The stifling heatwave that gripped southern California for a full week blew away just in time for Robert Plant and Alison Krauss to fill L.A.’s Greek Theatre with music and people for two nights early this week. Unfortunately, while the music was quite wonderful, many of the concertgoers at Monday’s gig seemed kinda miffed – or at least nonplussed.

“I’m bored already,” a fiftysomething woman told my wife not four songs into the main attraction. Afterward, a man I’d never seen before sidled up to me and said, “I thought Plant was gonna play more of the old stuff. Didn’t you? I’d heard he was gonna do a solo set at some point.”

Apparently not. In fact, from a quick scouring of Plant-obsessive websites, it appears that Monday’s set was identical to the ones this new dynamic duo have been playing throughout their tour behind the magnificent Raising Sand album. Still, I’d guess that more than half the 5,800 souls who filled the Greek arrived expecting Robert Plant to be, you know, Robert Plant.

On those few occasions when Plant allowed a smidge of the old Zeppelin pomp to sneak into his voice or demeanor, a Pavlovian standing ovation would erupt. Most of the time, however, Plant remained a cool customer, reveling in the Southern-goth rockabilly-bluegrass concoction that he, Krauss, and producer/sideman T Bone Burnett have cooked up for this album and tour. And the plurality of patrons who had driven into L.A.’s Griffith Park expecting an evening of Cock Rock didn’t know what to do with themselves.

It’s a shame, really, because in their ambivalence they may not have noticed what a remarkable show the “Raising Sand revue,” as Plant has labeled it, truly is. Using the album’s riveting blend of R&B, early-rock and gospel covers as a springboard, Plant, Krauss and Burnett retrofitted classics from the Zep catalog (“Black Dog,” “The Battle of Evermore”) as well as a Ray Charles chestnut (“Leave My Woman Alone”) and a couple old-timey hymns. During one centerpiece of the set, Krauss’ always-virtuosic fiddle easily replaced the synths that once washed over Plant’s solo hit “In the Mood”; in mid-song she briefly banished contemporary music altogether to indulge in a couple verses of the 17th-century Child ballad “Mattie Groves.” (more…)

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On Tuesday night, clad in a green shirt and gleefully cheering on the Celtics (who I was indoctrinated to support during my childhood in Connecticut) as they humiliated the Lakers, I received a call from a fellow New Englander, my friend Verlaine. She had an extra ticket for Wednesday night’s Rilo Kiley concert, and invited me along. In the past five days I’d endure fourteen hours of driving, a wedding, innumerable hours of other activities, a long afternoon of field work in torrid Northridge, and I was expecting I’d be sleepless until at least 2 a.m. from the nervous energy that I was absorbing from the Boston Garden fans. Exhausted as I was, though, I realized there was simply no way I could say no.

The Greek Theatre in Los Angeles is a beautiful venue. It’s an outdoor amphitheatre nestled into the hills in Griffith Park, literally within walking distance of Tangier, another favorite spot of mine. The setting reminds me a lot of the Hollywood Bowl, although the Greek’s seating capacity of 5700 is about one-third of the former’s size and correspondingly much more intimate. And in contrast to the hemispherical shell of the Hollywood Bowl, the Greek Theatre’s stage is shaped like a Athenian temple; a three walled building with a fourth wall in the shape of a golden rectangle and a triangular roof. The seating slopes up onto a steep east-facing hillside (ideal for summer shows) and is lit by overhead lights perched on towers framed by evergreen trees. (more…)

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I’m still reeling from this show.

I had heard of Cloud Cult via KEXP, but they hadn’t made enough of an impression on me that I’d been awaiting this show with the enthusiasm I had reserved for Explosions in the Sky or The National. It’s situations like this – where you’ve got no particular expectations – that you’re susceptible to truly overwhelming experiences, which is what I was treated to on Wednesday night.

