Mac Demarco live at Beachland Ballroom - 3/31/14

The crowd kneeling for Mac DeMarco.

 Never have I seen such a set of such staid curmudgeons take the stage. At age 23, Mac DeMarco and his band of well-kempt young gentlemen have much to improve on, starting with their stage presence. Never did they address the audience or engage the crowd in the odd antics you’d expect from them.

Wait. Happy April Fools’ Day! Let’s start again.

Stepping into the Beachland Ballroom was like entering a new world where no one took themselves seriously. Before Mac DeMarco even took the stage, weirdos in flat-brimmed hats were clearly ready to dance. I expected was a set of super-chill songs with gooey guitar and a good deal of funk. What I got was much different.

Mac DeMarco and his three bandmates took the stage. After several minutes of sound problems, bassist Pierce McGarry pointed at the crowd, exclaiming, “These cretins kept unplugging me.” It was the beginning of a strange series of interactions with the audience.

The band quickly launched into “Salad Days,” the opening title track on the band’s new album (which just came out today, by the way) before playing several other new songs including “Blue Boy” and “Brother,” and a fast rendition of “The Stars Keep On Calling My Name” that sounded like it belonged in a tiki hut, with jangly, island sounds.

While everything Mac DeMarco played was recognizable (he’s no Andrew Bird – it’s not like he’s changing the songs completely), nothing sounded as simple or pure as the album versions. Most were faster, weirder, and full of random screams or brief funky breakdowns that never erupted into the kind of self-indulgent jam sessions that could have turned the show into a snoozer.

It’s clear the band of Canadians doesn’t take much seriously. At one point, McGarry pulled a random dude onto the stage, telling him to speak to the crowd. The guy screamed out, “Mac DeMarco, guuyyyyys!” and the crowd, which approached a very drunken state very early in the night, hollered and cheered. McGarry insisted, “No man, tell us something personal.” All the stranger could do was rant about the band, so McGarry decided to push him into a crowd surf to return him back to his place in the crowd.

The crowd clapped along to “Let Her Go,” a grooving, baby-making song, and jumped up and down to “Ode to Viceroy,” a slow jam love song about cheap cigarettes where DeMarco croons, “Oh, don’t let me see you crying/Cuz oh honey, I’ll smoke you til I’m dying.”

People went nuts when the band launched into “Freaking Out The Neighborhood,” a fun pop nugget that DeMarco supposedly wrote as an apology to his mom after she saw a video of some of his more bizarre antics on YouTube.

The band rounded out their set with “Still Together,” a song that’s a nice, sweet ballad on the album, but turned into a full-on rocker onstage, with DeMarco yodeling like he’s ready to join The Cranberries. Halfway through, between swigs of whiskey straight from the bottle, he jumped into a crowd surf, returning to the stage to finish with a strong falsetto.

The encore was a drunken karaoke party of sorts. DeMarco claimed “his brother” Pierce wrote the first song, before launching into a sloppy version of Chris Isaak’s timeless “Wicked Game,” full of out of tune singing by the band while DeMarco played drums. At one point during the quickly-getting-weirder encore, the band ordered the crowd to kneel on the ground, and everyone dropped like obedient puppies.

If we were the animals, and this was Mac DeMarco’s three-ring circus, it was every bit as fun to be part of the bizarre spectacle, the first stop in the band’s U.S. tour. This is a show for people who aren’t too strict about taking themselves seriously. And with an audience full of “cretins,” Mac DeMarco put on a beautiful display, an escape from the dull monotony of Cleveland’s endless winter, and a window to talent that’s not so self-serious.

Tame Impala at Headliners Louisville

Tame Impala set the club on fire. No, really. During the Perth, Australia band’s encore, they brought so much heat to an amplifier that it caught on fire. As most of the crowd gazed up onto the balcony to watch as officials sprayed the blaze with a fire extinguisher, the small group of people standing on the club’s second level had to temporarily clear the area.

The fire was quickly contained, but not without leaving most of the audience wondering whether it was an accident or if the band truly did play louder than any other performer in Headliners’ history. As unlikely as that is, this sold-out show will go down in history either way.

The drunk guy in front of me turned around and said, “They set the place on fire, dude,” with the goofiest grin on his face.

Some people call Tame Impala “The Beatles reincarnated,” and that’s a lazy but sort of accurate evaluation. Then again, when you turn up the reverb on the microphone that much, even a six year old would sound like Paul McCartney.

But this five-piece is also using synthesizer effects that are more akin to 80s pop music than your typical storm of psychedelia (try the intro to “Solitude is Bliss”). Whatever Tame Impala is doing – no matter what generation they’re drawing from – they’re doing it right.

While none of the musicians on stage were much to watch, they display a projector screen behind them with graphics that swirl and pulse with every beat and riff. This was not a show that you watch. It’s one you feel.

And as stupid as that sounds, you can’t help but feel that every song is revelatory, every beat is massive and all-consuming, and every time the bass starts to groove, you’re going to live forever.

