Honus may think he looks like a jerk, but the lack of approachability is a small price to pay for the visceral abandon that makes him the focal point of one of the most monolithically awesome live bands in modern indie rock.

At their Pittsburgh show last Saturday, the five men of Man Man–Honus Honus (vocals, keyboards, various trinkets), Pow Pow (drums, percussion), and multi-instrumentalists Sergei Sogay, Critter Crat and Chang Wang–never once spoke to each other or the audience. Instead, they preferred to cut the bullshit and never let up, pumping out a solid hour of manic, dense, melodic carnival hobo-core. Shambolic yet precise, the obviously well-rehearsed band needed barely to look at one another to immediately transition from song to song. Synthesizers, clavinets, bass guitars, euphoniums, sousaphones, pots, xylophones, pans, saxophones, melodicas, electric guitars, trumpets and even a Zube Tube appeared in the band’s set. Various instruments were grabbed and just as soon disregarded, often within the same song. Band members were often required to manically search for instruments that had earlier been thrown about the stage in the throws of performance.

And their song choice was superb, pushing down and letting off on the intensity with the effortlessness of a seasoned band in its prime. The set was culled mostly from their most recent album, 2006’s Six Demon Bag. Bag favorites such as “Banana Ghost,” “Engwish Bwudd,” and “Black Mission Goggles” were peppered with first album gems like “Lebra” and a couple of tracks from their forthcoming album Rabbit Habits.

Members of Man Man have often spoken in interviews of their dedication to keeping up the flow in their live performances, which may be the reason so many of their slower songs were noticeably absent. For the encore, however, the band closed with a ballad: their best song, the beautifully stark “Van Helsing Boombox.” Honus’ voice was shot from an hour of hysterical caterwauling, but his inability to hit all the notes didn’t hurt the song’s haunting flow. The crowd helped him out by belting every word.

For their part, the crowd, composed of wide-eyed high-schoolers and old-time indie fans in addition to the requisite twenty-something hipsters, absolutely ate it up. Wild waltzes and crazy jigs proliferated throughout. The front rows undulated as Honus, temporarily dressed in gold sparkly shawl and headband, jumped up from his seat to stalk the crowded stage, hopping on stools, keyboards and unused drums.

Opening band The Extraordinaires, also from Philly, only made Man Man look better by completely copping their style. They played a similarly Waits-inspired set of folksy rock and sea shanties. The lead singer overdid it with the bug-eyes, although he did have a totally sweet marine-styled custom guitar that looked like a shark, or possibly a narwhale. For some reason there was an epidemic of teenage girl grind-dancing to this band, which made no sense. But mostly everyone was wringing their hands, anticipating what they couldn’t have known would be the best show this usually skate-punk plagued venue had seen in quite a while.

Pittsburgh locals The Triggers jumped into their set with a hurried song made more frantic by the energetic house lights. Their sound, like a mix of Phantom Planet and The Hives, clashed with the two guitarists’s lack of energy. Thankfully, keyboardist Brett Zoric and drummer Rich Kawood made up for it with their own zest. Rarely sitting, Zoric pounded the keyboard with great intensity. And when Zoric jumped on his chair every so often, his already tall 6-foot-plus body towered like some great beacon. Kawood was equally as intense, large afro swaying back and forth as he hammered the drums.

The White Rabbits smashed together a keyboardist, two guitarists, bassist, and two drummers to add meat to their songs. The jumble of instruments and band members made the stage seem as overflowing as the music, but I say this with the utmost respect. Every kick of the drums (either set!) brought a crashing wave of air that pushed right through you.

(I also respect the willingness of the two drummers to use any available tool to crash the cymbals and drums. Drum sticks? Of course. Tambourine? Absolutely. Maraca? Doubly so. I suppose it is not so novel, but it was new to me.)

The White Rabbits debut album Fort Nightly was duly celebrated, making some best-of lists and potentially earning them a Best New Artist of the Year award, but their recorded sound has not been enough to propel them to the tops of lists or hearts of indie kids nationwide. Backed by towering speakers, however, the White Rabbits proved their worth, with a sound that improved exponentially with its volume. I was on the fence about them before (you know, the one that straddles “good” and “great”), but their performance convinced me to support every letter of praise written about them.

