There are such things as Notwist people. Taking cues from the gentle, intellectual heart of the band’s frontman Markus Acher, Notwist folk tend to look like they could use a hug, a book and maybe some dancing in their living room when no one’s looking. Most of all, they’re looking for that sonic moment of bliss and catharsis made possible only by a German electronic rock outfit, which, through almost two decades together, has no doubt felt its share of pain.
On their visit, the Notwist didn’t disappoint, making the cavernous Commodore Ballroom seem smaller and the introverted Notwist people feel less alone. The band’s overwhelming temptation to pummel the audience with over enthusiastic glitches and proggy jams seemed hard to avoid at times, but the evening’s gems lay in its more subtle moments, such as during “Gloomy Planets” from this year’s The Devil, You and Me. There, Acher and company let their guard down and turned their backs to the crowd, playing for each other and indulging in the endearing, hopeful melancholy that has bonded the band for 19 years.
Notable awkwardness ensued when lanky, bespectacled lead programmer Martin Gretschmann whipped out a light saber near the end of the set and uncomfortably played with it. Nonetheless, Gretschmann’s stage antics were a welcome reprieve from the obnoxious dudery of DJ opener Odd Nosdam, who dominated his set with one-liners usually escapable by turning off CFOX in the morning. His San Francisco origins and DJ Shadow influences made for a promising venture in theory, but his frat-boy persona was so offensive that some Notwist supporters started shouting for him to leave the stage by the end. Disappointingly, Notwist vocalist Acher uttered few words during his band’s set, but his infectious kindness lingered. More proof that the loudest voices aren’t often the ones we most want to hear.
Category Archives: Jancember 2008
The Notwist / Odd Nosdam
October 24 @ The Commodore
Review By Jackie Wong
The King Khan & BBQ Show / The Dutchess & the Duke
November 7 @ Biltmore Cabaret
Review By Robert Robot
The King Khan & BBQ Show are all about good times—well, at least until they hit Vancouver, where there was an aggro contingent in the audience bent on tarnishing the show.
The night started off civil, yet bland. Seattle’s the Dutchess & the Duke were as cute as puppies with their sibling-like teasing on the microphones. This Hardly Art-signed group was hardly entertaining, though, and the muffled sound system didn’t help the group’s wimpy delivery of wimpy folk narratives. Snore zone: population these guys.
By the time King Khan got on stage, the audience was starved for rock bravado. The costumed denizens of quality surf/sludge-a-billy—Montreal/Berlin duo of Khan and BBQ (a.k.a. Mark Sultan) dressed up in ridiculous wigs and blouses—delivered raucous vocals, more leg than I needed to see, and more rock theatrics than you could light a guitar with.
However, soon I heard “This isn’t a Limp Bizkit show,” uttered by Khan, unimpressed by the audience’s moshing and pushing towards the stage. And soon after that, I was amazed to see a couple fighting while Khan were getting going. I was even more amazed when the woman turned her wrath from her bearded boyfriend towards a friend of mine. Trying to separate the two, my Good Samaritan chum was now getting rained on with hockey punches.
After the Cro-Magnon couple were extracted from the building, things settled down for a while. I’d almost forgotten all about it when I felt something splash the back of my neck. Turning around, there was yet another bearded cretin with more anger than sense. This one was smashing beer sleeves on the floor, showering gawking gig-goers with shards of glass and alcohol. In an instant, the two of us were locked in a standoff caused by pacifist moi trying to put a halt to the ridiculousness of the situation. In the end, no bones were broken, just civility.
To put it simply, some audience members acted like jocks at a punk gig, detracting from the real focus of the night—King Khan & BBQ Show.
Gang Gang Dance / Marnie Stern
November 11 @ Biltmore Cabaret
Review By Justin Langille
You know, I’m not one for using tired literary devices when describing new music. However, there was a bit of irony in the fact that Gang Gang Dance and Marnie Stern, two of the brightest, most creatively gifted acts coming out of New York today, played the Biltmore Cabaret, one of Vancouver’s pre-eminently dim-lit, cave-like basement venues.
