Originally published in the New York Press on November 7, 2007
There has never been a band more unfairly forced to prove itself than Duran Duran. Despite existing in one form or another since 1978, each of the group’s albums since its fourth have been called a “comeback” by the media. The stately manors the band has scattered across the globe might as well be stacked in a huge pile at the far end of Turning Point, because that’s where they’ve actually been living for all these years. But the guys are set to return once again with their latest release, Red Carpet Massacre, which includes a run of 10 shows over two weeks at the Ethel Barrymore Theatre beginning November 1.
The people who were irked by Duran Duran’s brazen coke-snorting, sport-fucking lifestyle back in the ’80s have never really been given a chance to gloat over its demise. Sure, there were tours during the lean years when the band played theme parks and when its albums didn’t even get worldwide releases. But through it all, Duran Duran—in name, if not exactly spirit—kept right on rolling.
And they still have it going on, the bastards. When daredevil singer Simon Le Bon married model Yasmin Parvaneh in the ’80s, pundits rolled their eyes and smugly said it wouldn’t last. Well, they’re still together, they’re still beautiful and they still seem appallingly happy.
The most sensible way to consider the career of Duran Duran is to break each milestone down into distinct chapters. Most recently, in the spring of 2001, the band’s career took an unexpected turn when rumors began to circulate of a reunion of the original five members. In July 2003, the Fab Five hit Japan for their first shows together in 18 years.
In 2006, the reunion chapter officially drew to a close. After recording an album’s worth of material, provisionally called Reportage, Duran Duran and Andy Taylor abruptly parted company.The band scrapped Reportage and began a completely new album.
To say Red Carpet Massacre is a turning point for Duran Duran now is a wild understatement. Their first album for Epic, 2004’s Astronaut, was a modest commercial success at best. After decades of a slow, methodical approach to recording, most of Massacre was finished within a year. And depending on whom you ask, working with Justin Timberlake, Timbaland and Nate “Danja” Hills on their new album is either a stroke of genius or a complete disaster. If Massacre is a flop, what happens next? Despite the obstacles in their way, however, Duran Duran’s new album isn’t a flop. Well, not an artistic one, anyway.
The album opens with “The Valley,” a tune with an unmistakably Timbaland-crafted beat that eventually turns out to be more Hot Chip than hip-hop. “Box Full O’ Honey” and “She’s Too Much” are sentimental and gorgeous and guaranteed to get the lighters and cell phones aloft in the crowd.
Sure, there are a few duds, though they’re mostly lyrical in nature, and perhaps unlike past efforts which recently earned Le Bon the No. 26 spot on Blender magazine’s “40 Worst Lyricists in Rock” list, they’re the exception rather than the norm. Nowhere is this disparity better illustrated than on “Skin Divers,” where the album’s worst line (the one about the “hoi polloi”) is immediately followed by its best. “Zoom In” is nearly sunk by essentially serving as an advertisement for the band’s still unfulfilled promises of a utopian Duran Duran paradise on internet-based virtual world Second Life. “Last Man Standing,” Red Carpet Massacre’s closing salvo, has a much tougher time. The melody works, but the lyrics are like listening to self-help guru Anthony Robbins re-write A Fistful of Dollars.
But those are minor gaffes in an otherwise excellent release. The roaring “Dirty Great Monster” features a sax solo that peels paint, “Nite Runner” is pure sex and “Tricked Out” is an instrumental that’s sort of like the Horrors as led by Esquivel or Danny Elfman.
Past albums—like the house-laden Big Thing—have seen Duran Duran hit upon a theme just as it’s slipping through the doorway, and while working with Timbaland and Timberlake may have become de rigueur as of late, everything here sounds fresh.
But will it work live? It’s a question Duran Duran must be pondering even now as they prepare to introduce Massacre with their run the Barrymore this week. The shows are being billed as an event (with tickets priced accordingly), not unlike the Beastie Boys’ recent instrumental shows, with fans being asked to dress up and walk a red carpet. But if all the pomp is for a celebration or memorial is still to be seen.
Showing posts with label New York Press. Show all posts
Showing posts with label New York Press. Show all posts
Thursday, September 16, 2010
A Thing or Two About Cool
Originally published in the New York Press on June 21, 2006
Carl Mello is something of a dandy. As senior buyer for Boston's legendary Newbury Comics, Mello's career depends on his ability to track trends in music and style. And while Mello's personal taste might not be reflected by popular culture, it's clear he feels music and style go hand in gloriously gloved hand. For Carl Mello, it's important for the music to look as good as it sounds: from The Temptations to Duran Duran, Roxy Music to Sparks. For him, the shiny jewel in the shinier crown is Martin Fry and ABC.
