The Longest Winter - The Decemberists

I’ll be honest: I’ve never liked the Decemberists. I have respect for their artistic sense and the thought that they must put into their branding. As for their music, I’d rather listen to the vocal stylings of William Shatner. Or Leonard Nimoy, for that matter.

But when a friend who’s a Decemberists fan told me to lighten up, I decided to try and experience their Oct 19th concert at UCLA’s Royce Hall as any concertgoer would. In line with the band's rugged traditionalism, I even walked the 7.2 miles from Hollywood to Westwood, listening to a podcast of "This American Life" along the way.

I arrived in Westwood just in time to see an eager audience file into Royce Hall, the band they discovered on NPR's "All Songs Considered" or by reading "alternative media" (sometimes even online!) about to appear onstage. Looking around I saw men in dry-clean-only button-downs turn to their girlfriends with "Honey-isn't-this-great" expressions. There were younger men, too (some probably study the historical incidents that appear across The Decemberists lyrics at UCLA), making the same face.

To their credit, this was no ordinary Decemberists concert. The band known for placing such emphasis on their public image had teamed with Flux, the group of collectors known best for their taste in film. Animations by four filmmakers commissioned by Flux of the band’s latest album, The Hazards of Love, screened throughout the performance. The result was unspeakably lovely: there were patchwork starscapes with constellations given life by Guilherme Marcondes and grey scale wave swells pummeling pastel pirate ships created by Julia Pott.

Decemberists lead singer Colin Meloy hummed, the crowd swooned, and—you have to believe me—I tried to enjoy it. But The Decemberists are as uncomfortable to watch as a high school band at the year-end talent show. Every member showboated across the stage, assumed a power stance and headbanged. There were raw guitar chords that seemed to be stolen from Eddie Money and soft vocal cooing lifted from Arcade Fire. It screamed of phony posturing, the bits of "authentic" guitar distortion no more meaningful than the musical interludes during "All Things Considered."

What I found most regrettable was the pairing of such beautiful filmmaking with such a boring band. The talent of these four artists should land them a gig with a more dynamic group, like Broken Social Scene. That’s what I turned on as I left Royce Hall for the two-hour walk home, happy to clear my mind.

Originally in Los Angeles Magazine