Even though it was a rainy Tuesday night, I had thought that acts of this calibre might draw a bigger Vancouver crowd, but there was plenty of room to manoeuvre around the belly of the beast. Maybe an increasingly engaging local scene and the mainstreaming of sub-cultural tastes among some circles of music fans have removed the allure around performances from even the most innovative of the Pitchfork-approved set.
Stern took the stage first, firing off song after song of blazing, ingeniously sloppy compositions of guitar rock glory. Sporting a fashionable T-shirt emblazoned with the words “Uptown Bitch,” she appeared genuinely happy to be playing and certainly made good on her reputation for unhinged virtuosity. The whirls and wiles of Stern’s velocity freak anthem “Transformer” was the undeniable highlight of her set.
While Stern had looks that kill and riffs that shatter windows, Gang Gang Dance’s performance brought the proverbial noise for the evening. The quartet crafted a lavish set filled with highlights from their previous records and their new, pop-inspired album Saint Dymphna, but it was how they started it off that really counted. The band lulled the crowd into their netherworld with a hypnotic, half-hour long rhythm jam that nearly shook the foundation of the Biltmore. Synthesizers buzzed and guitar noise cracked while vocalist Lizzie Bougatsos drummed manically and sang notes that certainly do not exist in the scales of Western musical notation. Some took the opportunity to dance, but most in attendance were rightfully entranced by dissonant drones and syncopated rhythms, elements of music that rarely break the surface of pop, especially in such a visceral and powerful manner.
Women | The Clips | The Bicycles | Hot Panda | Gang Violence
November 15 @ The Peanut Gallery
Review By Alex Smith
For a while, it looked like this show might not happen at all, and that, my friends, would have been a shame. Originally slated for East Van’s Di’Metric Studios (a venue that by some accounts holds about 80 people), the show was actually cancelled at one point. A last-minute move to the Peanut Gallery and an almost-too-late phone call to the Calgary-bound headliners saved the evening from defeat, though, and everyone rejoiced. This bill had legs from the start; Women, recently signed to “major indie” Jagjaguwar, are a bona-fide, Pitchfork-approved buzz band, and deservedly so—their self-titled debut is one of the year’s best.
First things first, though. Vancouver’s Gang Violence opened the proceedings in style with their stark, angular dance jams. If you’ve been paying attention to Discorder lately, you know how strongly we are in favour of this trio. The early start time did nothing to diminish the enthusiasm of band or crowd.
Next up was Hot Panda from Edmonton. I never really got into their debut EP and Mint Records 7”, but their performance definitely improved my opinion. They were charming and enthusiastic, and a little rougher around the edges than on record. Their first full-length, slated for February 2009, will be worth checking out.
Toronto’s the Bicycles were next to take the stage, pumping out song after catchy indie pop song to what was by then a packed house. Their tight vocal harmonies and general bounciness give them a ’70s AM radio vibe, and although the effect is a little twee on the whole, they’re unquestionably a great band if you like sugary things.
The Clips then took over the stage in what is normally their practice space. I have seen these guys in a lot of dark, smelly basements and warehouses over the past few years, and tonight was no different. They got the crowd dancing, as they always do, and seemed distinctly in their element. It’s great to see them finally getting their due after a lot of hard work.
Finally, early Sunday morning, the main event began. Women took the stage, and in a word, they absolutely killed it. The band has tightened up considerably since I last saw them (at Calgary’s Sled Island Festival), and they tried out some new songs, which held up well to their album material. The performance had no banter, and very few breaks in the noise, which was as it should have been. It’s hard to describe Women’s sound adequately. There are points of reference (the nouveau-shoegaze of No Age and Deerhunter, for example, or the cleverly interlocking guitars of Television’s Marquee Moon), but somehow everything is made new again. Women is a band that tickles each side of your brain in turns, both familiar and unrecognizable. When they left the stage to yelps of “one more!” it was with the self-assurance of a band that knows exactly what they’re doing, and whatever it is, it’s good.
