Rock & Roll Farm

Thursday! Jun 12 2003 // 4:46 pm //

Best Show, Ever

Dear readers, I have something for you. Written by our correspondent on the West Coast, it is the story of a rock show. Please be aware that the tenses may shift about in the overhead compartment, so when you’re reading don’t let them fall out and hit you on the melon.

enjoy.

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This is not adulation, assembled from notes hastily scribbled by stage lights into a tastefully stickered blank book. This is not a show review, preoccupied with aesthetic and reference and self-aggrandizing arcane knowledge. This is not the ranting of a fan who will go blue in the face diagramming every nuance of every song in perfect order—showing you on his rock and roll slide-rule the drift between the album version, and which was better for it, and which was worse.

No.

This is a brief statement I making to qualify the prescient truth I whispered to myself on the way out of Bimbos last night. “That will be the best show I’ve seen all year.”

The New Pornographers might be the best thing that has happened to pop since the Flaming Lips decided to lighten up in the mid-90s (and I don’t mean that Christina Noguitarra and Justin Timbertoes pop—we’re talking about the legacy of practitioners like Brian Wilson and Alex Chilton [Big Star]). But these paragraphs, like my statement last night, is more about the show than any given songs in their list.

When I saw the Pornographers for the first time a year and some change ago, I was floored by their capacity to heckle the hecklers. Their brand of retaliation was smart and right to the heart of whatever hecklers outburst and (most likely because they’re Canadian) somehow polite. Well, they’re not all Canadian. There is the token Yankee: Neko Case. And of course it was she who decided to forgo politeness and offer to hang hecklers wimpy little indie-rock asses on her foot.

Last night she was a bit more reserved. She said she had to be. Under the influence of some cocktail of paranoia and imminent menstruation (perhaps on stage even) she announced that she had to ignore everything that was yelled from the crowd, because she would automatically process it as an affront. Carl, the leader, leaned into his mic and added, “periods are the best. Take it from a guy.” Neko adds, “yeah, my body is going crazy. I wanna fight all of you, then fuck you and then eat you.”

So the show was proceeding famously. Harmonies were spot-on. Rhythms were lost but quickly and expertly recovered. The band was full tilt, opting pause and socialize maybe every fourth song. Dan, the drummer, would occasionally request his bandmates pass him a “good” beer from the cooler, “none of that green stuff, it’s like water”. He was referring to all the Heinekens the bar had supplied them.

About mid set during a slight breather, someone in the front row started to yell something, but both his identity and his point were lost in the crowd noise. The band however seemed rapt with attention. Gradually I gleaned that it was directed at Dan, because Carl began to protest in to his mic, in defense of his friend and drummer. This continued for a few more turns before Dan said of the heckler, “well you can’t trust his judgment. He’s wearing a Rush t-shirt.” Neko perked up to this and took notice of the kid. She said, “listen, there’s nothing wrong with Gandalfian Space Metal. In fact we’re gonna be playing some soon.” Like it had been planned ahead of time, her comment dovetailed into Dan starting up on the bell-of-the-ride-cymbal riff that begins “2112” by Rush. There was no need for a mutual look, the rest of the band launched into the song as best they knew how. Of course they only knew so much so the song petered out quickly.

Apparently this had frosted the hecklers cupcake because his fists could be seen pumping in the air up front. The band looked as if they were about to get back into the set, but Dan wasn’t ready to give this up. Apparently their utility musician Todd wasn’t ready either, because he had begun to pick out the arpeggios in “Time Stands Still”. Dan heard this and with an epic drum-fill he, Todd and the bass player rolled into the pre-chorus of that song—the part where Aimee Mann’s voice comes in. This apparently pleased said heckler, because Carl pulled him up on stage. He couldn’t have been more than a very young 18 and was keeping his mile wide smile in check only with his amazement-bugged eyes. Carl gestured to the rest of the band and said, “it’s OK guys, he’s with me.” From “Time Stands Still” they launched into a little vignette of “Tom Sawyer” and the heckler began to play air guitar with reckless abandon. This amused Carl and the rest of the band immensely. The Rush dried up, and they were ready to play another original.

The heckler waved and was heading off the stage when Carl grabbed him by the shoulder and said, “wait, I have an idea. You stay up here and play air guitar with me OK?” The kid needed no more convincing than that and dutifully, nay, feverishly played air guitar through the entire next song. As it ended, he once again headed for the edge of the stage. Carl stopped him again. “You’re not done yet buddy. This time we need an air bassist.” Hands shot up out of the audience. Carl added, “but there’s a caveat. You have to play like this” and gestures in the manner of a jazz bassist who plays his instrument way high up under his chin. “Ok you” he says to another audience member, and up jumps another youngin’, about the same age as the air guitarist, but pudgier and sweatier. “Wanna beer?” asks Dan from his drum riser as the kid takes the stage, “take one of those green ones…”

These two perform their appointed jobs during the next song, and then some. Every time Carl has a break from the mic he turns around to face his two new band members and duly thrash back and forth with them. The little fat air-bassist takes a swig off a beer bottle, tilts his head back, and on time with a cymbal crash, sprays it skyward into an arcing mist. Very Michael Anthony. Then the two air minstrels synchronize jumps, a la them emo bands. The band meanwhile are all just tickled at the exuberance of these kids. Both Dan and Neko are having trouble singing their parts for all of their laughter. The song ends, and Carl once again sequesters them on stage.

“This time we need an air drummer.” They quickly pull up a girl who was with the two air guitarists. Dan asks “are you their girlfriend?” as she approaches the drum riser. He quickly adds, “oh…was that inappropriate? Sorry.” Carl replies, “teach her the cross handed method Dan” and Neko quips “don’t listen to them sister, you gotta find your own style” which garners hoots from the female audience members. Carl observes, “I don’t barely have to sing on this one. I can just face our new members.” Neko adds, “shit, I have sing this one? I gotta keep my blinders on… I can’t sing with this much cuteness going on behind me.” She didn’t escape. During a musical interlude the air guitarist and air bassist appeared, flanking and freaking her. She appeared to be loving it.

In between songs more banter ensues. Someone yells for Journey and the crowd cheers this suggestion on. “Well we are in the city by the bay” observes one of the band members. Neko shakes her head, “ya’ll don’t know what you got yourself into” and Carl follows “yeah, they’re on Matador, they can’t know any Journey” as the bass player (the real one) is comping through the progression of “Don’t Stop Believing.” No one in the band really knows it but they find their way to the chorus which is rendered in perfect three part harmony, despite half of the words being supplemented with blah-blahs. Carl is singing so high that as it ends he observes, “wow, that was like the Sigur Ros version. You know that band? They sing in gibberish…we put on their records and laugh and laugh and laugh…”

Before the next song, Carl recruits an air vocalist for him and Neko each, and an air keyboardist. The band has almost doubled in size. The air musicians are ecstatic. They launch into “My Slow Descent into Alcoholism” both air singers know every word and every nuance as they sing into empty beer bottles. The air keyboardist gives up the pantomime and switches to go-go dancing. It was a melee. It was beautiful.

They even took my request to play “Execution Day.” It was their last original before their show-ender, an airtight rendition of “Action” by The Sweet. The lights came up, the house music came on, and I shuffled my to the door, content that this will be the best show I’ve seen all year.

Wish you had seen it.