Recap: Andrew Bird and St. Vincent at 9:30 Club

“Here’s a song that looks at social alienation,” Andrew Bird announced to the crowd at the 9:30 Club Wednesday night as he fingered the opening chord of “Effigy” on his violin. “And it doesn’t have whistling.” It's important to mention this at the offset because “Effigy” was the eighth song in the Chicago-based singer’s set, and the first not to feature his trademark whistle. For the record, Bird’s puckered pitch is nothing short of remarkable; and yes, the light-hearted whistle lines do add a certain down-country charm to his art-pop ditties. But as everyone knows, too much of a good thing can often be, well, kind of friggin' irritating.

And there it is: the one real gripe to be had with an otherwise enthralling night of music. A musical theme seemed to weave throughout the show (which also featured a set from fellow quirky multi-instrumentalist St. Vincent): an attempt to toe the line between comfort and chaos, landing somewhere between palatable indie pop and disconcerting experimental noise rock.

As the show’s opener, St. Vincent’s peculiar brand of psych-pop was a perfect example of this sonic juxtaposition: at times gentle, welcoming, almost maternalistic, and at others dark, shrill and off-putting. Frontwoman Annie Clark set the mood immediately with “The Stranger,” the opener on of her 2009 album, Actor, as the track’s lagging verse brought mysteriousness to her charming, pristine vocals. A few songs later, in the reverb-soaked “Actor Out of Work,” Clark flashed her noise rock sensibilities but still managed to maintain a level of sweetness—an aesthetic continued through the gritty, scorching solo at the end of “Now Now.” Don’t let her tiny frame and on-stage preciousness fool you—Clark can absolutely shred.

There was something undeniably cozy about the stage set-up for the opening songs of Andrew Bird’s set: a solitary man in a suit and tie, a warm overhead spotlight cutting through the otherwise aphotic stage, an array of instruments surrounding an intricate panel of effect pedals. Bird welcomed the crowd with a soothing medley of loops, beginning with a few pizzicato plucks from his violin, then a layer with his bow, a simple guitar riff, and sparse whistling. To add to the melody’s whimsy, Bird channeled the sound through a rotating duel phonograph, creating a softly pulsating Doppler effect.

Still on his own, Bird then transitioned into the first (and, arguably, best) song in the set, the smokey and soulful “Why?” off of 2001’s The Swimming Hour. The extended opener was an unexpected treat, showing off both Bird’s understated jazz temperament and delightfully sardonic sense of humor (seen in the addictive hook, “Damn you for being so easygoing”). After the stage lights came up and the band took the stage, Bird careened through his expansive discography, selecting several tracks off of 2005’s magnificent Andrew Bird & The Mysterious Production Of Eggs, 2007’s Armchair Apocrypha, and his fifth and latest solo full-length, Noble Beast. “Opposite Day” showcased Bird’s inventive approach to instrumentation, strumming his violin like a ukulele over lofty clarinet lines. “Fitz And The Dizzyspells” and a sped-up rendition of “Oh No,” both off Noble Beast, exposed Bird’s poppier side—but the songs’ melodies remained grounded in dizzying layers of loops.

Always one to spin a good yarn, Bird prefaced “Headsoak,” a track from his early days with Bowl Of Fire, with a bizarre tale of walking the streets of Chicago and stumbling upon an oozing armory building. He later described the astonishingly detailed “Anonanimal” as “a song about what kind of animal you are” and teased the crowd with a line from fan-favorite “Tables And Chairs,” explaining “There will be snacks! But first we’re going to do ‘Scythian Empire.’" For the record, there were no snacks.

