Written by: Wireless Bollinger
Tegan and Sara take to Melbourne's Forum Theatre, and WB snapper Anthony Smith is there to capture the goodness.
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Tegan and Sara take to Melbourne's Forum Theatre, and WB snapper Anthony Smith is there to capture the goodness.
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With some bands, image and style clearly play at least an equal part in their success as musical talent. Such bands are either the best or worst to see perform live. With L.A. hippy-revivalists Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros their image did not stand in the way of delivering a top-notch set more akin to Dionysian revelry than indie-pop concert.
Rolling onto the Corner Hotel’s stage (through a haze of pot-smoke) in a whirlwind of hair, hemp and happiness, Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros burst instantly into a barnstorming rendition of album opener ’40 Day Dream’, with the crowd, urged by bearded guitarist Nico Aglietti, stomping in time to the pounding percussion. Frontman Alex Ebert, clad only in some long john underwear for the entire set, was as charismatic as he was befuddled, his drug-addled ranting not distracting him from hitting every note and making friends with half the audience by the end of the show. Indeed, the gig ended with about 40 lucky punters on stage with the band for a gentle acoustic rendition of ‘Brother’, an easy ballad introduced by Ebert as ‘a children’s song’.
There were a few surprises, as some more forgettable tracks from the album were given new life in live performance. ‘Come In Please’, another gentle ballad perhaps reminiscent of Harvest-era Neil Young or late-Beatles George Harrison really stood out as a highlight as did hippy-flashback ‘Om Nashi Me’, which was extended with a long a cappella exit.
Running through almost their entire debut album Up From Below in just over an hour, the Magnetic Zeros proved to be far more musically tight than their attitude would suggest, with every song performed nigh-on perfectly. The highlight was, predictably, the mid-set performance of super-single ‘Home’, one…
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There has been a disturbing trend in live indie music for some time; the spectator fan. As disposable incomes rise, many have flocked to absorb the cultural cachet that seeing gigs by relatively obscure bands provides, irrespective of actually liking the band. This tends to create pockets of ill-mannered fools at gigs shouting conversations while Sufjan Stevens sings ‘Casimir Pulanski Day’, much to the chagrin of those who had to save money to attend.
Brooklyn’s Dirty Projectors, on the other hand, offer such a confronting, warped vision of a musical future that they seemed to have warded off many of the pretentious idiots who hang at the bar, then flock forward with their high hair three minutes before the set begins. Thus, it was with an unobstructed view and an appreciative, communal vibe that Dirty Projectors utterly blew me away.
One of the points of critical agreement in an oeuvre replete with conflict is that Dirty Projectors are an R ‘n’ B band, but this had remained a mystery, shrouded in the myriad other twisted genres and cracked time signatures that the band employ. On stage though, about five songs in, and with Amber Coffman’s diminutive frame unleashing a Whitney Houston-esque vocal onslaught during ‘Knotty Pine’ from the Dark Was the Night compilation, it became abundantly clear. This, after witnessing Coffman and Hayley Dekle providing backing vocals complete with synchronised dance moves (both ‘synchronised’ and ‘dancing’ are used loosely).
Much of 2009’s extraordinary Bitte Orca was played with a syncopated joy that gradually filtered through to lift a Melbourne crowd still worn out from a long weekend and struggling to rouse itself for a Tuesday night gig. ‘Two Doves’, played minus the album’s violins, was a triumph; Angel Deradoorian’s lush, syrupy voice, barely accompanied by head…
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Arriving at the East Brunswick club to see Toronto’s Born Ruffians, I was filled with an unfamiliar mix of anticipation and trepidation. Seeing the Ruffians perform at the Laneway festival two days earlier, I was less than overwhelmed. They really weren’t very good. The three-piece with the booming, yet spacious, sound on record (aided primarily by drummer Steve Hamelin) came across quiet and almost sedate in the open-air festival setting. At the time, it didn’t feel fair and that Luke LaLonde’s nasal vocals and scratchy guitar would be better served in a different setting. Moreover, there was a distinct lack of flair about their set. The songs sound so frenzied through speakers, yet the performance was almost laid back, lacking the mania that was so desperately needed to bring the songs forth.
