Review: Menomena at Great Scott 3/27

I made the trip out to Allston on Tuesday night for the second show of the week: Menomena at Great Scott. I met up with Iris and Dave for a burrito and a few beers before heading over to the show. Doors were at 9pm and the line up was Menomena, Field Music and Land of Talk.

Talk about a night of indie music and indie people. Sorry, pretentious indie people.

Great Scott hasn’t changed much since the last time I was there. Walking in, you’re in a square room with a checkered floor. A big wooden bar runs the length of the far wall and tables, rails and barstools are littered around the room. The beer selection was decent. Jutting out of the main room was a long rectangular hallway about 20 feet wide and maybe 40 feet long, which opened up at the head and had the stage. The whole place is shaped like a dumbbell.

Montreal-based Land of Talk opened the evening up with a 40 minute (!?) set. They sounded like a poor man’s version of Rilo Kiley. I couldn’t hear the lyrics over the guitar fuzz. The drums and bass (Bucky and Chris) were unimpressive. The smoking hot indie chick lead singer Elizabeth Powell was the most redeeming part of their show. All in all, they sounded like a relatively new band trying to massage out a live sound while still trying to be relevant. They finished their set up and retired to the swag stand for the rest of the night.

Field Music (David Brewis, Peter Brewis and Andy Moore) is a UK-based trio that I checked out for a few minutes before heading over to the show. Their tracks sounded pretty interesting and I figured that seeing two good bands out of a three band lineup would make the evening worthwhile. Unfortunately, they were pretty benign. One guy I met at the show called them derivative and a rip off of Yes. (He was a little bit older.) Rather than trying to forge their own sound, they picked bits and pieces of other bands they must have listened to and tried to cobble it together into a mosaic. Unfortunately, I didn’t think it worked.

The drumming was less than inspired. It was just there to keep the beat and didn’t add to the sound. I suppose there is nothing wrong with that, but I challenge you to name me a truly great band that didn’t have a good-to-great drummer. It’s hard. And even bands that skate by on poor drumming make up for it another way. Take the White Stripes. Say what you will about them, but Jack White’s blistering guitar work overshadows Meg’s drumming and makes the sound work.

Not so much with Field Music. Dave and Iris disagreed with me and the random guy from the bar. But after the sound of the first act, anything was going to be a step up.

Menomena finally came out an hour after Field Music left the stage. The Portland, OR three piece (I guess that was the theme for the night) consists of Brent Knopf on guitar, keyboards, glockenspiel; Justin Harris on bass, guitar, baritone sax and alto sax; and Danny Seim on percussion. It was apparent from the first song that these were the professionals and everything up until that point had been wrapping — here was the real present.

What struck me most was the difference between the sound on the album and the sound live. I gave the record Friend or Foe two listens before the show. It felt slow and melodramatic. I remember thinking ‘Here we go again.’ But live, these three guys put on a show. All three of the guys sing, but Harris’s voice was the standout. The addition of the two saxes and glockenspiel to the sound gave it less of an Indie feel and more an experimental rock sound. Me likey.

Menomena played for about an hour an a half, finishing up around one. Although the encore was delayed because, as the band left the stage after their set, the drummer skipped out for some food. Harris and Knopf came back on stage and explained to the crowd: ‘This is probably the lamest encore you’ve ever seen, but our drummer went to get something to eat.’ They hung around until he got back, played their encore and strolled off to wherever experimental rock bands go after shows — probably a bar around the corner.

Review: Galactic at Paradise 3/26

Monday night was the first time I’ve seen a show at the Paradise Rock Club. What a venue. Saying the Paradise is small is like saying beer is good or the Cubs probably won’t win the World Series this year. The main room is at the end of a long skinny hallway plastered in posters for upcoming shows. (Seu Jorge, anyone?) After going through a small doorway, you’re hit by the stage. The room is rectangular and is laid out like the long, skinny Tetris piece when you want it to take up four across spaces. From the entrance to the front of the stage doesn’t feel like more than twenty feet.

On each end of the room there are two stairways that lead to a balcony level with mini-mezzanines on the way. As usual, I made my way upstairs to stake out a good vantage point to see the show. Luckily, I found a spot on the right side of the stage next to the soundboard — my favorite spot at any show. It makes for the best sound.

After grabbing a cold can of PBR (thanks for making this beer cool to drink again, hipsters), I started listening to the Delta Blues man Papa Mali play his opening set. A slide guitar player with long graying dreds and silver soul patch, Papa spent more time talking to the crowd than playing his guitar. It was a good set, but mostly unremarkable. After he cleared off the stage, the crowd uniformly had a smoke, got a beer, then started crowding the stage to get a good spot for Galactic.

After twenty minutes, Galactic steamed onto the stage like a river boat that had run out of liquor on its way to Mardi Gras.

