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M. Ward, Jim James, and
Bright Eyes
February 29, 2004
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 fingerpicking.
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. 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
fingerpicking, 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 playing in their living room, and 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 thirty 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 “I’ve 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 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 Dylan’s “Girl From
the North Country,” which half the audience didn’t realize and
which 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 brother’s band practice, or
playing his first Omaha coffeeshop with Todd and Tim, like on
“Willow Wood.” And wouldn’t 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.
*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.”
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The
Dillinger Escape Plan, the main event of the evening, owned up to
their hardcore reputation. Their set consisted of two new tracks
from their upcoming release and many of their more popular earlier
works. The Plan’s style of hardcore really gets the crowd moving,
which is surprising when you consider how technical of a band they
are. The pit was absolutely obnoxious, but this was a hardcore
show. What do you expect? D.E.P’s set did not last as long as I
had hoped, but by the time they were finish I was thankful. As a
fan of the band I look forward to their new album due out very
soon, but I don’t think I’ll go to another show. To brutal for my
taste.