As such, I walked into the small dark box of the East both concerned and upbeat, genuinely hopeful that things would be better this time around. Things got off to a promising start, as locals Hot Little Hands put on a sterling support slot. Support acts often lack an understanding of their role – viewing their performance merely as a chance to promote themselves to a new audience that may overlap with their own. HLH, one of Wireless Bollinger’s bands to watch from 2007, continued their slow rise – undoubtedly winning over some new fans, but being more focused on revving the crowd up, maintaining upbeat numbers one after the next, and not relenting to the more indulgent let’s-play-our-epic-rocker mentality before closing the set.
With the crowd suitably warm, Born Ruffians took to the stage. Not to play, mind you, but to set up their equipment. There is something charming about seeing a band talented enough to score a spot on…
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On a wintry night in Boston at the Berklee Performance Center, a moonfaced man bathed in yellow light is swaying and rocking his head back in the wide open acoustics of the theatre, plodding on the ebony piano in front of him.
This husky man with the voice of a songbird is the gender-bending Antony Hegarty, someone who has been compared to the likes of Nina Simone, Bryan Ferry and Jon Thor Birgisson. Antony, however, does not live up to these expectations; he exceeds them. For the past 11 years he has crafted delicate tapestries of sombre, moving music with his delicate vibrato.
In a nearly two hour set, Antony and his orchestral group the Johnsons, performed a range of songs from their new album, The Crying Light, as well as some tracks from their previous two studio albums. During the performance, Antony took the audience on a journey nestled between oscillating violins and plucked strings, the whole theatre was enraptured in spellbound silence at the beauty of this performance.
Among the standouts was 'Fistful of Love', in which guitarist/winds player Douglas Wieselman veritably stole the show with a knockout guitar solo that crunched and fuzzed over a full theatre sing-along. In the delta blues-tinged ‘Shake that Devil’ unsettling drones from cello and some fine brushwork helped to set-up tension, with Antony coming in like an androgynous Muddy Waters, at once growling and soulful.
Indeed, there were few low points in this show. After a superb rendition of the new album’s title track, complete with some sensual snapping from Antony, he calmed down the crowd and said, “We always seem to have good luck in Boston to which an audience member yelled back, “I have bad luck in Boston!”.
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Watch Me Disappear may seem to have signalled a ‘change’ in how Augie March write music, but they are the same old band. The same old band with the same old issues…
Augie March took the stage for what would be a very haphazard – beautifully haphazard perhaps – performance. Despite the solid opening few tracks, one should not get one’s hopes up that an Augie March show will run flawlessly. First, Glenn Richards forgets some words… he looked to Dave Williams for support and ploughed on. Nonetheless, you could sense something was amiss.
While the majority of the set was constructed form the shaky bricks of Watch Me Disappear tracks, some highlights were the enjoyable ‘Pennywhistle’ and the always-touching ‘There’s No Such Place’. It was upon taking the sporadic and unenthusiastic cries of “Encore!” seriously and returning to the stage that the ‘show’, for all intents and purposes, actually began…
“That’s it! No More!” Richards lamented as he stuffed up for the second time during an otherwise pretty rendition of ‘The Slant’. Dan Kelly (helping the band out for the whole set) may have prodded him with an inspirational “just keep playing, man”, but Richards’ only response was “I can’t, I’ve already stopped!” Jeers, cheers, laughs and groans the crowd let off. I wouldn’t have been surprised if Richards had just strung himself up there and then, in front of a shocked audience ending his apparent misery once and for all.
Nonetheless, Richards didn’t destroy himself, and chugged along, producing not only a good comeback, but maybe the finest end to an Augie March show to date. The band finally seemed comfortable within the dreamy confines of the wonderful Strange Bird track ‘Drowning Dream’, and further…
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It was a suitably wintry night at Melbourne’s Palace Theatre for Seattle’s premier rock outfit Death Cab for Cutie to perform. Ben Gibbard strode confidently onto the stage, clad entirely in black and framed by Civil-War era sideburns in a kind of Johnny Cash meets Nick Cave homage. The rest of the band followed, and they opened with ‘Bixby Canyon Bridge’, the cracking introduction to their new album Narrow Stairs. The track’s instrumental section, rendered tonight with heavily distorted guitar and screeching bass, set the tone for most of the first part of the set, which, being dominated by songs from the ballsy new album, was far edgier than their lo-fi, nice guys of indie-rock image would’ve suggested. Old favourites were also given new life in this performance, with the sophomore song, ‘New Year’ from their 2003 masterwork Transatlanticism, performed with an unexpected rock anthem edge which was embraced by the crowd.
