Seattle

After three nights of headliners at Memorial Stadium all was brought into perspective with Death Cab For Cutie.

Seattle is a sensitive city. Even when it rocks it's introspective--witness banner-carriers like Pearl Jam and Nirvana. And the latest, Death Cab For Cutie. Theirs is not rock music you rock out to, it's rock music you drink tea and have meaningful conversation to. You watch your girlfriend's cat to. You sit in a comfy Ikea chair and ponder your five-year career plan to.

STP gave Bumbershoot the the brawn and the bluster. Beck provided the smarts and the soul. Death Cab provided the cuddles and the tears, quite literally.

They were the most appropriate band to close to Bumbershoot's final day. Many in the audience could remember when Death Cab was the solo project of that quiet, chunky kid from Bellingham with the soft voice and insightful lyrics. Now here's Ben Gibbard--looking rather lean, to much public amazement--and his four-piece band, several million records later, playing the biggest Seattle show of their career. In this city you find Death Cab fans in every conceivable scene, from punks to b-girls to metalheads. They were all on hand last night, 15,000-some strong.

The band was vibrant and confident and their sound filled Memorial Stadium ably.  The songs, however, sounded uniformly the same, each one a mid-tempo ballad-rocker chock-full of life-worn yearning. There was surprisingly little banter and almost zero surprises, period, during the hour-and-a-half set. Just songs from the band's entire career, each which the crowd cozied into like a warm blanket.

Halfway through, Gibbard sat on a stool at the front of the stage and dedicated a solo acoustic version of "I Will Follow You Into the Dark" to Superchunk, who preceded Death Cab on the main stage. "This band wouldn't be here without them," he said. After that, more yearning.

"Move closer to the stage," a random chick told me during the encore. "There's gonna be fireworks." I'm thinking figuratively, that the band would bring out a guest or play something interesting. There were, however, literal fireworks, a rain of white sparks that fell behind the band as they closed the festival with "Transatlanticism." Which was interesting, a little.

Photo by Marina Saucegraphy

*Term for DCFC's headlining slot coined by homie Travis Ritter

Monday's Bumbershoot lineup veered deep into indie-roots territory: Two Gallants, Blitzen Trapper, Langhorne Slim, and the Maldives all played various takes on classic American music.

Two Gallants ended their early KEXP Music Lounge set with "Waves of Grain," the most powerful protest song released this millennium. Scathing, riveting, chilling--whatever action word you want to give it, "Waves of Grain" packs in countless brilliant turns of phrase and vivid images. The song is six minutes long and never lets up its venom. It's a finger-pointing indictment in the tradition of (and on par with) "The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carrol."

The last few Blitzen Trapper shows in Seattle have been disappointing, but a bevy of strong new material carried their Broad Street Lawn Stage set. The Portland six-piece plays a highly textured, shambolic brand of cosmic pop that shares a certain woozy aesthetic with Dr. Dog. They're sharp riff writers and expert layer builders but inconsistent songwriters. It's a fault that's especially obvious in the live setting, but songs from their upcoming album Furr showed more promise in that regard. Furr, which comes out on September 23, will be their fourth album and first released on Sub Pop. (I'm listening to an advance copy right now and digging it way more than I expected to.)

Langhorne Slim sang so mother-loving loud it didn't matter that he played acoustic guitar and had an upright bassist in his band. He rocks. He could sing "Hark the Herald Angels Sing" and rock. It's a gift. Yesterday he used it to woo a sun-drenched crowd at the Mural Amphitheater, and plenty of folks--mostly female--were overheard falling for his Dapper Dan boxcar troubadour demeanor. His last album wasn't his strongest but he's such a natural, effervescent performer that even his lesser songs are endearing live. Especially so was "We Love the Animals," with a feel-good sentiment that he deployed at the perfect time and from which he received the perfect response.

