In and Out :: Coldplay's "Violet Hill" Track Review

The new Coldplay cut, "Violet Hill" dropped a few mornings ago and the reaction was fast and tepid. Most people didn't hate it but Perez Hilton claimed immediate, undying love, an endorsement that may do more harm than good. Though no one was willing to say X&Y sucked three years ago, it seems most positive reviews include phrases like "returning to form" and "the band at its best." At the very least, it implies that this is more "Clocks" and less "Speed of Sound." At the very least, now we can all speak openly about the completely underwhelming X&Y. If nothing else this new Coldplay song and album have offered us peace of mind regarding their last disaster.

Everyone else is right; "Violet Hill" isn't terrible. It has the same plodding piano chord progressions that Chris Martin probably writes while eating vegan porkchops and watching Deal or No Deal. The sound is big and wet and maybe even a little desperate. As Martin intones in the chorus, "if you love me/won't you let me know?" It's an appeal and suggestion all in one. Sound a little like a band who burned some bridges on the last record? Later, Martin wistfully allegorizes with "I don't want to be a solider/or the captain of some sinking ship." Basically, Chris Martin won't be a solider in someone else's army but, he's not going to be in charge of an unsuccessful operation either. Neither citizen nor dictator, Martin has become the leader of an untenable democracy.

Input isn't everything and not all opinions matter. After letting his guitarist experiment his way into destroying his last album, Martin and Coldplay are back to trying to be U2. That's something they can all agree on. But what kind of leader calls his band a "sinking ship?" That doesn't sound like Bono and The Edge. That doesn't even sound like Allen Iverson and Larry Brown. That ain't a triumphant return and it it ain't a Phoenix from the flames. It's a self-handicapping prelude to a solo record.

Coldplay took this thing as far the formula goes. Attempts to expand or redefine the parameters of the band failed. Chris Martin still fancies himself a poet and it all adds up to the simple fact: when you hear Coldplay's new album Viva La Vida in June, it will be their last. Period.

Live Review :: Motel Motel @ The Annex [4.26.08]

"I don't need your help. I can feel helpless on my own." It's a paralyzingly lonely message coming out of Eric Engel's mouth and we're only two songs into the set. Depending on who you ask, Engel is either talking about a failed relationship or the inherent and troubling aspects of being an indie rock band in New York City. Despite a relatively full house and a recent "Honorable Mention" in the L Magazine, Motel Motel is still fighting their way through the fuzz; and it's lonely as hell.

If you can't hear the heartbreak in Engel's voice, you're not listening hard enough. The phonics are twisted and the aesthetic is nasal - like Conor Oberst decided to go front The Walkmen. The graveled tones sound like Marlboro Reds on a Saturday night, cut with a glass of bourbon to wash down a sore throat. On this night, Motel Motel squeezed a string-quartet on stage (at the Annex this is clown-car impressive) and even as the strings rise, the emotional punch is coming from the singer. We're supposed to feel moved. And it's working.

There are slow spots, to be sure - a little depression mixed with some booze and a girl who burnt your house down (metaphorically). It starts to wear. After all, you can only break our hearts so many times before they're just broken, never to be fixed again. If the show is missing something, it's pathos. We came here to bleed but, hopefully, to heal. It's unclear if Engel is ready to close the wound. The lyrics are faded romantics and the songs a blend of honkey-tonk piano, soaring strings, and twitchy, thrashing breakdowns; at least a little disjunctive. If there's catharsis here, we're going to have to find it on our own. It looks like Engel's got his own shit to deal with.

But it's not all Kate Bush and thundershowers; there's something uplifting in play. In the final pre-encore song of the night, during one of the drastic (but leaning toward productive) tempo changes Engel says, "I won't let you down." He says it no less than five times and things get a little brighter. The crowd is starting to get drunk and the dancefloor is starting to pack. If Motel Motel intentionally brought us down, they might just end bringing us up. The bassist ends up pounding on the piano and it's more exuberance than frustration. If they began the night as another New York band fighting a million other New York bands for ink, fans, and cash, they're ending it with a punch. They thank us and begin the world's largest equipment breakdown.

But they didn't break us down without fixing us up. Engel's got his problems and so do we. Our problems just don't go as well with flourishing strings. Our problems don't sound quite as painful or quite as dramatic when they come out of our mouths. And our problems probably won't get us noticed in a city full of bands with problems. But his might. So pound that fucking keyboard.