“Any group that isn't afraid to be Sinatra one minute and Hanna-Barbera the next can teach all of us a thing or two about cool,” said Mello, no doubt mulling over just which ascot he plans on sporting to ABC's show at the Canal Room this week.
Mello is by no means alone. Though they haven't troubled the U.S. charts since “When Smokey Sings” hit No. 5 in 1987, fans like Mello have recently packed houses for singer Martin Fry's reconstituted ABC, touring America for the second time in less than a year.
“I love them, really,” says Fry of the keepers of the fancy faith. “After 20 years, fans give you the reason to do it. It's a great privilege to get on stage and sing 'Be Near Me,' or 'When Smokey Sings' or 'All of My Heart,' and I never want to disappoint anyone.”
The three tunes Fry references are only part of the story. ABC had five Top 40 hits in the United States in the '80s, along with a cache of other fantastic songs that, thanks largely to Fry's caramel croon, are a timeless hybrid of Roxy Music and classic soul. If the notion that ABC is an '80s band doesn't exactly rankle, it's clear the lanky louche isn't thrilled to be lumped in with the synth-and-skinny-ties set.
“There's a lot of artists out there from that age, and it kind of makes me shudder,” said Fry. “There's definitely '80s cliches, but I don't feel like Kenny Loggins doing 'Footloose' or anything like that...But that's a great song!”
Though ABC had a brief flirtation with portraying themselves as cartoons (way before Gorillaz, incidentally), they're mostly remembered as the garish sophisticates on the cover of Lexicon of Love, their 1982 debut. To this day, Fry continues to look like the lost link between Motown and Saville Row, every bit as sophisticated as the soulful tunes he sings. “I've actually got a mate now that works off Saville Row, so he kind of sets me up with some suits every now and again,” said Fry. “I guess I've always had a very cosmopolitan look.”
Fry, along with original drummer David Palmer, has put together a band that remains faithful to the original tunes, while giving new songs from ABC's forthcoming album—their first in nearly a decade—enough punch to keep the Canal Room crowd's juices flowing. “We've been playing three tracks off it in the live set, and that's been going down a storm,” said Fry.
This is music to Mello's ears.
Carl Mello is something of a dandy. As senior buyer for Boston's legendary Newbury Comics, Mello's career depends on his ability to track trends in music and style. And while Mello's personal taste might not be reflected by popular culture, it's clear he feels music and style go hand in gloriously gloved hand. For Carl Mello, it's important for the music to look as good as it sounds: from The Temptations to Duran Duran, Roxy Music to Sparks. For him, the shiny jewel in the shinier crown is Martin Fry and ABC.
“Any group that isn't afraid to be Sinatra one minute and Hanna-Barbera the next can teach all of us a thing or two about cool,” said Mello, no doubt mulling over just which ascot he plans on sporting to ABC's show at the Canal Room this week.
Mello is by no means alone. Though they haven't troubled the U.S. charts since “When Smokey Sings” hit No. 5 in 1987, fans like Mello have recently packed houses for singer Martin Fry's reconstituted ABC, touring America for the second time in less than a year.
“I love them, really,” says Fry of the keepers of the fancy faith. “After 20 years, fans give you the reason to do it. It's a great privilege to get on stage and sing 'Be Near Me,' or 'When Smokey Sings' or 'All of My Heart,' and I never want to disappoint anyone.”
The three tunes Fry references are only part of the story. ABC had five Top 40 hits in the United States in the '80s, along with a cache of other fantastic songs that, thanks largely to Fry's caramel croon, are a timeless hybrid of Roxy Music and classic soul. If the notion that ABC is an '80s band doesn't exactly rankle, it's clear the lanky louche isn't thrilled to be lumped in with the synth-and-skinny-ties set.
“There's a lot of artists out there from that age, and it kind of makes me shudder,” said Fry. “There's definitely '80s cliches, but I don't feel like Kenny Loggins doing 'Footloose' or anything like that...But that's a great song!”
Though ABC had a brief flirtation with portraying themselves as cartoons (way before Gorillaz, incidentally), they're mostly remembered as the garish sophisticates on the cover of Lexicon of Love, their 1982 debut. To this day, Fry continues to look like the lost link between Motown and Saville Row, every bit as sophisticated as the soulful tunes he sings. “I've actually got a mate now that works off Saville Row, so he kind of sets me up with some suits every now and again,” said Fry. “I guess I've always had a very cosmopolitan look.”