The Maldives are the best unsigned band in Seattle. They play the kind of country music that would exist today if Garth Brooks never happened. Years ago it would've been called alt-country or country rock or some other amalgamation, but today we can call it country and love it for that. Bandleader Jason Dodson has a voice and delivery you believe in; he sings songs of dead relatives and growing up and moving away. They played in full form yesterday, nine pieces strong, including full-time fiddle and lap steel, percussion, banjo/accordion, acoustic and electric guitar, keys, bass, and drums, with plenty of backup vocal harmonizing. Even with all that sound there was room in the music. It breathed. It sounded like old records from a thrift store basement in Bakersfield. They're currently at work at the album that will break them to the rest of the world this winter. Don't sleep.

Photo of Langhorne Slim by Chona Kasinger

Not a news flash to anyone except the 15,000 zealots at STP's Sunday night headlining set, which brought to light the reason why so many music fans disavowed the band in their '90s heyday. Yes, they have a dozen or so instantly recognizable songs, a fact that's worthy of respect, and Bumbershoot proved that those fans who stood by STP are still loud, proud, and plentiful. And misled.

The problem is the false sense of depth the band puffs into their music. It's the "'Jeremy' Syndrome" run amok: Whereas Pearl Jam comes off as corny and earnest but convincing because of Eddie Vedder's honestly corny and earnest demeanor, STP falls flat with Scott Weiland--he formerly of the corsett-and-boa school of fashion--because he's camp where the music is not. He was much better suited to the shallow, preening glam of Velvet Revolver. (But they fired him. And now his old, less relevant band is headlining Bumbershoot.)

Taken together, singer and band grasp at a profundity that's totally absent in the music. A perfect example is "Plush," which you probably know as the "dogs begin to smell her" song. Here are Weiland's lyrics, supposedly ripped from the headlines about a woman found dead somewhere sometime:

And I feel that times a wasted go
So where ya going to tommorrow?
And I see that these are lies to come
Would you even care?

And I feel it
And I feel it

Where ya going for tommorrow?
Where ya going with that mask I found?
And I feel, and I feel
When the dogs begin to smell her
Will she smell alone?

And I feel, so much depends on the weather
So is it raining in your bedroom?
And I see, that these are the eyes of disarray
Would you even care?

And I feel it
And she feels it...

Etc.

The phrase "the eyes of disarray" represents everything wrong with Stone Temple Pilots. They use big, seemingly poetic words and vague imagery to hide the fact that these lyrics are patently dumb. Dumb is fine--a lot of lyrics to good songs are dumb. The issue is the gravitas they're presented with. This song matters, says STP.  This song is deep. If the band would just present their dumb lyrics as dumb lyrics and carry on with the rock all would be forgiven. They refuse to admit what they are and that's why they're awful.

Then again, I spoke with several musicians at Bumbershoot--good musicians who make respectable work--and they were super psyched to see STP. Go figure.

Photo by Ronald Dean

So good they deserve their own goddam post: The Saturday Knights filled in for another band's cancellation and played a triumphant sunset set. Last year they appeared in the same spot--the Fisher Green stage--and had to resort to playing the same song twice for lack of material. This year, on the strength of Mingle, the most brilliant unsung record of 2008, they played a grip of irrresistable tunes that swung from true-school hiphop to gutter punk to Muscle Shoals soul to electro indie rock. Totally useless trying to categorize this truly homegrown phenomenon--they are what they are, and they're as fun as beer and trampolines.

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The trio of MCs Barfly and Tilson and DJ/producer Suspence played with a three-piece horn section, a guitarist, and drummer Tyler Swan of Truckasauras, another Seattle favorite on the verge of widespread underground glory. "Turn around and look at that Space Needle, people," Tilson told the crowd. The crowd turned around and looked. "I feel as big as that right now." Barfly--the Saturday Knights' X-factor and potential Achilles heel during shows--performed with equal stature. The pair nailed their cues and traded lines like the old pros they are. When they're in that mode--which, admittedly, isn't always--they're unstoppable.

