We saw a darkness
We sauntered into the steadily filling Exit/In shortly after 9:30 Friday evening to what was, more or less, utter silence. It was a relatively diverse crowd—from squares to hippies to nubile youngsters—that stood silently with mouths agape and arms folded as School of Seven Bells set up.
With Black Moth Super Rainbow's equipment draped in white sheets behind them and a modest intro of only "Hi," School of Seven Bells started in on a set of ambient, reverb-drenched tunes with a slightly industrial aesthetic. Benjamin Curtis (formerly of Secret Machines) noodled dreamily while flanked by raven-haired, identical twin vocalists Alejandra and Claudia Deheza. One of the sisters added second guitar, while the other contributed key flourishes and (wo)manned programmed beats and bass lines. Though we never figured out who was who.
The crowd bobbed and sipped their drinks as stock, Winamp-visualizer-looking psychedelic images flashed on a sheet behind S7B. Some of their tunes were intriguing, but we typically reserve material that droney for extended peyote trips in the desert and attempts at seducing attractive, stray festival hippies. We spent a sizable portion of School of Seven Bells' set taking cigarette breaks, ordering drinks and contemplating just exactly how to describe their sound. We figured it out: more interesting and socially acceptable than a Pure Moods CD, but not by a lot.
The Exit/In was full but not uncomfortably congested when we headed back in for BMSR. They led in with a video of a YouTube user (possibly a ringer) who cited Black Moth as one of the five worst bands no one's ever heard of and derided their fans—a tribe he assumed to be clueless douchebags. This was followed by a brief video of Eric Wareheim (of Tom Goes to the Mayor and Tim and Eric Awesome Show, Great Job!) playing with a cat, ensuring us that we weren't douchebags and saying various things about being "goth."
It took Black Moth Super Rainbow a moment to resolve some ambiguous technical issues, and we quickly realized once they began that there was to be no spectacle in their performance. Much to the chagrin of our photographer, they played their entire set in complete darkness while vocalist and principal songwriter Tobacco sat Indian style—and partially obscured by a monitor—behind his keyboard. Despite synths being fairly low in the mix during the first song or two, Black Moth sounded phenomenal, and the strangely macabre footage of rotting fruit, glowing skulls and dead/dying people and animals was, at times, entertaining.
As well as Black Moth played, just over a dozen songs was about all we could take. We heard the bulk of their latest, Eating Us, and enough songs from Start a People that we felt justified leaving in time to catch the tail end of How I Became the Bomb's digital EP pre-release over at Mercy Lounge. Next time either Black Moth or School of Seven Bells comes through town, we'll definitely still consider going. But only if our ecstasy hook-up comes through.
C'est la Vida
Realizing that attending Saturday night's Coldplay show was a no-lose situation, as we were guaranteed an entertaining spectacle of sound and vision, we decided we owed it to ourselves to witness the phenomenon of the band's success firsthand, and made it down to the Sommet Center on time. There, we got caught up in the cattle-herd of teenagers outfitted in Viva La Vida fatigues, popped-collar frat boys and their girlfriends, Jon Bon Jovi look-a-likes who color-code their two-tone dye jobs with their pre-ripped jeans, and slobbering drunk cougars. As a result, we missed the first half of Howling Bells, whose brief, shoegazey set droned more than howled.
Direct support act Snow Patrol were an utter waste of time. Between the contrived stadium choruses and a singer whose favorite move was reaching up to the sky to make sure we got a long look at his white belt and even whiter midriff, they blandly satisfied all the requisite criteria of the adult-alternative idiom. A shout-out to Grimey's record shop—where an in-store by the band earlier in the day had resulted in Beatlesque pandemonium—was barely enough for us to forgive their mediocrity and endure a set that would make Coldplay's seem fiercely original by comparison.
The arena, which appeared to be at capacity, was brimming with excitement in anticipation of the night's headliners, and you didn't have to be a fan to share in the palpable enthusiasm that comes with knowing you're about to see one of the biggest bands in the world. The crowd's deafening reaction as the band took the stage with the one-two opening punch of Viva La Vida's "Life in Technicolor" and "Violet Hill" only grew louder with the trifecta of "Clocks," "In My Place" and "Yellow" (with the last chorus dedicated to Faith and Tim) that immediately followed—a string of hits that we were surprised to see played so early in proceedings. The fact that they could blow such a load in the first quarter of the set was a testament to their sheer prowess as both hit-makers and arena-rockers. Combine this with the band's unsullied musical execution, frontman Chris Martin's disgustingly boyish charisma and the multitude of lasers, video imagery, dragon costumes, bursting balloons and confetti cannons, and you have exactly what we came to see—a hit-laden multi-media extravaganza of epic proportions.
Despite the hi-tech tableau on the grand stage, the part of the show that connected best with the audience was a three-song acoustic set the band played on a mini-stage in nosebleed territory, during which they had the crowd do the wave with their cell-phones before leading them in a sing-along of Neil Diamond's "I'm a Believer."
Mercifully, Martin & Co. spared us 12 of the 13 tracks from 2005's critically maligned X&Y, opting only to play the overwrought anthem "Fix You," which was second only to the band's ultimate pussy-wetter "The Scientist" in eliciting the fever-pitch sing-along of the night. Along the way there was the epic fan favorite "Politick," nearly all of Viva La Vida and a smoke-break-inducing solo piano set by Martin. While Martin's arrhythmic airplane imitations and cringetacular Bono-aping were a little much to handle at times, we found that our hands were up in the air, our heads were bobbing and our mouths were open more than we'd care to admit.
Anyone know where we can score a QP before Bonnaroo? Just kidding. Not really. Kinda. No seriously. Email thespin@nashvillescene.com.