In and Out :: Preview [4.2.08] I Love You Airlines @ Bowery Poetry Club

Tonight, for the first time in a hot minute, I Love You Airlines will be storming the coast of Manhattan and shaking The Bowery Poetry Club like they're one of those Peruvian earthquakes that levels cities and make people give money to the American Red Cross. Of course, any venue shaking will be purely metaphorical because its actual destruction would be at best inconvenient and at worst, possibly disastrous. The kind of shaking that will take place will be human and it will most certainly be happening in front of the stage. Over time, vibrations will spread from front to back like a comb through the greasy-hair and vacant-eyed hipsters who will decorate the audience like a far better-educated pointillist painting. And by the end, as I Love You Airlines finds their finishing kick and their drummer (also a sushi chef) is wailing on his kit like a piece of raw and poorly behaved tuna, you'll find yourself moving too. You'll find yourself wondering how this show is possibly free and how you haven't seen this band yet. You might even wonder if the floor is going to survive the 15.5 Richter onslaught. This isn't dance-rock and it ain't indie-rock, and it ain't even glam-rock; this is straight rock music and it's going to kick your ass. Check it in or check it out.

I Love You Airlines
10.30PM
Bowery Poetry Club
308 Bowery @ 1st
FREE (drink specials are rumored)

In and Out :: New Death Cab For Cutie, "I Will Possess Your Heart" [MP3]

Death Cab For Cutie is back ... sort of. It is undeniable that the band is physically returning to the catalogue of recorded music with a new album, Narrow Stairs due out on May 13th but perhaps more debatable is if the new record will be any good. After releasing a fairly inspiring video preview, featuring shots of the band doing the actual recording the record (read: Ben Gibbard not finishing the Postal Service album), it would be safe to say there was at least a little buzz behind the finishing of this release. And so yesterday at just before 5pm, Atlantic Records (who fantastically overpaid for what ended up being Plans and not Transatlanticism) released the new Death Cab For Cutie single, "I Will Possess Your Heart."

It clocks in at 8:28 and will end up getting a "Radio Edit" (the idea of radio play being filed somewhere between "optimistic" and "three people at Atlantic Records should start cleaning out their desks") down to somewhere in the four-minute range. Ben Gibbard drives into the parking lot at about the three-and-a-half minute mark with some quiet "na, na, na's" but doesn't really show up until 4:30. If you're scoring at home, that's more than half the song as vocal-less intro, begging the question of who at Atlantic Records is paying an ounce of attention to this release?

The melody smells a little like the sing-songy depression of an Interpol song and Gibbard sounds a little rougher than "Soul Meets Body." It's not close to a growl but there is an edge to his vocal that we have seen in at least two records, maybe ever. The chorus, "you've got to spend some time, love" will get stuck in your head and might, just might crack your next mix-tape. Check it up or check it down.

Death Cab For Cutie - I Will Possess Your Heart

Live Review :: The Wombats @ The Annex [3.17.08]

The Wombats look a little like hell. They tell us they are sleep-deprived. They tell us they've been in seven time zones in two weeks. Their lead-singer looks a little bloated and is losing his voice - facts they don't need to tell us. It's debatably St. Patrick's Day on the Lower East Side and The Wombats look a little like hell.

Frontman, Matt Murphy is sweating through his green sweat shirt in little viral colonies. As little spots of sweat establish foothold on the front of his chest, they slowly expand to include other sweat-spots until there is an outbreak of wetness darkening the shamrock green. In a time-lapse video this would look like a reverse Pangaea - disparate parts coming together to form a larger whole. If he was working less hard, you might think he was sick. If The Wombats were playing less hard, you might question their ability to make it through the set. Murphy's voice strains but not from illness. He sweats but not from fever. This exhaustion isn't just from time change or sleep deprivation. It's from playing this hard in seven time zones and how the fuck can you sleep on that?

The Wombats open with "Lost In The Post," a song, ostensibly, about dating a girl who is all sunshine and rainbows when you're all rain storms and Wuthering Heights. There's some irony afoot when a band this exuberant addresses being too depressed for a girl who just wants to watch Mary Poppins. Then again, irony ain't a stranger and halfway through the set they play "Let's Dance To Joy Division" and everyone shouts the lyrics,"Let's dance to Joy Division/and celebrate the irony." A little like the irony of a band this tired playing a set with this much fervor. It. just. doesn't. wash.

Fast-forward to the end; instead of an encore, The Wombats' drummer makes a reference to cutting through the bullshit and why bother with the charade of going backstage when you and I know damn well that they've got two more songs they're planning to play. They've already played "Moving To New York," a song that uniquely lights up New Yorkers to feel successful and important based solely on zip code, and it's easy to wonder what the band has left to close this show. But, for a second-ever show in New York, The Wombats save "Backfire At The Disco" as their final note.

