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Archive: July, 2007
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| Photo: Sir Ramsgate | More Photos |
Not since Kurt Cobain have I witness a rock singer courting vocal strain so willingly. In fact, Jack White's between-song speaking voice sounded sprained as he confused the audience by recounting a dream he had wherein his guitar turned into a divining rod. But the rest of the time he and his vocal exertions just made sense. You gotta howl and squeal during "Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground" and "The Hardest Button to Button." And you gotta sit for a spell while Meg does "Cold Cold Night." For the most part they stayed away from Icky Thump, favoring a back catalog that calls for blocky, staccato riffs punctuated by simultaneous drum punching. It's what they always do, and it would be a bit stress-headachey if the two of them weren't up there sweating and pouring their guts into it.
With just a brief hello, Sting and co. launched into “Message in a Bottle” and continued to deliver all the hits with a raw energy that picked up right where they left off. The scene down front was calmer and more tranquil than I expected. Most of the riff raff supplying the good time must’ve been up high where scalpers weren’t charging $500 for a seat. It seemed the entrepreneurs and software engineers picked up the slack but there were way too many empty seats where the true fans belonged. There wasn’t a tremendous amount of interaction between the three, but Sting and Andy Summers would give each other a glance to decide whether to continue into a jam or switch up. Stewart Copeland, with the crazy physics teacher look, kicked off a wonderful intro to “Wrapped Around Our Finger” with his creative percussion set. On the whole they managed to fill in the gaps where the subtle production/electronic sounds of “Synchronicity” were missing. Sting didn’t hit the highest notes of “Roxanne” and “So Lonely,” but the feeling was there in center field. Much more so than any Phillies game at Citizens Bank Park.
Lord, we’ve all been real stressed lately. So much so, that some of us might want to be taken to another place. Which is why I gotta give thanks for Arrested Development having come through town the other night. An hour and a half of this Atlanta group’s “positive hip-hop” is enough to make anybody to forget the world’s problems — for an hour and a half.
Such was the case Wednesday when the bride and I walked downstairs at World Café Live after a nice little meal upstairs. (Our first time there, we can’t wait to return.) Fourteen years removed from their Best New Artist Grammy, they were already halfway into their set, and halfway into "Tennessee."
It only took about 20 seconds for the arrival of the type of ear-to-ear smile reserved for those instances when you run into an old friend you haven’t seen in ages. Because, quite frankly, that’s what this band feels like. Especially in a venue so small that the mic is pretty much optional. Making matters better was the fact that Speech not only sounded as if he hadn’t aged a day, but the perpetual-motion dancing-and-singing set featured none other than Baba Oje. Known to many as The Old Guy Who Dances on Stage, Baba had his throne off to the side, getting up to groove whenever the mood struck.
Down on the floor, the mood struck early and often among as diverse a concert crowd as I’ve seen. The only problem: After an encore of (my personal favorite) "Mama’s Always on Stage" and "People Everyday," they called it a night, leaving the rest of us to return to our daily stresses, only after sticking around to walk to the stage’s edge and talk to every last fan who stuck around for a handshake, and positive conversation.
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| Photo: Daniel Koh | More Photos |
You can be snide all you want about rock bands hiring orchestras to back them for certain albums/tours — Tom Scharpling says it stems from a vain desire to prove "songs" are really "compositions" — but The Decemberists sounded comfortable playing with the Mann Festival Orchestra. The ad hoc ensemble, about 40 off-season players from various local symphonies, ably replaced the band's usual violinist with boisterous wave of high-strung echoes. "O Valencia!" was a Broadway anthem, and the "Crane Wife" songs were like sweeping, eclectic movie scores. The highlight might have been the recreation of the band's Tain EP, a bizarre Irish fable done up with great crashes and symphonic bombast. After doing away with their classically trained collaborators, The Decemberists returned to play a couple low-key, dreary numbers — one of them talking much of burying babies — and that was it. Colin Melloy and co. certainly hadn't overstayed their welcome, but one final rock number, perhaps "July, July," would have sealed the deal.
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