12 posts tagged “music”
As I type this, the Fillmore Street Fair is shutting down, and hallelujah for that. The ostensible reason for this fair is to celebrate the Fillmore district's jazz heritage, and you can indeed hear some decent music at California Street and further south. But up near Jackson, where I live, we're afflicted with smooth jazz, which as we know is neither. Some years ago, the featured act was a Kenny G wannabe with a soprano sax and no reason to live. Then we had a School of Rock-style student band that knew just three songs and played them repeatedly all day long--what they did to "Rhapsody in Blue" could've turned Gershwin into a gherkin. This year I knew there was trouble when I saw the band looked like a Jimmy Buffett impersonator (Hawaiian shirt, baseball cap) had joined forces with a Carlos Santana impersonator. While one should always be wary of judging books by covers, I think I won't be defeated by the dust jacket if I offer this Quick Jazzbo Self-Check: If you look more like the figure on the right (Miles Davis), there's a chance you can blow; if you look more like the figure on the left (Maynard G. Krebs), there's a chance you should stick with your fellow latter-day beatniks and trustafarians in the Golden Gate Park drumming circle.
And that's just the music nuisance of the street fair--there are also the daft hordes, aimlessly milling around the 10 blocks of this open-air asphalt bar, the rerouted and delayed buses, and of course the setup itself, which starts Friday at midnight, with workers shouting back and forth all night. I can see why it takes time to tow cars and build the stages, but the stalls? How long does it take to put up four tent poles, two card tables, and a Rubbermaid receptacle's worth of your pottery ocarinas, fer chrissakes?
Well, if San Francisco's seasonal fairs are a pest, the good news is that the regular markets--particularly the farmers' markets--are fabulous. My first taste was at the Green Street market, which later migrated to the Ferry Plaza, and I'll write more about that market in a later post. There are also Fillmore and Noe markets on Saturdays, the Crocker Galleria on Thursdays, and the UN Plaza on Mondays, Thursdays, and Fridays--you can see a full list of Bay Area markets at SF Gate. But the grandaddy of SF farmers' markets is the Alemany, which opened during World War II and moved to its current location near the intersection of highways 101 and 280 in 1947. Ferry Plaza has the reputation of being the expensive, yuppie market, to which I can only say, who cares? That would matter if it were the only market in town, but when choice abounds, I have no beef with farmers and other producers making a little extra dosh for their labor, especially when the results are so top-rate and delicious across the board.
But if cost is a consideration, the Alemany is a more working-class market. I bought a bunch of beets ($1), fennel, Walla Walla onions (currently being put to good use in Mario Batali's yummy recipe for onion flans with fonduta, now in my oven), barhi dates (which I'd never tried; the type originated in Basra), kettle corn, a massive white cauliflower, pistachios, and a red pork tamale for lunch, and I walked out with cash left from my $20.
You'll find all sorts of fruit, veg, nuts, flowers, and honey; more unusual items like elk jerky and shiso; and some things you won't find at the Ferry Plaza, such as fresh fish and live rabbits and chickens. It's fun and gratifying to see the bounty we lucky northern Californians produce. Just as importantly, by going to markets, you're supporting your local farmers, whittling down those food miles, and getting better, more flavorful, in-season produce than you'll find at Safeway. The Alemany market is open Saturdays, year-round, and there's parking, or you can get there on the 23 bus.
On today, the first official day of summer, let us praise the feel-good hits of the summer. Hearing their opening notes is like hearing those of the ice cream truck: you experience a little Pavlovian thrill, knowing you're about to get something sweet, silly, certainly not nutritious, but the perfect, refreshing complement to a sunny day. The FHOTS doesn't need daring musicianship or lyrics that make sense, it can even be a bit derivative; the important thing is that it gives a few minutes of pure pleasure. (In the summer of 2003, I was in LA for the weekend, and every radio station seemed to be playing "Hey Ya," and more than once I was bopping along in my rental car, only to look over to the next lane and see another person doing the same thing to the same song. Genius.) Only a handful of these songs, better made than they need to be, will outlast the summer. But we should not disparage those that do melt away: they've served their purpose.
