stereogum: Concert Archives

With night one of Arcade Fire's five show run upon us at Judson Memorial Church (facing the south side of Washington Square Park), the only solution to abide the pre-show jitters was a nice, cold lager. (Yes, we had pre-show jitters.) And on arriving at church, we felt a pang of remorse for entering a holy house with beer breath, a rare bout of morality promptly squashed by the doorman's gruff salutation: "I need IDs if you want a wristband to drink.

" So much for Christian guilt. More fuel for the Fire, then. Brushed past David Cross in the lobby and straight to the bar, where Fabrizio Moretti had the bartender engaged:

BARTENDER: What can I get you?

FAB: Do you have vodka ...

?
BARTENDER: Just kidding man! It's a fucking church!

FAB: (Sheepishly) Oh.

But once we and our fellow show-going Strokes wrapped our heads around drinking beer and/or vitamin water in a church, it was down to business. The big neon Bible lit up.

Arcade Fire, ten deep, moved onto the stage. A sustained symphonic synth greeted 'em, and a few tom bashes later we were head long into "Keep The Car Running." It sorta looked like this.

Don't think we were the only ones feeling first night anxiety, though. Awesome as it was, a mild unfamiliarity set in for the first few tunes; probably a combination of the band feeling out the joint and the crowd dealing with the combined shock of the room's beauty and the insane amount of space, enough to move freely, dance, and prosper. Even at capacity, and with 60 additional tickets sold at the door (hint hint, Craigslisters, though you may wanna get there at 11AM like today's die-hards), the arm room was disarming.

But from the first "hey" of "No Cars Go," Arcade Fire owned.
Making it over to Hiro last night was a chore, what with the glacial gasps ripping our jackets in two. But the blustery NYC air didn't stop a full room of Chan lovers from filling the Ballroom, sitting huddled on the venue floor in part-reverence, part-warmth conservation.

And it's best to go into a Cat Power show with no expectations, 'cause her soul-baring, off-kilter stage persona swings as wildly as her mic-hand while mid-dance.
So when she finally took the stage with our hero, the man of Chavez Matt Sweeney, it was to accost the crowd for stealing her stuffed porcupine and to introduce her catchphrase for the night, courtesy of : "You can find me in the tub, playing with bubbles and washing my booty." Request " ," and it was a Ms.

Peachez quote in reply. How can you argue? Brag about your pending nuptials, and get "He's gonna give you that ring, you're gonna have to give him that anus.

" We repeat ...

But aside from the spellbinding chain smoking, the future SNL character sketches (what was that Latina accent?) and the audience rapport, Chan also delivered with a great, bluesy performance: reworking "Tracks Of My Tears" and Otis Redding tunes, turning her heart out on "The Greatest," and stringing together a gorgeous "Lived In Bars/?/Blue Moon" medley.

Oh and she offered a bit of advice: "If you see a Cat Power shirt in Urban Outfitters on sale for $34 ...

don't buy it." We agree. Fuck the shirt, take the money and see her in the flesh.

If you need a concert scene refresher, here's your crash course: The hot NYC ticket this month is Peter Bjorn John. Today's early evening performance on Conan marks the "official" commencement of the totally-delicious PB J's American infiltration, followed by a sold-out sets at Mercury Lounge tonight and Bowery tomorrow. But the fun really started last night at Park Slope's Union Hall, and Other Music's Gerald, a long-time reader and friend of Stereogum, was on hand to file this envy-inducing report.

Their first introduction to New York, I can’t imagine what Peter, Bjorn, and John must have been thinking walking past the yuppies playing bocce in the back of Union Hall. Certainly not the stereotypical divey atmosphere of most small NY rock clubs, let alone a “secret rock show,” but given the polite nature of the Swedish Invasion thus far, it seemed a strangely perfect setting, especially with all the library bookshelves, not to mention a picturesque view through the front window of the snow falling outside.
We made our way down to the basement and, according to the sign on the door, apparently just missed Eugene Mirman and Michael Showalter’s comedy show.

Next up would be At the Seaside, Peter Bjorn John’s “secret” identity of the night. Obviously, the word was out and the low-ceilinged room was packed by what I’m guessing was well beyond the 100 spots that were available. And at around 10:20 or so, At the Seaside, err…Peter Bjorn John, walked on to the cozy stage, the drummer taking his seat directly underneath an antique, Victorian-framed portrait of a woman who closely resembled Mrs.

Doubtfire.

[Editor's Note: Gerald forgot his cam, but we thought the visual of our indie darlings beneath a Mrs. Doubtfire doppelgänger portrait was worth the grainy cellphone pic.

