A/Live Show: Bill Callahan @ Webster Hall

Bill Callahan fka Smog is obviously a favorite of this blog, so seeing him live was nothing short of spectacular.  That being said, those who check out Callahan on tour expecting obscure selections from the Smog catalog will be sorely disappointed.  Billy Boy stuck mostly to new material from his majestic new record Dream River, but threw in a few selections from his past few albums and ended on two Smog songs (more on that later, Tater. Also, sidebar: he is a damn good looking gent in person…but I once again digress…)

Webster Hall was full to the brim, crowded as I have ever seen it, which really speaks to Callahan’s underground following; even though he is currently riding high on a Best New Music from Pitchfork, he has always had a strong, dedicated fanbase that supports him.  The presence of this man is astounding, almost unsettling: he looms over the crowd with one leg up on the monitor, barely moving, but still holding a firm control over the audience.  His signature baritone reverberated off the walls and straight to chest, and by the end of the first song the crowd was smitten.  When Bill Callahan sings, he doesn’t just repeat his own lyrics, he clings to the sounds as they pour out of his mouth, allowing each syllable to resonate before he sets them free.  Watching him perform is almost a struggle, as he refuses to let you merely listen: he forces you to experience.

Photo Courtesy of Bowery Presents

You would think with an artist who plays the kind of slow, dreamy, occasionally abrasive brand of folk that Callahan does would make for a docile crowd, but it couldn’t have been more the opposite.  Whenever a fan broke away from the spell of the music, they would whoop and shout, and every song ended in thunderous applause.  Eventually, after hearing his name be shouted so many times he quipped: “You don’t have to use my name, I know who you’re talking to.”  He then broke into another swirling tune before he came back on the mic to clear the air in classic Callahan form: “I was just kidding, you can use my name, it gets lonely out here on tour,” which brought forth a flurry of “Bill! Bill! Bill!” Yet just to solidify his reputation as a dry, quick wit he smirked and replied: “Ok, I’m not lonely anymore.  That should do for the next couple nights.”

What struck me as the most fascinating about Bill Callahan’s live show is something that doesn’t always translate back to the albums; the songs unfold, like brilliant tapestries of sonic emotion.  Callahan’s band is tight as well, but not overbearing, allowing what begins as a simple chord progression to ebb and flow into a sprawling landscape.  Callahan is famous for using natural imagery, (favoring horses, rivers and things of that sort) but this is an aesthetic that translates seamlessly into his songs; they progress organically, flowing very much like the rivers he sings of, with mountains becoming valleys only to ascend again before diving back to the water.

Callahan closed with the Smog the fans had been waiting for, but it was his performance of Rock Bottom Riser that was by far the most impressive.  Callahan’s earlier work as Smog is often wrought with discomfort, struggle and desperation, something that is frequently mistaken for insecurity.  But that “insecurity” was completely absent from this version of his fan favorite: Callahan’s voice bellowed with a newfound bravado, one acquired in the years after A River Ain’t Too Much to Love, one that finally puts him in his rightful place amongst the most prolific, talented and unique songwriters today.

Arcade Fire on SNL/another planet

The Arcade Fire helped to open up SNL’s umpteenth season with host Tina Fey last night, but took their contribution a step further by presenting a livecast concert Here Comes the Night Time after the show to showcase their new material in a fantasy Salsateca filled with disco mirrors and cross-promotional celebrity cameos, with James Franco, Michael Cera and Bill Heder all appearing as various characters before the music even started.

[Although these cameos were totally overshadowed by Aaron Paul randomly appearing several times in sketches as Jesse Pinkman, bitch]

The integration of modern relevant music acts and Saturday Night Live is anything but a new idea, but this particular spin on SNL’s relationship to the artist was a positive reflection of the potential future these sorts of collaborations have in a generation of such rapid media consumption.