As guitarist Greg Roberts and pianist Stephen Patterson share vocals, and the rest of the band has enough members for another band in and of itself, the White Rabbits have a strong, but diffuse, forcefulness. Described as mixing “honky tonk calypso, reggae, secondhand music hall, and big pop hooks”, they easily distance themselves from their Brooklyn-rock brethren (despite the metropolitan business-casual look). But really its the size those pop hooks grow to when played live that really set the White Rabbits apart.

Fellow New York City boys The Walkmen took the stage last. Considering the presence the White Rabbits (and even The Triggers) had on stage, the band looked almost small on the stage. Combined with the fact that only lead singer Hamilton Leithauser stepped out from the edges of the stage, The Walkmen provided a very different presence right from the beginning. With an empty stage and band members behind him, Leithauser pulled all attention. And for good reason.

The Walkmen’s lyrics have always been fairly narrative, but that night Leithauser was performing a one-man musical. Despite the other band members, there was the intimacy of a solo show, imbuing each song with an emotional breadth not quite felt in the album versions (not to say Leithauser’s emotionalism doesn’t record well; it does). And when Leithauser would lean back and yell the lyrics in his unique mix of Rod Stewart and Bob Dylan, he would throw the whole of his body into the words. It brought out a whole new personality in each of the songs.

Pittsburgh has had a deficiency in the past few years in drawing popular indie bands, but the ones that make it through this cloudy city have all been great performers. So besides the wool sweaters and dress shirts, The Triggers, White Rabbits, and The Walkmen all brought with them a lively kick to put behind their songs.

Listen:

The White Rabbits – Fox Hunting (Recorded live @ Diesel, 1/16/08)
The Walkmen – Little House of Savages (Recorded live @ Diesel, 1/16/08)

More photos by Mahsa Borhani at flickr.com:

“Don’t tell me what time it is,” he commands us in a monotone that hardly suits the kinetic music behind him, “I know what time it is.” And before anyone in the audience can wonder what time is it, Valentine spins around, and the white block letters covering the back of the cloak tell us exactly what time it is.

It’s showtime!

So Electric Six began their frenetic set with a performance that was both kinetic and unexciting, exemplifying what makes the band such an amazing oddity to see in concert. Amidst hard, thumping rock — even while singing “Radio message from HQ/Dance commander, we love you” — Valentine stands with a straight face. Electric Six is the sort of band that, based on their sound, you would think to find the lead singer moshing in the audience. In comparison, Valentine’s performance is disconcerting, to say the least. Valentine isn’t without energy, but with him it comes almost out of nowhere. As if possessed by some bipolar demon, the energy waits patiently during verses, bursting out during choruses and instrumentals.

The small crowd, undoubtedly thinned by the concert falling on a Wednesday night, was also a little motionless at first. We moved about with something approaching verve until “Electric Demons”. The first track yet that night from the band’s breakout debut Fire, “Electric Demons” was…electrifying. The crowd perked up, and was in constant motion from that point on. Already lively, when the band finally played “Gay Bar” during the encore, the crowd just about exploded.

Throughout the show, we got to see the whole gamut of Valentine’s concert quirks. He didn’t dance as much as pretend to dance at times, pumping his arms in the air or moving them back and forth like some parody of How to Dance like a White Guy. And during an extended instrumental break, he dropped to the floor and started doing push-ups and sit-ups (which he did the last time I saw Electric Six, and I am glad to see it’s a trick he often pulls). The list could go on, but take the token Weird Friend in your group, imagine him starting a Detroit rock band that somehow mixes punk and disco, and you’ll have an understanding of Dick Valentine. Oh, and make sure that friend hates George W. Bush too, that’s key. It’s fantastic, in every sense of the word.

Despite the lack of attendance, two opening bands proceeded Electric Six: tour mates We Are The Fury and Pittsburgh locals The Resistors. A reverse flow of time dictates I first cover We Are The Fury, with whom I started off on the wrong foot. I was previously warned of the band’s terribleness, and seeing them dressed as pretentious hipsters (or is “glam rockers” the politically correct term?). However, their sound, which is closer to Fall Out Boy on the glam-punk scale, was certainly not terrible. What We Are The Fury lacked in creativity, they made up in spades with electricity (word of the day). Every member of the band, especially the leader singer, took to heart the maxim “rock out with your cock out”, moving quickly around stage and pushing the songs to their limits. And while the band sometimes struck me as an act going through the rock motions, that did not lessen their energy one bit.