Tame Impala played some songs from their debut album and most of the tracks off 2012’s Lonerism, a sophomore album that took them from a band that was relatively unknown to one that topped many year end lists. They soared to number two on Under the Radar’s ranking.

Song after song was trance-like, from “Enders Toi” to “Feels Like We Only Go Backwards.” This is feel good music, though. When the band’s took on “Elephant,” their biggest fan favorite, the venue nearly erupted. The bass, while convincingly sharp on the record, feels completely primal when it’s louder than life.

The fire that Tame Impala set was real, but the passion they spread was visceral. This was a performance that can’t be extinguished.  

Father John Misty - Live at Headliners

Halfway through the show, J. Tillman looked to the back of the venue, where there’s a bar lined with mirrors. He gazed at his reflection, wondering out loud, “who is that anorexic homeless person dancing around in his long underwear?”

And although that was a harsh self-assessment, he scattered antics like this throughout the show, tackling everything from Kentucky’s stance on the Iraq war (neutral, he explained – like only one other state – his home state of Maryland) to how Kentucky must have had the most onstage silverware per capita (he found a spoon within the first two minutes of the set, and stopped the opening number, “Funtimes in Babylon,” midway to explain).

It was this attitude, this freeness, that set the tone for the show. With ease, Tillman belted out songs with a voice like caramel melted in the sun. It was as if he didn’t need to take breaths; sugary notes just fell out of his mouth miraculously.

The smooth ooh’s and laid back vibe of “Nancy From Now On” made you forget that he was actually singing “pour me another drink/and punch me in the face,” and instead concentrate on the way the guitars meshed beautifully with his voice in a blissed out melodic wonderland.

Four other people joined Tillman onstage, and though they sounded like integral, elaborate pieces of a beating heart, the frontman was one of those happy disasters that drew all the attention. While he played drums with Fleet Foxes for a while, Tillman got his start as a solo artist, and the man obviously belongs center stage.

His dance moves were reminiscent of elementary school girls coordinating a dance to the latest boy band song – complete with finger wagging “no’s,” shimmies, and some of the best booty shaking to ever come from a man’s body. Britney Spears couldn’t do what he did without lip-syncing. Some of the more dramatic moments seemed modeled on Elvis Presley’s moves.

Not everything was a dance party. The band freaked out on “This is Sally Hatchet,” a dark, moody song that broke them free of the mostly carefree-sounding set. The cathartic guitar breakdown begged you to close your eyes and let it take you places. Tillman fell to the ground, stretching his arms to the skies, reminding the crowd that these songs are more complex than they may appear on the surface.

“Now I’m Learning to Love the War” slowed things down, but Father John Misty bounced back up to speed with “Tee Pees 1-12.” The band made it through nearly their entire catalog, nailing almost all dozen songs on their debut, Fear Fun.

For Tillman to pack Headliners – after just releasing the first album under this moniker last May – is an unusual and surprising feat. But when the striking beat behind “Hollywood Forever Cemetery Sings” echoed to the back of the room on the last song before the encore, and Tillman seemed near explosion with his jerking dance moves, it made sense. This was not only an entertaining show, but one with the kind of musical genius that doesn’t come around every day.

The Cave Singers - Live at Zanzabar

Very rarely can a band make you feel like you're riding atop a galloping horse, tumbleweeds blowing in the wind. But when you watch The Cave Singers live, songs like "Black Leaf" have the lively sort of shuffling percussion that make it impossible to stand still.

Several of the Seattle-based band's more upbeat songs took the crowd at Zanzabar by storm Monday night. Rabble-rousers filled the set list, breaking up the club's calm with the perfect storm of liquid guitar picking and biting bass. Taking their cues in seemingly equal part from swamp rock grime and garage rock liveliness, The Cave Singers barely stopped for a breath once the show began. Just song after song from their three albums.

The new(er) songs from 2011's No Witch really lit fire. While magic and witchery isn't really what first comes to mind when you hear The Cave Singers, there is a sort of enchantment they put on the crowd that really doesn't come off on the recordings. Something about the urgency of songs like "All Land Grabs and Divinity Ghosts" is arresting.

Lyrics are indecipherable, but that's ok because it's more about the feeling anyway. Swept away, the melodies and galloping drum beats carried us away into the night... and will most likely have Louisvillians crawling back for more when The Cave Singers return to town.

Fleet Foxes Live Review - Louisville Palace

Fleet Foxes at The Louisville Palace, Louisville, KY, October 5th, 2011

The Louisville Palace is covered with ornate sculpture, and when you look up at the ceiling, you are immersed in a replica of the night sky, glowing stars shining down on the crowd. Yet when Fleet Foxes took the stage, their three- and four-part harmonies danced through their performance like rays of sunshine. Each note was incredibly tailored to perfection, yet effortlessly blended. There were moments that night where nothing—nothing—could pull you down.

As Robin Pecknold reminded us of strawberries in summertime in the echoed chorus of “White Winter Hymnal,” the gentle melodic guitars and cymbal-heavy percussion set the scene for a night of simple joys. Songs like “Battery Kinzie” and “Lorelai” were heavy on the guitar, at times covering up Pecknold’s liquid-clear crooning. But the blend of each of the six members’ instruments was most often on point, displaying a seamless sense of solidarity amongst the band.

