REVIEW: Espers, Azita, Doug Paisley @ Johnny Brenda's, 12/3

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REVIEW: Espers, Azita, Doug Paisley @ Johnny Brenda's, 12/3

POSTED: Friday, December 4, 2009, 7:03 PM

Filed Under: Critical Mass | Music | Philly Bands Last Night

Photo | John Vettese

Worry not, your time here was well.

Waiting for Espers to take the stage at Johnny Brenda's last night, a buddy and I debated their catalogue. He's a loyalist to the original document, the self-titled debut. Myself, I'm partial to the deep, dark chasms of Espers II. We eventually agreed that it's compelling and commendable how each of their releases ' particularly the brighter, more serene new Espers III ' has its own distinct identity. And then we watched as those identities bended seamlessly with one another when performed live.

Photo | John Vettese

The opener "Mansfield and Cyclops" ' a definitive Espers song if there was one ' comes from their second album, and Meg Baird's haunting intonations in the expansive composition positively dovetailed into harmonies with Greg Weeks on foggy, proggy "Road of Golden Dust" from III. The six-piece ensemble then moved into "Flaming Telepaths," a Blue 'yster Cult tune from their covers album The Weed Tree, which was just as complimentary. Later, they reached back to the first release for "Riding." Kind of an odd selection since it structurally feelt more like a transitionary afterthought than a stand-alone piece of music, but sonically it played right into the cat's cradle of interwoven eras.

The dissonant old songs felt more airy. The sparer new moments had more grounding (credit new bassist to Norm Fetter for beefing up the thinner tones on the record). And the set enraptured the ample crowd, much of which was politely seated on the Johnny Brenda's floor.

Photo | John Vettese

Photo | John Vettese

Photo | John Vettese

Another perk was the comforts-of-home vibe Espers' set gave off. Greg Weeks is a understatedly funny dude, and doesn't always let it show through onstage, but Johnny Brenda's must put him at ease. He cracked wise about the title of The Weed Tree, telling us it was named for an errant tree in guitarist Brooke Sietinsons' backyard, or maybe it was actually "something I dreamed up when I was putting weed in my bong." Awesome. Later, when Baird broke a string (and the band couldn't get together their Durutti Column cover my other buddy was yelling for), Weeks unwittingly found himself filling the space with discursive banter about their recent European tour. He recounted tales of harassment for his recently-trimmed stache at a Dublin dance club ("I don't like your mustache and I don't like you!"), where he was later set upon by a trio of Italian guys "because there was this woman dancing within like three meters of me and I guess I was perceived as a threat." When Meg made it back up on stage, Weeks said his monologue was a learning experience; "we learned we can't play without you." Naw, dude. You did just fine.

Photo | John Vettese

Photo | John Vettese

Photo | John Vettese

Also worth noting were the openers, both of whom were notable in opposite extremes.

Photo | John Vettese

Photo | John Vettese

Standing at a piano, belting out jazz standards and jazzy derivatives, a laptop flipped open at her side - which I swear was simply decorative as it did not seem to accomplish a damn thing - and taking frequent breaks to sip on, what was that, a Long Island Iced Tea? Seriously??...Chicago songwriter Azita came off like a hot mess. She's clearly an exceptionally skilled pianist; she's clearly got a powerhouse voice. And she clearly is fine with bludgeoning both those strengths to a pulp with sloppy carelessness - over-emoting one moment, underselling a crescendo the next, and at several points apologizing for not being drunk enough. I'm thinking crap, sister, you wanted to be drunker? Although bits of beauty eked through here and there, her set was mostly a train wreck of Cat Power proportions. Part of me wondered what the performance would be like if she had her shit together. Part of me wonders if, a la The Greatest and the Memphis Rhythm Band tour, it wouldn't nearly be as intriguing.

Photo | John Vettese

Photo | John Vettese

On the other side of the coin was red headed Canadian Doug Paisley. He played slow, low and striking rootsy folk, the stuff of Jackson Browne and Gram Parsons. He was charming and soft-spoken; the crowd watched in hushed attentiveness. And while his songs tended to drift into subaudible territory (a cover of Roy Orbison's "Candy Man" "Crying" notwithstanding), his worked the neck of his guitar so skillfully it was confounding.

Matterfact, between him and Meg Baird, I'd say I spent a good portion of the evening fixated in amazement at nimble fretting fingers.

Photo | John Vettese

emil

Posted 2010-03-11 10:14:02

Saw them in LA recently and I am amazed that they are more celebrated. This is really one of the most talented and greatest sounding folk bands ever. Few bands from the past and present can really compare with them - if any.

Posted by john vettese @ 7:03 PM Permalink | Post a comment

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Featuring everything from event roundups to concert reviews and sex talk, City Paper's Critical Mass is a space for off-the-wall coverage of Philly's A&E scene.

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