Hot freaks
Realizing that there was no way for any of us to get the complete Bob Pollard experience sober, we decided to cab it over to the Mercy Lounge for Saturday night's Boston Spaceships show. Unfortunately, our decision to drink responsibly resulted in our missing Detroit's High Strung, who apparently went on at 9 p.m. sharp. An opening band going on that early on a two band bill? WTF?
With only about 150 people in attendance, the turnout was truly shameful, especially considering how many people came in from out of town. Sure, there have been an inordinate amount of good indie nationals coming through town lately, but Pollard, regardless of his hall of fame status, seemed to draw only the 35-and-up crowd: a sausage fest of comic book T-shirt wearing, record collector alcoholics who undoubtedly see themselves in their paladin—a man who quit his job as a fourth-grade teacher to pursue his dreams of being a rock star, at the age of 37.
For those who don't know, a Bob Pollard show usually consists of his engaging the audience with high kicks, quasi-Daltrey mic swings, copious amounts of alcohol consumption, non-sequitur stage banter and about 40 awesome songs. This show would be no exception, with the man and his new band—featuring Tommy Keane, former Guided by Voices bassist Chris Slusarenko, Decemberists drummer John Moen, and some other guy—all on top of their game. Onstage there was a tailgate cooler of Miller Lite —a popular beverage for the audience as well, as it is endorsed, literally, by Pollard —and a handle of Cuervo. Uncle Bob drank, had audience members throw cigarettes at him, ranted and crooned, getting more and more animated as the show progressed.
This all went on for two-and-a-half hours, and in that time we collectively ran up a triple-digit bar tab. The encore drove the crowd into a frenzy with a true-to-form cover of Cheap Trick's "Hello There" and a breakneck rendition of the GBV classic "Game of Pricks." The second encore saw the drunk drivers' anthem "A Salty Salute" and a version of "Cut-out Witch" that brought about a middle-aged mosh pit, during which we got elbowed in the face. Which just made the experience that much more memorable—there is nothing quite like the thrill of singing along to "Tractor Rape Chain" with blood all over your face. After the show ended we had a little encore of our own as we proceeded to the bathroom to take turns puking. Long live rock.
All the Jews that's fit to print
The line outside the Exit/In for the Silver Jews show wrapped around Elliston Place Oct. 12. The delay this caused meant that Monotonix got started without us. After catching their now infamous Springwater shows this past year, we were curious as to how their downright dangerous unpredictability would translate in a larger club. The crowd pulsed around the middle of the room where the Tel Aviv trio had set up, and we were told there were no flaming drums this time around. Even so, the band made no other concessions for the seemingly more professional setting. Lead singer Levi "Ha Haziz" (Yomtov) Elvis spent the majority of his time elevated above people's heads, and when he sprinted up to the balcony and crouched atop to command the crowd from high above, few below did not see his scrotum hanging out of his short shorts.
But when Elvis commands a crowd to "Shut the fuck up," they laugh, then shut the fuck up. Few frontmen possess that kind of crowd control, especially shirtless, hairy ones with no microphone and their balls hanging out. The last "song" consisted of the band counting down from 10, then back up to four and diving into the audience while everyone danced to make-believe music. This is what the Silver Jews have been following night after night.
And maybe Monotonix have rubbed off on David Berman just a little bit. The Jews' first honest-to-goodness rock show was just three short years ago at The End. At that not-so-secret secret show, a reluctant Berman nervously introduced his long catalog to a new setting, while a room full of big smiles looked as if they all just wanted to give Berman a hug. High fives would have probably been more appropriate on Sunday night, as a noticeably more confident Berman led his band through opener "I'm Getting Back Into Getting Back Into You," looking something like a cross between a beat poet and a lounge singer. Snaking his way around the stage—either as an attempt to channel his inner Neil Diamond or because of the brace we noticed on his wrist—Berman played guitar on very few songs.
The set was a patchwork of the band's nearly 15 years of output. Songs from their latest, Lookout Mountain, Lookout Sea, were well received, with "Strange Victory, Strange Defeat" taking on a near anthemic identity. Songs like "Pretty Eyes" and "Horseleg Swastikas" appeased the more cultish division of Silver Jews fandom, while the classics of the Jews cannon—"Random Rules," "Smith and Jones Forever," "Trains Across the Sea"—were met with yelps and woos at each opening chord. Berman and wife Cassie had been exchanging cutesy glances all night, so the encore rendition of "Tennessee" felt even more warm and fuzzy than usual, and after "Punks in the Beerlight" it was Berman who started doling out the hugs. This wasn't just appreciation; it was love to the max.
God smack
We had a hunch that the MSTRKRFT "Fist of God" show at Mercy Lounge Friday night was going to be a mighty good time. Allegedly, we saw them perform at Bonnaroo this summer, but the only concrete evidence of the booze-soaked set is a page in our notebook that says, "MSRTRKRFT YARRRGGGH!" and something about Canada in 3-inch tall letters. We weren't nearly as wrecked this time out—there are certain limits to what a human body can withstand—but we totally agree with our prior assessment of the Toronto-based electro duo.
We were ecstatic to see "no backpack/no glow sticks" signs posted everywhere, because nothing annoys us more than 30-something asshats in JNCO jeans whirling glow sticks at high speeds with no regard for their fellow audience members or the fact that the '90s have been over for almost a decade.
Justin Kase had the unenviable task of playing to a big empty room, but masterfully rose to the challenge with a deep, cavernous sound that grew increasingly tighter and more thumping as the crowd filled in and the freaks hit the dance floor. L.A. Riots and Felix Cartal brought the kind of big bouncy electro house that makes us eschew our usual arm-crossing hipster stance for hands-in-the-air revelry. And if MSTRKRFT brought the ol' "fist of God," then consider us knocked the fuck out—we haven't had a whooping like that in quite a while. They had a wall of TVs and graphic equalizer-esque light tubes searing our visual cortex while their square-wave synth assaults riled our rump until we were left sweaty and incoherent. More of that, please.
So Robby Knievel is going to jump over some crazy glow-in-the-dark shit for Halloween. What are you going to do? Let us know at thespin@nashvillescene.com.