Songs from the their second full-length album, Helplessness Blues, gave Fleet Foxes a chance to show off more of their musical prowess. “Sim Sala Bim” climaxed with an incredibly vivacious guitar hootenanny. But the crowd still went wild for the breezy folk tunes off the band’s self-titled debut. “Ragged Wood” incited howling from members of the audience in an effort to join the band in harmony, while the anthemic “Your Protector” stood its ground against the newer, more complex songs like “The Shrine/An Argument.”

When Pecknold came onstage to begin the encore alone, he stressed that he was dedicating “I Let You,” a new song, to the passing that day of legendary folk musician Bert Jansch.

“If you haven’t heard of Bert Jansch, don’t worry,” Pecknold explained, “Go to iTunes. Buy everything he’s ever done.”

The rest of the band joined Pecknold for the final three songs of the encore, “Sun It Rises,” crowd favorite “Blue Ridge Mountains,” and “Helplessness Blues.” All three songs served as a good representation of what made that night’s performance so unforgettable. Each sounded uniquely beautiful, and exuded power. This power, an overwhelming force, was not achieved through volume or effects, but a carefully-arranged layering of sounds, a wholly creative web of interwoven guitar, keyboard, rhythm and harmony.

Van Dyke Parks opened the show in his third performance alongside Fleet Foxes. Like Jansch, Pecknold couldn’t stop fawning over the vast influence Parks has had on the band. If you didn’t know about the connection between the two very disparate musical acts, you may not have ever suspected that Parks played such a strong role in shaping Fleet Foxes’ sound. His twinkling piano and rambling lyrics took us back to a different era in music. When he wasn’t singing about his favorite president (FDR), his chorus-less showtunes dealt with treacherous weather in Los Angeles.

Parks’ work as a producer and arranger has spanned decades, from his time working with the Beach Boys to Joanna Newsom. His blunt performance was stark and bold next to that of the Fleet Foxes, who keep their stage banter to a minimum.

Walking out of the Palace, into another blue, starry sky, it was almost a disappointment to step out of the breezy, artificial musical paradise, and back into the real world. But the next morning, when the sun shined through the clouds, the airy melodies playing back in my head were still as crisp as the autumn day.

Set List:

1. Plains/Bitter Dancer
2. Mykonos
3. English House
4. Battery Kinzie
5. Bedouin Dress
6. Sim Sala Bim
7. Your Protector
8. White Winter Hymnal
9. Ragged Wood
10. Montezuma
11. He Doesn’t Know Why
12. Lorelai
13. The Shrine/An Argument
14. Blue Spotted Tail
15. Grown Ocean

Encore:
16. I Let You
17. Sun It Rises
18. Blue Ridge Mountains
19. Helplessness Blues

Deerhunter - Live Review - Beachland Ballroom

At a Deerhunter show, you live and die by Bradford Cox’s guitar. While the remaining three members hold each song steady, Cox submerges the atmosphere in rushing distortion and sporadic soloing, all laced with incredible technical skill.

When the Atlanta-based band stopped through Cleveland last night in support of their fourth album, Halcyon Digest, they played a set list heavy on their new tunes, mixing in older audience favorites like “Don’t Stop.” As they ripped through their opening song, “Desire Lines,” Cox lifted his guitar straight up into the air, deliberately picking a soaring riff while rhythm guitarist Lockett Pundt held the vocals. Cox took over the mic for most of the set, with Pundt reappearing later in the night with “Fountain Stairs.”

Halfway through the set, “Memory Boy” and “Rainwater Cassette Exchange” were rendered short, punchy, and rhythmic-based, striking a contrast to “Don’t Cry,” where the pace changes several times and crescendos hit the crowd like sledgehammers. At the end of the song, Cox proudly told the audience he wrote it as a tribute to Cleveland’s own Pere Ubu.

At times, the guitars felt like weapons, Cox moving his hand impossibly fast across the bridge and rendering a ‘60s surf vibe into something scarier and more ambient. Yet Deerhunter also released the crowd into a relaxed trance, closing with an extended version of “He Would Have Laughed,” the last song on Halcyon Digest.

The contrast between clean and dirty sounds, both in terms of feedback levels and melodic succinctness, was a constant reminder that Deerhunter cannot be pinned down. While most of the crowd walked out of the ballroom dazed with the show’s intensity, Cox remained on the stage, his ax aside, to talk with fans.

Best Coast, Male Bonding Cleveland Concert Review

Beach House - Live Review - Beachland Ballroom

Beach House makes the kind of dreamy pop music that accommodates napping, babymaking, and quietly bobbing one’s head. Yet last night, frontwoman Victoria Legrand proved that one more activity fits the list – head banging.

You wouldn’t think such harsh movements could be associated with atmospheric organ playing or shimmering slide guitar, but the Beachland Ballroom’s sold out crowd watched in fascination as Legrand took control of the performance with some rash head thrashing and vocals that came straight from the gut and emerged as pure airy perfection.