Toward the end of his set, Bird snuck in a few unexpected nuggets of folk-rock gold. The surprises began with a new track, tentatively named “Lusitania,” featuring the vocals and guitar of Annie Clark. At first listen, the track is quite good, a throwback to retro country duets with absolutely gorgeous harmonies. (Let’s hope that Clark is invited to record vocals when this baby finally hits the studio.) Later, Bird and Clark opened the encore with a heartfelt cover of Bob Dylan’s “Oh, Sister,” an underappreciated track off of 1976’s Desire. (The song’s opening was even sweeter the second time around, after Clark mucked up the intro and let out an endearingly audible “Oh, shit.”) Next, the duo welcomed a pair of bandmates back onstage for an inspired (but honestly, kind of sloppy) rendition of Charlie Patton’s country classic, “I’m Goin’ Home,” igniting handclaps and sing-alongs by the third run-through of the chorus.

Considering that the 9:30 Club show was the last stop on Bird and St. Vincent’s nationwide fall tour (a fact that was repeated on stage throughout the night), the Patton cover would have been a perfectly fitting end—but Bird was not quite done. Instead, he extended the encore with a pair of anthemic classics, “Don’t Be Scared” off of 2003’s Weather Systems and “Fake Palindromes” off of Mysterious. With no one left to thank and nothing left to prove, Bird quietly saluted the crowd after bowing his final violin note, snagged the oversized sock monkey off the phonograph behind him and slowly meandered off stage. (Yeah, we don’t know what that thing was doing there, either.)

http://www.avclub.com/dc/articles/andrew-bird-and-st-vincent-at-930-club,34746/

Jim Zorn’s life after football

A stadium that promises one of the most fan-unfriendly experiences in the NFL. Exorbitant parking fees combined with ridiculous new restrictions on tailgating. A sales office that—when it isn't busy suing season-ticket holders who have lost their jobs and are unable to pay their bills—sells thousands of general-admission tickets directly to scalpers (sorry, "brokers") while actual fans sit around on a bogus "waiting list" for those same tickets. Yup—it seems as if Washington Redskins owner Dan Snyder can't help but constantly one-up himself in terms finding new ways to test the limits of one of the league's most notoriously loyal fanbases. (That's not even getting into the team's incompetence on the playing field.) The most recent example came just last week, when the 'Skins' front office tapped former NFL coaching assistant and current “offensive consultant” Sherman Lewis to take over play-calling responsibilities from head coach Jim Zorn. By Snyder's flawless logic, Lewis was the embattled 2-4 team’s white knight—a man that hadn’t called an offensive play at any level since 2004 and spent the days leading up to the decision calling bingo numbers at a retirement facility in Michigan. And that last part’s not even a joke.

The announcement was the latest in a series of passive-aggressive screw-you-Jimbos handed down by Snyder and Executive Vice President Of Football Operations Vinny Cerrato in recent weeks. The take-home message is clear: Zorn’s days as head coach are numbered. Sure, Cerrato has recently been quoted assuring that “Jim Zorn is the head coach of the Washington Redskins…for the rest of this season, and hopefully into the future.” But remember: this is Washington, D.C., a town built on peddling BS to bolster public opinion. Regardless of the executive rhetoric, Zorn’s fate seemed as good as sealed during Monday night’s 27-17 loss to the Philadelphia Eagles—the realization kicked in somewhere between Jason Campbell’s abysmal trio of cough-ups and Antwaan Randle-El’s unsuccessful attempt to headbutt an incoming punt. The team’s remaining schedule does little to help Zorn’s chance of turning things around: two 6-0 teams (the New Orleans Saints and Denver Broncos), six other playoff contenders, and one possible (but far from automatic) victory at Oakland. In short, he’s a dead man walking.

But hey, at least there’s a faint silver lining to this shitcloud of a season. When Jim Zorn is officially relieved of the burden of professional coaching, he’ll finally have the chance to follow his true passions in life. Let’s face it: football’s not the guy’s strong suit. He might have duped Redskins management into thinking he was a prodigious offensive strategist a couple years ago, but anyone that can navigate a game of Madden ’94 knows better than to call a halfback pass on third-and-goal (see Week Two vs. the St. Louis Rams) or to build a pass-centered West Coast offense around a painfully lethargic quarterback (see every snap that Campbell has taken this year). It’s clearly time for Mr. Zorn to think about life after football; luckily for him, The A.V. Club is here to offer some much-need career advice.