The song is about things going abjectly awful at a nightclub - about totally, completely bombing with woman. That seems a little out of sorts for band who just killed The Annex for the past 45 minutes. The irony is things have been going pretty well. But then again, a worn out band shouldn't have played this set in the first place. And again, the dark green sweat spots on Matt Murphy aren't simple exhaustion but they are why he'll feel a little worse tomorrow than he did today. Because sometimes you give enough to look like hell. And you can't fucking sleep on that.

In and Out :: Someone Still Loves You Boris Yelstin

This isn't exactly like showing up late to a party. It's a little like being invited to someone's wedding in June and showing up in October. But in the last 24 hours I've shown up to a party, the Someone Still Loves You Boris Yelstin party, and it's far, far too late. For instance, I received this message from my loose college acquaintance John on December 14th, 2006 at 11:53am: "Hey, Check out a band called Someone Still Loves You Boris Yeltsin. They have a disc out called Broom which is really good. I particularly reccomend [sic] 'Pangea' and 'House Fire.'"

John, always famous to me for hooking up with a senior girl when we were freshman, sent this message in spirit of information; in the spirit of sharing. Sadly, I just didn't want to hear it. Perhaps, I knew they were good and just didn't have the time. Perhaps, at the time, I was too heavily spitting the Voxtrot gospel to make room for another indie-pop outfit. Perhaps, I am an asshole.

I never responded to John's message which surely made him think I didn't give a shit. Which isn't entirely incorrect. But like great artists, saying something early can be misunderstood but it is always, always vindicated in time. So, John, today is your day. My fucking apologies. SSLYBY has a record coming out and it is awesome. We are almost 15 months removed from John's offer of a good band and I feel nothing but gratitude and thanks for the heads up that I largely ignored.

The record is adorable in all the right places without being cloying. It's cute little pop songs that remind you of what Bishop Allen could end up doing in a year or so. Enjoy and send cosmic apologies to John.

Someone Still Loves You Boris Yelstin - Think I Wanna Die

In and Out: Jukebox The Ghost cover They Might Be Giants

If you had to peg a lineage here you'd say that Jukebox The Ghost are a fun, nerdy band that draw heavily from Ben Folds Five (though less working-class and more liberal arts) and Ben Folds Five was a band that drew on nerd-rock gurus They Might Be Giants. Back in a time called "the 90s," TMBG wrote that the sun was, "a mass of incandescent gas" and Jukebox The Ghost now, in 2008, tour with a song about that same star and the end of the fucking universe. Connections, inspiration, and hyper-literacy: these things bring us to Piano's on New York's Lower East Side, where Jukebox The Ghost decides to rip through They Might Be Giants' master-work, "Birdhouse In Your Soul." And if these are the next piano-based, nerd-rock geniuses, Ben Folds and TMBG passed the car keys right to the kids. Check the video below.


Julebox the Ghost - Birdhouse in Your Soul from PaulBriganti on Vimeo.

A Valentine's Music Video: If you can fix my iPod ...

Some of New York's most creative and vibrant artists came together to produce the following music video (including what looks like a storming of the SoHo Apple Store). It debuted today on Youtube and on MyAppleGenius.com. On the one hand it mocks the corporate impulse of the Apple empire and on the other it appeals to a more organic, humanist alternative. If my iPod breaks, I can take it to an Apple Genius. But what can that same genius do for my heart? Whether you're alone or together this Valentine's Day, check out the video; a little music for the soul of a digital age. 01010011100000111000100 xoxo.

Live Review: They Might Be Giants @ The Beacon Theater [2.2.08]

John Flansburgh, exactly one-half of They Might Be Giants, reacts as naturually as possible. Someone near the back of the Beacon Theater screams, "play 'Boat of Car,'" a song that defines the term "deep cut" and is, in all probability, not included in tonight's set-list. Flansburgh hardly notices, passing spare aknowledgement, but suddenly there are multiple people yelling, in unison, "Boat of Car." Flansburgh looks out into the stage lights and decides to address this miniture movement in the audience. His face registers somewhere between flattery and frustration. In all probability, these people would rather hear other songs. "Boat of Car" isn't a particularly good song, but it is particularly obscure. And sometimes obscurity is currency. You either know the song or you don't. These people asking to hear "Boat of Car" don't really want to hear the song. They want everyone to know that they know it. And, they want to see if the band will play it.