Finally, local sibling duo The Resistors started off the night. Brothers Dave and Aaron make up the band, sharing duties on vocals, guitar, and drums. For that night’s show, Dave began on vocals and guitar, setting up the band as one removed from a White Stripes cover band. Jokes aside, The Resistors have a clear influence from The White Stripes, Bob Dylan, and The Black Keys. Especially when Dave is on vocals (Aaron’s voice is significantly smoother), the band is nasty, raw rock ‘n roll. Like any young band, the duo could profit from tightening their sound and focusing on the aspects that make them truly unique and worthwhile. Nonetheless, The Resistors are definitely a band I am going to keep an eye on.

Electric Six: http://www.virb.com/electricsix
We Are The Fury: http://www.virb.com/wearethefury
The Resistors: http://www.myspace.com/resistors

Jens had a story for every song, and told each perfectly, almost a little too perfectly. He gave the impression that he delivered the exact same story the exact same way at performance, and that took away from it somewhat. However they were still great stories, so the rehearsed aspect is forgivable.

Watching Jens pluck away at those strings, especially when he was alone on the stage singing slow, sad songs, it was easy to realize that Jens is simply splendid at guitar. He also knew how to throw in fun, unexpected moments, such as a cover of Paul Simon’s “Call Me All” during the encore, or everybody in the band flying like a bird in the middle of one of his disco songs.

Jens Lekman gave one of the best performances of the year, even if it seemed a tiny bit over-rehearsed.

As The Heartless Bastards, a Cincinnati trio on Fat Possum Records, took the stage for their brief half-hour set, I realized that I could actually hear each of their instruments distinctly, vocalist Erika Wennerstrom’s voice cutting easily over the mix. And gladly so; her voice, smoky and low like that of Cat Power or Pittsburgh native Julie Sokolow, was quite something to hear. The only shame of The Heartless Bastards was a definite lack of energy on the rest of the band’s part. Wennerstrom was kicking into her music as she wailed, but bassist Mike Lamping and drummer Kevin Vaughn (who sort of reminded me of Russel Hobbs, the animated drummer of Damon Albarn’s virtual band, Gorillaz), just sort of hung out. If a band wants me to stop talking to my friend beside me and get into their music, the least they can do is get into their music themselves. Still, they sounded fine and didn’t make me want to leave, so I consider them a success as far as opening bands good.

Of course, what I expect of a headliner, especially one demanding almost forty bucks a pop, is a bit more. And Wilco certainly delivered on that. As they came out on stage, the packed arena went wild, following suit with the first strum of a chord at the beginning of every single song. I felt a little out of the loop, really, not being a huge fan of the band myself, and by the end of the show was ready to snap up their entire discography. It would have been nice to sing along when Jeff Tweedy turned the microphone around toward the crowd for the chorus of one of the last songs. Still, it didn’t injure my enjoyment in the slightest—the music itself was enough to keep me enthralled.

Like with The Heartless Bastards, the quality of Wilco’s mixing was to die for. Every note, no matter how subtle, could be heard. The wavering lap steel, the shredding electric guitar (and holy hell, do I mean shredding), the twinkling piano—everything had its place and it was all coming through the enormous (but not brain-crushing) PA crystal clear. I’d say it sounded just like their studio recordings, but I’d be lying.

It was better.

The songs I have from them on my computer (mostly from Being There, a few from Yankee Hotel Foxtrot) gave me a very Grateful Dead feel, with it’s focus cemented on folk-country, lightly-picked guitars and gentle harmonies. So naturally, that’s what I sort of expected seeing them live. But live, Wilco is a rock band. All the parts that made up the songs I’d heard were there but beefed up to a level that I did not know Wilco was even aware of. It was not the simple alt-country I’d expected, but straight out rock ‘n’ roll with searing edges of psychedelica and even noise-rock. More than once between songs the band vamped on distortion that would have made Sonic Youth jealous.

I’m sure that if I were more familiar with their back catalogue, or had seen them live previously as most of the people in the arena obviously had, I’d have been less surprised at what their performance held in store. But I was glad that I had no idea. I might not have been able to sing the words with everyone else, but I got to experience Wilco in a way different than most people in the arena could not—introduced to something completely new and wonderful, even in the songs I thought I knew.

