The Fold

10/02/02 Derby

When Tripping Daisy guitarist Wes Berggren overdosed in 1999, it seemed another talented team would never reach their full potential. But, far from rolling over into obscurity, the Daisy boys returned with Polyphonic Spree, a superambitious, 25-piece coed ensemble who joyously deliver an unholy “Did I dream that?” crossbreed of ’60s Brit-pop and boisterous Southern evangelism. Since being the talk of this year’s SXSW conference, this Dallas band/cult have been riding the critical wave into packed clubs, and their first California appearance at a sold-out Derby was suitably humming with anticipation. Having processed through the crowd, the white-robed Spree took their places on a busy stage while front man Tim DeLaughter’s unmiked opening speech reduced the crowd to a whisper. While Polyphonic’s songwriting, though accomplished, is no revolution — rollicking Sgt. Pepper’s romps driven by throbbing bass, horn fanfares and perky keys — it’s the delivery that’s so remarkable. Though in essence a fleshed-out rock band, the Spree’s 10-strong chorus croons a mostly lyricless angelic backdrop crisscrossed by flute, harp and theremin, weaving breezy, psychedelic threads into crushing crescendos — a ’70s movie soundtrack made flesh. Watching Polyphonic Spree is like witnessing Tommy unfold in real time, at club level, and credit is due to DeLaughter and co. for not restricting their vision to conventional pop parameters and doing whatever it takes to create the sounds in their heads despite the obvious logistical nightmares. Polyphonic Spree are inspiring to the point of being subversive, more genuinely dangerous than any detuned angst merchants could ever be. Their pogoing, hand-wringing, arms-aloft ecstasy makes them the sect everyone wants to join — and let’s hope this is drug-induced, ’cause the alternative is truly terrifying. After Polyphonic Spree, how can we ever return to just four guys with guitars again? Paul Rogers – LA WEEKLY

08/22/02 Silverlake Lounge

Nailed above the stage of the Silverlake Lounge is a sign that says “SALVATION,” made up of many tiny white lights. It floats above performers’ heads like a thought bubble, a halo, an annotation. Jonathan Richman’s three-night, sold-out stand at the 100-something-capacity club was a match made in a special kind of heaven where seedy evenings come to innocent ends. The venue does double duty most weeks. On Fridays and Saturdays it’s a gay bar that targets the Latino demographic and plays host to mariachi bands and drag queens. A succession of indie up-and-comers and the occasional alt-rock star fill the place (or don’t) during the week. But Richman’s set allowed you to imagine a club that could unify the two scenes, creating an ideal Tijuana of the mind — a TJ where the donkeys aren’t spray-painted like zebras so frat boys can take their pictures next to them, and where the whores would be loved, truly loved, by fragile Johns named Jonathan. Preceding “El Joven Se Estremece” (“The Youth Trembles”), a song about a young man’s fears upon his first visit to a bordello, an audience member asked Richman if he knew the Spanish term for prostitute. “Puta,” he replied. “But I’m not going to need that word.” The 18-song, hourlong set was filled with the eccentric staples that have earned Richman his intense cult following: the songs sung in Spanish and Hebrew as a kind of sideways tribute to French chanson singers such as Charles Aznavour and Edith Piaf; the ballads about affections lived through the body of an adult, but viewed with the glee of a kindergartner; the ragtag collection of idols (Pablo Picasso, Velvet Underground, Harpo Marx) to whom he dedicates his songs; amplification levels set so low that he’ll be able to rock & roll tinnitus-free into his latter years. “Just because we’re getting older doesn’t mean we have to close up shop,” he sang in the evening’s first song. Richman’s between-song banter highlighted his precious, Luddite world-view. Early in his set, he relayed a message from one of the 50 people lined up outside the club, hoping to get in. “Nate, your friend Dan tried to make it, but he couldn’t come,” Richman told the audience member. “He’s gonna send you a note tomorrow. Some kind of mail.” (E-mail, Jonathan. It’s called e-mail.) The Silverlake Lounge was the perfect home for Richman’s music. You could get close enough to see his sad, Margaret KeaneÐ meetsÐvan Gogh eyes, and the sordid yet virtuous vibe made crowd-pleasers like “I Was Dancing at the Lesbian Bar” extra vivid. “In the first bar, things were stop and stare,” sang Jonathan, his adenoidal croon overpowering drummer Tommy Larkins’ disco beat, “but in this bar, things were laissez faire.” Right then Richman unslung his acoustic, unleashing a hip-grinding dance solo. Alec Hanley Bemis [LA Weekly]

07/18/02 Silverlake Lounge

The Kills are a duo, a self-proclaimed lawless, left-field Bonnie and Clyde of rock & roll. The British dude (code name: Hotel) triggers the drum machine, plays droning, bug-eyed Velvets-blues guitar and sings in a monotone. The American chick (code name: VV) plays guitar sometimes, hangs her long hair like a lampshade across her face, and sings like Chrissie Hynde crossed with PJ Harvey and Royal Trux’s Jennifer Herema: sass and bourbon, croons and sighs. They’ve played together for less than a year and already have several songs that sound like deserved radio hits: hot stuff with grooves, builds and explosive choruses. Live, VV and Hotel play like one of the great rock & roll couples — locking stares, making motions and sounds charged with private meaning, etc. — but even Ike and Tina (and Neil and Jennifer, Iggy and Bowie, Kurt ‘n’ Courtney) never performed regularly as a duo. The Kills do this, taking the stakes higher, making everything that much edgier, pushing the audience into voyeur territory. Watching the Kills bumping and grinding for each other with such joy and abandon, I felt like one of those fans at Toronto’s baseball stadium who a few years ago were treated to a midgame sex show by a couple going at it in their private hotel room above the SkyDome’s outfield fence, unaware that the entire stadium could see what they were doing. Those fans didn’t avert their eyes: They cheered. It didn’t matter how many times they’d done it, or seen it — good sex was still something to be celebrated. – Jay Babcock [LA Weekly]