That's roughly how I feel about Travis. The band is unlikely to write lyrics that turn Dylan green, or to push the rock boat into "here there be dragons" waters like Radiohead. But they are accomplished musicians with a talent for melody, and they're charming, without pretense, and they're having so much fun onstage that you can't help but bounce along. Hell, if they can get this indie grandma to pogo when I don't even like to wave my hands in the air, then I say yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. (That, incidentally, seems to be another trend o' the year: The pogo is back--both Travis and fellow Scots the Fratellis had bouncing crowds at their shows.)
It was great to see Travis at the Fillmore again. Uyen first recommended the band to me, and we went to their first SF show at the Fillmore in 1997, when they opened for Ben Folds. We retired upstairs for the main set, and Fran Healy--Travis's lead singer and chief extrovert--emerged and ended up sitting with us, chatting, drinking, even went backstage to fetch us posters that he then signed. We joked later that he was trying to win an American audience one fan at a time, but hey, it worked, and it's not an act--though the band has grown in fame, they're still friendly, accessible, happy to interact with fans. At May's show, I had a little deja vu, especially when they played three of the songs they played in '97, "Good Feeling," "All I Want to Do Is Rock," and "U16 Girls," the last of which I hadn't heard them do for years.
Indeed, they played a very good cross-section of all their records, including "Why Does It Always Rain on Me?" (the perennial Scottish question), "As You Are," "Turn," and "Sing," with which the audience sang along enthusiastically. Though the new record, The Boy with No Name, was not officially released yet, naturally the fans had searched for it online and already knew the lyrics to songs like "Selfish Jean" and my favorite new Travis track, "Closer."
All in all, the show was everything an old Travis aficionado could ask for. My affection for the band has waxed and waned, and it's been in hibernation for a while, but it's good to know they can bring back the summer for an evening.
"My boyfriend got in a fight with me because I don't know what Jarvis Cocker looks like," a woman on the 2 Clement bus complained to her companion a couple weeks ago. "I told him I liked Pulp and whatever, but I didn't see why he should get all mad about me not knowing what some mod guy looks like." Unsurprisingly, this latter statement only incensed the boyfriend further, spurring a lecture on the differences between mod and Britpop. It's Quadrophenia all over again! And yet I was thoroughly delighted to overhear this conversation (what are the odds?), not least because I agree with the boyfriend: Jarvis is a genius, and shame on those who, having seen him in action, don't get it.
And that It can be a mysterious quality, can't it? Not It: opener Honeycut (led by Bart Davenport) with a funk-influenced set. I don't like to kvetch about performers who work so hard and who actually sounded pretty decent, but when serviceable is followed by fabulous, the contrast is clear. Besides, Ericha started the cattiness: "Jamiroquai audition tape?" she suggested. "I think he lifted those moves from the Boogie Nights disco scene," I replied, "and I think he needs more onion to pull that off." Also, a sartorial note for the gentlemen: If you're rocking some '70s glam-style duds, and if your shirt and sweater vest keep riding up above the waistline, then for the love of Bolan, wax that lumbar region. Back hair: not androgynous chic. You wouldn't catch Bowie flashing pelt.
So, let's talk about Jarvis, who undoubtedly has that elusive It. I mean, he doesn't look like much: tall, gangly as a scarecrow, bizarre dance moves, messy hair (and not stylishly mussed, more like he hasn't washed it in a few days), nebbish glasses originally issued by the National Health Service (now he has to special-order them), and an ensemble that could've been styled by Twin Peaks' flannel-ascoted haberdasher. And yet once he's onstage, he performs with such confidence, wit, and conviction that there's no doubt he's a rock star and a sexy bastard, if anything even better at 43. When he crouched down at the edge of the stage to shake hands with the crowd, I practically squirmed with glee to touch the sweaty sleeve of greatness.
While he has the charisma and presence of a star, it seems a fluke that he ever became one. Pulp had a few records under its belt when it shot to the top of the pops in 1995 and got hitched to the Britpop wagon, but although the band was undeniably both Brit and pop, it was skeptical about both. Unlike Oasis, who were working-class, laddish, and out to become legends, Pulp were working-class but clearly felt arty, more like outsiders, charged up and sometimes outraged by class conflict (as in "Common People") and politics (as in Jarvis's hidden track on the new record, "Running the World"). Unlike Suede, who revelled in their skanky, glam sexiness, in Pulp songs, lust is mixed up with loneliness, desire is often paired with discomfort or disappointment, as in their porn song, "This Is Hardcore": "That goes in there," Jarvis sings four times, "and then it's over." And unlike Blur, who were so organically English in their influences, from music hall to the Kinks, Pulp were more eclectic and European, more into what was textured and interesting than what was poppy and popular. For a sampling, check out the 2006 mix CD, The Trip, by Jarvis and Steve Mackey (bassist for Pulp and now Jarvis's band); it encompasses the Birthday Party and the Beach Boys, Arlo Guthrie and Add N to (X), Screaming Lord Sutch and Sonny Bono. I mean, you have to have stones--and a healthy disregard for cool--to put Sonny frickin' Bono on your CD.