They Might Be Giants admit, at one point, that they've never sold out The Beacon Theater before. It's hard to tell if this statement is based on a body of work ("We've played here 10 times and never sold out") or if it's based on a first-timer's impression ("We mostly play The Bowery and, frankly, it's amazing we packed something on 74th and Broadway"). Either way, the 2,850 members of the audience seem equally impressed with themselves and the band. It feels good to be there the first time something happens.

The crowd, despite totaling somewhere close to 3,000, would appear in the S-section of the dictionary under "subdued." People are standing up but are, as is the case at The Beacon, confined to their rows. On some classic TMBG songs and upbeat new tracks, the crowd bobs around and sings the lyrics. Otherwise, this is the micro-brew and latte set. They came here to see the show, not be a part of it. Entertainment comes in a million different shades but this is not the interactive one. If They Might Be Giants expect to be elevated by the crowd, they are going to be sorely disappointed. Luckily, the stage show is backed by a vicious light-show, rockets of confetti, and, at one point, a dizzying disco-ball effect that makes the room pitch and yawn. A hard-working rock-crowd isn't really necessary for all this to be impressive.

In many ways, this accounts for where They Might Be Giants stand as a movement. No longer are they the architypical nerdy, downtown rock band. No longer do hyper-literate, vaguely post-modern kids come to stand near the stage and pogo up and down to the kind of anthems that are either fatally ironic or deadly serious. They Might Be Giants still play those songs, but those kids are adults now. And standing near the stage means having a front row seat. And having rows and seats means we are nowhere near the slightly edgy scene that this band lived, loved, and, ultimately, transcended.

Which brings us back to "Boat of Car," a song written long before They Might Be Giants ever sold-out The Beacon Theater on 74th and Broadway. And it brings us back to John Flansburgh, looking into the stage lights, towards the back of the orchestra section to find, blindly, where this "Boat of Car" chant is coming from. He thinks. And reacts naturally. "You see," he says, "this whole computerized light show is already in place. We ... we can't really get off the script here." People laugh and it is funny. But he's actually not kidding. The light show is fantastic, even a little propulsive at key moments. But it is totally computerized. The show might only have room for the obscurity already in the script. This quirky band might only have space in the set for pre-planned quirkiness. When you open your doors to 3,000, sometimes there isn't room for everything. Sometimes you just won't play "Boat of Car."

[Photos by Chris Owyoung courtesy of Prefix. Full gallery can be seen here.]

New We Are Scientists Single, "After Hours"

Brooklyn-favorites and Virgin Records bad boys, We Are Scientists have their new single, "After Hours" up on the myspace. It's still sitting somewhere under 3,000 plays, so it can't have been up very long. It's a little more "arena rock" than their previous record but adding a little Angels and Airwaves never hurt anyone's sales figures. The song is big and bold and closes with a punch that makes you feel like the air got sucked out of the room. Instrumentally, it's a little more interesting and you can catch some strings and even some keys (the opening organ chord is the same as the opening chord in Coldplay's "Fix You" - sorry if that ruins everything) but it's still a Scientists cut - a little punky where it needs to be and a chorus that makes you feel just disenfranchised enough to sing along. The lyrics aren't mind-blowing and, in the refrain, seem designed for Top 40 radio. If you can't get the kids to relate to "one final round, cause time means nothing, say that you'll stay." It's either a super-complicated metaphor exploring notions of beginnings and end. Or. It's a song about drinking your ass off at a bar and not wanting to go home. "Time means nothing." In either case, you'll want to say you heard it first.

myspace.com/wearescientists

Preview: I Love You Airlines @ Studio B [1.12.08]

I Love You Airlines will be kicking down the doors and shaking the foundation of Greenpoint's Studio B this Saturday night. It's a fairly high-concept show bridging the gap between DJs spinning records and bands torching your ears. Or in this case one band, (I Love You Airlines) and a bunch of DJs (Verboten w/ Radeoclit and VNDLSM, Alexander Technique).

I Love You Airlines (ILYA) is the only live band of this bunch of performers and are not to be missed. This will be their first performance since they leveled The House of Yes Holiday Throwdown where they closed a night that featured fire-eating, sword swallowing, and (you really can't make this up) a guy stapling 20-dollar bills to his face. Any band who can hang and bang with people juggling flaming torches, surviving surging electric current, and taking a sledgehammer to the stomach is worth everyone's time.