Deerhunter / Times New Viking
November 20 @ Richard’s on Richards
Review By Adam Simpkins
There’s no denying that 2008 has been a scarlet year for Mr. Bradford Cox. Along with his successful run under the nom de plume Atlas Sound, the many hours he’s put in as executive director of Deerhunter Inc. are now paying off nicely. Not only did his band release a corker of a double album, Microcastle/Weird Era Cont., they’ve also unofficially become the year’s indie rock darlings, even snagging a high-profile opening spot for Nine Inch Nails along the way.
Cox and Co. must have learned a few tricks from their recent arena tour, like the importance of playing road-tested material and, you know, songs people actually want to hear (“Nothing Ever Happened,” “Lake Somerset,” “Never Stops”), while avoiding the meandering experiments that account for roughly a third of their recorded output. And, like tonight, to run the show as a professional and efficient touring machine: doing away with amateur PA issues, eliminating limp banter during songs, and nixing Cox’s usual melodrama and awkward stage antics. Instead, Deerhunter established the position that they are now in contention to be an indie legacy act and not just a gaggle of talented social rejects from the backwoods of Georgia.
As for openers Times New Viking, the Ohioan trio played a raw and concise set reminiscent of the early ’90s glory days. Their sound fell somewhere between Swell Maps (okay, early Pavement) and the scrappier side of the Flying Nun roster. The band focused their songs around organ hooks accompanied by chugging guitar and heavy on the bass-drum, rinse and repeat. Not groundbreaking stuff, but if you missed the indie rock/lo-fi explosion the first time around, this is what it sounded like—just not as jaw-dropping and seminal as those historians would have you believe.
Shindig # 8 / Private Eyes / Hidden Fortress / The Magician
November 4 @ The Railway Club
Review By Gord McCullough
On the eighth night of Shindig, first up we had an act that was exactly what I needed to hear. Private Eyes (formerly Body Politic) is a dude named Damon who had to play solo because his band bailed before the show. But it was better that way. Armed with a delightful voice, battered guitar and a secret weapon (a fancy new looping station), Private Eyes delivered a warm and impressive set. Although he had great backing riffs and impressive picking over top, where he got me was lyrically. I am a bit of a gearhead but this guy actually got me to listen to the words.
Next up was Hidden Fortress, a tubular DJ and MC combo. When I say tubular I mean the group acted as more of a nephron, regulating the musical PH of the night’s performances. I am not super into hip-hop and I don’t know a lot about flow, but I think I can identify it and these guys had flow—I think. The angry “everything burns” lyrics felt somewhat out of place given the “Yes we can” smiles on people’s faces from what’s his face winning down south earlier that night, but who am I to judge? Let’s just call it the audacity of dope. [ed. If you’re still confused he’s referring to Obama.]
The last act of the night was another solo performance by a guy called the Magician. He had a keyboard and cardboard cutouts of Michael Jordan and football star Drew Bledsoe holding (with the help of tape) percussive instruments. He also, as his name might suggest, performed magic tricks, which were a tad more impressive than his tunes. In the end, though, it was enough to sway the judges who I think were stunned to see the likes of Jordan rocking out.
Shinding #9 / The Stereo Three / SundayTrucker / US US US
November 11 @ Railway Club
Review By Alex Smith
Tonight was the last show of Shindig’s first round, the winner completing the semi-final lineup. In this final separation of wheat from chaff, the first to perform was the Stereo Three. The band played enthusiastic punk rock, and their friends in the audience seemed to have a good time. I am going to describe their sound as forgettable, though, because beyond that, I have pretty much forgotten what they sounded like.
Next up was a definite change of pace: SundayTrucker was comprised of older, surly-looking rocker dudes playing sludgy, down-tuned hard rock. The singer did a reasonable version of the braying, marble-mouthed vocal delivery typical of late ’90s Eddie Vedder imitators, but it all seemed a little out of place.
Shindig is nominally open to any genre of music, but it tends to lean pretty heavily in the indie rock direction. In any case, SundayTrucker didn’t go over well with the college radio types, but the longhair contingent was suitably amused, and the band did hit a sort of plodding stride by the end of their set. Having more or less delivered on their promise to “rock [their] way straight to hell,” SundayTrucker gave way to US US US.