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An example of their brilliance that's not taken from the brilliant Mingle: Tonight Suspence flipped the opening vocal harmonies of Seattle it-band Fleet Foxes' "White Winter Hymnal" so Barfly and Tilson could turn it into a mock coke-slinger's anthem. After getting the nod for the gig late last week, they probably came up with that idea on the spot. Total trainspotters' move, but everyone in the crowd paying attention was laughing along with the band. I heard they later did something similar with Band of Horses' "The Funeral."

Like the Beastie Boys, the Saturday Knights thumb their noses at hipness with one hand while high-fiving it with the other. 

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The presence of His Royal Highness T.I. may be responsible for the pomp and circumstance that a lot of today's bands have achieved. It could also be the weather--the sun is defying predictions of cold temps and rain. Whatever it is, performances have been uniformly strong so far.

Nine-piece L.A. band Orgone opened the indoor KEXP stage with feel-good afro-disco funk, a potent eye-opener for Bumbershoot's hump day. Driven by percussionist Stewart Killen on timbales and conga, they were strongest as an instrumental ensemble. Their female vocalist hit all the right notes and certainly writhed the part but inevitably grounded music that yearned to fly.

Seattle mutton-chop rockers Shim leveled the massive stage within the Paul Allen-owned Experience Music Project. Unironically named the Electric Skychurch (tm) and backdropped by a super-mega-JumboTron screen, the venue is usually a difficult for bands to fill. Shim, however, were up to the task, semi-seriously channeling equal parts Spinal Tap and Steel Dragon. From the first note the packed room reeked of smoke machine smoke and testosterone, and the band's Muppet-like hairdos were an appropriate counterpoint to the pyrotechnics. "This next song is called 'You Walked in Like You Own the Place but You Don't'," singer Ragan Crowe (possibly not his real name) crowed. "I'd like to not dedicate it to Paul Allen."

Surprise of The Day came from a band called Manhoogi Hi, a genre-bending group of Seattle locals plus a key import. With a name that screams "avoid me" (and is apparently a Hindi nonsense word), they played to a meager crowd at the Fisher Green stage, but man, what a fascinating sound. Imagine the emotional grandeur and dramatic composition of Wolf Parade fronted by a female Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan. I know I'm treading all over the proper ethnicity of singer Mehnaz, who is apparently a former teen pop queen from Mumbai, India; she sang in English and Hindi, in a style called tabla boli, a scatlike patter that imitates the sound of tabla rhythms. The fact that she's playing with a crack indie trance-rock jam band from Seattle is dizzying.

Listening to Manooghi Hi's MySpace--like Shim, they're unsigned and have nothing up on Rhap--reveals a difficult truth: This music can go either way. In a sunny festival setting, drawing in a first-time listener from across the Fisher Green lawn, it was exotic and potent. At the same time the potential for swishy, hula-hoop-happy noodliness is perilously great.

Anybody else notice Beck is looking a little like fictional fiction writer JT Leroy these days?

Local faves Throw Me the Statue kicked off day one of Bumbershoot in the shadow of the Space Needle with a disarming, self-deprecating set of pristine indie pop. Not their most consistent, but their imperfections are part of their guy-next-door, drinking buddy charm. "I love how we build up twice in the exact same way," keyboardist Aaron Goldman said after "Young Sensualists." They brought out a three-piece horn section for "Yucatan Gold," their most salacious track, the one that goes "She's a crazy animal when she screams." Fellas, please--it's an all-ages festival.

Which is obvious from the crowd. Seattle's nightlife scene caters minimally to minors (though it does cater, thanks to the Vera Project, a non-profit venue and community center located here at Seattle Center), so local kids live for this annual opportunity to see their favorite bands. A posse of tweens lined up at the front of the stage after TMTS's set waiting for autographs.