Fry, along with original drummer David Palmer, has put together a band that remains faithful to the original tunes, while giving new songs from ABC's forthcoming album—their first in nearly a decade—enough punch to keep the Canal Room crowd's juices flowing. “We've been playing three tracks off it in the live set, and that's been going down a storm,” said Fry.
This is music to Mello's ears.
Black-Eyed Soul
Originally published in the New York Press on May 16, 2006
The second time I saw the Charlatans, I drank in the street, made out with two different girls, and handed singer Tim Burgess a string of beads, which he wore throughout the show. Next time around, I was a little bit older, though certainly no wiser, and I made out with my date before passing out in the street from drinking too much. Though she had to force me into a cab, help my roommate drag me up a flight of stairs and find her own way home through the dark of night, she wanted to go out again. As much as I'd like to think it was my boyish good looks or my stellar taste in music that made the poor dear long for more, I've come to realize it must have been the awesome healing power of the Charlatans.
Their story is legendary. Despite often being lumped in with early '90s Madchester bands like fellow countrymen the Stone Roses or Happy Mondays, the Charlatans outlived them all. Perhaps because of their continued existence, music nerds like me are forced to look upon the band's ever growing body of work as opposed to that one shining moment before they brilliantly flamed out. In the face of death, embezzlement, nervous breakdowns and a thousand other tragedies that would have killed lesser bands, the Charlatans have hit the mark more often than not, continually reinventing themselves.
Over eight prior releases, the Charlatans have dabbled with Dylan, dripped sleaze like the Stones and merged the soul of Curtis Mayfield with the disco of the Bee Gees. On the just released reggae-inflected Simpatico, the Clash's sprawling three-record Sandinista is the jumping off point, though the Charlatans have managed to condense that vibe into a single cohesive album. “Well, it's my favorite Clash record,” Burgess admits freely. “I love the variety of it. It's kind of like a carnival.”
The Clash are definitely there—witness Burgess' “Magnificent Seven”-style vocals on the equally funky “NYC (There's No Need to Stop)”—but uncharacteristically dark lyrics tread more personal than political ground. “Some of the lyrics are quite harsh for the Charlatans,” explains Burgess. “Though not by Social Distortion's standards.”
Perhaps the greatest comparison between the Charlatans and the Clash has been in the former's mix from the very beginning: It would be fair to say that bassist Martin Blunt and drummer Jon Brookes are rock 'n' roll's most underrated rhythm section.
According to Burgess, along with deceased keyboard player Rob Collins, Blunt and Brookes have always aspired to greatness. “I guess they wanted to be like the white Booker T & the MG's” he says with a laugh. “They wanted to sound like Stax Records.”
That undeniable beat first made its mark with the band's third album—1994's Up to Our Hips, Simpatico's closest relative in the Charlatans' back catalog. In tunes like “Jesus Hairdo” and “Can't Get Out of Bed,” (both of which have recently found their way back into the band's live set), the bass and drums are insistently soulful, but never intrusive.
“Blackened Blue Eyes,” the Charlatans' anthemic lead single from their new album, doesn't sound at all like the Clash. What it does sound like is four-plus minutes of everything that makes the band so essential after all these years: Burgess' breathy vocals and that fabulous rhythm section that includes the keyboards of Tony Rogers and a stabbing guitar line from Mark Collins, the Keith Richards to Burgess' Mick Jagger.
When performing live, the Charlatans are in an enviable position. Unlike most bands with nearly two decades under their belt, there isn't a mad dash for the bathroom when a new song gets aired, a testament to their staying power as an evolving force. “Even with the Stones, you want to hear the older stuff” says a clearly flattered Burgess. “I think our audience is genuinely interested in what we do now. We do a lot of thinking on our feet, and people like to see what we'll do next.”
“Even though we enjoy what we do, we try and better it every time,” adds Burgess. “We're still searching for that perfect note.”
The second time I saw the Charlatans, I drank in the street, made out with two different girls, and handed singer Tim Burgess a string of beads, which he wore throughout the show. Next time around, I was a little bit older, though certainly no wiser, and I made out with my date before passing out in the street from drinking too much. Though she had to force me into a cab, help my roommate drag me up a flight of stairs and find her own way home through the dark of night, she wanted to go out again. As much as I'd like to think it was my boyish good looks or my stellar taste in music that made the poor dear long for more, I've come to realize it must have been the awesome healing power of the Charlatans.
Their story is legendary. Despite often being lumped in with early '90s Madchester bands like fellow countrymen the Stone Roses or Happy Mondays, the Charlatans outlived them all. Perhaps because of their continued existence, music nerds like me are forced to look upon the band's ever growing body of work as opposed to that one shining moment before they brilliantly flamed out. In the face of death, embezzlement, nervous breakdowns and a thousand other tragedies that would have killed lesser bands, the Charlatans have hit the mark more often than not, continually reinventing themselves.