Mayor of Detroit
Since orchestrating a pitiful 19-14 loss to the Lions on September 27th, bringing an end to Detroit’s infamous 19-game skid, Zorn has been the most beloved middle-aged sports figure in Motown since Bill Laimbeer. To his credit, Zorn is an undeniably charismatic leader—a reputation he first earned as the starting QB for the expansion-era Seattle Seahawks in the mid ’70s. And given the Seahawks’ less-than-stellar record under his leadership (as well as his work with the 'Skins this season), Zorn seems capable of maintaining irrational levels of optimism in times of utter devastation—a requisite trait for anyone willing to run for office in the closest thing to a post-apocalyptic dystopia in America. (With all due respect to the Motor City.) Granted, Zorn likely has little to bring to the table to curb the city’s skyrocketing crime and 30-percent unemployment rate, but he’d still be a guaranteed step up from former mayor Kwame Kilpatrick. And, even if he can’t get past mayor David Bing in the Democratic primary, he’ll still never have to pay for a beer at any sports pub in the town for the rest of his life.

Team chaplain for the Washington Nationals
First, Zorn is known to be a god-fearing Christian and an active supporter of Pro Athletes Outreach, a program to train "professional athletes and their wives to become leaders in Christ” (whatever the hell that means). It goes without saying that the Nats can use all the help from above they can get next season—and with the unholy talent of Stephen Strasburg hitting the District in April, someone needs to keep our motley band of lovable misfits along a righteous track. (Given the onslaught of largely deserved criticism Zorn has suffered through over the past six weeks, he likely has a few fascinating insights on the Book Of Job to share with whoever’s willing to listen.) Second, Zorn’s been there. If the Nats are the piss-poor kings of D.C.’s lackluster sports scene, the 2009 Redskins are its mind-bogglingly inept princes. At the very least, Zorn will provide a friendly, nonjudgmental shoulder on which Nats manager Jim Riggleman can cry.

Mid-season addition to The Real Housewives Of D.C. Cast
Filming of the D.C.-centric season of Bravo’s wildly popular reality television series may be close to wrapping, but the Zorn family would still be a cunning late-game addition to the cast. Anyone that’s seen Zorn in a post-embarrassing-loss press conference (of which there have been plenty) knows the guy can handle himself in front of a camera, even as the subject of nationwide ridicule—and the show seems to have a soft spot for the families of washed up professional athletes. (Eric Snow? Really, Bravo?) More importantly, Zorn’s wife and family seem to be a perfect fit for the show: wealthy, attractive, and sufficiently WASP-y. To add to their resume, the Zorns are recognizable local philanthropists, making notable donations to organizations like Medical Teams International (which aims to "address the causes and effects inadequate of health care worldwide"—or some equally vague do-gooder baloney). There’s one possible setback here: Joy Zorn seems like a perfectly pleasant person. In order to fit in with the show’s aesthetic, Mrs. Zorn will likely have to pick up a hyper-inflated sense of self importance—or at least a homosexual best friend and an overstated affinity for half-decade-old fashion. That could be a deal breaker.

