The Decemberists/Webster Hall/Sept. 27, 2004

The Decemberists/Webster Hall/27 September 2004

Reviewed by Tim Carpenter

Yes, yes, Colin Meloy's character-driven songs are brainy, English-lit-major-type stuff. And his voice is truly a take-it-or-leave-it instrument. But the tunes are just so damn good. Hooks out the wazoo. And that's why the 35-and-under crowd at Webster Hall had no problem bobbing along to nearly every offering, and even singing along with references to Marcel Duchamp and Celtic poems circa 700 AD.

The set balanced the two Decemberist LPs nearly evenly and showcased two new songs. The more memorable was "The Sporting Life," which tells a tale of youthful humiliation on the athletic field to a drum/bass line stolen from Iggy's "Lust for Life." Highlights from the catalog were a dramatic "Odalisque;" lovely, plaintive takes on "Grace Cathedral Hill" and "Clementine;" high-energy hoe-downs on "Billy Liar" and "The Chimbley Sweep;" and the set-closing "I Was Meant for the Stage," a song which achieved a certain notoriety when it made its way into Kiki & Herb's final show at Carnegie Hall last week. The biggest crowd pleaser: a solo acoustic guitar reading of the outstanding "Red Right Ankle."

The band sounded more muscular than they did a couple of months ago at the Bowery Ballroom, although the mix was also a bit more muddy. No major complaints, though, and it's hard to hold every venue to the Bowery's standard for sound. Bottom line: If you dig the D-bists (and there are surely smart music fans that don't), the show was immensely
satisfying and a clear signal of a band that's capable of even bigger and better things.

Tyondai Braxton, Friends Forever/Asterisk Art Space/Sept.21,2004

Tyondai Braxton / Friends Forever

Asterisk Art Space / Corner of Johnson and White Streets
Sept. 21, 2004

Even though I arrived a good two hours after the posted start time for this benefit for the wonderful East River Music Project, the first act had just started when I got there. Upon seeing how everybody was cramped into a tiny, hot room, I decided to skip Hale Zukas and Dan Friel in favor of getting some food at Loco Burrito. I returned to Asterisk in time for Tyondai Braxton’s set. He sat cross-legged on the stage, surrounded by a bunch of pedals and various other pieces of equipment, holding a guitar and a microphone. For the next half-hour or so, Braxton proceeded to play or sing or beat-box a few seconds of sound, which he recorded and then looped over and over again. Then he’d play something else, record it, and layer it over what he had just looped. And on and on... It was cool at first, but after awhile I became preoccupied with reading what the girl sitting in front of me was text-messaging on her cellphone.

Then … Friends Forever!!!

For those of you who don’t know, Friends Forever are a trio of crazy Colorado freakazoids who don’t play on stage, instead parking their van and performing in front of it (except for the drummer, who stays inside the vehicle). They are also quite fond of explosives. Their performance on the corner of Johnson and White streets (a block away from Asterisk) featured a dizzying array of sparklers, roman candles, fireworks and assorted other smoky, smelly toys. At one point, flames started shooting out of one of the van’s windows, and we all shouted “THE VAN’S ON FIRE!!!” until some people bearing jugs of water appeared. As if all that wasn’t enough, a bunch of inflated objects suddenly appeared out of nowhere, including a swimming pool raft, a large blue ball made out of a tarp, and an enormous ghost with a pentagram, a Jewish star, an upside-down cross and “NFL” drawn on it.

Everybody went nuts. People sitting on top of the van started bouncing so hard I thought the van was going to fall over. One of the Japanther dudes stood in front of me frantically air-drumming the entire time. Everything smelled like burned hair. Cars driving by slowed down to gawk. And, most amazing of all, the cops didn’t come!

Oh, the music? Buzzing, noisy, made me jump up and down. That’s really all I can remember.

Razorlight/Sin-é/Sept. 21, 2004

Razorlight
Sin-é
Tuesday, Sept. 21, 2004

Imagine seeing Maroon 5 play in a club the size of your apartment. That’s the only way I can think of describing to America what the Razorlight show was like last night. In the U.K., this quartet of greasy boys are bigger than fish-n-chips, with a million-selling debut album, massive radio and TV exposure and reams of positive press. OK, so maybe the Maroon 5 analogy doesn’t completely fit, but in Britain, frontman Johnny Borrell’s mug is as ubiquitous as that damn “This Love” song. Their record isn’t due out in the states until late October; hence, any time I mentioned the band to one of my friends, the response went something like, “Rays of Light?” or “Oh great, another British group that named itself by smooshing two words together like Coldplay or Radiohead.” But that will probably change once the Universal Records press machine gets cranking over here.

Razorlight were a lot better live than on their record, which sounds like the Libertines and/or the Strokes imitating Television. (Uh oh, I’m gonna get in trouble. Their publicist told me that they hate getting compared to the Libertines. Sorry, guys—it’s true!) Part of their charm lies in the fact that their drummer looks like John Kerry and their bassist looks like Kurt Cobain, so the thought of those two jamming together is pretty fucking hilarious. Also, both the drummer and Johnny Borrell have that ‘60s Rod Stewart haircut that mysteriously is always in fashion. John Kerry with Rod The Mod’s hair? Oops, I think I just peed my pants laughing. Can somebody photoshop that image for me, please?

But seriously, these kids are still hungry enough to put every ounce of energy into their set, and they turned mediocre songs into barnstormers through sheer force of will. Johnny Borrell may seem to go to the same dentist as Shane MacGowan, but when he took his shirt off near the end of the set, he was not at all bad to look at. Dude must do something about the musical-theater hand gestures he kept using while singing, but, hey, he’s young. Also—was it really necessary for him to change guitars three times a song? It’s not like he’s in Sonic Youth or something. I started to feel sorry for the poor roadie.

I skipped out on any post-show industry schmoozing so I could mosey on over to East Williamsburg for…