The change came with 2005’s The Mysterious Production of Eggs, and 2007’s Armchair Apocrypha further grew Bird’s sound with an orchestral flair. Bird carries this trend tenfold into his live performances. While he layered three or four or five tracks on top of each other in the studio, live performances easily double that. But to say he creates a wall of sound would be too crude. The riffs of violin, guitar, and drums are not bricks, but colors. He adds layer upon layer of music to paint a thunderous landscape of sound that shakes your seat as much as your heart. If this description seems trite, maybe it is, but Bird is an artist, and when given the canvas offered him by Carnegie Music Hall he creates some fine music.

But first, Howe Gelb.

For many, the name Howe Gelb rings no bells, but you may recognize some of his related projects: Giant Sand, OP8, Calexico. No? Then maybe some of the artists who have played with him at various times since he first started (with Giant Sand) putting out albums in 1985: Neko Case, Juliana Hatfield, PJ Harvey, Vic Chestnutt, Chan Marhshall. Surprisingly, even with these connections, Gelb remains under the radar (thanks to a self-professed lack of motivation). However, with the recent support of Andrew Bird, this likely to change, and I say thank him for that. With 22 years of producing strong alt-folk/country albums in the vein of Bob Dylan and Neil Young, the guy deserves some new fans.

As for his performance Tuesday night, I’ll say this: if he didn’t start his set drunk, it’s hard to point to the exact time the alcohol kicked in. I’ll blame this for the state of the first half of his set, which was marked with a general level of disorganization that really turned me off at first. Gelb started the set by himself, and he often seemed like he was doing as he pleased, writing the songs as he went along. A song would be going along and then get louder for an unexpected moment, or he would pause a song to let the audience know a solo was coming up. (By himself, isn’t every part a solo?) Of course, if I am going to give Gelb the benefit of the doubt and say he must have been perhaps a bit intoxicated, I should mention it had a great effect on his on-stage personality. Introspective, laid back, and full of humor, Gelb spent as much time conversing with the audience as he did playing songs. The mic breaks were entertaining and interesting, and they managed to keep my attention when the songs could not.

Thankfully, the second half of Gelb’s set was strikingly improved. Joined by Martin Dosh on drums and (a Norwegian whose name I won’t even attempt to butcher) on guitar, Gelb seemed like a new man. The backup band kept Gelb on track, allowing his songwriting skills to really shine. It was a surprising, welcome turnaround, and I wish Dosh especially could have accompanied Gelb for his entire set. Drums can have a very invigorating, unifying effect on a song. And although Gelb got off to a slow start, he had a strong ending much more indicative of his talent.

I first saw Andrew Bird at Carnegie Mellon University last year in a small gymnasium where he opened for Blackalicious. Consequently, neither the audience nor sound system were anything spectacular. Coming a few months before the release of Armchair Apocrypha, the performance hinted at the direction in which Bird would be going. (“Plasticities” and “Simple X” seem to be requirements of any Andrew Bird show in the past year, as they should be.) The setting was definitely constraining, but all the essentials were there: longer, more expansive versions of songs, and an abundance of whistling.

So when the lights dimmed and Andrew Bird walked onto stage, I wasn’t sure what to expect. Was that CMU show typical? Not at all, I would quickly learn.

Bird began with a slow, old song with the lights turned down before Dosh and Jeremy Ylvisaker (on guitar) joined him on stage for a seven minute version of “Fiery Crash” that really kicked the show’s ass into gear. “Fiery Crash”, with its almost three minutes extra of undulating atmosphere, filled the music hall to the brim with sound. And, if I can poorly borrow a line from the song, it was a fatal premonition of things to come. Simple reproductions studio versions with little or nothing added were in very limited supply, and even then the mere volume of the songs was enough to give them that extra something. Instead, voluminousity (in both size and sound) was the norm. (How about the turning of “Simple X” into an eight minute masterpiece?)

While the Andrew Bird of Production of Eggs and Armchair Apocrypha might fit best with bands such as Sufjan Stevens or The Decemberists, the Andrew Bird of Carnegie Music Hall seemed to take more cues from post-classical rockers Sigur Ros. The folk rock structure was still there, but it was framed and filled with ethereal combinations of drums and violin and whistling. In doing so, Bird displayed his skill as a composer of songs as well as sets; songs flowed from one to the next like a perfectly matched mixtape. (My favorite moment: the amusingly adorable “Dr. Stringz” acted as a mic break and a rest before Bird burst into “Fake Palindromes”.)