Over eight prior releases, the Charlatans have dabbled with Dylan, dripped sleaze like the Stones and merged the soul of Curtis Mayfield with the disco of the Bee Gees. On the just released reggae-inflected Simpatico, the Clash's sprawling three-record Sandinista is the jumping off point, though the Charlatans have managed to condense that vibe into a single cohesive album. “Well, it's my favorite Clash record,” Burgess admits freely. “I love the variety of it. It's kind of like a carnival.”
The Clash are definitely there—witness Burgess' “Magnificent Seven”-style vocals on the equally funky “NYC (There's No Need to Stop)”—but uncharacteristically dark lyrics tread more personal than political ground. “Some of the lyrics are quite harsh for the Charlatans,” explains Burgess. “Though not by Social Distortion's standards.”
Perhaps the greatest comparison between the Charlatans and the Clash has been in the former's mix from the very beginning: It would be fair to say that bassist Martin Blunt and drummer Jon Brookes are rock 'n' roll's most underrated rhythm section.
According to Burgess, along with deceased keyboard player Rob Collins, Blunt and Brookes have always aspired to greatness. “I guess they wanted to be like the white Booker T & the MG's” he says with a laugh. “They wanted to sound like Stax Records.”
That undeniable beat first made its mark with the band's third album—1994's Up to Our Hips, Simpatico's closest relative in the Charlatans' back catalog. In tunes like “Jesus Hairdo” and “Can't Get Out of Bed,” (both of which have recently found their way back into the band's live set), the bass and drums are insistently soulful, but never intrusive.
“Blackened Blue Eyes,” the Charlatans' anthemic lead single from their new album, doesn't sound at all like the Clash. What it does sound like is four-plus minutes of everything that makes the band so essential after all these years: Burgess' breathy vocals and that fabulous rhythm section that includes the keyboards of Tony Rogers and a stabbing guitar line from Mark Collins, the Keith Richards to Burgess' Mick Jagger.
When performing live, the Charlatans are in an enviable position. Unlike most bands with nearly two decades under their belt, there isn't a mad dash for the bathroom when a new song gets aired, a testament to their staying power as an evolving force. “Even with the Stones, you want to hear the older stuff” says a clearly flattered Burgess. “I think our audience is genuinely interested in what we do now. We do a lot of thinking on our feet, and people like to see what we'll do next.”
“Even though we enjoy what we do, we try and better it every time,” adds Burgess. “We're still searching for that perfect note.”
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Under the Covers
Published in the New York Press on April 28, 2010
Think of your favorite band. Not the speed metal trio that only wears Snuggies when playing basement parties, and not that same trio back when it was a jugband quintet with a DJ, either. Think of your favorite band at least 20 other people have heard of. Got it? Well, chances are there are people out there who like that band enough to start another band just to love the first band more completely.
Think of your favorite band. Not the speed metal trio that only wears Snuggies when playing basement parties, and not that same trio back when it was a jugband quintet with a DJ, either. Think of your favorite band at least 20 other people have heard of. Got it? Well, chances are there are people out there who like that band enough to start another band just to love the first band more completely.
Tribute acts are big business, and not just as Elvis or Madonna impersonations in Las Vegas, either. New York City is lousy with them, with shows regularly performed at everywhere from B.B. King Blues Club & Grill to the Canal Room to Otto’s Shrunken Head.
“I think people like it because they get to hear the music of their favorite bands easily and hear it up close, and for a much less expensive ticket,” says Marcus Linial, owner of the Canal Room. “Most of the concert tickets, you go see some of these big name acts, Billy Joel, it’s $150. Big Shot is here for $15.”
Linial, it should be noted, is also coowner of Fun Music Agency (FMA), a Brooklyn-based company whose website boasts a clientele of hip-hop pioneers like Doug E. Fresh and the Original Sugar Hill Gang. FMA also handles nine tribute acts, most of which look and sound the part. Bruce in the USA, Bon Jersey and Coldplayers all make the association easy even in print, though like all the tribute acts on FMA’s roster, it’s also about “music, mannerisms, showmanship and production.”
Earlier this year, the Canal Room hosted a Haitian relief concert with Invisible Sun (The Police), Unforgettable Fire (U2), Voyage (Journey) and Rubix Kube, the venue’s weekly all-purpose ’80s tribute. While it’s difficult to imagine Journey and U2 ever having taken the stage together during their shared heyday, Linial says audiences for tribute shows are less precious about mixing and matching.