It was my first trip to the Knitting Factory, which is close to the intersection of Hollywood Boulevard and Highland Avenue. It’s essentially the heart of what most people consider Hollywood, featuring a laundry list of familiar landmarks: the Walk of Fame, Mann’s Chinese Theater, the Kodak Theater (permanent home of the Academy Awards), the El Capitan Theater. The Hollywood Bowl is just a short walk up Highland. As a venue, the Knitting Factory is nothing particularly special. The area surrounding the main stage is about the same size as the Troubadour, featuring an inaccessible balcony lined with enameled chicken wire and half-shaded incandescent bulbs. The crowd was very homogenous – relaxed twentysomethings with few ostentatious hipster or misplaced club-set costumes on display. (more…)

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Indianapolis, Indiana-Conseco Fieldhouse
March 20, 2008

When I see a concert, I hope that the artist resonates in a way that moves you beyond the two or three hour performance. There are nights where you want to be entertained and other nights where you NEED to be taken to a higher plane. As the E Street Band descended on stage at the Conseco Fieldhouse in Indianapolis, I knew on this particular night I needed to touch that higher plane and reach an emotional apex that may be tough for the band to reach. Despite my reservations, I found myself absorbed towards the end of the main set where Steve Van Zandt took over vocals for “Long Walk Home,” the defining moment on Magic – and even though the performances of this number last year were nothing to sneer at, the song has evolved into an epic along the lines of the performances of “Backstreets” from 1978. The performance revealed untold affecting emotions through the sheer power of guitar rock, without relying on sentimentality. Even the uninitiated around me found this to be a seismic watershed moment of the E Street Band at their finest, reminding us that it ain’t so sin to be glad you’re alive; let me tell you, this was just one of many goosebump moments of the night.

Opening the show with a spot-on penetrating performance was the triple guitar attack of “Night.” For the next 150 minutes, the band proved to be fixating and focused, even if they never quite reached the emotional and pulverizing highs of the show in Milwaukee three nights earlier. Springsteen’s connection to the crowd and recognition of signs from the pit made the intimacy of the show much more palpable even from back in the arena. This is sadly something that will be lost when he moves to stadiums in the summer. Right before the fourth song, Bruce asked for a sign to be sent to him, which showed the band and revealed to the crowd; “Please play ‘Prove It.’” I won’t mince words; I personally felt that anyone who had taken the time to make a sign like that should been banned from the pit for life. However, as I began to watch the always fervent and impassioned performance, it struck me that since I had been catching Springsteen shows in Indianapolis, I never recalled seeing “Prove It All Night” live. When I got home, I did a little research and found out that the last time “Prove It All Night” had been performed in Indianapolis was January 8, 1985. So if it was a longtime resident of Indy who requested that song, I forgive them.

The next audible (replacing “Growing Up” on the handwritten set list) was “Rendezvous” — a welcome switch, as the band immediately found its groove on this underappreciated and underperformed gem. The thunder clapping hysterics of “Reason To Believe” and “She’s The One” left the Hoosier crowd’s mouths agape once again. The whole evening flew into overdrive. (more…)

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Waiting in line outside the Honda Center in Anaheim, CA, milling about with hundreds of other hungry fans, I suspected that the Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band concert I was about to attend would be much different that the L.A. show I saw back in October. The Honda Center (formerly the Arrowhead Pond) is a newer sports arena, one with deluxe suites, padded seats and air conditioning. You may think I’m joking, but the L.A. Sports Arena, where the October show took place, is a sweltering old gymnasium. I left that show ten pounds lighter. As security guards outside the Honda Center checked each concertgoer with hand-held metal detectors, I feared that a subdued Orange County crowd might drag the show down. I was wrong. Very wrong.

First of all, my seat was choice. 17 rows off the general admission floor, I was close enough and centrally located so that I wouldn’t have to rely on the huge video screens that hovered over the stage. Next to me sat an older gentleman and his wife, possibly in his 60s. He had balding white hair, a bit of a scowl and hearing aids in both ears. I thought, “Great, I’m stuck next to a grandpa who’s going to sit through the whole show.” Man, was I way off base. This guy and his wife were long time Springsteen veterans having been to several shows, including the 1984 massive L.A. Coliseum show. “That was probably before you were born,” she said to me. I laughed, assuring her that, oh yes, I’d been born all right (and stuck in my parents’ basement discovering music). This friendly couple was also attending the next night’s gig, as well. By the end of the night, I would be very jealous of them.