Robert Mecurio, Jeff Raines, Rich Vogel, Ben Ellman and Stanton Moore filled the room with sound and energy from the first tenor saxophone wail until the last chord of the Hammond organ faded away. The first set was a tight improv set featuring Ellman on the sax and Vogel on the Hammond. Like a classic blues band, the rhythm section vamped while Ellman took his 64 or 128 or 192 bars before giving way to Vogel. The crowd undulated like a handful of beads flying from a balcony. But in this case the reward wasn’t titties — it was a blues/funk fusion that hips just couldn’t resist.

Moore, the drummer, took one solo in the first set and used it mostly to expand the beat he had been keeping behind the song while adding a few flourishes here and there. Mostly, though, it was just to let the crowd know that his solo would be coming and to whip the already dancing mass into a frenzy.

The first set ended with the tenor sax doing its best impersonation of Robert Plant as Galactic ripped off a cover of Kashmir before the crowd moved out to Comm Ave for another smoke, grabbed another beer and then found new spots for the second set. I moved from the right side of the balcony to the left for a better view of the stage and the crowd.

The second set started and the focus shifted a little bit. Ellman switched back and forth between the tenor sax, Bari sax and harmonica to change the sound a little bit, but the groove was still fast paced and the sound reached a new level of intensity. Unlike some other shows I’ve seen recently, Galactic never once slowed the tempo. There were no ballads or mellow pieces. From start to finish the goal seemed to be to get people to dance. And the whole time they were putting on a clinic of how an improvisational blues band works by passing solos back and forth, hitting bridges together and changing times.

Two songs before the second set ended, Moore got his chance, but not before Bonerama came on stage and played with the band. The incarnation that was at the Paradise was simple: a trombone quartet that took me back to the days of high school jazz band. The four horn players traded solos with Ellman before Moore stole the show.

The stage lights changed color and everyone cleared the middle of the stage as Stanton Moore arrived at the Paradise Rock Club in Boston, Mass. His solo lasted about five minutes and he played every snare, tom, cymbal and bass drum he had wrapped around him. At one point, with a grin on his face, he stood up behind the set, leaned over the toms and started playing the front of the bass drum.

The solo was impressive enough that it caught at least one of the professional musicians off guard. I noticed one of the trombone players was watching Moore a little slack jawed. When Ellman cued the rest of the band to move to the center of the stage again and start playing, this one lone ‘boner was the last to get his horn up and get back into position to play.

The band played one encore before calling it a night. Two hours and thirty minutes after the show started, it came to an end. I would’ve liked to hear another song or two, but after all, it was a Monday night.

Upcoming shows: Galactic and Menomena

After the weekend excursion to Philly, I’ll return to Boston in style with two shows next week. Galactic at the Paradise on Monday night and Menomena at Great Scott on Tuesday.

This will be the second attempt at checking out Galactic. They were supposed to play in Boston a month and a half a go but cancelled the show. The concert on Monday is their attempt to make good. Everything I’ve heard and seen from this band suggests that they will do just that. For those who don’t know, Galactic is a five piece funk band. I’ve heard bits and pieces of an album or two and saw them play one song on the Bonnaroo 2004 DVD, but this will be the first time I’m really checking the band out.

I don’t know anything about Menomena. It’s a cheap show recommended by Iris whose music taste I usually agree with. She passed along a Menomena CD last week that I still haven’t listened to yet. I’ll do that one the drive south Friday night.

Seeing a show at Great Scott makes me feel old. I haven’t been in that place since I visited Rachel in Boston while I was living in New Jersey. Another friend said of the venue’s former life: It used to be a Boston College frat house. I would agree. But by all accounts it is turning into a great place to see a show. We will see.

I’m pretty excited for these shows. I always get a little keyed up as a concert gets closer but there is something special about discovering a band by seeing them live. Granted, the opportunity for me to yawn, smoke and drink my way through the show because I don’t recognize any songs exists, but those shows where that doesn’t happen are always amazing — they take on a special meaning.

Buying a cheap ticket to a small venue without having heard the band before or even knowing their name only to be blown away… just thinking about it makes my pants a little tighter. Those are the shows where I wait in the swag line to buy a CD, throw it on in the car, and listen to it twice when I get home. Then I’ll rip it onto my computer and load it on the iPOD and listen to it non stop for the next week.

It’s glorious.

William Elliot Whitmore at TT and the Bears 03/08/07

Catching William Elliot Whitmore for the second time reinforced my opinions of him, his music and the show he puts on.

For the people that haven’t been to TT and the Bears, the place is tiny. I got my hand stamped (it’s one of those types of places I love) and strolled over to the bar. I ordered my drink and looked across the way and nudged Dave.

“You see that guy in the fedora? I think that’s William Elliot Whitmore.” I wasn’t sure until I heard him order another beer in that freight locomotive voice. I looked at Dave and nodded. “Yeah, that’s him.”

