I've only been listening to Manchester Orchestra for about a week since my dear friend Burke-o-saurus-rex recommended them to me, so I wouldn't exactly consider myself the world's greatest authority on the band. Nonetheless, my impromptu decision to see Manchester Orchestra was a good one.
Lead singer Andy Hull jamming out (note: hat).
I can haz blurry picture of venue taken handheld at 1/4 second expozure???
The venue, Harper's Ferry, was sort of a far T ride for me and I had never really explored that area of Boston before (Allston) so I wasn't really sure what to expect. As we got off the Harvard Avenue T stop, I saw a kid in a flannel shirt with large headphones carrying a huge sketchpad also getting off, so my initial thoughts were "shit, this is going to be indie as fuck" as well as confusion over how this guy was going to do his emo-tears sketches at a show. Nonetheless, the venue wasn't actually that indie, it was more low-class bar scene that normally would have attracted low brow slutty blondes and bros rather than awkward high schoolers in high tops.
The scene was so chill that it would have been awkward, though easy, to push my way to the front of the stage, but I made the difficult decision to refrain from being "that girl" as a testament to my own self-integrity. The show started very low-keyish, since band members were on the (rather small) stage beforehand setting up their own equipment, so there wasn't that sense of the band members "presenting themselves" to droves and droves of audience applause.
Nonetheless, Manchester Orchestra put on a good no-frills show, and the audience was excited despite the lack of theatrical bravado. Andy Hull, lead singer, stole the show and definitely was the figurehead for the band. His beard also reminded me of pubes, which gave him a dual role as comic relief figure. One quirk in particular that made me LOLz in my head was Andy's black wool hat, which he seemed to obviously adore. He wore it nearly the entire show, even though he was clearly sweating balls and as a wool hat, this garment was impractical for body temperature regulation. He removed it briefly for one song, and then put it back on again. Oh Andy. I may or may not have a bit of a crush on your hunky Alaska-esque wildman ways.
Although I'm not that familiar with Manchester Orchestra's discography, I did find their live performance to sound much heavier than their recorded material. It definitely was way more "rock show" than I had anticipated, and although dancing was sparse, there were a few songs that at least made people put their bags down so they could clap their hands. For most of the show, I did that awkward head bobbing feet tapping thing that happens when music is almost danceable, but not quite.
It was also refreshing that Manchester Orchestra didn't take themselves too seriously. Most of the beginning of their set were old songs, which didn't bother me much because like I said, I just started listening to the band, but I suppose other people must have been sensitive to because Andy Hull's announcement that "this is the last of our new songs, the rest of our show is our old songs, all the shit you paid to see," was met with wild cheering.
Manchester Orchestra/Harper's Ferry
Chris Aschman Group, Chris’ Jazz Café
As I walked into Chris’ Jazz Café for the first time, I quickly succumbed to the dimly lit and quiet aura of a Wednesday night show. Though there was barely anyone there at 11pm, the group was playing away under the surveillance and scrutiny of hanging Dizzy Gillepsie, Miles Davis and Charlie Parker pictures. And as I settled in at my table close to the group, an incredible trombone player was riffing away on the instrument as if his life depended on it—I had a feeling this was going to be a fun experience. The background soundtrack to their playing was an especially distinct one that you can only hear at a live show- people whispering, giggling, and snuggling in corners. During the course of an hour (which literally flew by), the group played about 3 songs, each one extensively displaying solos from all instruments in a style that landed somewhere in between free jazz and bebop.
Each instrumentalist demonstrated their own style and personality. The bassist (questionably a cellist? there was a weird convo between him and a drunk audience member…I was thoroughly confused...but I will call him a bassist anyways since he was playing the bass part) plugged through with crisp walking bass patterns. He was energetically swaying back and forth, making jazz love to it with quick sweeping fingers roaming along the neck. The drummer was the musical flirt of the group, experimenting with all sorts of rhythms. He never stayed in one particular style or meter, moving between free-form, experimental patterns to swing patterns to emphasized offbeat patterns. Every time he led you on with one groove he abruptly changed to a different one. The guitarist, perhaps more of the serious type, started with often sparse chord contributions; but when it was his turn to solo, his were intricate. With three different colored pedals tossed casually by his feet, he added delays and reverb accordingly to emphasize his swift playing. The bass-sax player, seemingly one of the youngest in the group did less to thrill, but then he would whip out some improvisational solo that would convince you that he was holding back. The tenor-sax player played one great piece, starting in a minor key and shifting into belting solos. By the end, he was literally screaming through his sax in anguish. Unfortunately the keyboardist had little lime light, hiding behind the sax players for almost the entire performance; however, some occasional arpeggios would slyly slip by and catch me by surprise.