I was a little worried about Jarvis, post-Pulp--he went to ground for quite a while, turning up occasionally to DJ. In 2003 he resurfaced in disguise--with Kiss-like makeup and a skeleton bodysuit--as "Darren Spooner" of Relaxed Muscle, which may have been either a send-up or a tribute to electroclash (or both). In 2005 he soundtracked Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, even appearing in the film as part of the Weird Sisters band--appropriately enough, his character was called Myron Wagtail. All quite amusing, but it was a relief to finally see a proper solo album in 2006, and such a good one too.
At the Fillmore, Jarvis played only new songs from that self-titled record, and they more than sufficed--though there were screams aplenty from the audience, surprisingly few were for old Pulp material. He led with "Fat Children," a dream about chubby kids killing him, a song that's both funny and menacing (I tend to picture 20 Thurman Mermans from Bad Santa chasing Jarvis down the street). I was happiest to hear "Black Magic," an energetic paean to the power of love, complete with bells and "Crimson and Clover" hook and backing vocals. It's my favorite track, and judging by the crowd response, a lot of others would say the same. Of course, the music is only half the show: you really have to see Jarvis in action, tearing up the stage like a man half his age, with hand movements like some kind of sign language or semaphore, dances that wouldn't work for anyone else (including a table dance during "One Man Show"), and in contrast to the all-out stage moves, his deadpan but hilarious between-song commentary. It's hard to explain the appeal; you really have to experience him live (and you can check out Easily Fooled for a more substantive show description than mine).
I had just two tiny quibbles with the show: one, there was a ridiculous amount of fog, so much that Steve (and his epic cheekbones) and the rest of the band were almost entirely obscured. Two, in the encore they covered the Doors' "Crystal Ships"--intended as a tribute to San Francisco, and indeed we're never short of '60s nostalgia at Fillmore shows, nor in SF generally, where we're getting a big, steaming pile of it this year, the 40th anniversary of the Summer of Love. Really, that song's not the Doors' best effort--I would rather have heard Jarvis go to work on the Oedipal ookiness of "The End" or put his salacious touch on "Gloria." Better yet, hit us with a little Ozzy, as the band did at the Astoria.
Well, beggars can't be choosers. It's been 9 years since the last Pulp record and 10 since Jarvis last graced a stage in SF, so my real complaint is that we've had to wait so long for new music and an opportunity to jump and sing along at a show. As he says, cunts are still running the world, not to mention the record labels and the radio stations and the RIAA, and you need only glance at the charts to see there's an overwhelming number of underwhelming bands. We need our unique voices and elder statesmen of pop, and lots of us here (aside from Ms. Clueless on the 2 bus) appreciate that quality is the real cool. So please, Jarvis, come back soon, preferably before Justin Timberlake stakes another claim on bringing sexy back.
In the meantime, folks, if you're looking for something lovely and different, check out the works of Mr. Richard Hawley, late of the Longpigs and a sometime Jarvis collaborator, who croons like a singer from yesteryear. He hasn't played SF yet (do the good people of Sheffield have an allergy to California?), but he has four records out and a fifth, Lady's Bridge, due in the UK August 20.
Why does it happen? For weeks there will be a concert dry spell, and then there are two or three shows you want to see on the same night. This was my dilemma on April 26 (yes, I am that far behind in blogging), when DJ Shadow was at the Fillmore and Amy Winehouse, who had not yet played a show in SF, was at Popscene. Well, Amy's show sold out before I could get tickets, so the decision was made for me.
However, in the off chance that you haven't heard her self-titled, second album, let me heartily recommend it--Amy is the cool, jazzy, R&B singer that Joss Stone wants to be. She looks like a biker chick with a beehive, talks like a cockney cabbie, and sings like she's from Motown rather than London. What's not to love? I was born in Detroit, grew up in Chicago listening to soul, funk, rock, and disco, and became an Anglophile adult, so the whole Winehouse experience makes me one double-chuffed Oreo.