Alex Scally, the other half of Baltimore’s Beach House, bobbed along peacefully, alternating between finger picking and using a slide on his electric guitar. His playing was pure, unencumbered beauty, each note a droplet of water that sizzled the minute it blended with Legrand’s warm crooning and the antique sound of her organ.

The two were joined by a live drummer who fleshed out the songs of Teen Dream, their third and most recent album, with a pulsing fever. The heat spread through the ballroom, literally.

“I don’t know about you guys,” remarked Legrand between songs, “but I’m feeling like a rotisserie chicken.”

Teen Dream songs like “Walk in the Park,” “Used to Be,” and “Lover of Mine” started the night on an entrancing note, which continued as Beach House played “Gila” and “Master of None,” two tracks from their first two albums.

Five huge metallic prisms rotated behind the band, giving off the same kind of hypnosis as the music. At the start of “Take Care,” Legrand pointed in the air, simultaneously triggering the Beachland to start up their disco ball. The mood was fitting – but the band didn’t keep things too heavy.

At one point Scally joked, “This is the part of the set where we play Celine Dion covers,” before launching into “Zebra.”

Beach House’s encore included the intimate, almost pained “Real Love,” and the richly textured “10 Mile Stereo,” where the Scally’s guitar wrapped languorously around the reverb-drenched organ chords.

By the end of the night, members of the crowd seemed eager to close their eyes and absorb the throb and ebb of the beat. After a long day, nothing seemed more fitting than sharing a relaxing evening with fiercely talented musicians and a crowd full of the most laid back folks in Cleveland. Next time, maybe we’ll get the guts to join in on the head banging.

She & Him - Live Review - House of Blues

Somebody must have told She & Him they were boring on stage, because they rushed through their concert at House of Blues last night, playing several songs at three times their normal tempo. Making their way through about 25 songs in less than two hours, the duo took the life out of tunes that usually breeze through the air like a warm wave of sunshine.

She — singer-songwriter and actress Zooey Deschanel — enchanted the sold-out House of Blues with her deep, rich pipes, while Him — songwriter and guitar maestro M. Ward — alternated between acoustic, electric, and slide guitar.

It sounds like a recipe for greatness, and if executed properly, it might have been. But Ward hid himself in the corner of the stage for most the night, while Deschanel took advantage of the spotlight by blandly hitting a tambourine as she stood squarely in front of the mic.

Backed by a full band, She & Him based most the set on their recently released second album, Volume Two, with a few tunes sprinkled in from 2008’s Volume One. Swaying ballads like “Thieves” and “Change Is Hard” were bland and uninspired, even with the flourish of keyboards, on-spot backup singers, and a skilled drummer, bassist, and guitarist.

In a welcome change of pace, Ward and Deschanel played a set of songs on their own. They put precious spins on Joni Mitchell’s “You Turn Me on I’m a Radio” and Motown oldie “You've Really Got a Hold on Me.”.

But it wasn’t until the end of the set that they actually started engaging the audience. Deschanel jumped up and down enthusiastically during “Ridin’ in My Car” and asked the audience to sing along to “In the Sun,” a fun '60s-inspired pop song with chugging guitars and a bright melody.

“She” sounded great, and “Him” drew his fair share of whoops from the crowd. Yet neither smiled much or even seemed to enjoy themselves. Their songs detail stories of falling in love and riding off into the sunset, but none of these emotions translated live. By the end of the night, we were all equally spiritless.

(Better pictures coming...)

Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros - Live Review - HOB Cleveland

Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros frontman Alex Ebert often claims he’s trying to evoke his inner child in his music. And last night, the raucous audience at House of Blues felt the kiddie vibes, jumping around like a bunch of toddlers on a sugar high.

Sneaking joints instead of candy, the crowd of twentysomethings danced around with abandon, not noticing when mops of hair scratched their neighbors and certainly not hesitating to gyrate right in front of one another to get to the middle of the action.

The ten-member band started the set with “Up From Below,” the title track of their 2009 debut album, and continued with “Janglin.” Jade Castrinos, who shares lead vocal duties with Ebert, serenaded a woman and her baby on stage, explaining it was a song for kids.

Throughout the night, Edward Sharpe played most of Up From Below, plus a couple of new tunes. One of them sounded like a warmer, free-spirited Sigur Ros, reeling with primal percussion and repetitive vocals that recalled a tribal chant.

“Desert Song,” a number that sounds eerie and ominous on record, breathed with vibrancy in the live setting. Ebert jumped around while his nine bandmates pumped seemingly endless energy into their instruments.

When the L.A.-based band closed with “Home,” the crowd exploded with joy, jumping up, clapping manically, and shouting with glee as Stewart Cole blasted a trumpet solo worthy of a king’s entrance.

But last night there was no king. There was a village, and ten very talented song leaders.

For the last song, Jade brought the baby back on stage, holding her on her hip as she crooned “Home is wherever I’m with you.” And in that moment, that’s where we all were. We were home.