My favorite part had to be during one piece with an incredible drum solo backed by a steady bass pattern and guitar harmonics that chimed in (which with the effect pedal provided the background with an ethereal sound quality). I’m sure I had a goofy grin on, though I tried to hide it by sipping on some soda.
Overall this was a young band, with each member clearly belonging to the group but not at all shy about doing his own thing. They were having fun, laughing after every piece in joy, in retrospect at some of their mistakes (which often went unnoticed to my inexperienced ears) and even in wondering when that 1am performance end time would come (especially since barely anyone was there to enjoy it).
Marnie Stern (Zs, Gang Gang Dance) / Music Hall of Williamsburg
This was another one of the rare times I didn't go to a show to see the main band. To my surprise, Oh My Rockness lied to me, and Marnie actually wasn't at the top of the bill. Unfortunately, she wasn't in the best of health either. But with whiskey at her side to help cure her ailments, at least temporarily and pretty much artificially, she was able to pull through. This profile for Volume Magazine pretty much encapsulates my thoughts on her live performance.
Dear mother of four:
I’m afraid neither gardening nor pickling nor joining committees nor running PTA teas can save you from the omnipotence of patriarchy. Even in the grungiest of alleyways of the shittiest cities, The Man, not The Woman is going to grab you. Perhaps some music can lighten the burden of loneliness and dissatisfaction?
The you do happen to visit New York, take the 4 to the Upper East Side where you’re bound to find the most lovely/most badass of blondes sitting outside her rent-controlled apartment. All Kristen Dunsts in the wake of rehab. We will have a dinner party, we will invite Yoko Ono, Sleater-Kinney and Bikini Kill to feast on Slayer and Van Halen, and then casually regurgitate the amalgamation before nightfall.
You’ll find Marnie particularly inspiring because she’s found her own way of circumventing the trite patriarchy. Yes, she has ovaries of her very own, but she’s found yet another way. At SXSW she evaded another banal male-dominated line-up by replacing her back-up musicians with machinery. Who can a modern woman rely on for solace but her iPod (despite the hissing and moaning and dysfunction)?
She happens to belong to the rare breed of musicians that unapologetically embrace their generic indie rock roots. Not only will she admit her mistakes, but compensate in correcting them.
Don’t be fooled by lyrics about dolphins, songs about eggs and baskets, or stress-relieving mantras about diamonds and gold. Don’t get your panties in a bunch because she’s on the label Kill Rock Stars; don’t’ get super excited or get super bummed, because as much as Marnie is a Kill Rock Stars Rock Star, she’s not actually one at all.
Breathe and take a minute to learn from Marnie’s musical pyrotechnics. It’s not Van Halen shredding, Ian Williams tapping, not Dragonforce Guitar Hero shredding, nor Guitar Center Led-Zeppelin wanna-be shredding. This is straight estrogen-made-testosterone-fueled-I’m-a-bad-mama-jamma-shredding; this is guitar-virtuoso-eight-years-in-the-making-because-Karen-O-was the-only-cool-girl-back-in-the-day-*^@%!#&-shredding. The quick, high pitches she drums into her guitar and her banshee-of-Sesame Street screeching will simultaneously battle for your attention. Both will usually win, but sometimes they’ll both lose.
No matter. Just keep your fingers out of the line of fire, you soon-to-be-independent woman, you. You’ll need those hands of yours—hubby wants dinner on the table by 6:30. You can’t pass for Marnie or Rosie the Riveter quite yet.
Thanks hon,
Betty Freidan