Of course, Ms. Winehouse is also notorious for her drinking, drugging, and mental health issues. Will she be the next P. J. Harvey or the next Courtney Love? I don't know. But I do have a theory about Amy's true parentage: Candy Slice (Gilda Radner) + Phil Spector = Amy Winehouse. You be the judge:
Bummed as I was to miss Amy, it's always a thrill seeing DJ Shadow. Though Mr. Davis lives in Mill Valley, he doesn't play all that many gigs locally--until April, the only show he'd done in support of his latest record, The Outsider, was an in-store at Amoeba last September. At that gig, Shadow brought a singer, local rappers, and a graffiti artist who made a painting while the music played.
The Fillmore show, on the other hand, was a solo event (the first, Shadow said, in about five years), except for Portland's Lifesavas opening and Lateef the Truth Speaker providing vocals on a few numbers, including the always amusing "Mashin' on the Motorway," a road-rage anthem for anyone who's ever been in Bay Area traffic hell. But you don't need a lot of extras at a DJ Shadow show--if you don't want to watch him fiddling with turntables and knobs, he has a very cool series of videos playing on a big screen behind him.
Though Shadow identifies as a hiphop artist, like a lot of great musicians (Willie Nelson and Elvis Costello come to mind), he has a home genre but really just loves good music, period, and plays whatever style suits him. So, on his records and at his shows, there's hiphop in a variety of styles, from triphoppy to hyphy, there's indie rock, and there's the unclassifiable, like "Stem/Long Stem," a kind of mellow, micro hiphop symphony and one of the songs that, if you'll excuse the pun, grew on me and convinced me that Endtroducing was one of the best records of the '90s.
Shadow also provides a sampling of all his works, from audience favorite "Organ Donor" to UNKLE's "Rabbit in Your Headlights" with Thom Yorke to "Three Freaks" from the new record. Everything sounded (and looked) great, except that at a couple points, the bass was loud to the point of distortion--I couldn't tell if there was a tech problem or if he was deliberately pushing the levels. Seriously, I haven't had my eardrums banged by that much bass since the Chemical Brothers last liquefied my guts in Oakland, and I was sorry that it obscured the vocals on "Seein' Thangs," a ballsy track that takes Bush et al. to task for the Katrina disaster.
There are some more Shadow events on the horizon. First, he has promised to play a show at Village Music every day in September. That's the last month that Mill Valley institution will be open, and since he's bought thousands of records there over the years (and featured the store on the cover of Endtroducing), these shows will be a tribute and a farewell.
Second, Shadow is doing a series of DJing dates with Cut Chemist, a tour I've seen called both Brain Placement and The Hard Sale. Whatever its real name, keep an eye on djshadow.com for upcoming dates. If the show is has as fun and as jaw-droppingly virtuosic as the 2001 Product Placement tour and the 1999 Future Primitive 45 session, it's worth seeing anywhere you can reach. (That's my ticket to the 45 session at left--if you scare up a copy of Brainfreeze, that's the set they played, all on finicky 7-inch singles and flexi discs.)
Finally, as much as I enjoyed the gig, I must kvetch about the Fillmore's recent price hikes: $37.50 for this show? Has the cost of apples gone up that much, or are we paying for that retrofit of Irving Plaza? Think of the poor baby goths and junior wiggas, Fillmore! They have outfits and eyeliner and bling to buy and can't spend that much on tickets. I don't mind you driving them to cheaper shows with newer bands, but if you keep jacking those rates, soon you'll have only the geezers like me at shows, with pants so high you can't see the band name on the T-shirt, and you'll have to start offering applesauce instead of apples. Not cool.
Don't you hate missing a show because you heard about it too late? Well, if you're an iTunes user, some help is at hand: iConcert Cal. It's an iTunes add-on that cross-checks the artists in your library with a database of local concerts for the next few months, so whenever you turn the Visualizer on, you can see a concert calendar. The app won't catch everything, of course--the secret Prince shows, the little clubs--but at least it'll give you a convenient overview.
Tuesday the Shins were on the hump night of their three-day stand at the Warfield. The evening opened with Viva Voce, a Portland pair with a female lead singer/guitarist, Anita, and husband Kevin on drums, acoustic guitar, and harmonica (on one song, he played all three simultaneously, which impressed this klutz). They combine sweet, harmonious vocals with rocking-out guitar--as their opening song declared, "We Do Not Fuck Around." They're on Barsuk (Death Cab for Cutie, Rilo Kiley, John Vanderslice, etc.) and will be playing Sasquatch and Lollapalooza this summer.