Now, there are criticisms to be levelled at these youngsters: their lack of cohesiveness and overly ambitious musical ideas resulted in a confusing mess most of the time, and the guitarist resorted to some truly embarrassing Shaft-style funk riffs, ratcheting up the cringe factor. The heck with it though: these kids were just so goddamn precious that I should probably just stop being a grumpy old bastard. Sorry, Language Arts, but US US US just won the cutest band at Shindig 2008 award. They had parent-roadies, for crying out loud! Oh, and they also won the round, so if you like cute stuff, you should try to catch them in the semis (if you can tear yourself away from Puppy Cam for long enough, that is).
Shindig #10 / Zombie Pistolero & His Guns / Hermetic / Fur Bearing Animals
November 18 @ The Railway Club
Review By E. E. Mason
The evening got off to an introspective start courtesy of Zombie Pistolero & His Guns, a one-man, bass and drum-machine outfit who has clearly hoovered up the industrial quantities of Joy Division and early New Order. The four-song set almost began unnoticed among the audience chat and beer-ordering, but after a glitch in the first song, he came through in the last couple with some dark bass hooks, strong melodies and confident resonant vocals. A little too low on stage presence for this night’s audience, though, it seemed.
Next on were Hermetic, who upped the wattage of the evening by a noticeable degree and dragged the audience irresistibly to the front of the stage. With a short, hot set of three-minute indie punk blasts, barely taking a breather between each one, they easily became the favourites of the evening. Nothing says pure honest lo-fi joy like furious barrages of guitar chords, high energy and slightly shaky harmonies.
Last, Fur Bearing Animals, a soul-funk band with a sporadic lean to old school. If this had been a competition of how much musical equipment you could fit on the Railway Club stage, they’d have won before they’d even begun. Supremely well-rehearsed, delivering tight, punchy funk rhythms à la Jamiroquai, and a blistering cover of a Beastie Boys number, they definitely seemed to be having the most fun of the evening, totally owning their set and the stage.
However, in spite of some perfectly recreated music (and fashion) stylings, a dash of Vocoder vocals, glo-sticks and plenty of attempted audience interaction, Fur Bearing Animals didn’t swipe the victory from Hermetic. It was a tight race, but in the end less image and more energy deserved to carry the day.
Tanya Tagaq
October 23 @ Heritage Hall
Review By Justin Langille
A diverse crowd packed Heritage Hall for conversation, drinks and katajjaq, the practice commonly known as traditional Inuit throat singing. However, at the end of the night, there was little tradition to be found anywhere in the room.
Nunavut native Tanya Tagaq purveys a form of throat singing that is rooted in the guttural growls and rhythmic chants of katajjaq, but sounds more like a symphony of samples culled from the arctic landscape and classical operatic performance. Tagaq’s unique sound is imbued with the melodies of modern pop and the profound experimentalism of improvised music, a combination that’s almost transcendent when channelled through her powerful voice.
Accordingly, the concert was a departure from the experience that most music fans are used to. Barefoot, yet dressed in what could only be described as a diva’s gown, the singer began with a diatribe of sorts, letting the crowd know her feelings on contemporary gender relations, her baby at home in Nunavut and an assortment of other things most personal and disconcerting. With this personal baggage out of the way, she launched into the real catharsis that everyone was there to see.
Collaborators DJ Michael Red and cellist Cris Derksen set the scene, summoning an open soundscape of sparse beats and haunting melodies for Tagaq to walk into. With sharp, articulate gasps hurled from the back of her throat, Tagaq summoned the surging rhythms that would form the basis of the performance. Bursts of angry growls and explosive staccato wails began to fill the room as she jammed with Red and Derksen, manifesting a particular musical language known only to them. The group worked their way through movement after movement in this manner, traversing through darkness, majestic light and the warmest intimacy.
Tagaq played nearly every part imaginable throughout the night: stomping madly about the stage with microphone raised above her head, she was a warrior; whispering softly along with Derksen’s cello, she was an innocent child; at the end, she seemed to be an old soul, introspective and filled with creative wisdom. The lucky crowd rewarded her and her bandmates with a much-deserved standing ovation, acknowledging a remarkable performance by one Canada’s most gifted artists.