“I think 20 years ago, Journey fans and U2 fans were not the same fans,” he says. “But I think that today, I’m 41 years old, and the 32-year-olds that come to the show, I think that they’re open to hearing ‘Faithfully’ and ‘Where the Streets Have No Name’ on the same night.”
A similarly incongruous mix of initial styles worked well at a late January show at Brooklyn Bowl, one that featured tribute bands with tongues more firmly planted in cheek. Even after headliner Dangerous (metal tribute to Michael Jackson) canceled, Judas Priestess and Cheap Trick or Treat laid waste to the stage.
Judas Priestess headlined the night, and while it’s only a few shows old, the all-girl tribute to Britain’s sexually ambiguous metal legends seemed fully formed. As with many tribute bands, Judas Priestess combines gimmick with chops, and all with a name so perfect, it’s hard to imagine why it took 30 years for someone to put it all together.
On paper, it seems unlikely.
Fortunately for the fans of Judas Priestess, the performance—a combination of showmanship, skill and balls-out rock—takes place in the actual world, where it hits squarely in the face.
Frontwoman MilitiA’s road to performing in a tribute band primarily differs from some of the others the New York Press spoke to in the details. While it might be tempting for music elitists to believe the performers in these acts are washed up notalents, the truth is rather different.
In her youth, MilitiA went to a Maryland Catholic school and showed early proficiency as a concert pianist, eventually studying at the Peabody Institute and the Boston Conservatory of Music. It was during this period that her true ambitions finally surfaced.
“I kind of looked around and was like, ‘I want to play rock ‘n’ roll, this shit is boring,’” she says, noting that the transformation was finally complete when a guy she was dating joined an industrial band with a female singer who just wasn’t cutting it.
“I said, ‘I want to be in a band, get rid of that bitch,’” she says. “That was the start of everything.”
MilitiA, who still performs with her originals band, Swear on Your Life, answered a Craigslist ad for Judas Priestess, and after the group rehearsed “Hellbent For Leather,” she knew she’d found the perfect fit. Fortunately, local fans seem to agree, including a tall leather-bound gentleman in a crisp Judas Priest shirt who soaked up every second of the Brooklyn Bowl performance.
“I would say a big part of our audience is these guys that have been seeing Priest since 1983,” says MilitiA. “Priest fans are die-hard. If they fucking love it, then I know we’re doing our job.
Judas Priestess also gained approval of another key member of the Judas Priest fandom: the band’s singer, Rob Halford, who the band met on the set of VH1’s That Metal Show.
“He’s like my heavy metal father now, and I’ve got to do him justice” MilitiA says.
My Ears Are Still Ringing
Originally published in the New York Press on September 23, 2008
Earlier this year, former Creations Records honcho Alan McGee labeled the My Bloody Valentine reunion tour “nostalgic cabaret,” presumably an insult. And while McGee—the man who apparently lost his finely tailored shirt resulting from extended recording sessions for seminal album Loveless—may not offer an unbiased opinion, there’s still some truth in what he says.
The classic My Bloody Valentine lineup played the first of two shows at Roseland Ballroom on Monday night, hot off the heels of its Catskills triumph at All Tomorrow’s Parties. And while the band’s setlist picks up where it left off before going on a long hiatus in the early ‘90s, it was so ahead of its time back then, that maybe its taken all this time for us to catch up.
Ideally, one could avoid the cliche of speaking about the volume when recalling a My Bloody Valentine show. It’s in every review, and this isn’t going to be any different. And to be fair, earplugs were being handed out at the door.
Hours later, my ears are still ringing, though not to the point of distraction.
On record, My Bloody Valentine is a collage of sound, shimmering samples here, guitar wizardry there, vocals a hushed tickle up the spine buried somewhere deep within the mix. Live, the dynamics are mostly the same, though amped up well past 11. Even in cavernous Roseland, the sound hits everywhere.
Classics like Loveless-opener “Only Shallow” and “Feed Me With Your Kiss” are ferociously beautiful, like receiving flowers on the front of a freight train. The wall of sound was so forceful, it was like being lifted off the ground, only to crash back down when the music ended.
Kevin Shields, the band’s Brian Wilson-esque resident genius, offered little in the way of stage banter, though it didn’t much matter. It all came out as gibberish, lost in the internal echoes of the prior song turning one’s skull to dust.
With the sonic velocity of the guitars, vocals were even more lost than usual, a minor quibble when the music is familiar enough to hear them in phantom form. And with the band mostly bathed only in the light of a series of song-specific collages, and their haircuts pretty much the same as they were the last time they hit U.S. stages more than 15 years ago, it was easy to immerse one’s self in nostalgia, even if it’s, as McGee said, a bit of cabaret.
