The 700 club
As we readied ourselves to descend upon the chaos of the Cannery Friday night for the surprise White Stripes show, we imagined a nervous hipster shuffle of long lines, ticket scalpers, stern security guards and a lot of no-nonsense attitude. So it was kind of shocking to find that, at around 8 p.m., the line was moving, there was no discernible brouhaha and everyone was helpful and efficient. We even scored an open parking spot directly across from the club entrance. (Charlie’s Angels would have been proud.) Inside, the only inkling of potential disruption was a sign hanging at the entrance warning that anyone daring to crowd surf would immediately be ejected from the club. Too bad the commemorative $5 T-shirts printed for the occasion had gone almost as fast as the tickets, but the thought was nice, just the same. We took our positions by the back bar and immediately spied lead Donna Brett Anderson, “Little” Jack Lawrence, Brendan Benson, and a whole lot of local celebs we see all the time, except with better outfits. But it got better: there were 700 Joe Publics and 300 or so Minor Somebodies in the venue, and everyone seemed deeply excited about either their luck or ability to muscle a connection into this show. That made it unlike every other show in Nashville: people actually seemed thrilled to be there (not that it would stop them from yapping all through the set, but still). Opener Dan Sartain was kicking it onstage by the time we got there with some blues-inflected rockabilly stomp, but shit y’all, we were about to see the White Stripes! And then it was time. Jack and Meg took the stage to a deafening cheer and opened with Hank Sr.’s “Tennessee Border.” Jack’s first words to the crowd were “How’s my new hometown doing?” Awww. Remember last year, when the Raconteurs played City Hall, and Jack White came out all buff and rock ’n’ roll outlaw, and he was every bit the strapping, muscular man we’d dreamed about? This was just like that, except it was the ’90s version of Jack White with the shaggy middle-parted hair and the whole black T-shirt and red pants look. Meanwhile, Meg White was rocking a red scarf and a black-and-white polka-dotted shirt. We heard the proggy metal-synth blaze of “Icky Thump” and elsewhere we were treated to the Zeppelin-style dirty blues assault of “Black Math” and the twangy stab of “Cause and Effect.” “Hotel Yorba” and “We’re Going to Be Friends” were crowd-pleasers, and “Ball and Biscuit” was a blistering standout. The rest of the set featured mostly cherry-picked new songs from the upcoming album for a crowd who couldn’t sing along. We don’t know the titles, but whatever the hell that thing was that interspersed a sludgy Sabbath riff with verses Bobbie Gentry could’ve tossed off the Tallahatchie Bridge, more please and fast. With five mics set up around the bare stage, Jack spent much of the set ping-ponging from mic to mic while manhandling his guitar, providing a gloriously spastic arena-fied Rock Move for even the tiniest scrap of amplified noise. He played the space between his skronks and Meg’s hammer-down drumbeats as if it were a third instrument, creating that phantom-bass mirage effect you imagine on the records. But while we knew Jack was a dynamite frontman, the big surprise for those who could see around the human sequoias parked down front was little ol’ scene-stealer Meg. Just as Billy Zoom’s idiot-manchild grin always ended up grabbing your attention onstage with X, Meg’s indulgent half-smile (she’s really got that bogus-sibling thing down) beat Jack’s bratty histrionics to the draw every time, even when her ersatz kid brother was ranting full-tilt into a mic planted 18 inches from her face. She had the unfazed look of someone who’s spent a lot of time within petting distance of a tornado without getting tossed into the next state. In a move indicative of White’s fascination with the number three, the band rounded out a trifecta of country covers with Dolly Parton’s “Jolene” and Loretta Lynn’s “Rated X,” the latter of which was part of an encore that included “Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground” and the searing riff-for-a-chorus “Seven Nation Army.” Then everybody trooped downstairs, clutching their tickets, their memories and that extra shirt to pop on eBay. If you weren’t a huge Stripes fan, and by the chatter we could hear throughout the set we know more than a few people there weren’t, it was still a rare night for those of us lucky enough to get in. For those who weren’t, um—well, as your mom said when you got mono just before prom night, you really didn’t miss much.
Did we mention we came to see Bright Eyes?