I Love You Airlines play a brand of post-punk that can peel your eyelids back and force your feet to move like you've got a hive of angry bees in your pants. Sounding a little like the Yeah Yeah Yeahs and a little like what would happen if a speeding 18-wheeler, driven by (a more fun) Chrissy Hynde crashed into the Ramones entire discography, ILYA plays one of the best live shows in New York. They've got two EPs you can pick up after their set, or, as always, bump the myspace in your office/dorm room/life until your friends ask you "who the fuck is that?" If this show and this band doesn't get you up to get down, I will personally refund your concert money and time spent on the L-Train. All refunds will sent via PayPal to your face via my fist.

Studio B (259 Banker St. Brooklyn, NY)
Saturday January 12, 2008
10PM
I Love You Airlines

Live Review: Ra Ra Riot and Jukebox The Ghost @ Union Hall [12.01.07]

Two-sixths of Ra Ra Riot are in what amounts to the front row, watching opener Jukebox The Ghost. A girl whispers to a guy, it doesn't really matter who, the guy laughs at, well, it's hard to tell what, and they are the picture of a young band in love with their lifestyle and quite possibly each other. Jukebox The Ghost has their feet tapping to what might sound like Ben Folds Five circa 1996, fired through the lens of liberal arts education, musical theater and our nation's capital. There is something special happening here and it's not just the music. It's one band, killing itself in front of a crowd who mostly didn't come to see them, and it's parts of another band paying their respects in the front row; basking in the glow of being 22 years-old and a headliner - the only thing keeping more of your people out of this room is the city-imposed fire code. Both are equal parts becoming, just at different places on the trail.

Jukebox The Ghost comports itself well. They seem to wander in places, a little too chatty on stage, but, then again, they're not un-charming and their asides aren't irritating. At one point, someone yells, "Play music" and the band quickly agrees. The nameless heckler is either their good friend or a complete asshole. Jukebox doesn't seem rattled and they preface one of the tracks with an astounding amount of information dealing with God, the destruction of earth, and futuristic space travel. It's a three-part song, they say, and in practice, it's got to be close nine-minutes long. They make sure to close the night with "Good Day," which has an ending rollicking enough to make people remember your band - whether or not you played a three-part opus about space travel in the middle.

Ra Ra Riot takes the stage with the gravitas of people playing to their friends, close acquaintances, and already converted supporters. If there is a single person in the room who hasn't heard their music, it might be shocking. Further, if there is a single person who hasn't heard their music, that person or those people are about to be leveled. Ra Ra Riot is pleasant on recording but they are positively electric in person. Somehow you can't put front man Wes Miles on mp3 and have him stay there until he pops up in your iTunes - he just doesn't fit. And it's not just a singer. This band, their bassist with his loping on-stage maneuvers, their charming string section and a guitarist and drummer who look like they permanently stuck in the best part of the day, and Wes Miles - these six people just won't fit in your stereo. Your iPod is woefully tiny for a band like this. And if you're not going to come see them live, you might not get it.

Union Hall is one of the venues where if you're not in the first three rows, you can't see shit. This means that roughly three-quarters of the 92 people in the room can't tell what's going on. Luckily, Miles, soars above the heads and puts his hand against the ceiling. He communicates in a million not verbal ways and almost all of them are overly dramatic. He mimes crying in some songs and pounds his chest in others. The bassist and guitarist lean against each other like two mutually dependent parts and somehow through all of this the band is moving the whole floor in a place where the back of the room is built to make you feel disenfranchised. There is something pouring from the stage besides sound.

The band closes with the song that contains the phrase that appears first on their website, "the dying is fine." Forget death for a minute, it's a beautiful image to depart with. If the dying is fine, it's only because this show has been so fucking alive. So for a quick encore, they play Kate Bush's "Hounds of Love." It ripples the concrete floor and vibrates the empty PBR cans sitting on the bar at the back of the room. And, like that, it's over. Like the whispered joke with which we began, from girl to guy, lips almost touching ear, we'll end with something shared and smiles from front to back.

[Photo by Andy Cotteril, courtesy of Myspace]

Live Review: The Thrills @ The Mercury Lounge NYC [11.9.07]

The Thrills are one of those post-modern bands that make your head hurt if you think about it too hard. They're Irish and have a huge Irish following. It's not quite The Pogues but the Mercury Lounge is easily a quarter-Irish on this Friday night. And, with all due respect, the 25-percent of the crowd that claims Irish heritage is predictably drunk and making themselves heard. But. The Thrills don't play Irish music. They play a sun-shiny version of California-pop. There is absolutely no connection between where they come from and what they play. This is art entirely detached from meaning. Don't even bother trying to piece this thing together.