Even with aural protection readily available, there were many in the sold out crowd who were caught unawares, holding their hands over their ears. At no point was this more apparent than during set closer, “You Made Me Realise” an early single that features a brief white noise interlude. That section of the song became notorious during the band’s initial heyday, as it would stretch it out to agonizing length. At Roseland on Monday, the white noise was a brutal 20-minute assault, overwhelming the sound of countless jaws hitting the floor.
Where My Bloody Valentine go from here is anyone’s guess. [Following the tour, MBV plans to head to the studio to finally record the follow up to their now legendary '91 release Loveless.] But for now, it’s worth having the band come back to remind us why it mattered to long ago, and why it still does in its own way.
Earlier this year, former Creations Records honcho Alan McGee labeled the My Bloody Valentine reunion tour “nostalgic cabaret,” presumably an insult. And while McGee—the man who apparently lost his finely tailored shirt resulting from extended recording sessions for seminal album Loveless—may not offer an unbiased opinion, there’s still some truth in what he says.
The classic My Bloody Valentine lineup played the first of two shows at Roseland Ballroom on Monday night, hot off the heels of its Catskills triumph at All Tomorrow’s Parties. And while the band’s setlist picks up where it left off before going on a long hiatus in the early ‘90s, it was so ahead of its time back then, that maybe its taken all this time for us to catch up.
Ideally, one could avoid the cliche of speaking about the volume when recalling a My Bloody Valentine show. It’s in every review, and this isn’t going to be any different. And to be fair, earplugs were being handed out at the door.
Hours later, my ears are still ringing, though not to the point of distraction.
On record, My Bloody Valentine is a collage of sound, shimmering samples here, guitar wizardry there, vocals a hushed tickle up the spine buried somewhere deep within the mix. Live, the dynamics are mostly the same, though amped up well past 11. Even in cavernous Roseland, the sound hits everywhere.
Classics like Loveless-opener “Only Shallow” and “Feed Me With Your Kiss” are ferociously beautiful, like receiving flowers on the front of a freight train. The wall of sound was so forceful, it was like being lifted off the ground, only to crash back down when the music ended.
Kevin Shields, the band’s Brian Wilson-esque resident genius, offered little in the way of stage banter, though it didn’t much matter. It all came out as gibberish, lost in the internal echoes of the prior song turning one’s skull to dust.
With the sonic velocity of the guitars, vocals were even more lost than usual, a minor quibble when the music is familiar enough to hear them in phantom form. And with the band mostly bathed only in the light of a series of song-specific collages, and their haircuts pretty much the same as they were the last time they hit U.S. stages more than 15 years ago, it was easy to immerse one’s self in nostalgia, even if it’s, as McGee said, a bit of cabaret.
Even with aural protection readily available, there were many in the sold out crowd who were caught unawares, holding their hands over their ears. At no point was this more apparent than during set closer, “You Made Me Realise” an early single that features a brief white noise interlude. That section of the song became notorious during the band’s initial heyday, as it would stretch it out to agonizing length. At Roseland on Monday, the white noise was a brutal 20-minute assault, overwhelming the sound of countless jaws hitting the floor.
Where My Bloody Valentine go from here is anyone’s guess. [Following the tour, MBV plans to head to the studio to finally record the follow up to their now legendary '91 release Loveless.] But for now, it’s worth having the band come back to remind us why it mattered to long ago, and why it still does in its own way.
Vampire Weekend at, uh, Barnes & Noble
Originally published by the New York Press on January 22, 2010
It wasn’t clear when exactly Vampire Weekend was booked to perform as part of Barnes & Noble’s Upstairs at the Square series. Surely it happened well before the band’s new album, Contra, topped the charts upon release. That’s not the college rock charts or one of the other charmingly quaint but ultimately meaningless charts cooked up over the past few decades to make sure everyone releasing an album in any genre got a big, warm hug. No, as the band dutifully took to the stage on Thursday night, Vampire Weekend had the top selling album in the entire country.
One of the larger Barnes & Noble bookstores in the city, the four-story location in Union Square is ideally suited for the series, which matches writers and musicians for an hour of music and conversation. The fourth-floor event space nestled between the history and music books is routinely stuffed with rows of chairs, and it’s clear someone at the venerable bookstore had caught wind of the Billboard and iTunes charts, because they’d added even more chairs and a rudimentary system of theater ropes that for a less-polite atmosphere would have proved entirely useless to hold the wolves at bay. In the case of Vampire Weekend—paired with Ghanaian-born, Jamaican-raised poet Kwame Dawes—the ropes did their job, even as the band’s fans continued piling up the escalator and weaving their way further and further toward the back of the cavernous room.
