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Sometimes, friends, it is indeed funny how things work out. You might find yourself a little bummed out because your trip out of town to NYC fell through. But then, lo and behold, you discover that a band you've wanted to see for years will be playing not far from you. And all will be right with the universe. Lest you think this is all theoretical rambling, I assure you it's not. It happened not long ago, wouldn't you know. Yours truly was mourning the loss of a trek to New York City, when onto my radar blipped a band I think is nothing short of amazing: Spindrift. And not even a drive to and from Richmond on a work night was going to keep me from this show (also featuring pretty fine sets from Boney Loner, The Young Sinclairs, and The Diamond Center).
MINI RECAP: Spindrift = Sunbaked Bliss! Overall Score: A
I listen to Spindrift quite a bit. The Legend Of God's Gun to me is nouveau (spaghetti) Westernism at its absolute best. Much like what might happen should Ennio Morricone find himself strung out on various peyote-like subtances in the middle of the Joshua Tree National Forest. And so, as Spindrift took the stage, under a backdrop of a bleached blue Western sky and fog machine eminating just a touch of spooky atmosphere, I knew good things were in store. Singer/guitarist KP (Kirpatrick) Thomas looked the part, sporting a hat and an embroidered jacket that made me think of a dark side of the moon Gram Parsons. They began with "Girlz Booze Gunz", a slow rolling song filled with dusty deserts and faded mining towns. "Speak To The Wind", with its almost eerie jangle, had visions of jangling spurs, trails of sweat creeping down weathered faces, and itchy trigger fingers dancing through my head. I began to equate Spindrift as being the musical equivalent of Pioneer Town, in the deserts of California (if you've never been, go). Both more than a little quirky, unexpected, and yet breathtaking in their own ways. This song, and so many others, are spaghetti psych at its finest.
New song "Hellbound" came across like a train going full tilt towards the River Styx, a furious barn burner that made me imagine some down on his luck card shark selling his soul to Lucifer while this very tune was taking a turn on the player piano. It's as though this band has managed to capture the very essence of Western nostalgia and turn it on its ear into something nigh on magical. Some of the newer songs toned down the Western revivalism, but of course I loved them still. "Red Reflection" had a slink to it, but also a crazy sense of time slowed down as tumbleweeds roll by and the clouds float aimlessly, endlessly. This is the music you want playing when your car breaks down on some lonely desert highway, mirages shimmering on the baking blacktop. They ended with my most favorite Spindriftian nugget, the unfathomably awesome "Indian Run". The chanting and insanely frenzied pace of this song translates even better live than on record.
Spindrift, you sasparilla sweet cowboys and cowgirls, is a band that absolutely unquestionably without a doubt shouldn't be missed. They're incredibly talented, they play with something akin to an unholy possession, and the music they make might just blow your mind.
mp3: Speak To The Wind (Spindrift from The Legend Of God's Gun)
It was a dark and stormy night...literally. The heavens had clouded and opened and unleashed a whale of a storm front all up and down the East Coast, meaning nothing but trouble. Power outages, downed trees, and ponding streets greeted me on my arrival in Richmond, but thankfully the lights were still on at The National. It might have ended a whole lot later than planned, but this show with its pretty fine triple bill made the long distance drive well worth it. Once it got going, that is.
MINI RECAP: Interpol = Spooky! Twin Tigers = Mysterious! The Postelles = Kooksy! Overall Score: B+
The foursome of The Postelles was first to swagger onto the giant expanse of The National's stage, an hour late. Even before they started to play, they reminded me a whole lot of The Kooks - lots of skinny skinny jeans and pointy toes and even a couple of jaunty hats. Their sound, too, was rather Kooks-esque, frenzied yet polished poppy overtones to their indie racket, which I found somewhat entertaining but not quite captivating. The drummer won me over, though, sassy as he was back behind his drum kit. Truth be told, I'm not all that sure I would have stuck them on a bill with Interpol, they struck me as just a wee bit too safe. But perhaps, should I ever see them in a small club when I'm not impatiently waiting for other bands to play, perhaps I'll change my tune.
Next up was Twin Tigers, whom I was most excited to see, since it would be for the very first time. Sprung from that deep, deep well that is the Athens scene, I fell instantly and utterly in love with the band, even before they played a note. Why, you might wonder? Well, friends, they ambled onstage to "Runnin' With The Devil", and the campness of Van Halen just seemed perfect at that moment. Hence, my love for them. Musically, I couldn't have loved them much more. Their knack of lulling one into a false sense of security before exploding into a beautifully crushing wall of noise was incredible. I found their hybrid of crunchy, swirly, heavy heavy neopsych meets shoegaze meets sweet sweet indie nigh on irresistable. Also fantastic was the ferocity with which they attacked each and every song, a savagery that was downright sexy. They would repeatedly build a dreamy, delicate haze only to plunge unmercifully into beefy bass and gritty guitars and murderous drums. Stunning. The Twin Tigers presence onstage is magnetic, powerful, and they play their instruments masterfully. They might have been even better than I had hoped they'd be, dodgy sound and all. Their last song too quickly followed their first, and I hated to see them go. A great, great set, and I can't wait to see them again.
We waited and waited and waited and waited for Interpol. Around 11, we were informed that the band had been stuck in Newark for hours (poor lambs) trying to get a flight to Richmond. They were en route, and should be with us around midnight. After what seemed like an eternity, the much-thinned out crowd let out a gigantic roar, welcoming Interpol to the stage. They sure know how to make an entrance. I hadn't realized how good it would feel to see them again after so many years. Right away it was (almost) just like old times, the band decked out in their finest black, the sensational lighting, and of course, the music. There were two glaring issues to the set, which was otherwise pretty fantastic. Issue 1: The absence of Carlos D. Issue 2: Not so great sound. The lead guitar was WAY too loud the entire set, and it was more than a little distracting. But the songs, o the songs...
"Evil" was a triumph, with the crowd singing along and a kaleidoscopic effect to the lights to mimic the crashing crescendo of the song's end. "Say Hello To The Angels" was a little too fast, a little too frenectic, but after the day they'd had a little discombobulation was well understandable. "Narc" was simply glorious, "PDA" was one of my favorites of the set (which is appropriate, since it's one of my favorite Interpol songs). "Slow Hands" was another joy, lit by dizzying orange lights. After the set, which was split between the comfortable beauty of the old and the equally lovely new material, the crowd screamed for an encore. And the band obliged, delivering two of its' finest performances of the evening in "Hands Away" and "C'mere", the former hauntingly reminding me of how the stark glory of their sonic landscapes made me fall in love with them in the first place. A fine rendition of "Not Even Jail" completed the first encore, and after lustily demanding more the crowd was sated with one more song, the loud and choppy and jerky and sweeping "Stella Was a Diver and She's Always Down". And the it was all over, and I was sad.
Overall, despite the delays and the rampant sound issues, it was a mighty enjoyable evening. Twin Tigers battered my brain with their sensational rambling landscapes, and Interpol was, well, Interpol. I'd of course rather have seen them at the 9:30 Club, and Carlos D sure did leave one heck of a big void, but I was oh so happy to see them again. It had been too damn long. A girl needs her fix, after all.
mp3: PDA (Interpol from Turn On The Bright Lights)