One definite high point of the set was a central couplet combining old and new with the acoustic ballad ‘I Will Follow You into the Dark’ brilliantly juxtaposed against the pure force of the new single ‘I Will Possess Your Heart’. Gibbard conveyed a more endearing version of ‘I Will Follow you Into the Dark’ than the stripped back performance on 2005’s Plans, revealing at its core his key strength in marrying stunning melodies with pain-wrought lyrics sans the sentimentality. On the other side, the image of Nick Harmer, a lone vision bathed in purple light in the centre of the smoky stage driving the melody with the raw sex of his bassline.
At their best, Death Cab for Cutie have the remarkable ability to transcend space and time. And from the opening chords of their anthem of yearning ‘Transatlanticism’ it…
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I was getting frisked. At a Sigur Ros concert. This was an inauspicious beginning. After two transcendent experiences at previous gigs, the stars weren’t really aligning themselves here. Festival Hall, venerable, spacious, sticky-floored temple of rock that it is, hardly lends itself to the near-religious event that Sigur Ros have proven themselves capable of. At previous seated gigs in proper concert halls they crafted momentous walls of sound, the Earth-shattering climax to Glossoli hitting the audience with physical force.
But this was a rock venue and, luckily, Sigur Ros’ most recent release, Með Suðí Eyrum Við Spilum Endalaust, is as close to a rock record the band have ever come. And frontman Jónsi Þór Birgisson certainly seemed to have got in touch with his inner rock god. Far from the crop-haired, plainly-clad lead of previous visits, Jónsi sported a manic haircut and a full body, all black denim number complete with cowboy-style tassels on the sleeves. More than ever before, the Jónsi show.
All this change in aesthetics was an unusual choice when the first seven songs or so were all lifted from Ágætis Byrjun and Takk…. When the first new track, ‘Við Spilum Endalaust’, was unveiled live, the contrast was stark, far more so than is apparent on the album. The bouncy bass, chiming keys and triumphant vocals were the sign of a happy band.
Towards the end of the opening set, more songs from Með Suð… appeared, most prominently ‘Inní mér syngur vitleysingur’, and the closer, single ‘Gobbledigook’ swept the band from the stage in a flurry of ecstatic hand-clapping from the crowd – this served to add punctuation marks to the thumping rhythm, as the horn players set aside their tubas et al to pick up confetti…
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Being new on the scene and on their first visit to the country, there was a sense of intrigue as to how Vampire Weekend’s sound would be translated to the live arena. After a polite greeting and strangely mediocre applause, drummer Chris Tomson pounded out the opening beats to ‘Mansard Roof’, inspiring the crowd. Lead singer Ezra Koenig matched this enthusiasm, and raised the performance with watertight vocals and frenzied guitar playing.
The set was predictable – it’s always difficult for a band with just one full-length under their belt to put together a truly engaging show. Finishing with arguably the band’s greatest hit, ‘Oxford Comma’, they then gave in and appeased the crowd’s calls for an encore. Koenig, however, informed the crowd they were running out of songs to play, despite the fact they had only been on stage for 40 minutes.
Given their performance in this brief set, time and further albums will very likely see Vampire Weekend grow into the stratosphere of the bands they are being compared with. While they are proof the hype machine can be right on the money, only time will tell if they are truly the great band people are touting them as.
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There just aren’t enough bands that allow two blokes to sing into the same microphone. But with their ‘50s doo-wop meets ‘60s roots, Melbourne locals Little Red fit the bill eminently. On Thursday, ANZAC Day eve, they headlined their first show at the venerable Corner Hotel, managing to do a respectable job of filling the decidedly larger Corner on the eve of a public holiday.
The evening’s festivities managed to expose more Melbourne music fans to the ever-growing talents of Little Red’s live show. It’s difficult to praise the performance of a band which Wireless Bollinger included in its ’10 Bands to Watch’ issue last year without appearing to be justifying some of the site’s own hype. But it is also difficult not to be staggered by the vast gulf in quality between Little Red’s earlier shows a year or so ago, and the increasingly professional outfit that strode confidently to centre stage.
