Cool
We were psyched to see Sebadoh at the Exit/In Saturday night, but we made one fatal mistake: we went to Franklin to check out Cowboy Dynamite at the Mercantile first. Maybe it was the musky boy-sweat permeating this deli-turned-venue for well-heeled, scruffy youth. Maybe it was the throngs of dorks who knew every word to the oversized choruses of openers Hollywood. Maybe it was their hilariously innocuous version of moshing—more like a massive-dude group hug with spazzing, sweating and awkward piggyback rides. Maybe it was how nuts they went for the Dynamite on nothing but caffeine and hormones, and how, even if they’re all just pampered little shits, they can still feel alienated and confused. Regardless, it made Sebadoh feel like a light jazz orchestra playing in a library corner. The crowd was random: old, stiff, weird and “too cool.” Arms were crossed, social lubricants were required to get wacky. One girl, whom we’ll call Bitchy McBitcherton, stood with a burning cigarette in an outstretched hand (right up in our grill) to save a space for her friend, and refused to redirect the flame, even when asked politely. (You know who you are!) Openers Bent Moustache blew. They even made fun of the “Wall of Legends,” muttering something about how horrible they all were, which would have been totally fine if ol’ BM hadn’t sucked it. Did they remind Sebadoh of themselves all those years ago—sloppy and gleefully anti-musical? “No, they wanted to pick an opener that made them look like Van Halen,” remarked our companion. Sebadoh were still sloppy and anti-musical themselves, but in the good way, waltzing through a ragtag batch of songs, a sloppy “Brand New Love,” a sloppy “Soul and Fire,” a sloppy “Give Up,” and a really sloppy Eric Gaffney song called “Moldy Bread.” (Oh yeah, and we heard Gaffney is still a dick to fans.) They were personable and even funny, and if it weren’t for all the weirdos—imagine the kind of dudes drawn to a band who’ve written a doormat’s anthem a hundred different ways—it might have felt more like the intimate, scruffy bedroom rock we loved them for. Go to nashvillescene.com for photos of Sebadoh’s performance.
Guess who showed up?
We’re kinda vertically challenged, so we have a rough go of it at City Hall. Last Thursday’s Decemberists show was no exception—our calves are still reeling from the tiptoe standing—when the packed crowd made it difficult to see more than the heads of Colin Meloy and company. We arrived just as the band took the stage, sending their faithful into a frenzy and the hipster hangers-on into their arms-crossed state of discerning readiness. Playing mostly songs off The Crane Wife, the band sounded tight and energetic, but we’re afraid some of the acoustic nuances got lost. Songs like “O Valencia!” and the 12-and-a-half minute opus “The Island...” still managed to sound bewitching. As for the crowd, it was comically disparate in its level of enthusiasm. College girls screamed along with Meloy’s verbose lyrical somersaults while 30-somethings in flannel held their girlfriends’ hands and sipped Bud Lights. Meloy has a nerdy, inconsistent charisma that he used to instruct the crowd. “Form circles, have a dance contest,” he said. We wonder how that worked out—because we couldn’t see what the hell was going on. Then something strange happened—and by strange, we mean completely routine. Meloy announced some special guests. Before he was halfway through the word “guest,” we blurted, “Gillian Welch and David Rawlings.” Go to enough shows in this town and the move becomes old hat: bring out ol’ GW and DR and play some vintage country tune—Bright Eyes, M. Ward and now The Decemberists (who worked their magic on Gram Parson’s “Sin City”). Hopefully it was a thrill for The Decemberists, because, in case they didn’t realize, we actually live here.
Meet the wind beneath our indie-rock wings
We have a new hero: Adne Meisfjord, lead singer of 120 Days. They’re from Norway. The transition from major player in Europe to opening act in Nashville seemed disorienting for the shaggy-haired man, who eyed the reticent crowd quizzically, even asking, “Are you guys having fun?” We were having fun, Adne, we promise. We just don’t know how to show it like you guys do. We wish we could have told you that the the number of rhythmically challenged hipster kids that you compelled to move their feet was nothing short of Herculean. We especially appreciated when you got creative and took off your shirt—revealing the pale, lanky frame of a malnourished Norse god of indie rock—in exchange for a little energy. Indeed, Meisfjord’s greatest tool of persuasion was his band’s heavy, rhythmic rock. The U2-esque guitar work and innovative beats made us want to release our inner uninhibited European. But alas, this just isn’t that kind of town. Hey, and Meisfjord gets extra points for innovation: who needs a mic stand when you can just wrap the cord around your neck? By the time Ratatat took the stage, the crowd had swelled and a raucous element had coalesced up front. The boys from Brooklyn killed it—their rangy, foot-tapping beats and slinky, catchy-as-hell guitar lines made us totally rethink the importance of words.
Send reports of embarassing, lame-core crowds, pics of shirtless Norwegians and crossword puzzles to occupy GW and DR to thespin@nashvillescene.com.
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