I don't have to tell you the Shins are awesome, right? You've already seen them, own Wincing the Night Away and the older records, have at least a dozen of indie rock's catchiest melodies stuck in your head. Well then, I won't go into detail. I love a band that busts out the la-la-las, the handclaps, the oh-whoa-oh harmonies, any of the silly, Metallica-would-never stuff that makes a pop song infectious. (On a similar tip, kudos to the Spinto Band for its use of the kazoo in "Brown Boxes.") What joy to sing along with the audience to the la-da-da-dums of "Saint Simon," a song that makes me want to wave my arms in the air no matter how many times I've heard it.
Best shout from the balcony: "I like the consistency of your music." James Mercer: "'I like the consistency...'--the texture?" Another person in the balcony: "I like the flavor."
For the first encore, the Shins played "Breathe" from The Dark Side of the Moon--now there's a cover I didn't expect. So, in one week, I have now heard two Pink Floyd encores, the first being Robyn Hitchcock's "See Emily Play." Coincidence or trend? Whichever, I'm enjoying it, and I'm throwing down the gauntlet to other bands coming to SF in April and May (c'mon, Brakes!): hit us with "Astronomy Domine" or a track of your choosing. Bonus points if you reproduce the quadraphonic sound.
Sometimes I think I've learned half of life's lessons at rock shows. Like: If somebody falls down in the mosh pit (if there still are any), give them a hand up. Always check the merch table. Everyone marches to a different drummer, but those who dance off-beat or sing off-key in your personal space can and should be elbowed out of the way. Just about every show includes a jackass yelling "Freebird," a hipster who spent more time selecting a hat/outfit than listening to the record, and an anorak bitching that everything's been downhill since the first EP. Getting the tour-only CD trumps having cash to buy lunch tomorrow. Bragging rights are more important than sleep. You get the idea. Anyway, here are some of the things this indie grandma learned last night:
1. In the Castro, strangers will ask you to can-can. I passed a guy outside the Transfer who was simultaneously smoking, talking on his cell, and performing a one-man kick line, and then he asked a woman getting off the bus to dance with him. Monsieur Rockette, I salute your multitasking, your hamstring flexibility, and your crazy chutzpah.
2. Shoegazing is back. I've already heard two or three bands this year--including the Mezzanine Owls last night--who owe props to My Bloody Valentine and Ride. I say hooray for the younguns and their pedal effects! Now, where are the Stone Roses revivalists? (Incidentally, I've read more than one thing comparing the Mezzanine Owls to the Doves, which may explain why Lost Souls was playing last night, but the analogy is miles off. The Doves are about Northern soul, the Manchester sound, and the '90s dance scene; whereas the Owls are all about layered guitars and fuzzy melody--more Jesus and Mary Chain, less soul.)
3. No matter how small the crowd, there will always be a Drunk Chick up front, dancing like Napoleon Dynamite's stripper sister, shitfaced on a solitary Pabst Blue Ribbon. Unless you're in Blue Velvet, this is not cool.
4. Indie is nerdy, indie is witty, indie does its homework, and yet indie is confounded by merch. Last night it took the fine gentlemen of the Broken West 15-20 minutes to excavate a T-shirt in my size, including two trips backstage to get help from other band members. Perhaps they're practicing the "cute and helpless" shtick for the Japanese market--it was like watching baby animals try to walk for the first time. I tease--Ross (singer) and Brian (bass) were actually very sweet. (I may, by the way, have to add: indie don't update Web sites. I guess that's why we have MySpace.)
5. The Broken West will be back in San Francisco June 27, opening for the National at Bimbo's. For those of you who can't make it to the best club in SF, check out the band's list of upcoming shows.
Uyen tipped me off on the Broken West (check her show review at Easily Fooled), who have their first full-length, I Can't Go on, I'll Go On, out on Merge, that fabulous label that has also brought us Spoon, Teenage Fanclub, Lou Barlow, the Arcade Fire, M. Ward, etc., etc. The Broken West's songs are the polished, infectious pop-rock you might expect from looking at that list--ever listen to a record and get the feeling you've heard some of those songs before, though you know you haven't? That's the impression I had hearing I Can't Go On. You can hear some Byrds and Big Star and Pernice Brothers in there, among others.
