, swaying grooves to aggro tunes that made you want to bounce up and down. It was kinda cool, but I have to admit it's not my style at all. The band played a second set, but I didn't stick around for it. If you dig Nels, it's always worth it to get a glimpse into his varied interests, but at the same time, it wasn't a hugely illuminating idea of what turns him on (musically), considering how small a role he seemed to have with the group.

Side note: The crowd watching was hilarious. First of all, there was the most conspicuous taper EVER next to me, who held up a big backpack in the direction of the stage for a good 20 minutes. Then there were many, many people who looked like, as far as they were concerned, they considered every day to be Burning Man. And then you had the chronically unfunky. Ahhh, but who am I to judge?? Heh.

Arcade Fire, the Warfield, September 18, 2005: Continuing their trail of world domination, the Arcade Fire sold out the 2,000-seat-plus Warfield in no time flat. I was at the Fillmore an hour before the box office opened, and I was still the 12th person in line, so by the time I got up to the window, all I could secure were seats smack dab in the middle of the balcony. They weren't bad, but it's been a long time since I've been up so high at the Warfield, and it's certainly a far cry from the stage's edge at the Great American Music Hall.

The Bell Orchestre opened, and I have to say that I found them very boring. I'm not a huge fan of instrumental music, but I've loved Sigur Ros, Mogwai, and Godspeed You Black Emperor (among others) in the past. Bell Orchestre had none of that tension. Though pretty in parts, their tunes did nothing for me, and I fantasized about playing Tetris on my cell phone.

Next up was Wolf Parade. I like their CD, but it was only after seeing them live that I realized they have two lead singers. The Modest Mouse influence was very prominent on a couple of songs. Even from the seats up high, their passion and energy were evident, and I bet seeing them at a club would be a lot of fun.

Finally, the Arcade Fire! I guess there are two big questions. First, can they pull off on a bigger stage what was so readily apparent in a more intimate setting? The answer is yes--their music is meant to soar to the rafters, and even the onstage antics kept us interested. Will and Richard were still at each other, and Regine even took the drums for two songs. And even from way over yonder, the sight of 7 people lined up at the front of the stage singing and playing in unison put a huge smile on my face (I'm such a sucker for that!). Just as amazing, the people around me loved it. Say what you will about bigger shows, but at their best, that feeling of community is palpable. It's hard to argue with thousands of people singing along at the top of their lungs to so-called album tracks.

The other question: So what's next? It was hard to tell. They did no new songs, though they cycled in a few "golden oldies," as Win put it. I think people are dying to see if they can keep up the momentum and are more than ready to pounce with accusations of second-album syndrome, whenever that drops, as it were. But I could care less. If their next album turns out to be just as good, congrats to them. And if it sucks, well, that's too bad. More importantly to me at least, they've been the soundtrack for a small epoch, which is more than most of us can say.

I should note that Win seemed rather punchy this time out. He was semi-apologetic for parts of the night, calling the band "whores" for playing some KROQ thing, and he alluded to the grueling schedule of life on the road as well as the unappreciative audiences in many parts of the world. They also had some technical problems, which drew a small tantrum from him, followed by a "fuck all, y'all, we're gonna play anyway." He jumped into the audience a few times, and at the very end, we couldn't tell if he had made it to safe harbor. Still, they seemed far from rock star moves and, rather, heartfelt but clumsy expressions of frustration mixed with general silliness.

They're back in the Bay Area for the Download Festival next month, but there's no way in hell I'm going to that one, though my beloved Doves and British Sea Power are on the bill. Perhaps this will be my last Arcade Fire show, but that's not to say I've closed the book on this one.

See also:
» it's been a while
» i like jon brion. a lot. (part 1)

i know she's here in California

It's 6 p.m., and I don't have a ton of work on my desk, so I figured I can sneak in a personal report. Here goes!

