Explosions in the Sky
March 20 at Great American Music Hall

Explosions in the Sky sold out three consecutive nights at Great American shortly after tickets went on sale. I was happy to attend and scope them out for myself—I’ve never seen ‘em live. They immediately transported me back to my college years, when someone very near and dear to my heart turned me onto them, along with contemporaries like Sigur Rós and Mogwai, a time when experimental post-rock made my world go ‘round.

Anyway, thankfully the show wasn’t oversold out; always appreciated when you aren’t packed into a hot venue like sweaty canned… whatever. Ew. When I finally found a vantage point to see the stage, I was transfixed, along with the rest of the audience. This was a show that had its fans not even whispering among them, except for a few folks on the fringes engaging in some quiet chatter. But for the most part, the audience was rapt, spilling into the vibe of the florid rush of sound unfolding before us. Two of the members play guitar and would at times sit on the stage, or crouch, while the bassist/guitarist anchored the stirring arrangements with really intense down strokes. The band is very much in tune with one another, and the drummer is sick (for the record, that’s the first time I’ve used the word “sick” to describe anything, but it just seems to fit). I was intently watching him, hung up on the way he drove these arrangements into the netherworld and back into our heads. As a whole, the songs would start slowly and rise together in these wordless compositions until they exploded onstage in a really intense wall of sound. Very cool, but, BUT they didn’t do any encore, nada, nothing at all.

Interesting side note: This crowd loved the merch table… there was a ginormous rush to buy stuff after their set, which I don’t see all that often. I, for one, got out of there to fight for a cab and went home to listen to some more music without words. – Angela Zimmerman

Watch: Explosions in the Sky [at youtube.com]

Jens Lekman
March 23 at Bottom of the Hill

Jens Lekman is throwing a party, and it’s all for you. He will sing songs for you—with his band, without his band, on the stage, off the stage, on the staircase behind the venue, with his guitar or without, a cappella. Just don’t film him. Please. This is special, to be shared between you and him, not with the rest of the world. Not with the internet.

“And really,” Lekman said, half-jokingly, at the start of his sold-out solo set at Bottom of the Hill, “Fuck the rest of the world.”

It’s funny to hear a performer with such a calming presence and charming demeanor feign animosity—a bevy of filmed bootlegs of Lekman’s recent tour are readily available on YouTube and elsewhere—towards a medium that’s certainly been kind to him. But then again, Lekman is an old fashioned kind of guy. He’s a people person, a capable performer that is unafraid to engage and involve his fans. Lekman likes things up close and personal, and that’s exactly the vibe he delivered on this evening. 

Lekman took the stage, accompanied by his percussionist, Tammy Karlsson, and his somewhat busted but no less beautiful-sounding Epiphone acoustic-electric guitar. He told the story of an awkward dinner at his friend Nina’s house in Berlin. He plinked out a cover of Arthur Russell’s “A Little Lost” on a kalimba, and played an excellent version of “Black Cab” that shimmered with bright guitar melodies. Most of Lekman’s set translated well to simple arrangements, but there were instances that begged for more, musically. Lekman employed samples to round out exuberant renditions of “I’m Leaving You Because I Don’t Love You” and “The Opposite of Hallelujah”, but the thumping bassline on “Sipping on the Sweet Nectar” was sorely missed.

In the absence of the horns, strings, and samples that adorn his studio work, Lekman’s songs took on a melodic strength that rested centrally on his sonorous, heart-melting croon, and his stellar stage persona. But it was the post-show rendition of “Cold Swedish Winter”, played in the outdoor courtyard below the venue’s backstage area that best embodied the intimacy of the evening. After playing the song, Lekman received hugs and gifts from fans. A female fan approached Lekman and asked him to sign her white sneakers. Lekman got down on one knee and drew silly faces at the toes of each shoe with a borrowed felt-tipped pen. Call it showmanship, sincerity, or value added—you won’t find keepsakes like that on YouTube. – Andres Jauregui

Watch: Jens Lekman [at youtube.com]

Jim White
March 27 at Great American Music Hall

Jim White commanded an aging, seated audience at Great American Music Hall Thursday night, and in between long monologues to the patrons he occasionally played a song. White has evidently had an arduous life, coming upon many a dark moment throughout his existence, and he often alluded to those periods, making a ton of references to his depression and speaking to a time when he was a suicidal New York City cabdriver, comparing himself to Travis Bickle from Taxi Driver. Well, that had my attention. He is a man who’s emerged from those bleak moments and now earnestly views the world with wonder, and he’s a little manic in his storytelling. But he just seems so clean now and unguarded… I mean, I like my singer-songwriters to embrace their darkness, not tell me about seeing the light—some of his material almost reminded me of Christian rock. He actually said, “I like to put one song on every album that children will enjoy,” which is cute and all, but I dunno, I want to hear more about his time as a lost and forlorn soul. Which is just complete selfishness on my part, I suppose.