Host Katherine Lanpher stuck to the script, asking a clumsily crafted question about Contra that attempted to frame it in the construct of the evening before the band broke into an acoustic version of “Horchata,” the first official salvo from the album which dropped as a free download on the group’s website.
It’s an assumption one has to make, even with a band thats album is such a runaway success: If you’re unfamiliar with Vampire Weekend’s music, it’s sort of an intellectual mix of new wave and African influences. When the debut arrived two years ago, it polarized indie nerds, some of whom were repelled by the proudly Ivy League with the willfully ridiculous name and the smug Benetton-geared mix of music and fashion. Others lightened the fuck up and bought it hook, line and sinker. It was January then, and cold, and the enthusiasm and homogenized exoticism in the music felt like several rays of sunshine at just the right time. The formula worked well enough then that the band repeated the process this time around, both in the musical aesthetic and in timing the release to arrive when a bit of warmth can go a long way. And clearly it went a long way this time around.
When Vampire Weekend plays its music, as it did at the Bowery Ballroom two nights earlier and on the stage at Barnes & Noble, the group’s charm is undeniable. Frontman Ezra Koenig is kind of a spaz, but an effective one, and the wide smile on drummer Chris Tomson’s face as he stumbles through semi-complex rhythms on a floor tom and tambourine makes it hard not to root for these guys. It helps that the music is not only catchy, but also rather good.
It very nearly didn’t work during Thursday night’s show. Vampire Weekend’s success brought with it too many fans, not only for the space, but for an event that relies heavily on both the sophistication and grace of its audience. Past performances, available for viewing as this will soon be, on the Barnes & Noble website, show a reserved crowd who buys into the inherent pretensions of the whole thing. It feels like a television show, one shown on PBS. And for the hundreds of kids craning their necks over bookshelves for a glance at their new indie heroes, PBS is meaningless. They wanted to scream and maybe dance a little. They didn’t want an intellectual discourse. They wanted Vampire Weekend. And that’s what they got, but not without Dawes.
It didn’t look like it was going to work, but then it did, and credit should go not only to Vampire Weekend, but also to Dawes, a charismatic poet who earned the respect of at the very least the kids up front by reciting a handful of poems, the best of which, “A Caliban is Born”, was based on Shakespeare. More importantly, Dawes included Vampire Weekend in his conversation, and the crowd. It was enough for the roughly 200 people up near the front to sit and take notice, though a disrespectful murmur from the back of the room continued throughout.
In all, Vampire Weekend performed just four songs, all acoustic, and all quite effective in their stripped down forms. “White Sky,” which the band has been playing out for more than two years followed “Horchata,” and two songs from the first record, “Oxford Comma” and “Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa” closed out the event to as rapturous a response as the fourth floor is ever likely to hear.
The band not only sold itself through their music, but also through conversation. Multi-instrumentalist Rostam Batmanglij recalled a conversation with Paul Simon on the set of Saturday Night Live in which the legendary artist absolved Vampire Weekend of having bitten Graceland, and Koenig described Dawes’ favorite Contratrack, “Diplomat’s Son”, as having begun life as “a weird, violent boarding school revenge fantasy.”
While it sometimes felt as though half of Manhattan was there on the fourth floor, not all fans of Vampire Weekend made the trip all the way up. Nine-year old fan Nolan Smith talked his mother Tamara into bringing him to the event, but he was distracted by the Pokemon Ultimate Handbook and never made it past the second floor. Still, he enjoyed the music.
“They sounded good,” said Nolan. “They sounded just like the iPod.”
It didn’t seem as though it was going to work, but then it did. And for all their talk of being able to play the kind of small venues they came up through in addition to larger theaters, it looks as though the latter is the direction in which Vampire Weekend is heading. The crowd at Barnes & Noble showed a little taste of that, and to their credit, Vampire Weekend somehow managed to retain a sense of crowd intimacy in spite of the size. It worked against the odds on Thursday night, and it should serve the group well heading into the future.
It wasn’t clear when exactly Vampire Weekend was booked to perform as part of Barnes & Noble’s Upstairs at the Square series. Surely it happened well before the band’s new album, Contra, topped the charts upon release. That’s not the college rock charts or one of the other charmingly quaint but ultimately meaningless charts cooked up over the past few decades to make sure everyone releasing an album in any genre got a big, warm hug. No, as the band dutifully took to the stage on Thursday night, Vampire Weekend had the top selling album in the entire country.