All day long my excitement had slowly built. The nearly five months between making a lucky purchase and the actual show had only slightly dampened my excitement. Throughout the weekend, I would stop Julie at random moments and say, “Hey, I’m not sure if you heard, but Springsteen is Monday.” As if I would let her forget. Still, I had decided weeks ago not to expect the type of experience I’d had back in October. That show had been transcendent; I doubted anything could reach its level of excellence. I just wanted to enjoy myself. Moreover, my workday had been frustrating and exhausting. Would I be able to really enjoy it? Yes. I knew the moment that I sat down and I let my eyes wander the crowd that I was in the right place. These past few months I have been through many internal struggles and being there, amongst the thousands of Springsteen fans, I thought to myself, “I need this. I am so glad to be here.” Any doubts or fears I may have had were dispelled the moment the lights went down and the band took the stage. A spotlight shined down on the Boss and he looked out over the masses. As the crowd roared, he called out to his old friend, guitarist Little Steven Van Zandt, “Hey Steven, I think I see the light out there.” (more…)

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I know what you’re thinking: Stupid Jason. All he does is snark on the music I like. He makes fun of honorable and valid artists, like Andy Gibb and the bassist from Pablo Cruise. And he calls himself a musician? How would he like it if I started heckling him? I’ll give him a piece of my mind. Then, I’ll beat him up.

Popdosers, have I got an opportunity for you!

For those of you in the NYC area: if you’re looking for a fun way to spend happy hour this Friday, why not come experience some of the best (and worst) music the city has to offer, courtesy of yours truly? Admission is free, drinks are half price, and Mike and I will be playing all the songs you hate to love and love to hate: songs by Madonna, Lionel Richie, Kenny Loggins, Wham!, Duran Duran, Rick Springfield … the list goes on and on! And hey, whoever said the world didn’t need an acoustic cover of “We Don’t Have to Take Our Clothes Off” was full of shit!

So if you’re free this Friday, April 4 from 7 - 9 pm, come join us at Wicked Willy’s for a couple of hours of Acoustic ’80s! Also, Popdoser Matthew Bolin will be there, and you can beat him up too.

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I first learned of Say Hi to Your Mom from a WBAR podcast, when the DJ said: “The next song is from Say Hi to Your Mom, which is hard to take seriously….but you can take their music seriously.” Since then, the “to Your Mom” has been dropped. He (Eric)/They are actually one of my favorite bands at the moment — I really haven’t been disappointed by a single song. But having seen him play live four times, I can state with confidence that his shows are proportionally better based on how many people he brings onto stage with him.

I’ve seen him four times in four different configurations. The first was at the Echo, featuring a drummer and a keyboardist. The second was at Spaceland, all by his lonesome. The third was at the Troubadour, with three additional members, including a girl that contributed vocals. And the fourth was on Friday at Spaceland again, where he only brought along a floppy-haired, cheerful drummer (presumably his occasional partner Westin Glass).

The show was opened by a socially conscious songwriter from Brooklyn, Kevin Devine. I wish I had arrived in time to see his entire set. Clad in a sweaty t-shirt, Kevin managed to elicit a terrific reception from the crowd, and deserved it. His songs built to energetic crescendos, and I’m definitely looking forward to seeing him play again. (more…)

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Long Beach is not an attractive city. Downtown, where a shopping mall is under construction, is filled with thick concrete barriers and overhanging chain-link fences. It feels like a demilitarized zone. The city houses the port of San Pedro, and as a result the air seems violently polluted, even for someone who’s been living in LA.

Fingerprints Records is located south of downtown, in a section of town that feels more like a village. Small restaurants and souvenir shops line 2nd Street, and the residential streets branching off are filled with densely packed cottages. Fingerprints is home to an endless selection of used CDs, and browsing through the aisles prior to the in-store performance brought back memories of bands like Dramarama, Catherine Wheel, and Ned’s Atomic Dustbin. In the past, the store has hosted burgeoning acts like Tegan & Sara, Damien Jurado, Joseph Arthur, and Matt Costa.

The Paris-based duo Herman Dune took the stage first. Although they got on my nerves during the soundcheck by excessively repeating nonsense syllables, I softened up when they started playing. Their anti-folk music is reminiscent of musical comedy duos such as Flight of the Conchords, but it’s hard to decide whether it’s supposed to be funny, or wry, or earnest in a slightly language-challenged way. Guitarist David-Ivar relied a few times on the sort of guitar rolls you’d hear in some of Nico’s songs, and overall Herman Dune were a thoroughly pleasant surprise.