Metric Concert Review - HOB Cleveland

When Metric played “Dead Disco” at House of Blues last night, the synth's high-pitched alien screeching, rippling guitar growls, and bouncy percussion meant that the band was bringing a new kind of dance music to town. Audience members bounced on their heels, clapping their hands above their heads as frontwoman Emily Haines strutted across the stage, shrugging her shoulders to the beat.

The song hit the back of House of Blues hard and fast, but like a few other songs in the set, it paused for a long breakdown in the middle. The Canadian band has the change-of-mood-and-tempo thing down to a science. The slow momentum always built up to explosive sound and rapidly pulsing lights.

While neither Haines nor anyone else in the band had much to say in between songs, they owned the stage with jagged movements and rapid-fire solos.

Material from Metric’s fourth album, Fantasies, made up most of the set, which began with the creepy, robotic exuberance of “Twilight Galaxy.” “Satellite Mind,” “Help I’m Alive,” and “Gold Guns Girls” pulsed through the hall with the kind of energy that could power thousands of batteries.

“Sick Muse,” which sounds like a tribute to Depeche Mode’s “Personal Jesus” on record, sounded less like '80s dance music and more like rock and roll with James Shaw’s spaghetti-western guitars, Josh Winstead’s bumbling bass, and Joules Scott-Key’s syncopated percussion.

But Haines was the true force of power, wrapping the crowd around her finger with her endless liveliness. She pranced, hopped, headbanged, and high-fived fans, all while playing the synthesizer and electric guitar, and crooning dark lyrics like “If I stumble, they’re gonna eat me alive.”

For the encore, Metric went to both extremes, first by taking on the punky “Monster Hospital,” and ending with an acoustic version of “Combat Baby.” As Shaw and Haines turned the feisty favorite into a bedtime tune, they smiled at each other knowingly. They’ve finally reached a stage in their career where they’re good enough to drastically alter fan favorites and still leave them wanting more.

The Apples in Stereo - Grog Shop - Live Review

Last night’s smug Grog Shop crowd did the time warp, and we’re not talking Rocky Horror Picture Show. The seven members of the Apples in Stereo’s touring posse arrived onstage dressed in customized silver space suits ready to take fellow humans back and forward in time, fueled their seventh album, Travellers in Space and Time.

Their goofy futuristic apparel – blinking sunglasses and all – planted smiles on our faces, but it was the gooey pop goodness that kept feet tapping through the night. The extent of our literal time travel only reached back to 1992, when the Apples played the first song they ever wrote and recorded (“Tidal Wave”). Yet the synth-flavored grooves that litter the new album go back a little further, to the days of Electric Light Orchestra’s prime.

“Dream About the Future” and “Told You Once” put fans in a frenzy of ‘80s dance paradise, while “Dignified Dignitary” played up what bassist Eric Allen refers to as the “scrappy punk band” side of things. After playing much of the new material, the Apples reached back to 2007’s New Magnetic Wonder for crowd pleasers like “Energy,” “Same Old Drag,” and “Sun is Out.”

Frontman Robert Schneider playfully transitioned between songs with proclamations like, “this is what music will sound like in the future.” This was after an opening set by the Generationals, who took us back to the organ-happy ‘60s.

Last night was an exercise in understanding musical influences of the past. But more than that, it was about getting excited that some of our favorite music is still being created today.

Ben Folds - Live Review - HOB Cleveland

“You all don’t know what it’s like, being male, middle-class, and white,” Ben Folds shouted loudly and repeatedly during the first song of his encore last night. “Rockin’ the Suburbs” pretty much summarizes Folds’ physical appearance and sense of humor, but it doesn’t even begin to encompass the breadth of his talent.

Playing a two-hour set to a sold-out House of Blues, Folds ripped through songs on both sides of the spectrum, as well as a whole bunch that don’t even fit on a spectrum. Last night's take on “Rock This Bitch,” a song whose lyrics and melodies change at every show, included a hilarious drum solo. “You say, ‘You can’t write a bridge on a hi-hat,’ and I say, ‘Fuck your ass, I can’,” Folds told his overjoyed fans.

Folds transitioned from a song about a middle-aged man who screwed and then married his 17-year-old daughter’s best friend to the sincere “The Luckiest,” a ballad newlyweds have been using at their weddings for years.

His lyrical storytelling has always been immaculate, detailing personal struggles in two ways: with tongue-in-cheek sarcasm and guile, or with complete seriousness and earnestness. The audience enthusiastically sang along to “Landed,” “Zak and Sara,” “Bitch Went Nuts,” and “Emaline.” They also contributed harmonies to crowd favorite “Army.”

All the while, Folds’ hands bounced around his piano with incredible ease. His fingers conveyed trickling water in “Free Coffee,” and a deliberate stampede-like clunking gave power to “Annie Waits.” The flashy piano work in “One Angry Dwarf and 200 Solemn Faces” danced circles around Folds' vocals. A jazz pianist might be able to play it, but Folds injected insanely quick flourishes that brought the ivories to life.

As Folds walked off the stage grinning and bowing to the crowd, gigantic pit stains covered his shirt. No sweat. We’re talking about a guy who plays his heart out night after night — a guy who has such passion for his craft that it seeps through his every movement. He might come from the suburbs, but his true home is the stage.

