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

this old nightclub stole my youth

Presenting the denouement of "More Ways to Run Yourself Ragged in SoCal, The Continuing Series"--for now!

Paul F. Tompkins, Largo, May 3, 2008: The list is long and a mountain of evidence has accumulated, but here's another example of how you know you've found your people: Although your weekend plans already include a major gig, you hatch a plot to drive to San Diego for an early concert, then book it back to Los Angeles for a later show. And no one bats an eye. This is where I belong.

I don't really have time for people bemoaning they never made it to Largo, but I'm guilty of a similar offense, having never attended any of Paul F. Tompkins's shows at the club. You know, they used to be on a Monday, then they didn't happen for a while, and I got to see him with other artists, and I live in San Francisco, and I have a job ... blah blah blah. Good thing, then, that we got in under the wire for his last show at Largo on Fairfax.

Actually, "under the wire" might be debatable as he had already revved up the revue for a packed house by the time we arrived, but we slipped in regardless to plant ourselves at his feet. Of all the vantages I've taken in a show at Largo, it was my first time in this particular spot. It wasn't particularly cozy, but aside from one small joke Paul made at our expense, we escaped otherwise unscathed--a triumph at any comedy show!

This is a concert blog, so I'll cover the music portion of the evening. Though Paul was accompanied by a three-piece band, we didn't see much of them at first because Sean and Sara Watkins hit the boards instead. They played a Dylan song, per Flanny's suggestion. Soon after, the whole gang (Jon, Benmont, Fiona, the Watkins, PFT's band) crashed the stage for Paul's rendition of an old tune from Sesame Street, "Inchworm," that apparently went down in flames, because/in spite of the crowd's attempt to sing along.

The collective, in fact, didn't have to do too much, as they settled on a composition that Fiona had written just for Largo. I'm not a fan of Fiona, but the work was, by all measures, a delight, namechecking several staffers, as well as the musicians gathered beside her, though Paul alerted us to the one glaring omission: himself! He recovered long enough to belt out the Old 97s "Niteclub" with Sean and Sara.

He closed the show with a long list of all the great things awaiting us at Largo at the Coronet, including the promise of gelato (!), but mainly the fact that all the artists were incredibly excited about the space and that enthusiasm could only make for better shows. The final song of the night was "Danny Boy," featuring Paul on vocals and Eban Schletter on piano.

Paul had called Jon Brion's gig the night before the "wake" for Largo, which made his show the "baby shower." But the finality of the night (no doubt combined with the exhaustion and hunger hitting us) felt more acute, as I realized this would be the last time I walked through those doors. Though I fall somewhat shy of the dozen-year mark of some Largo regulars, I've enjoyed an incomparable decade of shows at the old club.

See you on LaCienega.

See also:
» all is full of love
» it can't all be wedding cake