Herman Dune - “I Wish I Could See You Soon”

Even dressed down in a gray hooded sweatshirt and jeans, Trespassers William lead singer Anna-Lynne Williams helps to make the city of Long Beach a lot more attractive. Her pale loveliness and searching voice brings to mind words like “winsome” and “tresses.” She looks the way that you might expect Emily Dickinson to look, if she were pretty and could play guitar and happened to sing in a band. In high school, Anna-Lynne was the girl who sang a cover of “Fade Into You” at the talent show and of course you had a huge crush on her. She was polite enough, to you and everyone else, but pretty much avoided interacting with any of the social misfits in your hometown, and you imagined that she spent most of her time pining away for some exotic long-distance boyfriend in Norway or Argentina. (more…)

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Much like John Darnielle himself, the Mountain Goats’ audience at Webster Hall on Tuesday night had a tendency to flaunt its wit. Every time someone called out a song request — which was frequently, because in this cultish fan base, everyone has a favorite — someone else had a witty thing to yell in retort. Sometimes it would just be mimicry, “Loud noises!” “Let’s yell things!” and others were more obvious jokes, like names of rap bands. Darnielle proved to be most clever of all. When someone yelled “R Kelly!” he launched into a rant about R. Kelly’s talent and his frustration with everyone making a mockery of him that was so expertly delivered it was difficult to tell whether he was being facetious or serious. Before anyone could ponder it, he launched into a cover of the controversial R&B star’s “The World’s Greatest.”

Darnielle played his part well, with stories of locking himself in a room for days on end, and the romanticization of self-loathing in order to get laid. He pointed fingers around the room, jumped to different areas of the stage, stopped a couple minutes into a song when he messed up the lyrics and prompts the audience for them. He was personable and intelligent, but completely adept at handling the spotlight. He’s clearly a man who knows his niche — 20-and 30somethings, who probably blog (and definitely read his, which is most assuredly excellent) and/or write in some form or another and read The Believer.

Seeing the Mountain Goats live is a surefire way to increase one’s appreciation for their skillset. Darnielle’s voice seems a much better fit for the music when it’s filling the room, and his method of playing guitar is fascinating. During the short set where he played solo, his one guitar was so full and constant, it occasionally sounded like two.

The Mountain Goats, “Lovecraft in Brooklyn” (download)

But the biggest surprise to someone looking in on this world from the outside (I’m more of an occasional onlooker than a devout follower) is that the selections from Heretic Pride, the Mountain Goats’ latest release, are decidedly more rocking and rambunctious than anything from the earlier catalog. During “Lovecraft in Brooklyn,” three people decided to start their own most pit. (Tip to these people: if you decide you enjoy moshing, try it at a metal show. The results will improve.)

The Mountain Goats, “California Song” (download)

At the end of the encore, Darnielle closed with “California Song,” which ends with the couplet: “you really got a hold on me / you really got a hold on me.” Showman that he is, he sang it with a bit of flair, and with a small gesture, walked off the stage, leaving his band mates playing, only to walk off once the music was through. The fans kept applauding and stomping. He had a hold on them, and it wasn’t his wit or his performance skills that ensnared them. It was the music: and they wanted more. But as the Mountain Goats took the stage for a second encore, it was clear that the audience members weren’t the only enraptured ones.

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Explosions in the Sky is possibly my favorite band in the world right now. The first song of theirs that I ever heard was “Your Hand in Mine,” which I discovered on an archived podcast of a show on Barnard College Radio. Counting Monday, I’ve seen them play live three times so far. The first time was an unforgettable performance at the El Rey, just up the street from me here on the Miracle Mile. The second was a bit of a disappointment at the Epicentre down in San Diego, where the low ceiling and heavily sedated crowd robbed the experience of any sense of spectacle. I’d been looking forward to the Wiltern show for months.

And yet, when it arrived, I found myself having trouble paying attention to the four boys from Austin. Despite their characteristically dramatic performance, where they end up crouching and often practically collapsing on stage from emotional overload. Despite the new lighting design that makes their lush soundscapes even more overwhelming. Why? Well, you try standing within spitting distance (not that you’d ever spit in front of her) of this woman and see how well you can concentrate on anything other than the fact that the most physically beautiful person you will ever see in your entire lifetime is standing literally six feet away from you.

What about the show? Well, I’ll do my best. (more…)

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