Avi Buffalo & Japandroids @ Grog Shop

Avi Buffalo were on the Grog Shop stage before Japandroids last night, looking young and meek at first. The members of the four-piece Long Beach group are barely out of high school. Yet as soon as their fingers touched their instruments, age was just a number.

The structures of Buffalo’s songs resemble a spider with nine and a half legs. As strange as it seems, the extra appendages accentuate the spider’s greatest strengths. Frontman Buffalo’s (real name: Avigdor Zahner-Isenberg) extra legs are the mini guitar breakdowns he inserts between verse and chorus. When Buffalo starts soloing in odd places, it messes with typical pop structures, but it’s a welcome change and an interesting new direction.


Japandroids' second dead-on Cleveland performance of the past half-year blew minds and eardrums alike. Drummer David Prowse and guitarist Brian King created the same energy they did in October at Now That’s Class. This time, the audience was three times the size. Ringing power chords and cymbal-heavy percussion radiated back and forth between the two Vancouver buddies as they played every song off their debut album, Post-Nothing.

If it wasn’t already, “Young Hearts Spark Fire” became the anthem for youth angst. Thrusting their bodies toward the stage, Cleveland fans made it loud and clear. The entire crowd screamed fervently, “I don’t wanna worry about dying/I just wanna worry about those sunshine girls.”

A few new tracks also made their way into the set. “Darkness on the Edge of Gastown” and “Art Czars” are quintessentially “Japandroidsian.” In other words, they’re low-fi garage rock that sounds scummy as hell.

“Heart Sweats” was a show highlight, if only for the interplay between King and Prowse. King stopped to tune his guitar in the middle of the song, joking with the audience that his talent lies in making us believe the screw-up was part of the plan.

When King nudged Prowse to start back-up, the two took turns jesting each other, until King gleefully shouted that he was going to need a countdown.

That kinship is what makes Japandroids' live shows so compelling. That, and, uh, the sheer number of amps they use. And the way the two of them are always completely attuned to each other’s movements. And… do I really need to go on?

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P.S. You can find this review and most of my others at the Cleveland Scene. Check out other things on the site, too - there's snarky blogs, melodramatic commenters, some pretty good writing, and most importantly, a bunch of cuss words.

Julian Casablancas - Live Review

Julian Casablancas @ House of Blues on 4/3/10

The last time Julian Casablancas performed in Cleveland was April of 2006, at the Agora. My memory escapes me, but I remember two key things. First, Casablancas and the rest of The Strokes were stumbling drunk, occasionally forgetting lyrics and often messing up entire parts of the song with wrong notes. Second, nobody gave a shit – it was The Strokes, after all. We were just glad they were in Cleveland.

Yet four years later, I was hoping for a little more, and Casablancas delivered. Performing most of the songs from his solo debut, Phrazes for the Young, the New York native showcased tunes that sounded like The Strokes’ Is This It? injected with a large syringe of the ‘80s. The dude must like symmetry; his band is made up of two guitar players, two guys on keyboard/synthesizer, and a female-male drum duo.

Casablancas strode onto the stage in red pants and his signature leather jacket, starting immediately with the slow shuffling of “Ludlow St.,” which showcased Casablancas’ hidden talent; in all his years with The Strokes, his smooth and (dare-I-say?) pretty voice never was a big focus. “River of Brakelights” was a full-forced wall of sound, with guitar after guitar piled on for a dirty, crunchy buzz.

True mayhem broke loose when the band started into The Strokes “Hard to Explain.” A huge cluster of high school kids in Strokes t-shirts flooded the front of the crowd, making Casablancas remark that his favorite part of the tour so far was the guy in the audience who just did the “zombie seizure” dance. “Hard to Explain” transitioned into an acoustic take on another Strokes song, “You Only Live Once,” that Casablancas prefaced with, “Here’s a b-side you guys have probably never heard.”

What Casablancas’ solo material lacks in guitar riffs he made up for in polyrhythmic bliss and danceable synths. “11th Dimension” was a playground of rhythmic trickery and digitized vocals. “Tourist” fueled Casablancas’ second encore with an exotic Middle Eastern flair and intricate bleeping synthesizer effects. None of the songs ever reached the intensity level of The Strokes, which means we’ll have to wait for the band to get back together for full gratification. But let’s not be too picky – Casablancas remembered the words, and the band remembered its parts. One down, one to go.

*You can also find this review, and many other wonderful things, at www.clevescene.com.

Found An Old Live Review...

Beach House... about 2 years ago. Still one of the most memorable, great shows I've even seen/heard/witnessed. (Granted my writing skills have hopefully improved since then...)


Beach House, The Grog Shop, Cleveland, Ohio
3/27/08
Five stars

One man and one woman. One guitar and one organ. One hell of an experience. Baltimore’s Beach House is Alex Scally and Victoria Legrand, but if you closed your eyes while listening to their music, you’d never guess that such a rich, all-consuming sound was coming from just the two of them. They make music that is trance-enducing. Each song is gently tuneful, yet heavy in the sense that its magnificence weighs you down.