Broken West played a full, satisfying set last night, including three of my favorites, "You Can Build an Island," "Brass Ring," and "Down in the Valley," a song that could almost make me like L.A. Coming off a support slot, they extended the set with a few numbers from the record that, they said, they've only played live once: "Abigail," "Like a Light," and "Baby on My Arm." Those three did sound a tad rougher but were most welcome. They also treated us to one cover, Love's "No Matter What You Do," a good pick for San Francisco.
Now, go listen to some tracks on their MySpace page, which will explain their sound much better than I can. See also: Ross's Discollective list for some influences. And go catch a show if you can!
Can we stipulate: The world needs (1) more wonderful weirdos and (2) more musicians aging disgracefully but in a good way. (Wrong way: Snorting father's ashes. Right way: Retaining ashy natural hair color, creativity, the rockingness.) And now that Syd Barrett is gone (RIP), we should be all the more grateful to have musical original Robyn Hitchcock bringing us surrealism with a melody.
The show at Slim's kicked off with Sean Nelson, of Harvey Danger and various side projects. (Note: If you keep reloading his home page, you may see an amusing photo of young Sean singing with Art Garfunkel, looking like his kid). Last night, he was singing several songs from his as-yet-unreleased record, Nelson Sings Nilsson, available on MySpace--great lyrics, engagingly sung. He also had a new one I rather liked (no title mentioned, sorry) about starting a band in Manchester in 1990 after taking two hits of acid, getting praise from the NME as the next big thing, and then getting kicked out of his own band (isn't that, like, the story of half the groups from Manchester?). The narrator then decides to form a supergroup like Velvet Revolver or the Power Station. Hilarious.
Robyn kicked off with a couple of his songs with the Egyptians, "The Ghost Ship" and "Queen Elvis," played on acoustic guitar with Sean singing backing vocals. Robyn was having a hard time seeing the notes on his harmonica, so he asked people down in front to read it for him, and they started calling out random letters. "Don't try to confuse me by being imaginative," he chided. "I wouldn't do that to you." Big laugh.
The Venus 3 trickled onstage one by one, first Bill Rieflin on drums (formerly of Ministry), then Peter Buck on guitar (of REM, duh, and the Minus 5), and finally Scott McCaughey on bass (of Minus 5 and formerly the Young Fresh Fellows). With the full band onstage, Robyn opened "The Afterlight" by saying, "A lot of great songs have been written over the years, and then there's this one."
The band was in fine fettle, very tight, except for one point midshow, when Robyn decided they'd just played "City of Shame" too slowly and so played it again faster--too fast, he concluded, but didn't go for a threepeat. They played a number of songs from the latest record, Ole! Tarantula, including "(A Man's Gotta Know His Limitations) Briggs," "N.Y. Doll" (a lovely lament for New York Doll Arthur Kane), and of course the title track, with Hitchcock's lyrics in full Dada: "Furry black legs/And a spicy goatee/If you see Gino/Won't you kiss him for me?/Olé tarantula" (and the "Ole" is yodeled, natch). For more about the music, check out Uyen's blog over at Easily Fooled.
The music's great, of course, but the other reason to see Hitchcock live is to experience the funny and strange psychedelia that bubbles up from his brain between songs. My favorite was when he talked about coming to Slim's long ago. It was a lot cheaper then, he said--55 American cents and 11 Canadian cents to be precise--but you had to cross the River Styx to get in, and if you didn't have exact change for Charon, he wouldn't let you pass. But then a guy called Old Canada Joe started hanging out on the corner, and he'd sell you 11 Canadian cents for $2...and on Robyn went, until he concluded, "I just mention that because it's important to say things." At that point, I wondered if Robyn's like a hallucinogenic toad and you could get high by licking him.
Later he dedicated a song to our pets, declaring that the song's vibrations would travel through our coccyxes, the bones where we used to have a tail, to communicate to our furry creatures at home. Other quotes of the night: "Luckily, as Jim Morrison never said, there is hope. Jim didn't need hope because he looked good." And "The conclusion that you reach in therapy is that something has to go--and it's you."
Ah, brilliant. Having been thinking about Syd Barrett that evening, I was very glad to hear "See Emily Play" in the encores. Perhaps my mental request vibrated through Robyn's tailbone.
