The video for “Last Nite” always bugged me. When Julian Casablancas walks right into Albert Hammond Jr. it, to me, just displays a huge disrespect for your fellow band member. I know that The Strokes (or at least Casablancas in particular) is all about exuding that nonchalant rebel guise with his leather jacket and intoxicated swagger. And I know that the knocking over of microphone stands and general disrespect of surroundings was part of the appeal of the video. But being in a band requires a level of trust – especially in a live setting. You need to trust the other players to nail their parts as best as they can so you can create the best impression you can on an ever-judging audience. Call me a conservative pussy for complaining but I think the way Casablancas acts towards his band mates in the video is just plain rude.
And that kind of shameless ass-holery was on display tonight. The set began somewhat promisingly: out of distortion, wailing guitars and echoing beats Deserters Deserve Death (admittedly one of the best alliterative band names I’ve come across in some time) tore into “Memories.” The chunky riffs and heavy bass made for music that was hard to ignore but the washed out and extortionately reverberated vocals left something to be desired. Half way through their set theystarted their new song and for this the vocals duties were taken up by the bass player. Reading lyrics from a crinkled sheet of paper he put on his best John Cooper Clarke impression and began wandering impatiently about the small stage. The vocals were piercing at first and ignorable as he went on but he seemed to be more interesting to watch than anything else. Perhaps he was just lost in his own world but in being so he became disruptive with bad effect, plugging out one of the guitarist pedals as he leaned on and played about with a microphone stand. The guitarist flailed about and I began to feel sorry for him as he was cut out of the mix. His collections of pedals were a flurry of wires and cables all tangled and when he did finally manage to get himself plugged back it was too late as the song had reached its conclusion.
And it was a shame it had to happen to him as his nimble hands and eager footwork was the best thing on display. He might have been wrought with nerves but he looked genuinely into every noise he was getting out of his guitar from the flickering clicks of feedback to the gentle melody that began “Xmas Song.” Considering the fact that I recognized three of the four members of the band as members in St. Judes Infirmary I was admittedly expecting something a bit more toned down and pleasing to the ear. Thus the heavy, if not almost shoegaze element to Deserters was surprising. But I can’t really say it was engrossing or captivating in any way. Switching vocal duties, having two people drums at once and wireless connections to amps (meaning certain a bass player can wander off stage during the set) are good live tricks to use but the band as a whole sound like they need to figure themselves out. Or at the very least one band member leads to learn some respect until he has a valid reason to act like Julian Casablancas.
Thankfully (I guess) there was no such inconsideration between the members of Wolf Parade. If there was a probably wouldn’t mind as much since they have valid reason to act cocky and pretentious but if anything there an almost estranged coyness to them. Having one of the best albums of the past decade under their belts and two admirable follow-ups they still played like they were trying to impress the audience.
At times it was hard to tell who they were playing the songs for. When unstoppable “I’ll Believe In Anything” began with retro almost Nintendo like synths it continued with a hurried pace like they were getting it over and done with. But with the likes of “Ghost Pressure” and ”California Dreamer” it seemed like they absorbed themselves in the songs fully, going for gold and squeezing out every good thing they could from them. And when you aim to make something already more than good better and add in that spicy and sweaty passion you get something thrilling. “Palm Road” turned out to be a huge surprise and critics who put it aside when judging the content of Expo 86 could only be led to reconsider their opinions when presented with the thick bass that gave the song a new kind of force.
I have to admit that I was somewhat star struck at the prospect of a Wolf Parade gig, especially one in such an intimate venue. In front of me is a band that has created some of my favourite music over the past few years and they are fronted by two productive and near genius minds. Dan Boeckner, sweating so profusely his entire shirt changed colour, was actually the one who seemed more overwhelmed by how well the audience received them. His guitar playing was vigorous and his singing as passionate as ever. By the time initial set closer “Yulia” came about his stage presence had grown enormously the fact that he was at the other side of the stage from me made little difference – I could feel every drop of sweat coming off him from just his vocals.
Spencer Krug, who amazingly managed to maintain a shirt free from a single sweat patch, did admittedly seem a little bored if not blandly comfortable with the songs he played. When the drums began for “Cloud Shadow On the Mountain” he seemed almost ambivalent about diving into his vocal duties. His performance was still fine and his key skills were enough of distraction from this almost uncomfortable presence he seemed to emit. He’d begin a song like “What Did My Lover Say?” or “California Dreamer” with one hand and casually turn away from the audience and take a swig from a bottle of beer before turning back to start singing, all while keeping the rhythm steady. Even when the melodies became articulate he still managed to shine through the other instrumentation like on opening “Language City” where the underrated bouncy piano riffs helped weave the song together.
Considering Wolf Parade don’t really do a great deal of “slower” numbers (“Same Ghost Every Night” is the only one the immediately springs to mind) the entire set kept on giving and giving, bowling the audience over with each build and release. The only real change in pace seemed to be when “Oh You, Old Thing” was given a surprise outing. But at a Wolf Parade gig – star struck or not – you want the hits. And they delivered finely in the form of both old and new tunes: “Dear Sons And Daughters Of Hungry Ghosts,” “You Are A Runner And I Am My Father’s Son,” “Fine Young Cannibals,” and “Ghost Pressure.” There wasn’t as much from Expo 86 as I thought there might have been (admittedly I was saddened not to hear my favourite cuts from the album – “In The Direction Of the Moon” or “Cave-o-sapien”) and pretty much half of underrated and considerably overlooked 2008 album At Mount Zoomer. Thankfully they took the best cuts from it and even drove into a compacted but still huge version of “Kissing The Beehive” to finish the nights proceedings. And even when the songs went epic like this they never acted like assholes. When the music’s this good you just want to play your part and let it all come together.