They travel light, the two of them, creating a full atmosphere with as few physical bodies as possible. Dressed in all white, they glide onto the stage. Legrand is in a silky shirt with gemstones and sequins and a large crystal pendant around her neck. Scally is impeccably dressed in a white suit, white shoes, and, just to throw us off a little, black socks. When the tiny blue lights are flipped on, the stage is illuminated by what seems like a slow-moving disco ball. The whole effect makes you feel like you are underwater.

As the duo start playing, the whole audience is suspended under the water, floating around in the splendor of their sound waves. The set begins with “Wedding Bells,” a track off their newly released Devotion. Pre-programmed organ beats recorded on a four-track are layered beneath Scally’s smoothly sweet guitar playing and Legrand’s vocals and reverb-infused organ playing. Jason Robert Quever of Papercuts, the opening band, joins the two on stage during “Gila,” and stays from then on to contribute additional drumming.


Legrand’s classical voice training is evident in the liquidy notes that escape her mouth. Each note seems to come from somewhere deeper than the vocal chords; as they flow into the crowd, you can feel your body warming. Every once in a while, a note is a little off key, or she strains herself and sounds a little gruff. But the imperfections show us that flaws are part of what makes this music beautiful. Sometimes she grows impatient with the song (or with some kind of inner struggle), and she shakes her head around and swoops aggressively over the organ.

In “Master of None,” Legrand defiantly croons, “I cry all the time ‘cause I’m not having fun.” She is so passionate, you believe she might just burst into tears. Meanwhile, Scally pulls out his slide, and looks as calm as ever. He rarely looks up from his guitar, except when he’s singing the higher harmonies to Legrand’s melodies. He’s content and in a haze, like much of the crowd. Everyone is in a dream-like state, mesmerized by the hypnotizing beauty of songs off Devotion and their self-titled debut album, like “Tokyo Witch” and “Apple Orchard.”

An eerie alien echo is continually released from the organ. It’s creepy how Beach House’s music can be so calming and soothing but, at the same time, startling. When the notes fly out from Scally and Legrand’s fingers and throats, the process seems innate and natural.

When you see Beach House live, do not go to watch two musicians play their instruments. The performance is much more than that. A Beach House show is an experience – one of entire submittal to music. Your body is submerged in it, your soul is covered with it, and your mind is wrapped up in it. The power of two simple musicians cannot be denied. Not after experiencing Beach House.

Rooney @ the Beachland Ballroom: 12/10

The guys in Rooney must have had guilty consciences while writing most the songs off their 2003 self-titled debut album. Titles like “I’m a Terrible Person” and proclamations like “sorry for making your life a living hell” lead us to believe that the five-piece crew wasn’t all that innocent. But all that bumming around never kept Rooney from playing hooky, danceable pop songs.

Today, they’re still feeding off the same energy. And the same songs. With a set list fueled mostly by hits from their first album (and a few others from 2007’s Calling the World and a new EP), last night’s crowd stepped back five years in time.

Lead vocalist Robert Schwartzman and guitarist Taylor Locke perfected the cocky mic stand straddle, ripping bombastic guitar trills that sounded a lot grimier than the candy-coated production heard on their albums. Fan favorites like “Daisy Duke” and “Sorry Sorry” had girls drunkenly flailing their arms in the air like dying seals trying to reach land. Shout-along choruses and a big, anthemic resonance rippled through the ballroom as Rooney embraced the joy of simplistic pop songs.

Yet if you looked a bit closer, red flags went up. Bassist Matthew Winter was already sleeping from the moment he stonily walked onstage. Schwartzman didn’t even pretend to put an ounce of effort into his performance. Locke was smiling at other members of the band, telling some kind of secrets that the audience wasn’t allowed to get. Hell, half the band could have been playing from sidestage, and nobody would have noticed.

You could say that the structure of a Rooney song is comparable to going through the motions. Short verse, repetitive chorus, guitar solo, repetitive chorus. But at least the songs have some heart. And last night, that’s exactly what Rooney was missing.

Matthew Perryman Jones, Ingrid Michaelson - Live Review

Singer-songwriters tend to be the bane of any rock critic’s existence. We are bored of hearing about their petty little romance problems. We cannot bear another note of simple, unoriginal guitar strumming. And we hate, let’s emphasize hate, getting stuck behind mushy couples making out all over the place. It’s pretty much the least cool way to spend a Saturday night.

But there are always exceptions, and if Bob Dylan isn’t coming to the local venue and Elliott Smith (RIP) isn’t coming back to life, we just have to hope that some true talent still exists. Matthew Perryman Jones and Ingrid Michaelson proved that it does to a sold-out show at the Beachland Ballroom on Halloween Eve. Fans didn’t want to miss a great show – or holiday – so they came dressed up and ready to hear some deeply meditative songs.

A few songs into his set, Jones pointed to the crowd, asking a fan “Are you Waldo?” “Yes,” the guy responded, to which Jones replied, “Found you! Dude, you are being way too obvious.” What wasn’t so clear is Jones’ style. The Nashville-based artist has said that he loves melodramatic love songs, but his voice doesn’t come off as overly sentimental. He balanced his tenor somewhere between rugged and smooth, between strong and overbearing, and between pop and country. Instead of sticking with one genre, Jones fills in the holes that link several together.