06/29/02 Silverlake Lounge, 06/30/02 Derby

Talk about cojones: These boys opened with “Kashmir.” Is there really anything to add? Okay, here: A guitar-bass-drums trio from Denton, Texas, going onstage at 7:15 p.m. on a Saturday night; that stage being in a small, hole-in-the-hood Silver Lake bar not particularly suited to magnificence; playing to a hundred or so folks — some club regulars, some bar regulars, some AA-meeting-next-door spillover, some just curious, almost none familiar with the band. Think about it a sec: choosing to cover Led Zeppelin, the most popular rock & roll band of all time — and not just any song by that band, but “Kashmir,” for crissakes, easily Zep’s most massive, exotic track — and not just cover it in the middle of the set, or as an encore, but as an opener, as something you’re gonna have to try and follow. And it’s a genius move. If you’re a (relatively) young band playing to an unfamiliar, alien (and jaded L.A.) audience, opening your set with “Kashmir” certainly gets attention. And if you can seam it into an instrumental cover of one of your own songs — as LtE did the first night, seguing into “Just Was Told” — you’re showing a staggering amount of confidence and ambition. Then again, it’s not likely you’d have a problem getting a response in the first place, looking how you do: that is, with a horned bull skull stage center, a Texas flag draped over the bass amp; Josh (The Bear) Browning — a bass throbber of burly frame, serious beardage and eyes-closed concentration; Andy Young, a drummer with the build of the sturdiest steak house either side of the Rio Grande, leaning forward on the stool Keith MoonÐlike, switching between mallets, drumsticks and handclaps, cymbals in perpetual perpendicularity; and Josh T. Pearson, a gangly, scraggly-haired guitarist-vocalist in biker Nudiewear and bracelets, wearing a cowboy hat ringed by thorns. And then there’s your music, introduced periodically as being from your album, which is about the final battle between Good and Evil that will occur in the Promised Land, which, you remind us, is actually Texas. Cue guffaw track from the local agnostics, followed by open-mouthed, slow-headbanging awe, as they realize you artist-mystics mean it in the deepest way. The rhythm is muscular, spacious, dynamic; the guitar is meditative, gossamer drone parted by noise mass and riff shapes; and the vocals, when they finally come, are uniquely full and rich — triumphant yet resigned — sung in a beautiful voice of steady comfort. When you open that Saturday-night show at that little bar on Sunset, you’re standing below a neon sign that says “Salvation.” You can’t lose. By the time you finish Sunday night’s Derby show with an epic rendition of your debut, double-disc concept album’s 10-minute-plus apoclimactic closer “Into the Storm,” you’ve made a missionary-zealot pout of everyone. After all, you are the most exciting, fully formed art-rock band to bow since Sigur R–s. You’re the kind of band that can follow Zeppelin. by Jay Babcock [LA Weekly]

05/17/02 Derby

Crack (We Are Rock) charmed tonight’s Gauloise-smoking fobs right out of their ennui-filled poses and onto the dance floor. Looking all of 12 years old in their matching white sleeveless gowns, Crack’s leading ladies intoned fem-bot lyrics over keyboard riffs and drum machines “manned” by two faceless guys in back. I later asked the band if it was the droid-drones who composed the songs. “Oh, we’re just front women — we couldn’t possibly have written any of the music.” Never expect a straight answer from a San Francisco band. Schlubbily dressed in everyday jeans and button-down shirt, Electric Company’s Brad Laner layered reams of texture into grating-lovely-intriguing things. One of L.A.’s more far-reaching noise/sound/rock weirdos, Laner seems to take a lot of cues from television, as vaguely familiar theme songs and scores got clusterfucked every which way but loose — just don’t call it “explorations in pure sound” or collage or shit like that, ’cause there was definitely a narrative at work here. This assertion was later confirmed with sober fans, so you know it’s not the Dextromathorphan talking. There’s a new paradigm for entertainers: Stand still, like a post, and avoid eye contact with the audience. Sounds dull? We defy you not to become transfixed by San Diego’s Kid606 (22-year-old Miguel Depedro), the most accomplished digital-punk in the U.S. With face aglow from his dual PowerBooks, Depedro soon developed rosy medallions on his cheeks, giving 110 percent to a drill & bass-gabber-techstep onslaught cut with enough cheese-pop to keep the mix humorous and grooving. Feeling us out before launching into the encore, he asked, “Hard stuff? Soft stuff?” This kid may be more programmer than rock star, but at the end of the day even laptop-geeks are crowd pleasers. Kevin Lee, a.k.a. Seksu Roba, does the bachelor-pad thing as well as any keen disciple of Esquivel, but this Crippled Dick recording artist invests his fluffly lounge chic with hip-swiveling heft. Tonight he got sci-fi on us with woozy theremin while sidekick Lunna Menoh — in a satin majorette’s leotard — spun a mean baton. To play percussion, Lee even brought aboard a pneumatically controlled tin man (!). It was no Neil Peart, but it easily kept better time than those animatronic players at Chucky Cheez.