I know this has all been rather vague, but I hope you’ve gotten the point: Andrew Bird is fantastic in concert, even better than on album. And seeing him in a venue that fully allows him to express his talents is an experience you can only really understand by having it yourself. However, for those who just don’t buy what I’m selling, or happen to unluckily inhabit a sad part of the world never to be visited by Andrew Bird, the following:

As elusive as Andrew Bird might be to capture on tape, some approximations do exist. Consider the following field guides, compiled for your listening pleasure.

First, a quick remedy for the indie kid on the go…

• An Unofficial Manual to the Home Reproduction of Andrew Bird
  From 0 to Bliss in 7 Easy Minutes!
1. Wait until nighttime.
2. Put on Fingerlings 3.
3. Skip to track 7 (“Scythian Empires”).
4. Turn the volume higher than it goes.
5. Turn off all lights.
6. Lean back in your chair.
7. And close your eyes.

Or if you have a little more time…

• Extended Listening for the Man or Woman who has Everything (Including Time!)
  A Crash Course in Andrew Bird in 113 Quick Minutes!
1. Download Andrew Bird in Concert. (NPR)
2. Wait until nighttime.
3. Play Andrew Bird in Concert.
4. Turn the volume as high as it goes.
5. Maximize the Andrew Bird slideshow.
6. Turn off all lights.
7. Lean back in your chair.
8. And close your eyes.

Each band member had their own endearing quality. The lead singer/ keyboardist, Ketil Endresen, danced around with a kind of finesse previously only ever shown by Beck. Fredrik Vogsborg, the other lead singer/guitarist passionately sung through his thinly stringed long hair. The bassist, Ben Nerdal, who could easily pass as a Viking, perfectly pounded out a steady stream of bass lines. The drummer, Vidar Ingvaldsen, kept remarkably calm, even when he was beating those drums to death, and guitarist Eivind Waage timidly played with a boyish air.

The way every instrument and voice was carefully juxtaposed made for a very refreshing overall sound, and it helped that Syme played their beautiful music without pretentiousness. Syme is certainly a band to keep an eye on in the near future.

So when you pack this crowd into a music hall and force them to sit, you would think things wouldn’t feel so different. But they do. Maybe it is because it removes the possibility of dancing, or limits just how far one could sway; whatever the reason, there is simply something disturbing about being asked to sit through a rock concert. You constantly want to jump out of your seat, even if just to stand, but completely blocking the view of the audience member behind you is a bit rude.

Thus, on top of the indie crowd being stereotypically less energetic than, say, the Justin Timberlake crowd, some venues make it even tougher for the bands. Some groups buckle under the pressure, but others rise to challenge and kick so much ass that afterwards you could not imagine them playing as well anywhere else. (Who are these heroic groups? A hint: Feist at Carnegie Music Hall was amazing.)

Unfortunately, openers Rogue Wave had even more going against them that night. Despite their popularity, the band played only a 30-minute set, and not even to a packed house. Audience members shuffled in and out of the music hall, talked, and were generally ambivalent about Rogue Wave being on stage. I was surprised to see this, since Descended Like Vultures had a great response when it came out, and the band’s songs have been featured on television multiple times. Still, as much of the audience waited for Feist outside the hall, there were not enough people inside to soak in all the reverberations. Rogue Wave ended up sounding almost as if they were playing in some high school gymnasium. (Not really their fault, but it certainly took away from the experience nonetheless.)

In general, Rogue Wave sounded like they were playing down to their venue. They are a great band with a great catalog of lively songs, but they filled half of their set with slow numbers. However, lead singer Zach Rogue’s small mic breaks betrayed a big potential; short, funny bursts that showed he was at least trying to connect with the audience. I can definitely see them shining as headliners with an enthusiastic crowd they could feed off of. A better setlist, a stronger crowd, and maybe some “standing-room only” would make for a fantastic Rogue Wave show.