The crowd for Nino Moschella and Darondo was of a more dignified age. Moschella began the set with his six-piece band, cranking out spirited, horn-driven Bay Area funk. Dude has a daredevil voice and rides his songs hard, though it's hard to surrender to a bandleader encamped behind a keyboard.

A half-hour into the set he introduced Darondo, who stole the band, the show, the stage, the crowd, the wardrobe, and perhaps the entire festival. Here's a man of indeterminate age dressed in a high-waisted suit, fat tie tucked into his pants, suspenders, fedora, and gold lame Adidas. First impression: Mack Daddy. And then he sang...

Dardondo's voice veered from husky warble to soaring squeal. His subject matter ran the gamut. He sang a song about the application of whipped cream to titties--"don't forget about the titties"--while doing hip-thrust push-ups to the stage and then sang a song with the chorus that went "I love my mama and papa." He danced like a teenage pole dancer without a pole. During his final number, "Let My People Go," he grew gravely serious and counted off countries and cities, offering himself to the world in the name of love. Then he collapsed onto the stage, heart and soul completely relinquished to the audience. Only an elder statesman can get away with being so unabashedly "lacksivious," as Darondo put it. "What am I trying to say?" he asked the band. "Lacksivious," Moschella affirmed. 

The days most recent highlight was UK superstar-in-training Estelle, who proved her status to a massive Fisher Green crowd. Girl's a born performer. With an eight-piece band that included three backup singer/dancers and a DJ, she smoothly translated her hiphop inflected soul music to the live setting. Her songwriting gifts were evident in "Just a Touch," the opening banger from her debut. Barring any errant Winehousing, she's got a bright future.

(Estelle photo by Kelly O, the rest by JZ)

 

The gates to Seattle Center open tomorrow at noon, beginning the three-day musical smorgasbord that is Bumbershoot. Some of the main stage headliners are new-school impressive: Band of Horses, Black Keys, Neko Case, T.I. Others are old-school confounding: the Offspring? Stone Temple Pilots? Superchunk? Does anybody care? There are far more interesting '90s holdouts to bank on (Beck, for instance, who headlines tomorrow). Such divergent quality is the nature of the music festival that tries--and mostly succeeds--to be all things to all people.

As usual, it's the densely-packed undercard that holds up the rest of the hubbub. One of most interesting performances of the weekend happens tomorrow afternoon. I've never seen Darondo or Nino Moschella, but friends who have, including Rhapsody hiphop guru Sam Chennault, can't rave enough.

Darondo's backstory is fascinating. The man born William Pulliam touts a resume that includes cable TV host, physical therapist, import/export, and opening a San Francisco show for James Brown in the mid-'70s, from which he drove home in his custom white Rolls Royce. (Some would add "pimp" to that litany, but Darondo denies ever working in The Business.) It was during that era that Darondo was a minor fixture on the Bay Area R&B scene. He recorded three 45s that ranged from string-laden Al Green-ish love ballads to syncopated, sinuous floor-fillers a la Sly Stone. Then he retired from music to live the rest of his life.

That kind of mythology is hard to come by today. As unique as his story is, Darondo's music speaks loudest. Peep "Let My People Go"--a dark, reverb-drenched stab of minimalist funk, a liberation manifesto wrapped in a dead-on slinky groove. In 2006, L.A.-based vinyl archaelogists Ubiquity Records reissued the track and nine other '70s Darondo tunes as an album of the same name. It's unbelievably hot stuff.

Somehow, Nino Moschella is not the household (ok, warehouse loft) name that Jamie Lidell has become. Moschella trades Lidells' techno-noise pedigree for a California hippie upbringing, but the end results are similar: wicked, blue-eyed electro soul. Moschella's stellar Ubiquity debut The Fix came out the same year as Darondo's record. Both remain largely unknown.  

These days, Moschella and his band the Park back Darondo, though they play very rarely, and usually only in California. It's a super-special, cross-generational funky thing that stands as one of Bumbershoot's most unique offerings.