As the very long performance unfolded I grew to like him more and more, and his music, certainly, is enjoyable, pure, the sort of folky, alt-country stuff that is a warm, welcome listen, but he literally barely played his music, he talked that much. Joining him onstage was a lady named Fiona who remained very quiet throughout the performance but complemented White’s guitar playing with her own and a lovely set of pipes that warmed the songs the way any honey-voiced folkie can do. To the left of White stood his other guitarist, an amiable guy in a very ill-fitting suit who apparently teaches fucked up kids in Nebraska. White disclosed everything to us, to insight into the lives of his accompanying musicians, from stories of elitist bathroom stalls, to the ignorance of music critics, to this to that to everything that went through his head. The audience didn’t seem to mind, but when I left I had a love/hate/meh feeling about the evening permeating my thoughts… would have been nice to get more music out of the night. – AZ

Listen: Jim White [at myspace.com]

Ray Davies
March 28 at the Warfield Theatre

The stodgy halls of academia maintain that efforts of formal reporting should never be written in the first-person perspective, but in this particular instance the fourth wall of journalism must be broken to reveal a certain bias: I love Ray Davies. From the early pop triumphs to the campy wilderness years, from the lofty peaks of arena-rock supremacy to a contemplative but no less fertile middle-age, Davies has done it all and remains a living icon. But not on the scale of Jagger or even Townshend, for his is the music for true connoisseurs, those that believe in rock music as art. That being said, he could have walked out on stage and told us all to fuck off, and I mostly would have loved him for it and told you all what an amazing experience it was. Thankfully, and truthfully, this was not what unfolded. For all of my fawning appreciation of Ray Davies and his music, I must plead ignorance about his solo work, for I also must maintain my fawning appreciation of Steve Marriott, Badfinger, beer, Paul Westerberg, and a whole host of other things and there are only so many hours in the day. My one assumption was that it was probably pretty mellow, but not in the AM Gold sense of the term; just kind of, well… not like the Kinks. And so I marched into the Warfield Theatre with approximately 2,000 other connoisseurs prepared to witness one of my heroes politely and flawlessly perform a collection of songs from his expansive catalog, pausing occasionally to share a story or two with the same clever wit that practically reaches out of his songs to smack you. Once Ray took the stage, it was clear I was right about two things: The flawlessness and the smacking. For nearly two solid hours (with one brief intermission) Ray and a band of youngsters pounded the stage and brought some of the greatest songs ever written vibrantly to life. Dancing and grinning from ear to ear, leading the crowd in sing-a-longs in the same voice that growled “You Really Got Me” over 40 years ago, this wasn’t rote performance of a greatest hits album. This was proper rock ‘n’ roll packed with all the shambolic excitement and vitality that is not often found in performers one third Davies’ age. There probably weren’t many in attendance that needed converting, but for me, Ray Davies confirmed what I already believed. – Braden Towne

Watch: Ray Davies [at youtube.com]

Turn Me On Dead Man, As A People, Flamingo Gunfight
March 28 at Rockit Room

After a party and some strange bus shenanigans across town in the Excelsior District, I was an hour late for this show, and it was just beginning. This was a lucky strike, as opener Flamingo Gunfight turned out to be the highlight. Their music lands on both sides of Nirvana: Butt-rock and Foo Fighters. Crunchy chords, catchy riffs, and a tight rhythm section accented by well-placed basslines made for an easily digestible, youthful rock: Song titles “Cock and Tail” and “Nothing Matters” bolster the young, disenchanted aspect of this outfit. Their featured MySpace joint, “The Awful Din”, is the band at its best.

The aural subtleties of both As A People and Turn Me On Dead Man were macadamized in the live setting by too much guitar. As A People’s drums were inaudible—but judging from the deft wristwork they must have sounded really good had I been sitting beneath the snare. Turn Me On Dead Man pumped along in fine form, but the psychedelic part of their program (keyboard patches) was swamped by the metal (again, guitar).

To be fair, this may not have been either As A People or Turn Me On Dead Man’s fault. For their closer, As A People requested some assistance from the Rockit Room’s soundman, who had disappeared. They forged ahead, but in a moment of balladry that involved unwrapping the mic-cable from the mic-stand, they knocked over said mic-stand, which seemingly struck a monitor and resulted in a wall of feedback. The bartender scrambled to find a soundman while As A People, undeterred, finished the number through the back-up mic. Few clapped as most had their ears plugged. The bizarre scene resulted in a near skirmish between Turn Me On Dead Man and the soundman (men?) who were accused of drinking and passing out on the clock. Whoops! Dead Man apparently commandeered the board and relied on the occupation of it by some pals, who must be forgiven for the shaky mix. – David MacFadden-Elliott

Listen: Turn Me On Dead Man [at myspace.com]

Daevid Allen & Josh Pollock
March 30 at Hemlock Tavern

“My name is Divided Alien, Bert Camembert, Sweet Cappuccino Long Fellow, Dingo Virgin… uh, I know there’s a few more sub-personalities you know… it’s a shame Bob Dylan copied me so…”

This is the way Daevid Allen, leader of psych greats Gong, blasted off. I was struck by how centered Allen was as he strode onstage in his white tuxedo jacket, flowing white hair meeting dangling grandpa glasses.

At 70 years old he’s that rare ’60s entity who wears those years blissfully rather than tragically. After the above intro (delivered in delightful Australian Gnome cadence) he launched into one of many extended psych jams. Allen had this mini-guitar, which he drug a tiny bow across to milk eerie notes.

He then read “the fuck rant” (”fuck dogs, fuck cats… fuck your terrorist paranoia”). After that he grabbed a megaphone and declared, “I am my own PA.” Jesus, this was great. It became more performance art. He would fuck up notes and make it into a joke. Whenever error happens to young bands they always freeze and start over. I was learning from the old master here… plow ahead. Whenever the class did bore he’d launch into a eulogy for rock music (“Goodnight, Bob Dylan #1, #2, #3”) or a whimsical song about owls, gnomes, and feeling “like a goat on a hill.” The audience didn’t seem to like it, but I did: “When you count my marbles / I hope they’re all there / But if there’s some extra / I’m willing to share.” – Brian Brown

Watch: Daevid Allen [at youtube.com]