What is connected is that The Thrills have a great new album, Teenager and they're in New York for the first time in two years promoting the release. They open with the album's first, and possibly best song, "Midnight Choir." We're pushing midnight on the Lower East Side and the Mercury Lounge is completely sold out and singing along. The band rolls into material from their first record playing, "Big Sur" and "Santa Cruz (You're Not That Far)." The songs are cloyingly cute and would remind you of The Beach Boys covering Neil Young's catalogue. There are some obvious limits to their earlier work.

But the new record is deeper and the sonic differences are many. The Thrills are willing to sound similar on all their three albums, but they're not willing to stay in one place. They use the mandolin prominently on the new disc and it seeps out of the Mercury Lounge speakers like a sunny June morning. The silky three-part harmonies the band uses to flesh out their arrangements also sound well-rendered and someone should probably throw the sound guy twenty bucks because he's making all this fit together.

The Thrills smartly stay away from most of the material from their second album, Let's Bottle Bohemia. It's the record that put their career, their major label deal, and their finances in jeopardy and it seems like they know. The sneak in "Found My Rosebud," and it sounds fine but they clearly would rather operate of the limited but charming first album and the more rich, if in places incomplete, third album. Teenager is a real ode to youth culture, the beauty and the beast of being young. For a band three albums deep in their career, it's a nice image.

Singing the chorus of "This Year," lead singer, Conor Deasy says over and over again "this year will be our year/this year will be our year." When the song finishes, he backs from the mic and says "thank you" with a little bow. There is something particularly gracious going on here. He's not kidding and he's not faking. He really is thankful. For a band back from the brink, with a good new album and a capacity crowd, it makes sense why. There's a connection there. Even if it is an Irish band singing California.

In and Out: Graphic Representations of Rap

No, not graphic like the scene in Get Rich or Die Tryin' when 50 Cent tries to act or when 50 Cent gets shot in the face. Graphic like graph. Like X axis and Y axis. I don't know who is responsible for this but it's worth a look.

Hip Hop Graphs

Live Review: Rogue Wave @ The Bowery Ballroom NYC [11.01.07]

Zach Rogue starts his encore the same way he started his career. He is alone on stage, representing something larger than himself. See, even when Zach Rogue was ostensibly a solo artist, he was already calling himself Rogue Wave. Not only was this an illusion to a large, unpredictable oceanographic force - it was a name for a band that didn't exist yet. As Rogue's solo debut, Out of the Shadows began to take off, he realized he would need musicians to play shows. You can't call yourself Rogue Wave without being one.

So Zach Rogue stands as Rogue Wave, accepting the invitation for encore, the rest of his band waiting back stage. He plays a few older songs acoustically before someone yells out, "Play 'California!'" Rogue looks caught. He begins sheepishly admitting that he hasn't played the song in a year and quote "I would really fuck up the guitar part and everyone would be unhappy." He is likeable and not in a way colored by the notion that likeability is important. He is just likeable.

So the crowd insists. Play "California." Rogue demurs again but with slightly less vigor. Quickly he's telling an anecdote about a similar situation when someone asked him to play the song "acapulco," a hilarious bastardization of "a cappella." So Zach Rogue agrees, he will play "California." And he will sing it "acapulco."

Rogue puts down his guitar and the lights in the Bowery Ballroom go down a little further. The last thing he says to us is, "You gotta help me out with this." So, standing in the darkness, he sings and we help him out with it. "California" is a beautiful song with instruments but it's positively chilling when sung by a room of 850 relative strangers. The last line, sung together, "so lead us there" is one of those moments that offers velocity and power from silence and stand-still.

The band spills back on stage and you could easily remember them playing their full set of songs earlier in the night. Some of the new album, Asleep at Heaven's Gate was on display and "Lake Michigan" proved to be every bit the song that's getting added on radio playlists around the country. Rogue Wave with a radio single? Oceanographic force of nature.

The night ends with a Neil Young cover that I and most other people can't place. The band places themselves at the top of their game. Rogue and his band are rocking harder than they have all night and look pretty far away from some of the ethereal acoustic pop that floods their recorded catalogue. But Zach Rogue looks pretty far from the solo artist who dressed up as Rogue Wave and sometimes we stand for things larger than we are.

[Photo courtesy of the irony and digital revolution of Noah Davis' iPhone]

Live Review: Shout Out Louds @ The Music Hall of Williamsburg 10.26.07

There is an undeniable level of immediacy associated with The Shout Out Louds - an emotional catharsis built on explosive evocation. Even their very name communicates a desire to express things quickly, vehemently, and exorbitantly. And if the method is to shout. out. loud: what then is the message? The Music Hall of Williamsburg, at about 90% capacity on a rainy Friday night was supposed to find out. Tell us what you want us to say, and we will say it. Tell us what to shout and we will shout it.