Of course, this wasn’t a Rogue Wave concert (a point driven home quite well by their short set and tiny name on the flyers). This was a Feist concert. And if Rogue Wave had taken the audience’s ambivalence and returned an ambivalent performance, Feist did just the same with the audience’s excitement.

The crowd roared as Leslie Feist bounced onto stage, a huge grin on her face. Right from the beginning, she let the crowd know they were in for a great time. A slow buildup got the audience in the mood, and by the time “When I Was a Young Girl” really let loose, everyone was dancing in their seats. The energy of the songs quickly died down as Feist went into a quieter set, but another upbeat set was never too far away. With this, Feist managed to play everything from lullabies to rockers, and never get boring. This was crucial, since Feist doesn’t have the catalog to play a two hour (2 hours!) show without ever letting things slow down. Even though one front-row member fell asleep (the band was kind enough to bring him a cup of coffee), the rest of the audience sat attentively, enthralled by Leslie’s emotion and liveliness.

Equally enthralling were the mic breaks between songs, as Feist told stories about the songs and joked about her guitar strap troubles. The most important thing you want from a concert is to feel like it was a unique experience; that it was more than just listening to the album while surrounded by a couple hundred people. Feist’s energy and humor ensured this feeling, but even the songs were different. The songs remained pretty much the same, but every now and then some small flourishes were added; adding an improvised introduction of whistling, holding onto those notes for just a few seconds longer, adding a bridge, and so on. It was barely noticeable at times, but definitely made the experience special.

I hate to end by criticizing Rogue Wave’s performance since I love them so much, but Feist was pretty much the opposite of Rogue Wave. She played to the venue’s strengths, with a lot of intimate, slow sets. The lights would dim, she would sing softly, and an already cozy venue would feel even cozier. It felt like a private performance just for me and my section of the hall. And while Rogue Wave ignored the fact that none of us really wanted to be sitting down, Feist joked about it numerous times anytime she played a song we had to have been crazy to keep seated for (“My Moon My Man” anyone?). Everyone stood and cheered as she came back for her encore, and when everyone went to sit down again, she asked if we could all stay standing. Because, as she proved over and over again that night, we had come to a rock concert, indie or not.

LISTEN:
Rogue Wave – Lake Michigan (live at Carnegie Music Hall 9-13-07)
Feist – When I Was a Young Girl (live at Carnegie Music Hall 9-13-07)
Feist – So Sorry (live at Carnegie Music Hall 9-13-07)
Feist – Fucked Up Kid (Kevin Drew cover, live at Carnegie Music Hall 9-13-07)
Feist – Untitled tracks (live at Carnegie Music Hall 9-13-07)

(If anyone knows the names of the two tracks in the last link, let me know in the comments.)

The Dear Hunter (Casey of the Receiving End of Sirens’ new band) opened up the show. I was pleasantly surprised with their performance, for it seems that in a live setting, their songs have a lot more character and energy than on CD. The acoustic, folk sound on record seemed to be traded for a much more raw and gritty interpretation live. I like them in studio, but I think I prefer them live.

Next were Meg and Dia, a five piece from Utah that has been gaining a fair amount of momentum over the past year or two. They were a bit of a late addition to this tour, and there has been some dissent about their presence. Some claim they were only added because of a rumored relationship between one of the girls and a member of Say Anything. But, for my money, they proved they belonged on tour with their set. Tight musicianship, energetic performance, band chemistry; they had it all. Throw away the girls’ adorable factor, and they’ve still got it. And while the biggest crowd reaction came from their cover of “No Rain”, I think in time they will be receiving equal cheers for their own songs.

Now for the main event. This is the third time I’ve seen Saves The Day on a co-headlining tour, but the first time they haven’t closed the show. (Turns out this is a good thing, but I’ll get to that later.) For the second time in the past three years, a member of the band has left only to be replaced by a member of Glassjaw. When Manny Carrero joined in 2005, the quality of the live show shot up, and the rawness on the new album was apparent, so I was more than curious to see what sort of influence new drummer Durijah Lang lent. The conclusion? The man knows his drums, no question about that. While he’s not as entertaining to watch as former drummer Pete Parada, Lang is pretty brutal behind the kit. The selection of songs on this tour seem to be limited due to Lang’s still learning as he goes, but he seems like an excellent addition, one that I hope sticks around long after this tour.

