LFTF
LIVE FROM THE FRONT

   

TWEAKER
 

        

SKINNY PUPPY
 

                           AFTER SHOW                                              WARNING!
 

I didn't realize it until we got back to HQ and downloaded the photos from the camera, but the switch on the digital camera accidentally got flipped to video in the dark of the pit and when I tried to take the shot it captured this 5 second video clip. Enjoy.
[.AVI]

M. Ward, Jim James, and Bright Eyes
02/29/04
Somerville Theatre
Somerville, MA

This was the best of the best. If you missed it, I'm very sorry.


I'm writing this review a good 12 hours after the concert ended, and I'm still speechless. M. Ward, Jim James, and Conor Oberst were meant to be onstage together. Last night in Somerville, the trio wrapped up their 11-date tour, one that Oberst described as "more like a vacation." Coming from someone who is adjusting to his role as the Jesus Christ of indie-rock*, this meant a lot.


The evening began with M. Ward and his spectacular style of feverish finger picking. M. Ward's voice is the sound of Tom Waits. It is the sound of old country, homebrewed whiskey, and waking up alone. He began the evening alone, with his haunting cover of David Bowie's "Let's Dance." It managed to shut up all the girls who had come to squeal at Conor Oberst, and would do so at later points during the evening.


During M. Ward's set, he was joined at different times by Mike Mogis (whose never-ending smile and head-bob makes him the Ringo of the Saddle Creek family), a Nebraskan whose name I forget, and Conor Oberst. M. Ward stopped and spoke to the audience in a friendly, familiar way. His "official" set ended when Jim James joined him onstage, both of their voices stretching to this religious sort of howl level, and then M. Ward stepping off and leaving James to play alone.


I say "official" set because the entire evening consisted of those on the bill and some very famous names that were not playing around on each other's songs, and eventually culminating to end in a country-style jam of picking and grinning. It reminded me of my friend's grandparents, 80 year old bluegrass musicians. and their musical get-togethers. It was stunning.

Jim James told a very funny story about a toucan and a cockatoo, and despite a throat he said was filled with snot, stretched his voice to Jeff Buckley-esque heights. When James hit the high notes, his eyes fluttered and neck muscles twitched. The man looked like he was experiencing pure ecstasy. His set was devoid of guest artists and was so calming that it lulled some audience members to sleep--in a good way. It was a lot different from M. Ward in terms of the sound, but the level of talent and stage presence was the same.

In fact, when M. Ward sat down during his set and played an instrumental that had him twitching around in his chair, punching the guitar with his finger picking, I thought he was going to steal the show. He was courteous enough to not steal it, to find a place within the fabric of the set when all three were onstage. He was the stability.

His stability was needed, because Conor Oberst had been watching the first two sets from the side of the stage, and he'd been drinking and smiling the whole time. I understood the need for Oberst to be well-lubricated onstage when I noticed the amount of flash photography and squealing that occurred when he finally stepped out for his set. It is easy to paint Oberst as a primadonna, someone who is stuck up with his new level of fame. I left that Theatre feeling sorry for him, for having to deal with such lame fans. Actually, not all of his fans were lame: just the ones who decided to scream at him like he was taking requests.

When Oberst first took the stage, he was accompanied by Jim James and another very important stage presence, his friend Jack Daniels. Jack was half-gone by Oberst's third song, and I'd heard "You are so hot!" squealed at least 30 times. Perhaps Oberst was playing a drinking game. I doubt it. But a million squawking children couldn't detract from the fact that Conor Oberst is a fucking brilliant musician and songwriter. Just him and a guitar, Oberst played "Iíve Been Eating for You" and had the room so quiet that a cough would have caused people to look around to figure out where the noise had come from. The highlight of already-released music from Oberst's set was "Waste of Paint," a song I despise on the record but, when it's just a guitar and Oberst, is beautiful. Oberst screamed, and I mean screamed, into the mic, shook his head around, sang so loud that spit flew out of his mouth, and looked like he was going to cry at the end of the song. And it was all real. This was no posing, this was no embellishment. I have never seen a musician onstage look less jaded and more connected to his own emotions. I got goosebumps. And then I teared up. It might sound trite, but it wasn't. The meatheads from Berklee in front of me were teared up, too.

The most exciting part of Oberst's set, and the part that made up for how shockingly open and honest he was onstage when he was being bitter towards certain members of the audience, were the new songs**. It's very Big City, Little Conor now that he's in New York, and his songs are beautiful tributes to drinking on the train and not being able to hail a cab. I was thankful to see "the demons of fame" confined to one line on "One Foot in Front of the Other," a song he played with Jim James, M. Ward, and Mike Mogis.