With every performance, Little Red seem to have added new songs to their expanding repertoire, and the night opened with a number of tracks that were relatively virginal. In fact, the first half of the set was devoid of songs that once peppered their earlier gigs, tracks like ‘Waiting’, ‘Coca Cola’ and the centrepiece, ‘ Witchdoctor’, all having to wait their turn. Instead, there were songs like ‘Stare in the Face of Love’, and ‘We Get High’, each borrowing more from their Eric Burden-era Animals roots, rather than the café-from-Happy Days sound of their earlier days. Perhaps this is an indication of the overarching sound that will emerge on their debut album.
So, in the interests of shamelessly pushing the WB agenda, Little Red indeed remain a band to watch, although it is unlikely you’ll need to go to…
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Upon arriving early at Okkervil River’s sideshow at the Corner on a gorgeous, warm Melbourne evening, one wondered whether the diehard fans arrayed along the front of the stage knew of the sweaty, immersive experience they were in for. Will Sheff, Okkervil River’s frontman looked so harmless on emerging, centre stage, bespectacled and be-suited. Opening proceedings with a stripped-back acoustic effort seemingly confirmed this, providing a gentle introduction to the night’s festivities. Then, sometime between first and second songs, the glasses came off, and Sheff metamorphosed into a roaring, spewing, fiery rock ‘n’ roll deity.
Okkervil River’s great strength is the ability to write songs that could work as a simple acoustic ballad, then rocking them to within an inch of their lives. Sheff, possessed of a booming voice which alternates between dramatic croon and demonic moan, was the unquestioned star of the show. Taking tracks lifted equally from the entire back catalogue he delivered them as a firebrand rock preacher straight from the pulpit.
After opening the full set on a subdued note, Okkervil wrapped things up on a thrilling high, with ‘Our Life Is Not a Movie or Maybe’ and ‘Unless It’s Kicks’. Sheff howled his way through both tracks lifting what were already cracking songs to a new, thumping level.
With songs ranging from gentle balladry to driving rock anthems, Okkervil River treated a devoted Melbourne crowd to a set of impassioned, powerful rock ‘n’ roll, and Will Sheff, assisted by his own unique Texan Jekkyl and Hyde show, anointed himself as one of the new generation of rock gods.
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Sufjan Stevens is one of those artists who commands such a rabid following that he could rock up on stage naked but for a garbage bag, whistle a couple of rudimentary tunes, and then walk off to rapturous applause and the occasional fainting teenage girl. With a fan base like that, it’s immediately quite difficult to stage a bad show. So naturally, it was quite a surprise to find the opening few tracks, a combination of tracks from 2004’s Seven Swans and the first of the 50 States project Greetings From Michigan: The Great Lake State were something of a disappointment. Stevens’ pretty but faint falsetto struggled to compete with a five-piece horn section and even the die-hards’ applause seemed a little strained.
Then, four songs in, he busted out the title track from Seven Swans and everything changed. Explosive noise merged with gentle, meandering musings. The crowd began to warm up, applause became less obligatory, the visual aids (which were sketchy to begin with) began to kick up a notch, and Sufjan Stevens had officially arrived in Melbourne.
Following ‘Seven Swans’, things took on a whole new tone. The band unleashed seven straight tracks from 2005’s seminal Come On! Feel the Illinoise! and by the end the applause was anything but forced. After dazzling the 1500-strong Forum theatre with the improvised wig-out that was the album’s title track, the crew seamlessly morphed into stunning, low-key renditions of ‘Casimir Pulaski Day’ and ‘John Wayne Gacy, Jr’, throughout the course of which pins could be heard dropping all around.