Half-drunk conspiracy theorist outside of the Columbia Heights Five Guys
Plenty of well-respected NFL analysts (including Jaws Jaworski) seem convinced that Zorn has been unfairly used as a punching bag throughout the season, while all serious blame for the season’s failure falls on the Redskins' front office. It’s a compelling (and, ahem, true) argument, but one that can also be construed as a gateway to paranoid rants about corporate and government conspiracies. Zorn is bound to crack sometime soon, so perhaps it would be best for him to simply embrace his imminent lunacy now, start printing out homemade pamphlets, and set up shop between Target and Panda Express. In recent interviews, Zorn has expressed no interest in leaving D.C., so (in lieu of suggestion #2 becoming a reality) this could be his only real shot at staying in town. He’s always been more of a talker than a strategist anyway—which is probably why his only apparent role during Monday night’s game was to shoot the breeze with sidelined players as they frantically sought out the nearest position coach. (“Hey Clinton, come here. Did you know the CIA invented swine flu to put a stop to illegal immigration?”)

http://www.avclub.com/dc/articles/jim-zorns-life-after-football,34619

Review: Last Tide’s The Broken Pieces EP

Considering the oft-maligned tendency of Washington, D.C., concertgoers to stand still during rock shows, it’s surprising that the shoegaze movement of the late ’80s and early ’90s never quite stuck in the nation’s capital. (When Slumberland Records moved from Silver Spring, Md., to Oakland, Calif., in 1992, did it take the rest of the local scene’s shoegaze population with it?) Perhaps this citywide reputation was an underlying inspiration behind D.C. singer-songwriter Nate Frey’s latest project, Last Tide, an intriguing medley of shoegaze, slowcore, and drawn-back punk. The quartet’s debut EP, The Broken Places—which will be released during tonight’s performance at The Black Cat—channels the sludgy catharsis of Codeine, the raw atmospheric arrangements of Slowdive, and the stripped-down punk sensibilities of early My Bloody Valentine, with Frey’s vocals landing somewhere between a muffled Ian Curtis and a Percocet-pumping Mark Kozelek.

The result is a fresh, eclectic affair—but one that struggles to maintain a cohesive form. In the fast-paced opener, “A Traitor In My Mind,” Frey fawns longingly over an unfaithful lover, but overly distorted guitars and an out-of-place power-punk rhythm drone out his vocals. “Shapeshifter” is the EP’s most radio-ready track, placing lead vocal duties in the capable hands of mezzo-soprano keyboardist Libby Dorot and adopting a straightforward synth-pop aesthetic. The next two tracks effectively demonstrate the band’s range, but clash sonically: “The Aftertaste Of Both” is a deliberately mopey hymn to love sparked by a shared cigarette, while “WYC” is a two-minute blaze of punk riffs, floating syth lines, and a frenzied ride-and-kick-laden drum beat.

The EP’s eight-minute closer, “Shadows In The Rain,” is a true gem. The song’s first three minutes build a swirling crescendo of guitars and synths, perfectly accompanying Frey’s echoing baritone. The song is classic slowcore (faintly reminiscent of Codeine’s “Barely Real”), showcasing both the band’s influences and Frey’s mature sense of arrangement. There are surely moments of beauty in Broken Places, but one can’t help but feel Last Tide is holding back—as if begging for more experimentation than a minimally produced EP tends to allow.

Grade: B

http://www.avclub.com/dc/articles/last-tides-the-broken-pieces-ep,34503/

Recap: Dirty Projectors and Givers at The Black Cat

It’s rare to be genuinely blown away by an opening band, especially one that hasn’t already been snatched up and hyped online. But those lucky enough to catch the opener of last night’s Dirty Projectors show at The Black Cat were treated to a wonderful performance by Lafayette, La., quintet Givers. You’d be hard-pressed to find a more versatile group of instrumentalists sharing such a small stage: frontman Taylor Guarisco wails on the guitar; co-lead vocalist Tif Lamson works through percussion, a glockenspiel, guitars, and an electric ukulele; drummer Kirby Campbell is one of the more inventive beatsmiths seen in recent memory; bassist Josh LeBlanc switches back and forth to belt out soaring trumpet lines; and keyboardist Will Henderson controls atmospheric noise rock like a true master—comparable to Wilco’s Mikael Jorgensen.