On their most recent record, Our Ill Wills (Merge), the band makes a plea for escape velocity. It is no coincidence that the first single featured a title that said "Tonight, I Have To Leave It." Even the infectious "Impossible" seems to express an inability to remember the familiar and a need to avoid the crippling stasis of a failed relationship. Perhaps the most sentimental is "Normandie" which urges us to "say goodbye to the people we don't know." Get up, get out.


But this presents some problems in the live environment. This is your concert and if you're so busy telling us to leave, what is our impetus to stay? Adam Olenius and his band have to tip-toe the lines between impermanence and togetherness. They want us here but, at some point, everybody will have to get on their way. Sound like a band who's been on tour for almost four years straight? Maybe a little.

Tonight they are tight and sharp and absolutely not messing around. They play "The Comeback" early and run through other favorites from their albums. Bringing out a female guest-vocalist for "Impossible" earns the silent disapproval of a few other females in the crowd. She has a silky-sweet voice and pants that go up to her breasts. She owns the hook on "Impossible" with the same quiet elegance it contains on the record. As the song tumbles into it's second movement, the whole crowd is mouthing or singing, "Impossible, impossible."


Olenius looks less like Jason Schwartzman than I remember and is commanding the room in an un-commanding way. When he sings lyrics with numbers in them ("and the last two weeks/were the saddest weeks") he holds up the same number on his hands. In other circumstances it would seem like cheap musical theater shill but, here, now, it feels communicative and good. As if the hand-gesture alone is adding a level of legitimacy to what is coming from his mouth.

It seems obvious they will close with "Tonight, I Have To Leave It." They don't but it arrives near enough to the end of their set to issue a "this has been fun but, like we told you, shit doesn't last forever." The Shout Out Louds head backstage and the crowd actually works for the encore. After all, the only way to fight departure is with anger or affection. We choose the later and soon enough the band is back. The play a quick-three song set and then are gone for good.

This is the second time I've come to see this band wanting to know what their message was - and it's second time I've left without quite knowing what or how they want me to feel. They are young and they are good. And, perhaps, so are we. Despite our need to keep moving and the desire to leave things behind, we can still share that in its totality. So, we say it - we shout it: We are young and we are good. But to share that for more than a night might be impossible. Impossible.

[Photos by Diana Wong]

CMJ Day 1: Once More Into The Breach, Dear Friends

It is 7pm on Stanton St. and already inappropriate things are happening. To my left there is a band, we presume, leaning against the wall outside Arlene's Grocery. Someone has stuck a camera in their face and is interviewing them about their record. No one seems to notice as their lead singer runs through some rock-platitudes and the rest of the band puts on their best Casablancas pose. No one actually seems to care at all. I put on my Gucci sunglasses and mock them openly. Absurd? Absolutely. It's CMJ, people - and this cluster-fuck is just beginning.

Downstairs in Arlene's Mixtapes and Cellmates are in the middle of their set. The crowd has horse-shoe'd around the back of the room, leaving a huge space in the front near the stage. This is classic New York bullshit. Kids from Sweden travel all this way to get crossed-arms, vacant stares, and "we've seen all this before" attitude. We push to the front and some of the crowd comes with us, or maybe they just can't see past our heads. Either way.

Mixtapes and Cellmates sound like a hybrid of The Shout Out Louds and The Postal Service. We joke, "It's the Shout Out Service" as processed beats from an iPod form the backing of every song. They have a female bassist who will, after their set, open-mouth kiss a man who we can only assume is her boyfriend. She has a wonderful voice and they don't really allow her to sing. The real lead-singer is doing a rip-off Alex Kapranos routine and then the mic-stand collapses and he has to bend over to keep singing. The sound guy fixes it with an attitude that says, "yes, this is my job but I don't have to like you or your music." Soon enough the set is over and Mixtapes will head to Milan for a show next week. One CMJ show might be just enough.

The Teenage Prayers hit the stage with all the energy of an over-sized sound-check. They have six members and this is turning into the set-change nightmare of the year. If I hear, "can I have some more (fill in the blank instrument) in the monitors" I am going to throw up everywhere. And that has nothing with the margarita and the beer churning through my brain. It is 8.15pm and I need to watch the Red Sox. The night is full of hope.
Four pint glasses of tequila, triple sec, and lime mixed with the Red Sox getting their faces kicked in and we're headed to the Bowery. We hear that they're not accepting badges which is, in its own way, completely bullshit. After some wrangling, we're in just in time for another two rounds of beers and Voxtrot's sound check. We've missed about five bands but it probably doesn't matter.

