This week, a care package arrived from New Mexico, including a black
T-shirt bought at my second concert ever. The Smashing Pumpkins'
"Infinite Sadness Tour". The world is indeed a vampire. The only thing I
can remember from that show, which was played in the rodeo horse-smelling
Tingley Coliseum, was that Billy Corgan inexplicably apologized at its
conclusion. "Sorry about this, guys. But, sometimes, bands just have off
nights." I'm sure the Pumpkins were relieved (or, more likely, expected)
that this "off night" transpired in the desert and not in New York, Tokyo,
or even Denver. I'm sure that, young pup that I was, thought they had
been terrific and would hold the show as a solid, youthful rock memory.
Instead, it helped me know early on that recorded music is a finely tuned
beast, and that live music can wax and wane from night to night, from city
to city. Seeing Cold War Kids at the Great American Music Hall served as
a kind reminder. Clearly an interesting, decent band on the rise, Cold
War Kids failed to infuse my night with any inspirational drive, any awe,
and sadly, not even much movement. I don't condemn them for it, but I
didn't jump out into the crisp night, eager to tell anyone and everyone
about what I had just seen and heard. I just cracked open up my whiskey
IV and forged on, entertaining folks passing through town.
All seemed promising as the Cold War Kids took the stage with their "hit"
"We Used to Vacation," a doom-steeped, slouch piece about an alcoholic
father who weighs the options of his family's happiness with his
gin-soaked oblivion. The beat and the verbal cadence each jerked along at
uneven, changing paces, perfectly illustrating sloppy-drunk dad's halting,
stumbling demeanor as he rushes to avoid missing his son's graduation.
(Not mentioned is that the only thing worse than your drunk father missing
your graduation is your drunk father making it to your graduation, hefting
fifths at the stage.) The only normal time signature entered is when pops
promises sobriety to the crippled fam, with even steps, one at a time.
Later on, the band played another crowd favorite, the pissed-off
laundry-themed "Hang Me Out to Dry," and garnered some animated feedback
from the masses. The echoing lead guitar of Jonnie Russell had a lot to
do with that, giving the Great American a nice cave-like feel. "Passing
the Hat" featured a haunting, swaying piano melody that was perfect to
dance to.
Lead singer Nathan Willett continues the recent vocal trend of today's
indie rock, which is to say, he attempts to put his individual stamp on
the Jack White standard of success. This drawling,
knock-me-in-the-jaw-why-dontcha?, verbal sneer has already been co-opted
by Wolfmother's Andrew Stockdale. Along with Willett, they let their
higher notes stray into a whining register, then further up into the
shrill zone. The entire band played with some energy and more than enough
proficiency. I was particularly pleased with the steady, cool, bluesy
strains from bass player Matt Maust. To be sure, this band deserves more
than one chance. Their album, Robbers and Cowards, is a must
listen for its earth-toned blues, and the interesting characters found in
the lyrics. However, they didn't shock the city tonight. That's OK.
Good shows don't grow on trees. I'm just glad I didn't buy a shirt this
time.
|