In addition to her jack-of all-trades approach to music, Lamson has a certain Karen O quality to her voice: at times precious, at others smoky and worn, and occasionally heart-wrenchingly screamy. Givers noticeably owes a debt of gratitude to the West African-inspired jams of Paul Simon’s Graceland (then again, who doesn’t these days?), but the band comes off more as a contemporary of high-energy Welsh glock-rockers Los Campesinos! than a Vampire Weekend derivative. To add to its charm, Givers’ six-city stint with Dirty Projectors is its first time on tour (the band was actually discovered while opening for a DP show in Baton Rouge a few weeks ago), rolling up to the nation’s capital with only musical equipment and a five-track EP in tow.

A Dirty Projectors set is not so much a rock show as a study in the instrumentation of the human voice, with four talented vocalists (frontman David Longstreth, keyboardist Angel Deradoorian, guitarist Amber Coffman and backup vocalist Haley Dekle) stretching their pipes in complex, layered harmonies. The bulk of DP’s set came off 2009’s critically acclaimed Bitte Orca, by far the band’s best and most accessible album to date. After opening with a dizzying loop of Coffman, Deradoorian and Dekle’s angelic sopranos—presumably pulled off with some sort of behind-the-scenes vocoder—Longstreth’s strained, loping falsettos took center stage with “Remade Horizon,” “No Intention,” and “Temecula Sunrise.” On his own, Longstreth’s unwillingness to stick to a single note likely would have come off as an over-the-top David Byrne caricature, but when grounded by swirling, meticulously composed art-rock textures and the accompanying trio’s simple yet piercing harmonies, the frontman’s quirks fit.

It’s difficult to lump the eccentric string of songs that followed into a single genre. “Gimmie Gimmie Gimmie,” off 2007’s Rise Above, was a finger-picked psych-folk cover of a relentless 1981 Black Flag punk track. “Two Doves” was a heartfelt acoustic duet between Deradoorian and Longstreth, similar in both form and lyrics to Nico’s rendition of Jackson Browne’s “These Days.” (It even borrows the line “Don’t confront me with my failures.") “The Bride” spotlighted Longstreth’s vocals and mastery of mid-hook time changes, while “Police Story” (another Black Flag cover off Rise Above) was a near a capella ode to unnecessarily oppressive urban law enforcement.

And then there was pop. Well, relative pop at least. “Cannibal Resource,” the listener-friendly opener off of Bitte Orca, was greeted with the night’s first audible uproar from the crowd, followed by a sing-along to the refrain’s addictive background vocals. Later, the funky, guitar-drizzled opening groove to “Stillness Is The Move” incited a swaying dance party. The song is a perplexing (and outstanding) addition to DP’s catalogue, reminiscent of a track off The Blow's recent record: heavy R&B influences, an uncharacteristically straight-forward arrangement, and a beautiful chorus anchored by Coffman’s Mariah Carey-esque vocal trills. Longstreth and the crew closed their set with Bitte’s “Useful Chamber,” building up to a blazing chant-like chorus of “Bitte orca, orca bitte” (apparently a completely meaningless concatenation of the German word for “please” and a carnivorous whale).

In the encore, the true highlights of the night came out. After retrieving the crowd’s attention with “Fluorescent Half Dome,” Longstreth transitioned to his most recent material: the unreleased “When The World Comes To An End,” a largely experimental piece with a fascinating melody of cuckoo-esque vocal spurts, and “Knotty Pine," the piano-heavy collaboration with David Byrne off Dark Was The Night.

http://www.avclub.com/dc/articles/dirty-projectors-and-givers-at-the-black-cat,34478/

Recap: Regina Spektor at DAR Constitution Hall

It’s tempting not to take Regina Spektor seriously. Her music can come off as unapologetically poppy and overtly adorable on first listen—and, well, both assessments are somewhat accurate. But at her core, the Soviet-born multi-instrumentalist is a skilled anti-folk songwriter, grounded by classical, blues, and punk influences, idiosyncratic lyrics, and a masterful ear for indie-pop arrangement. After breaking through to mainstream recognition with 2006’s Begin To Hope, Spektor followed suit with her fifth studio album, Far, earlier this year. Spektor brought her charming piano rock to DAR Constitution Hall Wednesday night, equipped with a chamber pop trio, an ever-expanding catalogue, and a wide-eyed, disarming smile.