Glen Hansard, Swedish American Hall, May 25, 2005: Back in 2000 or so, I went to see the Waxwings opening for a band at Bottom of the Hill. The headliner was the Frames, and I have to admit that I didn't stay for the entire show, as I noticed some white guy from the Frames wearing dreadlocks wandering around the crowd. Yeah, I'm shallow, but I just wasn't in the mood for it that night. However, Maudie invited me to this solo acoustic show by the main songwriter in the band, and I couldn't say no. Oh, I should clarify that I think he's the main songwriter. I don't really know anything about the band, so I can't say.

The Heavenly States opened, also treating us to an unplugged-type performance. In contrast to the opening set they played at the British Sea Power show, there were only three people onstage: the singer, the violinist, and a keyboardist. I wasn't thrilled by their BSP set, but I was very pleasantly surprised by their performance this time. Granted, I'm a huge sucker for acoustic shows, but they were nowhere as snarky as they seemed previously. It turns out that they played a bunch of songs from their to-be-released album, so maybe it was the material. Regardless, they did a great job.

Glen took to the tiny Swedish American Hall stage with a very sparse setup. I think he had two guitars, and the hall's piano sat at the side. He was sort of what you'd expect from an Irish singer/songwriter: heartfelt songs, passionate vocals, charming stories, a self-deferential manner. For about half the songs, he was accompanied by a woman on the piano and backing vocals. He initially introduced her as Bunny Lebowski, though he referred to her by her real name later; unfortunately, I can't remember it right now. I was confused because I thought she was some local friend who happened to be available that night, but her knowledge of the songs quickly disabused me of that notion.

I didn't go because Maudie quoted some source that said he was Ireland's version of Jeff Tweedy. A friend's recommendation and the acoustic setup was enough for me. He was quite good, and I enjoyed myself, but in the end, I wasn't terribly moved. On a number of songs, he sang in that overwrought way that some singer/songwriters do (including people I really dig), though the majority of the tunes were very lovely. Who knows why we like what we like? The list of good points is quite long, but I just couldn't get into him.

Pixies, the Warfield, May 30, 2005 (late show): Like the Glen Hansard show, this gig coincided with the band's appearance over the Memorial Day weekend at the Sasquatch music festival in Washington state. I skipped the Pixies at the Greek Theater last year because I'm a venue snob, but I couldn't say no to a show at the Warfield. Unfortunately, I adhered to my "last concert" rule and bought tix to the late show, which wasn't scheduled to start until 11:30. Fortunately, I got decent seats, so there was no threat of falling asleep on my feet.

The opener was the Bell-Rays, advertised as "soul-garage." The singer had a hell of a voice, but I'm a big wimp and have never liked that kind of sound. Well, they had a few melodic songs, but the others just sounded fast and loud to me--not that there's anything wrong with that. They were off by midnight.

The Pixies' setup was grouped at the front of the stage, with a huge expanse at the back housing big lighting rigs. It was hard to tell what they were. From the balcony, they looked kinda like metallic sunflowers. Even now I'm not sure what was their purpose on the stage. In other towns, the Pixies have been doing "hits" sets and b-sides sets, and the rumor was that the late show was the hits set. I don't know if this was ever confirmed, but it was fairly hit-heavy, with "Velouria," "Monkey Gone to Heaven," "Head On," and others. The only hit they didn't do was "Here Comes Your Man"--ahhhh, their indie cred has been saved!

I was expecting to feel insanely tired, but my spirits perked up as soon as the music started, and the band sounded great. I'm still surprised by how much I enjoyed the show. And contrary to earlier reports, the band seemed to be in good spirits, actually interacting with each other and acknowledging the crowd. I'm still kinda depressed that I've seen so many reunion shows lately, but it's hard to deny the music you love.

On the taxi ride home, I struck up a conversation with our cab driver, who turned out to be a huge music fan and who was into all the same bands. That was hilarious. And in a true testament to how energized I still felt, I couldn't fall asleep for another hour. Oh well, it's just work.