After "One Foot in Front of the Other," the entire audience almost peed its pants when Maria Taylor from Azure Way walked onstage and joined everyone for "Amy in the White Coat." From that song, it was back to the trio + Mogis, who covered different songs and did some other originals. I cannot remember exactly what they played. I remember Taylor joining Oberst again and Oberst leaning against her, kissing her, and them singing about firecrackers. More than the songs, I remember the emotion. Jim James and M. Ward were smiling, Conor was hugging and kissing everyone onstage, and it seemed to not just be the empty bottle of Jack Daniels that was doing it. At one point during their last song, Conor Oberst walked off of the stage and crawled into the crowd, choosing to sit down a mere foot from where I was in the second row. Kids craned their necks to see him; others scurried up and were told by security guards to go back to their seats. Cameras flashed, and Oberst just kept singing. He trotted off to another section of the crowd, where girls hugged him and someone grabbed his butt. He tried to get some people to sing "la la la" along to his song, but it didn't work out. He flopped down in the middle of the isle and finished the song from there, climbed back onstage, and waved good-bye.

The encore was an excellent collaborative effort of happy, upbeat country-fied music. The song they actually ended on was Bob Dylanís "Girl From the North Country," which half the audience didn't recognize. Their version floored me. For one song, Oberst sat on the stage with a bass guitar, singing along quietly at the feet of Jim James. That made me picture him watching his brotherís band practice, or playing his first Omaha coffeeshop with Todd and Tim, like on "Willow Wood." And wouldnít you know it, this broke my heart? At the end of the set, M. Ward, ever the pillar of stability, carried Conor offstage. I hope that Oberst manages to surround himself with more amazingly talented and kind people like M. Ward and Jim James. They'll ease his inevitable transition to Kurt Cobain-like heights, for both Oberst himself and his more sympathetic fans.

-Whitney Weiss


*and yes, someone screamed "You remind me of Jesus!" and yes, Conor replied, first with a startlingly caustic "ha ha" at the end of "I love you guys. I'd die for your sins" and then with a "I'd eat out the Virgin Mary for your sins."

**As soon as you can, get copies of "Lua," and "We Are Nowhere and It's Now."
 

The Sleepy Jackson
Schubas, Chicago

There are some really great rock bands out there who play just because they love it. People who couldn’t give a shit if they are paid in dollars or beer or beer-soaked dollars. People who know they are lucky to be where they are, doing what they are doing, and just play some good rocknroll. The Sleepy Jackson. There is musicianship here but not the showboating kind. These bastards came out and played without a word until the end of the show. Happily (for me) the best performed songs were ‘Good Dancers’ and ‘Vampire Race Course’, my favourites. There was also a lovely new song ‘about tour managers’ which sounded beautiful as well. But there was perhaps a bit too much tour fatigue here, maybe a bit of jet lag, of waiting for their souls to catch up to their bodies. While the music didn’t suffer, the vocals did. Luke Steele was a bit off-key for the better part of the show, and that kinda-sorta tripped the whole thing up. The magic wasn’t completely lost, though. The last song began with the lights off and Luke wearing some weird, Buck Rogers/Twiki light-up sequencer. He manipulated the beats and noises over some Early music (and by ‘Early’, I mean Hildegard von Bingen-esque). They rocketed to a cruising altitude of six trillion decibels through the final number and left the crowd orbiting. Nicely done, boys. That’s how rocknroll should be. No apologies, no regrets, played from the heart.

- Neil Rhodes
 

Twilight Singers w/ The Damnwells
Metro
Chicago, IL

When Greg Dulli leaves the stage, he ceases to exist. Dulli is only elements of the stage and speakers and lights given form by the screaming masses. But oh, what form! There are shows and there are RockNRoll Shows. This was by far the latter. Dulli owns his audience and he knows it. The audience is aware of the enslavement, but are more than willing participants. Dulli ties you to the headboard with velvet ropes and doesn’t let you up until you come. You always do. Multiple times. And he wears that arrogant grin the whole time, whispering, ‘You’re mine and you love it, babies…you love it.’ We do. We all got Dulli tattooed on our hearts and it ain’t never comin’ off. Even the encore, that most vile of rocknroll ego-strokes, was more wonderful than any trist lifted from the pages of a dimestore harlequin. Twice it came, rolling not through more Twilight Singers songs, but through Abba’s ‘Dancing Queen’ and Outkast’s ‘Roses’ (both lovingly smoothed into ballads), Bjork’s ‘Hyperballad’, Blue Oyster Cult’s ‘Don’t Fear the Reaper’, and a wonderful rendition of Chaka Khan’s ‘Ain’t Nobody’ (which included some very Ray Charles-esque organs provided by Mr. Dulli) made some noise in that building that night, their last performance in Chicago for a while, and left a few marks. This wasn’t sweet lovemaking, it was crazy fucking as rawkus and noisy as a 19th century brothel. In the end it was, as Dulli said, ‘a real rocknroll show.’

‘Ya heard?’

-Neil Rhodes