The show opened with Brooklyn synth-rock outfit Jupiter One. Mingling funky hooks, the pop-friendly vocals of K Ishibashi, and an occasional violin line, the band’s straightforward post-punk was a sufficiently inoffensive warm-up for Spektor’s eager fans. But overall, the set lacked teeth—chugging through simple and sonically familiar tracks without an apparent sense of experimentation. One notable exception was the closer, “Unglued,” which arched from a muted Kooks-y pop song to a multilayered, Animal Collective-esque harmony of loops.

As Spektor worked through the first few lines of “The Calculation,” the bubbly opening track from Far, her luminous vocals struggled to come to life through a shabby amp setup. The new record dominated the first half of the set: By night’s end, Spektor went through 11 of the album’s 13 tracks, nearly in sequence. Spektor maintained her trademark blitheness through the next two songs while showcasing her vocal range—from the powerful soprano crooning of “Eet” to the bizarre mélange of lofty falsettos, smoky bridges, and an eight-bar refrain of dolphin sounds in “Folding Chair.”

Next, Spektor flashed signs of her anti-folk roots with the playfully cathartic “Ode To Divorce” (off of 2004’s Soviet Kitsch), pairing a heart-wrenching story of a lover’s quarrel with a chorus of “I need your car and I need your love / So won't you help a brother out?” She would not return to her pre-Far work until the 10th song in the set, her 2006 breakthrough hit, “On The Radio.” Unsurprisingly, the crowd welcomed the track’s opening violin lines with its first audible uproar.

In the subsequent string of oldie-but-goodies, Spektor treated the crowd to several lesser-known gems—many of which had never made it onto an official release. Unexpected high points of the set included an a cappella version of “Silly Eye-Color Generalizations,” an endearing account of the character implications of iris shades, “Bobbing For Apples,” a delightful ditty with the an addictive chorus (“Someone next door is fucking to one of my songs”), and the toe-tapping country closer “Love, You’re A Whore.” The crowd responded well to Spektor's dark and at times cryptic sense of humor throughout the set—even managing to let out a collective snicker during "That Time," after she brushed over the story of a friend's drug overdose between rants about tangerine diets and cigarette preferences.

Spektor’s accompaniment consisted of a recognizable violinist (K Ishibashi from Jupiter One), a cellist, and a set drummer. The strings added compelling texture to the arrangement, especially for otherwise flat, electro-laden studio tracks like “Machine.” Though the touch of Sgt. Pepper brass that’s sprinkled throughout Far was certainly missed (especially during “Two Birds”), the band managed to fill the hall with rich sound, perfectly accenting Spektor’s vocals.

Despite her power and confidence behind the piano, Spektor’s onstage persona was uncharacteristically meek. She replied to each applause with a mere “Thank you very much,” accompanied by a nervous Bjork-esque giggle and head bob routine. The smile never seemed to leave her face as she bounced around stage from grand piano, to electric synthesizer, to teal Epiphone.

In all the discussion over her quirky personality, less-than-serious lyricism, and status as a figurehead of the ambiguous anti-folk movement, one fact tends to get lost: Regina Spektor is an extraordinary talent. Her musical style, occasionally misrepresented as excessively cute on her recordings, translates to an enthralling, unquestionably sincere live show. Spektor’s control over her instruments—both vocal and otherwise—is worthy of praise, even if she does spend most of her time singing about things like computers made of macaroni pieces.

http://www.avclub.com/dc/articles/regina-spektor-at-dar-constitution-hall,33585/