Voxtrot sounds great. I've seen them before but mostly in small clubs and bars. The sound was never good and mostly, the show was fun because their EPs were so strong and created so much buzz. I could never really picture them in a venue like The Bowery Ballroom without thinking how empty it would sound. Well, they've evolved. It was like they moved into a big apartment without enough furniture. They were playing big venues but didn't have the sound to fill it. So, they bought a couch. The arrangements are tight and explode in and out of chorus and verse. The drums sound great and frankly, this is making me like their full-length record which, previously, I had completely written off. They play no encore but allow the crowd to choose the last song. "We" choose "Start of Something" which is just fine but does reveal the ways their song-writing has shifted. We're not dealing with your father's Voxtrot. This band is re-energized, hungry and sound like they could blow the pavement of Delancey St.

And just like that we wrap Day One: A band from Sweden, a band with too many members, a baseball team with not enough heart, and Voxtrot, a band who have tasted both sides of the media's love and hate - and still play on. Let's do this thing, New York.

[Photos by Mina K]

In and Out: A Death of The Hit or "Closing Time" in a Modern Historical Context

We all come here for the same thing. We are all here in some form of the same pursuit of pop music. You can dress it up any way you like but the facts remain: Whether you like The Flaming Lips, The French Kicks or (and this should be obvious) The (fucking) Fray, you're all fans of pop music. Even the most hard-core, un-signed "indie" bands use a form, albeit at times a confused form, of pop song-writing. It is our one unifying characteristic. These are all pop bands writing, or trying to write, pop songs and we are pop fans listening or trying to listen.

So why are they so bad at it? Why are so many indie bands so bad at writing little pop songs? Where are the hits? And just what are they hiding?

Last week I was listening to my iPod Shuffle and in the midst of the 265 random songs, a shotgun blast-sample of my larger music collection, came through Semisonic's 1998 smash-hit "Closing Time." As far as I can tell there are two kinds of people in the world: people that like "Closing Time" and respect it's infectious 4-note piano riff, and then there are people who hate "Closing Time" and generally don't like balloons and puppies and sit in their basements listening to Pavement, bitching about that one time their college girlfriend asked to listen to Coldplay while they "did it." Fair enough? Good.

"Closing Time" is close or pretty close to being a perfect pop-song. You've got a catchy opening-riff, meaningless yet tautological lyrics ("every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end"), a memorable hook in the verse ("Closing time ...") and an anthemic chorus ("I know who I want to take me home"). It's an almost perfect storm of the last 50 years of pop song-writing and in the summer of 1998, we were all swamped in the middle of it. Semisonic's album was certified as Platinum and the band went on to never recapture their one most brilliant moment.

The problem is not that all bands should be able to write a song like "Closing Time" for it surely takes a lot of talent and little bit of luck. The problem is that talented bands seem to be intentionally avoiding trying to write a song like "Closing Time." What is the fear of the hit single? Even though we all can agree most bands are using pop song-writing techniques, there appears to be a desire to not write a catchy, radio-ready single. Does this preserve underground credibility? Sure. But ask Dan Wilson of Semisonic. Would he rather be a cool "underground" band from Minnesota that never made it? Or would he rather pick up his Feeling Strangely Fine royalty check every month and pay his mortgage and then blow a couple thousand dollars at Crate and Barrel? Exactly.

So why the fear of the hit single? Would it really kill your credibility? How much is that credibility worth in the first place, especially if it doesn't translate into album sales and band revenue. Does being credible necessarily mean being poor and unknown? Didn't you start your band in the first place to be heard? Didn't you want to play music for The People, not just for a few people?

All this means we have to ask some hard questions. Are these bands, talented as they may be, afraid of writing the hit single or completely unable to? Like a chicken shit sky-diver, some indie bands claim they don't want to write "radio music" when in reality they might just be scared to get out of the plane. What if the chute doesn't work? What if they can't fly with the bands who get their (so-called shitty) music on the radio? What if they actually can't write the hits they call "formulaic" and "three-chord monstrosities?" Are they too sophisticated to be so simple? Are they too elitist to be so popular?

We might never know. But when you listen to a song like "Closing Time" you wonder, where has the song-writing gone? And what the hell are you so afraid of?