Usually opening acts are something you endure more than enjoy, but once in a while, a band makes the wait worthwhile and then some. Denton, Texas's Midlake was one of those bands, when Uyen and I saw them open for the Flaming Lips a year ago.
So we were quite pleased to see them headline their own show March 5 as part of NoisePop. They played the entirety of their excellent record, The Trials of Van Occupanther, plus a few old tracks and a "newer" one called "Children of the Ground," which sounds like "Roscoe" with a rocking guitar line.
They have a warm, country-folk-rock sound but, like Grandaddy, have more keyboards than you'd expect and a shot of weird, which comes out beautifully in songs like "Branches" and "Young Bride." Midlake leans more in the '70s and country direction--Uyen hears a lot of Fleetwood Mac; I hear a dash of Allman Brothers, Eagles, The Band, and, when the harmonies get going, I sometimes have the urge to break out a cowbell and fear the reaper. Though they're well steeped in those bands, they're not retro, like those umpteen rippers-off of Joy Division; they're forging their own sound out of shards from the past.
Uyen has a much more thorough concert review over at Easily Fooled. So permit me to ask the trifling question: Separated at birth?
That's Eric from Midlake (with papier mache panther head), Jimi from the Doves (center), and Jimmy Fallon. Let me also point out that Jimmy Fallon sported a beard in Almost Famous, a movie that also featured Jason Lee as a bearded member of a '70s rock band, and Jason Lee is one of the biggest fans of...Midlake! OK, it's all just beardy coincidence. More importantly, you should go get Midlake's record, because it's awesome.
Confession: I am a musical idiot. I never studied an instrument; I had one lone musical-appreciation course in college; and I find most modern composition baffling and academic. However, I do have a warm spot in my heart for two contemporary Bay Area composers: the late Lou Harrison (some of whose works are beautifully employed in Mark Morris's dances) and John Adams.
Adams is often grouped with the minimalists, a description that's never quite worked for me, because although his pieces are modern, they do not feel bleached and chilly; rather, it seems as though he's layered the sound, then stripped away what isn't essential. For example, his 2002 work, On the Transmigration of Souls, is one of the few worthy artistic responses to 9/11, void of both dread and sentimentality, but moving because it centers on voices: a chorus; a children's choir; people reading names, obituaries, and fragments of missing-person signs; and the voice of the city itself in the background. I also really liked My Father Knew Charles Ives, performed at the San Francisco Symphony in 2003, which has a section that somehow makes the orchestra sound like a cocktail party.
I wasn't so delighted by his 2005 opera, Dr. Atomic, which seemed to me as dark and leaden as the bomb prop onstage. But Thursday I went to the U.S. premiere of his latest opera, A Flowering Tree, and found it charming, the music verging on hummable. The piece was conceived as part of the New Crowned Hope festival, celebrating Mozart's 250th birthday not by staging his works, but by commissioning new works inspired by the composer. According to Adams, his original inspiration was The Magic Flute, but he could just as easily have said The Metamorphosis or The Arabian Nights, because the only kinships are the themes of love, wonder, and physical transformations that mirror psychological ones. A Flowering Tree is an artistic mashup that actually works: it's based on a 2,000-year-old South Indian tale, the four characters sing in English but the chorus sings in Spanish, and the singers are shadowed by three traditional Javanese dancers. As the libretto says, the tale is of "love, and then pain, and then love again"--which nicely sums up a good bit of the operatic canon, and the rest might be summed up by the inverse: pain, and then love, and then pain again.
The SF Symphony performance was semi-staged, meaning we had dancers and costumes but no props and sets except for three little circular stages. And there were only three performances, and no word on whether we'll ever get the full monty. So, at the moment, those who wish to see it will have to travel to London (Barbican Hall, August 10-12) or to New York (tentatively planned for Lincoln Center, 2009).
If you do go, I hope you get the same Playbill, whose description of the music included one of my favorite program notes ever: "First is a further exploration of the Prince's point of view. His impetuous desire gathers like an impending orgasm and then becomes more tender with the sound of maracas and rainmaker." Now wouldn't it be marvelous if one could actually get those sound effects? Oh yes, maraca, maraca, rainmaker! rainmaker! rainmaker!
That was at the end of Act 1, and ironically, we did feel the earth move just after: that little 4.2 tremor from Lafayette ran through San Francisco during intermission.