Closing on the song that much of the crowd was positively itching to hear, ‘Chicago' was a fitting way to cap things off, allowing the brass section to take centre stage and…
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Terminal 5 is not for the faint of heart. Formerly known as the notorious nightclub Exit, the 3000 person capacity and triple-floor structure make for a venue that’s as imposing as it is uncomfortable. But in the oft-fragmented mosaic that is New York, it’s now a hub for bands that are less of the up-and-coming sort and more geared to those that have arrived. Native band Blonde Redhead fit the bill, having released their seventh album, 23, and toured throughout the last year in support of it, with this gig perhaps the culmination of the current cycle. Last May, the group packed the Apple store in SoHo, leaving the spillover crowd waiting outside in a block long sprawl. They proceeded to sell out spacious Webster Hall, returning in August to McCarren Pool in Brooklyn, and subsequently filled Terminal 5 to capacity.
Openers School of Seven Bells joined Blonde Redhead on their September trek, which took them everywhere along the East Coast excluding New York. The quartet is Benjamin Curtis, formerly of Secret Machines, Alejandra and Claudia Deheza, formerly of On!Air!Library! and James Elliott, who has recorded under the pseudonym Ateleia. The result was a spacey mixture of each member’s expertise. Curtis’ psychedelic-flecked band provided a template for pseudo-pop songs while Elliott’s electronic leanings were physically pronounced as he perched over a synthesizer. Meanwhile, the sisters’ haunting vocals dueled, and though their words were obscured, the strong melodies and pop sensibilities overcame any lyrical uncertainties.
In an inspired transition, the house soundsystem played Autechre’s ‘Dael’ to kick off the intermission, the song’s mechanical snarl a natural follow-up to the avant-garde quartet. But the minimalism didn’t last, as the sweeping fuzz of the Raveonettes overcame any thoughts of laptops. Bassist Sharin Foo and guitarist Sune Rose Wagner’s entwined voices…
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Bon Iver’s For Emma Forever Ago inspires a skewed sense of pleasure – a form of schadenfreude, or pleasure from the discomfort and struggles of others. To make the record, Justin Vernon holed himself up in a log cabin for months, and out of this experiment was born a spacious and skeletal, yet unbelievably effective record. Tonight, at The Forum Theatre in Melbourne, Vernon and his band brought to life the heartache that For Emma so beautifully detailed, and all in front of over one thousand screaming Australians.
You could be forgiven for thinking that Bon Iver’s show tonight was, on the face of it, completely out of line with the band’s aesthetic: rather than in the remote wilderness of North Wisconsin, they were performing in a theatre in an Australian summer. Any doubts, however, that the music could not work out of its initial context were put to rest by a phenomenal performance from a talented and most amiable frontman.
Indeed, the greatest thing Bon Iver showed tonight was that the minimal arrangements on the record can be translated into a realised live performance. The re-arrangement of each song to suit the musicians and the live environment shows that Vernon is not merely a musician of great heart and honesty, but significant skill and musical nous. Each track was so tightly performed, and so beautifully constructed, that the songs were given a new context. Vernon ventured into the heat this evening, and brought all his emotional baggage with him – the crowd could be thankful that this man can express such despair no matter what the environment.
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The violin is an elegant, grandiose instrument. In the proper hands, its wielder can be elevated above mere musicianship, to something akin to a minstrel, with all the majestic connotations that word can carry. Andrew Bird plays the violin exceptionally well, that he can do so while playing guitar, operating numerous loop pedals, singing and occasionally busting out a whistling solo, makes for an exceptional ‘solo’ show.
Sometimes a live show moves somewhat beyond the ordinary, and a performer can transfix their audience in rapt attention for an hour-and-a-half without feeling sore of foot and stiff of leg. On Friday night, Andrew Bird did just that, and when the final notes of ‘Plasticities’ wafted over the enraptured mass of spectators, people looked at amazed that so much time had passed.
Piling layer-upon-layer of plucked, strummed or bowed violin on top of one another, Bird and his cohorts produced an atmosphere that has rarely been heard in the august surrounds of the Corner Hotel. They took songs from last year’s Armchair Apocrypha, songs which were themselves atmospheric enough, and filled the room with them – as well as many tracks lifted from Bird’s extensive, and criminally undervalued back catalogue.
So by whistling, picking, strumming, bowing and singing, Andrew Bird completely won over an admittedly already partisan crowd, and made 90 minutes pass in what seemed like an instant. An incredible evening had passed, and a new moment had entered into the Melbourne musical folk lore canon. Even though 2008 was only 11 days old, Andrew Bird may well have provided us with the finest show of the year.
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