First and foremost, thanks to Hulu, Netflix and Project Free TV, there is simply no longer a need for young people to gather and watch a variety show live, especially on a Saturday night when their social status could be adversely affected by their staying in.  However, as I sat in my living room with a group of friends huddled around our small analog TV drinking PBR, I began to understand what this meant in a larger cultural context.  Instead of passively consuming the background noise of SNL as we tapped away on Twitter and Buzzfeed, we were engaged and interested, laughing together at a shared medium. 

[via 'Back In the Day']

This is not to say we don’t religiously gather around the TV for our favorite Sunday night dramas (RIP Breaking Bad) but the context of giving one’s Saturday night to enjoy a cultural moment with your chosen circle of friends is important for more than just the content being viewed, but the temporary glimpse back it offers to this faux neo-nostalgia millenials crave, a reminder of the heyday of Nicktoons and pre-viral social conduct.

Also, the music kicked (and boogied) a significant amount of ass.  Just saying.  Our primary reasoning for joining together was primarily the promise of new material from one of our favorite acts in recent history, but in doing so we gained an experience not often afforded to our generation these days.  The result of our collective enjoyment was a feeling of gratification, of experiencing media, as opposed to our painfully post-postmodern M.O. of merely consuming it.

Either way, there are three basic, absolutely essential, non-theoretical points that must be taken away from this:

1)     Arcade Fire is a force to be reckoned with, and their new Haitian drummers are so effing rad, out Indie-ing even Ginger Drum Bro’s empassioned 2005 Coachelly performance. (PIC) It appears Winn Butler has maybe outgrown his Diva/basketball stealing ways, able to even laugh at himself during Tina Fey and Kenan Thompson’s swipes.

2)     AARON PAUL IS THE BEST HUMAN MEME ALIVE.

3)     Fuck Andy Samberg.  I’m still pissed about Joanna.

#TeamSharks

Watch the full Here Comes the Night Time post-SNL performance, directed by Roman Coppola here:

A/Live Show: Deerhunter @ Webster Hall 9/19

The first thing I found myself thinking as I walked into the cramped confines on Webster Hall was: where the fuck did all of these people come from?

It was by far the most diverse crowd I had ever seen there: art school kids chatting with Wall Street suits, cool NPR dads standing next to dreadlocked teens smoking pot and plenty of giddy teenagers and senior citizens. With a band as eclectic and unique as Atlanta's Deerhunter, this should have come as no surprise, yet I found myself fascinated with this motley crew of weird vibes. Once the lights went down, the crowd lit up as one by one the members of the band stepped onto the stage until the messianic figure of frontman Bradford Cox, decked out in a floral dress and black wig, loomed onto the stage.

 From the first three songs, it was apparent that the band was ready to span their relatively slim back catalog and play more than just new material; starting off with Octet (from their sophomore album Cryptograms); Neon Junkyard (from their latest Monomania) and radio friendly hit Don't Cry from the critically adored Halcyon Digest.  The set progressed in this fashion throughout, playing older fan favorites complimented with their impressive newer releases.

In the middle of the set, Bradford stopped a minute to express his sincere gratitude to New York fans and his love for the city, calling it their second home.  He too commented on the diversity in the crowd, inspiring a young man to throw his driver license up onto the stage.  Cox, infamously known to be quite the indie rock diva, found it hilarious, reading the name of the man from New Jersey and commenting on how terrifying the photo was.

It is such a simple moment like this that so aptly displays the relationship Deerhunter feels with their fans.  Media outlets and blogs are so quick to comment on Bradford Cox's unpredictable mood swings and difficult nature, yet they glaze over his many moments of sincere kindness and approachability because it's much less exciting to read about.

Deerhunter closed the set with a noisy extended jam of Monomania and Microcastle's Twilight At Carbon Lake.  The band quickly returned for a three song encore and left with equal haste, (as Bradford Cox was scheduled for a DJ set at Williamsburg haunt Glasslands) but the crowd descended the grimy exit stairs in a flurry of excited chatter.  Now that these characters had experienced what brought them back together, their worlds would go back to business as usual: whether that business be school, stocks or stonerism, their familiar social constructs were passed over and swirled together by the creative juggernaut that is Deerhunter.