Fans screamed when he covered Patty Griffin’s “Top of the World,” and cracked up when he stopped a song in the middle to help the rhythmically-challenged crowd clap along with “When It Falls Apart.”

The fun didn’t end when Jones left the stage. Michaelson integrated candy throwing, singing contests (one half of the crowd was dubbed “stallions” and the other “hairy mammoths”), audience choreography, and sarcastic storytelling into her set of bouncy love/ex-love songs. Accompanied by a 5-piece band, the spitfire sang her heart out, her voice dipping and twisting at all the right times during songs like “The Hat” and “Be Ok.”

She improvised a new song on her keyboard, playing with one of the tootsie rolls she hadn’t yet thrown into the crowd. It was moments like this, the utterly spontaneous and spunky, that set Michaelson apart from some of her dull singer-songwriter counterparts.

While group sing-a-longs brought a piece of childhood into her live show, Michaelson also joked about four year olds smoking pot and got the girls in her band together to chant a ladies anthem under the moniker “Vag Force.”

We may be too old for trick-or-treating, but rock critics and fans alike are never too old for some good old-fashioned fun.

Drummer - Live Review

In Jancee Dunn’s memoir, But Enough About Me, the Rolling Stone writer gives all kinds of advice on interviewing celebrities. When bands are acting too cool to answer her questions, she usually pays attention to the one member of the band who is often overlooked — the drummer.

Dunn explains: “[H]is other bandmates, particularly the heretofore-mute sunglasses-wearing lead singer, will at first be confused, then annoyed. Finally, their competitive spirit will take over, and they will enthusiastically jockey for attention, offering amusing anecdotes about groupies and telling off-color jokes.”

So what happens when you put together a band with dudes who have all spent time behind the kit? That was an experiment Patrick Carney wanted to try out when his Black Keys bandmate, Dan Auerbach, reserved some time to tour behind his solo album.

Steve Clements of Houseguest and Six Parts Seven, Ghostman & Sandman’s Greg Boyd, and Jon Finley and Jamie Stillman from Party of Helicopters (all local bands, by the way) joined Carney onstage at the Beachland Ballroom Saturday night. And all the guys were ready to march to the beat of a different, um, drummer.

Boyd stuck with percussion duties, while Clements played keys/synths, Stillman took his turn on guitar and Carney kept it steady on the bass. Finley had a blast playing “frontman,” chatting up the audience about his love for Cleveland sports and his positive hopes for (ugh) the next day’s Browns game. The set stopped for five minutes after the first song, after Clements realized he was missing a cable. Stillman filled the silence with his rendition of Miley Cyrus’ “Party in the U.S.A.,” while Finley poked fun.

When the music started back up, it was underwhelming. “Good Golly” was as good as it got. Most of the tunes were as forgettable as a Matthew McConaughey flick. For all the supposed drumming cred, you’d expect some sick drum solos or team drumming. Yet the rhythm was as dull as the generic songwriting. If nothing else, it was a nice chance for talented Ohio musicians to team up. And it probably beats a band of “mute sunglasses-wearing” lead singers, right?

Drummer - Feel Good Together

St. Vincent - Live Review

If Annie Clark of St. Vincent applied the same philosophy she uses for songwriting to painting, she would be splattering blood and guts on a Monet. Last night’s set at the Beachland Ballroom began with “The Strangers,” the same track that opens her latest record, Actor. Her ethereal voice echoed through the ballroom, and meandering flute and violin set the scene with a calm beauty. But sure enough, Clark covered that beauty with grime, attacking her guitar with a viciousness that felt exhilaratingly wrong, especially when you consider the context.

Daniel Hart warmed the room up with his violin, Evan Smith alternated between flute, keys, and sax, Anthony LeMarca sped things up on the drums, and William Flynn held the show together on bass. All eyes were on Clark (and everyone was taking a million pictures; she’s a knockout), but the solid musicianship of these four backing members is essential.

Clark remarked that last time they were in Cleveland, they played to ten people in the connecting tavern. Since then, Actor has (rightfully) fueled a great deal of success. On “Save Me From What I Want,” the Brooklynite experimented with jazzy, bouncy guitar, and mixed lyrics like “I think I love you, I think I’m mad” with delightfully messy distortion on “Actor Out of Work.”

The crowd was completely silent between cheers and applause. Jaws were dropping. And you could practically hear the sound of 100 men’s hearts beating as Clark crooned “Marry Me,” one of the night’s vocal-centric songs. When she sang the line “Oh John, let’s do what Mary and Joseph did… without the kid,” the crowd erupted into applause, and she politely responded, “Thank you for getting the joke” before finishing the song.

St. Vincent is proof that music probably shouldn’t follow a formula. Sometimes spooky and sweet are best when combined. Sometimes calm waves require grimy dirt to keep things interesting. If this is true, Annie Clark is the queen of juxtaposition.