One of the larger Barnes & Noble bookstores in the city, the four-story location in Union Square is ideally suited for the series, which matches writers and musicians for an hour of music and conversation. The fourth-floor event space nestled between the history and music books is routinely stuffed with rows of chairs, and it’s clear someone at the venerable bookstore had caught wind of the Billboard and iTunes charts, because they’d added even more chairs and a rudimentary system of theater ropes that for a less-polite atmosphere would have proved entirely useless to hold the wolves at bay. In the case of Vampire Weekend—paired with Ghanaian-born, Jamaican-raised poet Kwame Dawes—the ropes did their job, even as the band’s fans continued piling up the escalator and weaving their way further and further toward the back of the cavernous room.
Host Katherine Lanpher stuck to the script, asking a clumsily crafted question about Contra that attempted to frame it in the construct of the evening before the band broke into an acoustic version of “Horchata,” the first official salvo from the album which dropped as a free download on the group’s website.
It’s an assumption one has to make, even with a band thats album is such a runaway success: If you’re unfamiliar with Vampire Weekend’s music, it’s sort of an intellectual mix of new wave and African influences. When the debut arrived two years ago, it polarized indie nerds, some of whom were repelled by the proudly Ivy League with the willfully ridiculous name and the smug Benetton-geared mix of music and fashion. Others lightened the fuck up and bought it hook, line and sinker. It was January then, and cold, and the enthusiasm and homogenized exoticism in the music felt like several rays of sunshine at just the right time. The formula worked well enough then that the band repeated the process this time around, both in the musical aesthetic and in timing the release to arrive when a bit of warmth can go a long way. And clearly it went a long way this time around.
When Vampire Weekend plays its music, as it did at the Bowery Ballroom two nights earlier and on the stage at Barnes & Noble, the group’s charm is undeniable. Frontman Ezra Koenig is kind of a spaz, but an effective one, and the wide smile on drummer Chris Tomson’s face as he stumbles through semi-complex rhythms on a floor tom and tambourine makes it hard not to root for these guys. It helps that the music is not only catchy, but also rather good.
It very nearly didn’t work during Thursday night’s show. Vampire Weekend’s success brought with it too many fans, not only for the space, but for an event that relies heavily on both the sophistication and grace of its audience. Past performances, available for viewing as this will soon be, on the Barnes & Noble website, show a reserved crowd who buys into the inherent pretensions of the whole thing. It feels like a television show, one shown on PBS. And for the hundreds of kids craning their necks over bookshelves for a glance at their new indie heroes, PBS is meaningless. They wanted to scream and maybe dance a little. They didn’t want an intellectual discourse. They wanted Vampire Weekend. And that’s what they got, but not without Dawes.
It didn’t look like it was going to work, but then it did, and credit should go not only to Vampire Weekend, but also to Dawes, a charismatic poet who earned the respect of at the very least the kids up front by reciting a handful of poems, the best of which, “A Caliban is Born”, was based on Shakespeare. More importantly, Dawes included Vampire Weekend in his conversation, and the crowd. It was enough for the roughly 200 people up near the front to sit and take notice, though a disrespectful murmur from the back of the room continued throughout.
In all, Vampire Weekend performed just four songs, all acoustic, and all quite effective in their stripped down forms. “White Sky,” which the band has been playing out for more than two years followed “Horchata,” and two songs from the first record, “Oxford Comma” and “Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa” closed out the event to as rapturous a response as the fourth floor is ever likely to hear.
The band not only sold itself through their music, but also through conversation. Multi-instrumentalist Rostam Batmanglij recalled a conversation with Paul Simon on the set of Saturday Night Live in which the legendary artist absolved Vampire Weekend of having bitten Graceland, and Koenig described Dawes’ favorite Contratrack, “Diplomat’s Son”, as having begun life as “a weird, violent boarding school revenge fantasy.”
While it sometimes felt as though half of Manhattan was there on the fourth floor, not all fans of Vampire Weekend made the trip all the way up. Nine-year old fan Nolan Smith talked his mother Tamara into bringing him to the event, but he was distracted by the Pokemon Ultimate Handbook and never made it past the second floor. Still, he enjoyed the music.
“They sounded good,” said Nolan. “They sounded just like the iPod.”
It didn’t seem as though it was going to work, but then it did. And for all their talk of being able to play the kind of small venues they came up through in addition to larger theaters, it looks as though the latter is the direction in which Vampire Weekend is heading. The crowd at Barnes & Noble showed a little taste of that, and to their credit, Vampire Weekend somehow managed to retain a sense of crowd intimacy in spite of the size. It worked against the odds on Thursday night, and it should serve the group well heading into the future.
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