We've got (some) fun and games (sorta)
The Spin was catching some midweek Z's Thursday evening in preparation for the weekend, when our roommate woke us up with a reminder that Tapes 'n Tapes were on the agenda for the evening. When we arrived at Mercy Lounge uncharacteristically early to a meager and especially Vandy-licious crowd, we realized we could have snagged at least another 20 minutes or so of beauty sleep. But we won't hold it against the roomie for vying for our plus-one. It's only natural.
Four dudes eventually ambled onstage as we were doing our best to imbibe our way out of a post-nap haze, but we swore it couldn't have been the opening band. "Certainly these are just some misplaced Pac Sun models," we thought to ourselves. But, oh, how wrong we were. It was in fact New Hampshire-based openers Wild Light.
Wild Light were all white pants, popped collars and sugary hooks that weren't especially hooky. Their vaguely sentimental pop made it difficult to glean exactly what their influences might be. It was kind of like watching...we don't know...The Bravery or something. We felt bad that they were greeted with a lukewarm, totally Nashville reception—especially considering they had just released their debut album two days earlier—but past their decent vocal harmonies, they sorta just left us scratching our heads. Thus we spent most of their set shooting both some pool and the shit in Mercy's back room.
After defeating the roommate twice rather handily—he scratched on the eight ball both times—we made it back into the main room just in time to hear Tapes 'n Tapes playing "Just Drums," one of the coolest tracks from their debut The Loon. Despite being in the final throes of a long national tour, Tapes put on an exuberant show. Their mix was strong, and they performed as though unaffected by the fickle buzz mill they know all too well, a cruel beast that hyped the shit out of their first album and fell silent at the release of their second.
Though there was a perplexing and strangely awesome collection of fist-pumping brosbies front-and-center singing their guts out and clutching one another's shoulders, the crowd never quite swelled past Mercy Lounge's bar. A mediocre reception to a strong performance. Such is Nashville. Welcome to the jungle.
In bloom
The Spin was disappointed that we were feeling under the weather last Friday, one of the first nice days of the year, mostly because we decided to be a grown-up about it and forgo drinking as we hit up Exit/In to see hard-touring and precocious North Carolina popsters Annuals. We walked in as opener What Laura Says were finishing up, so we had only one impression: harmonicas. Great timing!
The spring-like warmth outside turned Exit/In into an uncomfortable sauna inside, and we were starting to feel the heat as next-up Jessica Lee Mayfield hit the stage. Playing this evening with Ghostfinger's Richie Kirkpatick, Mayfield had the standard country-pretty voice that sings standard sad-girl love songs that sound absolutely great when you've been drinking alone after a breakup, but are pretty much unbearable at any other time. OK, one beer. On and on and on she went, seemingly forever, but eventually the lolling, depression-heavy set was over and Annuals took the stage.
The boy-boy-boy-boy-boy-girl lineup reminded us of De Novo Dahl from several seasons ago, but less, you know, good. The drums were (literally) lighting up all over the place like Blue Man Group. The keyboards reminded us of Van Halen's "Right Now." The guitars, bizarrely, sounded like Gish-era Smashing Pumpkins. The vocals were so Thom Yorke-ified we could almost imagine the singer got his start in a Radiohead cover band. All of these elements were in the very first song. OK, one more beer.
It seemed to us like a case of over-ambition: There were good (if emo-y) ideas everywhere that just needed scaling down a notch or 12. Really, two drummers? Knock it off, kids. The music had a generic kind of niceness about it and each song seemed totally suitable to play over a climactic moment on One Tree Hill. The Spin asked a nearby friend if he was able to recall the melody of the previous song, and we were both unable to remember anything about the music we were listening to not 20 seconds ago. OK, one final beer.
Even the crowd—college kids who had paid 10 whole recession dollars to see these earnest young ones—didn't seem to feel it much. Outside of a couple of girls that bum-rushed the stage and swayed along to every song, the rest of the kids gently nodded their heads and carried on their conversations. When asked by the band if they were having a good time, the crowd responded with an embarrassingly small smatter of applause.
"That's not too bad," the elfin frontman replied, "but there's room for improvement." You said it kid, not us.
Ain't no sunshine
It was late by the time we arrived to see KC and the Sunshine Band at The Wildhorse Friday night. No big deal. There should still be plenty of seats, because who the hell would be interested in—well, everyone over 40 staying anywhere near downtown, apparently.
First of all, KC has suffered the fate of many fine and upstanding middle-aged persons, which is to grow fat. No problem—they make clothes for that. Just look at Barry White. But KC ain't found 'em yet, so he just wears stuff that's really big but still too tight. And when he'd sweat through a shirt, he'd go put on another one.
The music was a strange blend of KC medleys mixed with other bands' songs from the period—ELO, Commodores. Occasionally there would be a few bars of something familiar—Alan Parsons, Lionel Richie—but that would lead nowhere. Paradoxically, the band was great: four white college kids playing horns, a very hawt bass player and a totally pimped-out Bootzilla-style guitar player. But they were mixed way back with KC way out in front. If you catch our drift.
Fat and poorly dressed—not a crime. But the joyless, mechanical dancing should be punishable. Something happens to people's dance moves at, say, 40—but still, if it's heartfelt, it's infectious. And if KC had shouted, "EVERYONE HERE WHO WAS EVER A HORNY 22-YEAR-OLD GET UP AND SHAKE IT LIKE YOU'RE TRYIN' TO GET LAID!"—well, that would have been infectious. But no. Just another fat guy with stiff hips.
There couldn't possibly be another secret show this week. Srsly. But if there is, email thespin@nashvillescene.com.
