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Rick Moranis and Tony Clifton were in the audience at the Dirty Projectors' last show at Echo Park's Jensen Rec Center. Three Michael Jacksons was there too. (One of the Michaels stood by the fireplace in the Jensen's lounge, next to a boyfriend-and-girlfriend cowboy and indian duo.)
Yes, it was a Halloween double feature, with Brooklyn's Dirty Projectors playing two sets: a 7:00 show for trick-or-treaters and a 9:30 show for those more interested in late night masquerade.
The Projectors showed up on time and in costume, lead singer Dave Longstreth wearing a giant foam cowboy hat. He was joined on stage by Joan of Arc and an Amish wife (vocalists Angel Deradoorian and Amber Coffman, respectively). Drummer Brian McComber, in a Marilyn Monroe wig and a box of Angel Hair strapped to his chest, was dressed as Sexy Pasta.
That the Projectors were every bit as practiced and professional in ridiculous costumes wasn't much of a surprise. That both shows were recorded for an upcoming live disc (Bitte Orca acoustic sessions, according to the two audio techs to stage right) was—and might be news. Here's hoping they can fix the terrible hum caused by the Jensen's lighting system, which was wired to the same power source as the stage microphones.
It’s been only days and already I want to relive the bravado attempted by the Projectors in their song "Useful Chamber." In terms of music that shouldn’t have worked as well as it did, the acoustic rendition was on-par with MTV’s legendary Nirvana Unplugged.
The show’s opening band Little Wings, went the opposite direction, with frontman Kyle Field turning the soft strummers from his records into live electric wonders. Years-old material was given new life by this change, and made me wish the recording engineers left some hard drive space to capture the adaptation.
Still, it was the Dirty Projectors that made the evening memorable. Amber Coffman's polished scream on "Stillness Is The Move" was just so loud and just so organized—an impossible balance that defines the band’s canon. "Temecula Sunrise" was radiant, and then there was that acoustic version of "Useful Chamber." For once, you didn't have to be there – just wait for the recording. What a treat.
Originally in Los Angeles Magazine
For the first time in four months, Los Angeles was under a steady rain. And, for the first time in three years, Bob Dylan, who has written such rain-themed songs as "A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall," "Buckets of Rain," and "Rainy Day Women #12 & 35," brought his traveling tour to L.A. Wednesday’s concert was at the Palladium Theatre, which hasn't sorted out its sound system since re-opening last year. This didn't bode well for Dylan's raspy voice, a long-lost casualty in the war against age and cigarettes (recent concert footage had commentators comparing the 68-year-old legend's voice to Cookie Monster), and my negativity rolled in with the clouds.
Honestly, I was worried. I was worried it was going to be a seated show to placate Dylan's ever-aging fan base. I was worried about Dylan's recent material, some of which could have been co-written by Andy Rooney ("Nettie Moore," has the famed protest singer complaining about paperwork and fretting about ripping his pants). And like everyone born after his great live shows (Royal Albert Hall in 1966; Fort Collins in 1976), I was worried about Dylan—you know, the Dylan that appears when all of us think of Dylan is the Dylan of old, cupping his hands around the microphone, bouncing around the stage with The Band and making girls faint. That Dylan has been replaced by Old Dylan, the Dylan of regrettable Victoria Secret commercials and near spoken-word albums. These days, Hamilton Leithauser of The Walkmen sounds more like Dylan than Old Dylan does. Cate Blanchette looks more like him. Old Dylan was picked up by the cops in New Jersey just two months ago, confused and unrecognizable wandering around suburban lawns until a frightened homeowner dialed 911. It was raining that night, too.
I grabbed my coat and prepared for an evening of disappointment.
Bob Dylan arrived onstage with as little fanfare, appearing behind his electric organ when the lights came on. Then, as if he was holding the secret to some mischievous surprise, he proceeded to prove me thoroughly wrong.
First: his voice. Young Dylan would have given his soul to have a voice like Old Dylan has now; it bears the weight of years of service. Its tone may be different than that trademark whine, and it can seem that Dylan is covering his own work, but heard live it packs an unexpected punch.
"Don't Think Twice It's Alright," caused the crowd to explode even though its opening notes were almost unrecognizable. Coming from Old Dylan, the line admonishing the nameless girl for wasting his precious time gained new meaning. He rumbled through a version of "Stuck Inside of Mobile With The Memphis Blues Again" but refreshed the melody so it was a sort of Dylan Dylan remix. Even songs I don't care for were given new life. "Ballad of a Think Man" was too sinister for words, and "Nettie Moore," whose lyrics I just scoffed at, sat perfectly in the set, smoking with a beautiful longing for long-lost love. When Dylan sang the lines, "Getting' light outside, the temperature dropped / I think the rain has stopped," the crowd went nuts.
Dylan's band, though not The Band, provided solid backup. Charlie Sexton's guitar foiled Dylan's lyrics perfectly, adding color without out-staging the main attraction . And, you know what? Every note from the guitar, organ, bass, and drum came through the Palladium’s system clean and clear.
In the end, Dylan's performance was a statement of purpose, a closing argument in the debate between those worried about the Dylan of old and those who believe that once attained, legendary status doesn't fade. He arrived on stage a man with as much power over his audience as he did half a century ago.
As if I hadn’t proof enough, the young girl standing next to me actually fainted as Dylan tore into "Cold Irons Bound." Her eyes were wide and serene and her umbrella still clutched in her hand as she hit the ground, another rainy day woman who wanted to get stoned.
Originally in Los Angeles Magazine at: http://www.lamag.com/do/blog.aspx?dt=10/15/2009
It’s true: after previewing the month-long Echo residency of L.A. Afro-Funk band Fool's Gold, I called them my "favorite local band." A week later, the lead guitarist, Lewis Pesacov, was sitting behind the mercy table and as I asked him if he had seen my article, his father approached, shook my hand, and said, "You're in on the ground floor." He was beaming, as proud as a dad at a science fair after his kid won first place.
Naturally, this struck me. I do have a vested interest in seeing this band succeed, of rising above the 'ground floor.' And yet, no matter how highly I praise the band's unconventional (yet respectful) take on a music not original to their own continent, nobody to whom I've introduced Fool's Gold seems to like them very much.
The one exception is friend and fellow music writer Drew Tewksbury, who counts the debut record by Fool's Gold as one of his favorites of the year. Interestingly, Drew's friends are also split in their opinions of the band.
Both Drew and I attended a private party thrown on October 6th by record label IAMSOUND in honor of this debut record in the Masonic Lodge of the Hollywood Forever Cemetery. The party was sparsely populated for a secret show with an open bar, made even smaller by comparison to that other cemetery show by that other band with a debut record a few weeks ago.
Small crowd or not, Fool's Gold still know how to put on a show. The younger kids in the audience were wowed by the vast number of people on stage while those in the crowd who went to Hebrew School spent their time translating singer Luke Top's lyrics. The band burned through their best songs (among them, the only song featuring a brief dally into English, "Nadine") before jumping off-stage and ending the show with their signature trip through the crowd, chanting all the way.
We live in a country where, arguably, the biggest World Music sensation of the past few years (Vampire Weekend) is filled with white, upper-class, Ivy Leaguers. Maybe what Fool's Gold needs to get beyond the ground level is some capitulation, some kowtowing and some assimilation. Maybe they need preppy clothes and some more English in their songs. I can say, as a writer and a fan, that I wish them all the success they can grab, but only if they stay authentic.
Originally in Los Angeles Magazine at: http://www.lamag.com/do/blog.aspx?dt=10/12/2009