We came to see Bright Eyes. Everyone did, right? He was headlining at the Ryman, he had brought a huge band, a ton of white clothing and his trademark angsty enthusiasm. So, again, having come to see Bright Eyes, we were a tad surprised to surmise that opener Gillian Welch (with her ever-present sidekick David Rawlings) may have held stronger sway over the crowd’s allegiance. We know she’s a local girl, and quite talented, but really? Really? Welch and Rawlings played a loose acoustic set that was met with reverence, Rawlings’ every noodle—the dude can play—approved with thunderous applause. They were the first opener we’ve ever seen receive a standing ovation. Doesn’t anyone go to major indie rock shows in this town anymore? It’s becoming harder and harder for us to get excited about seeing a duo that we see more often than The Mattoid. They closed with “Time (The Revelator)” and we bid adieu, but not for long. Finally it was time for Mr. Oberst and his ensemble of white-clad compatriots to take the stage. Contrasting with the band’s white garb were flowers strewn all around the stage and a huge projection screen writhing with various colorful images—bubbles, brushstrokes, Etch-A-Sketch lines—that danced along with the music. As for the music, Oberst concentrated mostly on tracks off his recently released Cassadaga. Highlights included the lead single “Four Winds” (whose rollicking, country twang sounded just perfect in the hallowed venue), the reverb-drenched “Hot Knives” and the mournful “If the Brakeman Turns My Way.” Awkwardly charming and even occasionally funny, the crisply clad, shaggy-haired troubadour seemed less intimidated than the last time he graced the legendary stage (when he chose to drink away that anxiety). He looked comfortable, like the star. The young King o’ Feelings also has his own contingent of superfans and almost every moment of intra-song silence was met with a high-pitched holler: “Conor, I love you,” “I want to have your baby” or “You are a god.” You can take the teenager out of the mall, but you can’t take the mall out of the teenager. A few old classics did get trotted out—“First Day of My Life” got a surprising, auspicious full-band rendering—and all the songs were given new life by the excellent band, which included two drummers, a string section and a couple people playing the keys. And back to that projection screen: a trip to the rest room revealed that the images were being created live with little more than some rudimentary ingredients (oil, water, food coloring, Etch-A-Sketch) and light—very cool. GW and DR made their inevitable return for the encore (which included the magical “Lua”), and we guess it was pretty exciting.
Send reports of ticket drama at the Cannery, spottings of GW & DR at your friend’s son’s bar mitzvah or news from the Bright Eyes after-party to thespin@nashvillescene.com.
Did we mention we came to see Bright Eyes?
We came to see Bright Eyes. Everyone did, right? He was headlining at the Ryman, he had brought a huge band, a ton of white clothing and his trademark angsty enthusiasm. So, again, having come to see Bright Eyes, we were a tad surprised to surmise that opener Gillian Welch (with her ever-present sidekick David Rawlings) may have held stronger sway over the crowd’s allegiance. We know she’s a local girl, and quite talented, but really? Really? Welch and Rawlings played a loose acoustic set that was met with reverence, Rawlings’ every noodle—the dude can play—approved with thunderous applause. They were the first opener we’ve ever seen receive a standing ovation. Doesn’t anyone go to major indie rock shows in this town anymore? It’s becoming harder and harder for us to get excited about seeing a duo that we see more often than The Mattoid. They closed with “Time (The Revelator)” and we bid adieu, but not for long. Finally it was time for Mr. Oberst and his ensemble of white-clad compatriots to take the stage. Contrasting with the band’s white garb were flowers strewn all around the stage and a huge projection screen writhing with various colorful images—bubbles, brushstrokes, Etch-A-Sketch lines—that danced along with the music. As for the music, Oberst concentrated mostly on tracks off his recently released Cassadaga. Highlights included the lead single “Four Winds” (whose rollicking, country twang sounded just perfect in the hallowed venue), the reverb-drenched “Hot Knives” and the mournful “If the Brakeman Turns My Way.” Awkwardly charming and even occasionally funny, the crisply clad, shaggy-haired troubadour seemed less intimidated than the last time he graced the legendary stage (when he chose to drink away that anxiety). He looked comfortable, like the star. The young King o’ Feelings also has his own contingent of superfans and almost every moment of intra-song silence was met with a high-pitched holler: “Conor, I love you,” “I want to have your baby” or “You are a god.” You can take the teenager out of the mall, but you can’t take the mall out of the teenager. A few old classics did get trotted out—“First Day of My Life” got a surprising, auspicious full-band rendering—and all the songs were given new life by the excellent band, which included two drummers, a string section and a couple people playing the keys. And back to that projection screen: a trip to the rest room revealed that the images were being created live with little more than some rudimentary ingredients (oil, water, food coloring, Etch-A-Sketch) and light—very cool. GW and DR made their inevitable return for the encore (which included the magical “Lua”), and we guess it was pretty exciting.
Send reports of ticket drama at the Cannery, spottings of GW & DR at your friend’s son’s bar mitzvah or news from the Bright Eyes after-party to thespin@nashvillescene.com.