]

Beginning with “Let’s Call It Off,” the Swedish trio’s hour-plus-long set was perfectly loose and, at times, surprisingly rocking, filled with everyone’s favorites off their breakthrough Writer’s Block, and a few older songs most of us American fans haven’t yet heard. Their second song and my new fave “(I Just Wanna) See Through,” off their two-or-so-year-old Beats, Traps and Backgrounds EP, instantly brought to mind the Jam, which is never a bad thing.

Andrew Bird is cooler than you.

Well, cooler in that tall, distracted, mad genius way, the sorta character that can have nervous tics of personality and head motions and still seem like the guy you need to know. Last night's Bird show at Bowery Ballroom was a sell-out, and despite songs mostly from his forthcoming release, Andrew kept our attention on him and off the inevitable, frigid walk home. (Someone please explain global warming again, this shit's confusing.

)
Unlike last time we saw him at Bowery (with French-singing chanteuse Keren Ann), he wasn't alone; Andrew brought frequent collaborator Martin Dosh (composer/performer of last year's crazy-good Last Take) to handle drums, loop triggers, and keyboards, along with a third man on guitars and bass. Martin takes a writing credit on the awesome, new Bird tune "Simple Exercise." Look out for it.

If you've seen Andrew, you know he needs nothing more than his loop pedals, a naked foot (crowd kids had to remind him to peel off his fancy kicks when he was having pedal-tapping issues), a guitar, a violin, a glockenspiel, and those whistling lips to create full symphonies out of single-phrased melodies. Dosh's deep-pocket, ghost-noted drumming only sweetened the deal. Mad geniuses tend to sound good together.

Happy New Year, y'all! Glad to see you guys made it into 2007, like us, at our computers and in need of war-story swapping and diversion from post-holiday pain. And like us you probably only exacerbated that pain with a more-insane-than-necessary NYE -- but worth every second, right?

Well, every second you can remember, anyway. For us, it was Owen Pallett, Bob Mould, and the Clap kids on the Hammerstein stage for a few hours of booze, tunes, and a random, midnight hug from a gregarious David Byrne. (OK, we accosted him again.

) Now that's what we call a ball drop.
Final Fantasy opened the show with his loops and trusty violin (complete with over-the-shoulder holster of violin bows), but a mild flu kept him from being in full Poo mode. Between swigs of water and calling audience members on stage to fill out harmony lines, though, Owen knew how to handle his ailment and was a suitable appetizer to our first course: umlauts, Sugar, and Mould.

Bob's trio was straight distort-guit fire, no bullshit, minimum banter. Mould gave us solo tune "See A Little Light," along with Sugar cuts "Hoover Dam," "A Good Idea," "If I Can't Change Your Mind," and "Changes." Closing with a tune titled perfectly for the state of affairs in '07, Bob ended with Hüsker Dü classic "Makes No Sense At All," after which we waited patiently for our Hammerstein hosts.

And drank.
While we're almost done with thinking about the year that was, we can't let it go by without recapping the year in our favorite concerts. Most of the shows we saw were in the LES ('cause it's closer than say LA), but if we were there, it was eligible for inclusion on this here list of our top 15 gigs of '06:
Our time in Norway meant first encounters with The Knife, Noxagt, New Violators, and an incredible, , but nothing outshone Spank Rock in a torrential downpour, leading a pack of drenched Norwegians into a booty-shaking frenzy.

Party? Started. [ ]
There was as much buzz as curiosity in the air as the trust-fund stylers prepared to hit the stage in support of the year-end forgotten First Impressions Of Earth, and we suspect they'd been in band practice every day since Room Is On Fire.

Sober, grateful Julian was a welcome replacement for entitled, mumbling Casablancas, and the band was a rhythmic juggernaut, ripping through its set with a mix of VU cool and studio sheen. Surprisingly awesome. [ ]
To make this list, the concert in question has gotta be memorable.

Fed-Ex getting excited to hear half of the 150 people in Webster cheer at his "How many of y'alls gots my album" query? Unforgettable. [ ]
Our first show of CMJ.

Tough to believe, but Nina sounds even better than she looks, and the stripped set of Super Extra Gravity and Long Before Daylight tunes was ...

well, just . [ ]
Lots of Cold Roses, as Batman and The Cardinals were firmly in the Dead's mixolydian mode, but if you were there, the night has left an indelible (if soggy) imprint on your cranium. The show started at 1AM as we waited in a two-hour line (down Delancey, around the corner, and up Bowery), through a pelting thundershower, while the Keane kids cleared out of the Ballroom -- and followed that by being packt like sardines in the Bowery basement for another 45 minutes.

(No ice breaker like dripping rain from your hair into your neighbor's beer!) Objectivity was compromised, but Ryan kicked a whole lotta ass anyway. [ ]
Top 10 after the jump!