Rather than going over and bothering him – which I would normally do – we walked across the bar to stake out a good spot.

TT and the Bears basically has three rooms worth talking about. When you enter, you’re standing in a square shaped room with a square shaped bar in the middle. Immediately on your right is a half wall held up with thin pillars with a bar to rest your drink on while you watch the show. On the other side of the wall is a bigger room with a stage in the front and the soundboard in the back. Depending on the type of concert goer you are, you can either rest your drink on the stage and try and pluck a few strings or lean against the back wall and listen to the concert how the sound guys hear it. Off this main room is another room with a low ceiling, annoying florescent lights and two doors. One goes to the backstage area and the other goes to a small cocktail lounge.

Since we got there a little late, we set up shop halfway between the soundboard and the stage and settled in. I noticed that there was a beat up guitar and a banjo sitting on the floor near the backstage area; I nudged my friends, “That’s Whitmore’s set up. That’s all he takes on stage because that’s all he needs.” When pressed why he didn’t need anymore, I just said: because that’s all he needs.

He came on stage carrying the guitar and banjo himself, sat on a stool and tuned the instruments. He looked up and nodded at the sound engineer once then launched into his first song with nothing more than a guitar, his back country roads voice and his foot stomping to keep the beat like a pick ax breaking up rock.

Not everyone was there to see him, which was obvious. But the people who were there for him were transfixed. His growl and – self described – rudimentary guitar technique made the room feel even smaller. After the song he stood, genuinely thanked the crowed and tipped his fedora.

Then the most surprising thing of the night happened: people started calling out song titles. It’s pretentious to think I was the only person going to that show that’d heard of him or even owned an album, but, nonetheless, I was surprised. “Digging My Grave!” “Porchlight!” “Sorest of Eyes!” People were there for him. They knew his work and had favorite songs. Whitmore, to his credit, listened to each request and said, “Ok. Sure. That’s a good one.” Or, my favorite, “Hell yeah! I’ll play that.”

And then he did.

It was only a 45 minute set, but he played everything that was asked of him. I don’t know if he had a defined set list, but I like to think it was abandoned for the night in order to please his receptive audience.

The highlights were easily “Lift my Jug (Song for Hub Cap Cale),” “Porchlight,” and “Day the End Finally Came.” Each one of them was answered with a tip of the fedora before the his boot clad foot started beating out the time for the next, taking the audience from a cramped space in the middle of Cambridge, Mass to backyard fire in Iowa with corn stalks swaying under the silver light of the full moon.

Review: Gomez at Avalon 3/6

Ben Kweller and Gomez at the Avalon. Let the review begin.

Ben Kweller played for about an hour and twenty yawn-filled minutes before Gomez came out and got things going. The band played for about an hour an a half but, for some reason, kept the show at an andante pace instead of an allegro. That said, those guys can really split open the skies and make lightning and thunder rain down when they feel like it.

But for a six piece band with a drum set and separate percussion section, they sure did weenie-ify their sound last night.

The drum set was enormous and when it was active, solid. It provided the groove that the rest of the band comfortably slipped into during the set. I just wish the other guys — a conga player, three guitar players, bass and keyboardist — let the fills get a little bolder as the night went on. Instead, they tried to keep it restrained. It was almost like someone back stage said to the band: ‘The puritans used to live here. People are restrained the majority of the time, so please, don’t rock the city too hard.” And for whatever reason, the band acquiesced. Oliver Cromwell would’ve been proud.

The lead singer/guitar player, Ian Ball, was one of the highlights. He’s got a deep voice and still sings with just a hint of accent that most artists consciously strip out when performing. After all, if Eric Clapton and John Lennon sang with an American English accent, who is going to do anything to the contrary? But his delivery and crooning nature make me feel like The Replacements would gladly let him into their band to sing lead.

Oh, and he played the slide guitar.

I’d keep going and break down the melodic lines and rhythm guitar playing, the interaction of the keyboards with the congas, but I want to move on. To the crowd.

The lead single off of How We Operate got picked up and played on Grey’s Anatomy. Knowing this, I expected a lot of teenage girls to be swooning and singing along the second the band stared playing it. But it was an 18+ show. Instead of teenage girls it was middle aged woman. No joke. I think the average age had to be in the upper 20’s and it was pulled that high by the sheer numbers of cougars that were hanging out.

That said they played an eight minute rendition of How We Operate — the Grey’s song — that threatened to tear the Avalon down brick by brick. But of the 15 or 16 song set, it was one of six or seven songs that really rawked. The band tried to rock on some others, but most of the time they just stoned. Or pebbled — whatever you want to call it. It’s not that those songs didn’t have an energy of their own; it’s just that that energy failed to light up the rest of the room.

Overall it was a pretty good show. But it didn’t get to the great plateau that they could’ve easily hit.