One thing that is very interesting to note is front man Chris Conley. For whatever reason, he is so much happier than he was in the time just before the release of Sound The Alarm. Laughing and joking with the audience now seems commonplace in a set. Three years ago, he was just one angry man. Personally, I like him a lot better now. He seems at peace with his place in the music world and it clearly shows in his performance. He laughs off mistakes, and plays much more for the crowd.

An interesting mix of old and new songs, the highlight of the show was when Say Anything front man Max Bemis came out and performed part of “Rocks Tonic Juice Magic”. For Bemis, it was obvious how happy he was up there playing with his idols. Saves also played a new track from their upcoming release, Under The Boards, due out this September. “Can’t Stay The Same” is perhaps the most dancey song Saves has recorded to date, and, if it’s at all indicative of the new album, could point towards another big style change. Either way, you know I, for one, can’t wait.

Now, right here is a catalyst in my review. Either it loses credibility or gains complete awesomeness. I have to be honest and say that I didn’t stick around after Saves’ set to watch Say Anything. But I had the best reason in the world. During their set, Chris said something about playing a song back in the parking lot afterwards. Hoping it would be immediately after they finished, my girlfriend and I headed back. After some small talk with fans and an apparent drug dealer, Chris treated us to a delightful rendition of “Three Miles Down”. An extremely intimate performance, with only about a dozen people there, this might be the biggest highlight out of all the times I’ve seen Saves The Day. A moment like that doesn’t come along often.

A moment like that makes you feel alive.

John Darnielle can, however, enlighten even the most naïve listener to the dark and frustrating vagaries of a romance gone sour, a craft he has mastered for over fifteen years with his band The Mountain Goats. Though he refuses to reveal his age (a self-proclaimed “diva”), a bespectacled Darnielle takes the stage looking a bit like Stephen Colbert in his suit, leaning frantically into the microphone, beads of sweat collecting on his brow, his eyes widened with intensity as he sings each song. He speaks rapidly between songs, extolling the virtues of Ace of Base (the room swelling during a rendition of ‘The Sign’) and cheap Los Angeles motels. Before treating the audience to ‘Grendel’s Mom,’ Darnielle explains how he wrote the song during the last twenty minutes of British Lit, bitterly arranging lyrics while “people ask[ed] questions just to prove they read the assignment.”

And with lyrics like “I hope you blink before I do / And I hope I never get sober,” in his catalog, Darnielle is frequently mistook for a spiteful, lonely curmudgeon. In fact, Darnielle reveals a more optimistic side between songs in his live appearances. While introducing ‘No Children,’ he recognizes an audience member as his first love, a fellow panelist from his middle school poetry contest, and dedicates the song to her “if not in substance, than in spirit.”

The first time I saw the Mountain Goats was in 2006, at the inaugural Pitchfork Music Festival. Darnielle and his longtime companion, bassist Peter Hughes, played one of the best sets of the entire weekend, including in their setlist ‘See America Right’ and ‘No Children.’ Their performance at Greenpoint’s Studio B was no disappointment, as they played more crowd favorites including ‘This Year’ and ‘Old College Try’ in addition to the songs previously mentioned.

The true highlight of the evening, for me, had to have been when Darnielle, on one of his characteristic sprawling rants, began referring to himself in the third person, as “the person who drinks so much they black out” and stubbornly insists that even photographic proof of his or her drunken behavior is doctored. “I think there was a picture of me climbing a fence and the hedge was photoshopped in,” Darnielle surmises. He continues, describing the ideal moment in which the aforementioned person finds his or her soulmate. “I might not remember this tomorrow,” he drawls, “and you might not remember this tomorrow. But. I love you.”

The Bowerbirds, a pleasant nu-folk pop three-piece from Raleigh, NC (more palatable to a disgruntled Mountain Goats fan than, say, Espers or Joanna Newsom), impressed me to the point where I purchased a copy of their LP, ‘Hymns for a Dark Horse,’ though I strongly encourage them to choose another name. Remember Manitoba/Caribou? It’s not too late.

Note: Studio B is a pretty nice venue; it’s dark and comfortable, and there are about ten or so stalls in the ladies’ room. Also, they serve $3 tall cans of Colt 45. Who doesn’t love cheap beer? I stand by my pro-Greenpoint, anti-Williamsburg sentiment.

Links:

The Mountain Goats
Bower Birds