The Dears at Majestic Theatre, Paleo at Sitting Dutchman, Lucinda Williams at Orpheum Theatre
Scott Gordon
The Dears keep it sleek and shadowy at the Majestic.
More Recap
The Dears at Majestic Theatre
Montreal band The Dears' set at the Majestic on Saturday was big on suspense and a little more stingy when it came to catharsis. Every song leader Murray Lightburn writes feels like an urgent outpouring to some extent or other. Sometimes, that makes for immediate, super-catchy outbursts, as it often did on 2006's Gang Of Losers. The new Missiles is a different beast, building more and more tension as it goes and rarely letting go of it—until the last song, "Saviour," which wasn't on the setlist Saturday. The band understandably played most of Missiles and not much of Losers, and even left out the latter's killer "Hate Then Love," despite the handsome "Hate Then Love" T-shirt for sale at the merch table.
Just before Lightburn and his six bandmates walked onstage, the intro to Missiles' opening track, "Disclaimer," started playing over the PA, and continued that way until guitarist Jason Kent picked up his part. From the start, it was up to Lightburn, with his black leather jacket and silky yet mighty voice, to hold down the drama. It was everyone else's job to pull off the grand, ambitious arrangements. Most of the time, all three guitars, both sets of keyboards, and the rhythm section were all working together in some dense configuration. That's a lot of sound to pack into one show, so it was a lot easier to appreciate the group's interplay on tunes like "Lights Off," which started out with just Lightburn's funny little acoustic guitar and a quiet synth part, but slowly worked itself into a frenzy of crashing cymbals and billowing feedback. The more vocal harmonies The Dears piled on, the better everything meshed in an understandably loud, crowded mix.
Not that everyone didn't play well, but Lightburn was the only one showing off a ton of emotion, and everyone else mostly played it cool and confident. Not really a problem, except when pretty, long-limbed keyboardist Natalia Yanchak took the occasional lead vocal. Decider was hoping for a bit more chemistry on her duet with Lightburn in the set's closer, "22: The Death Of All Romance" (from 2004's No Cities Left). Considering the two are a) the band's core members and b) married, she came off a bit hesitant and bored, looking down at the floor a lot and letting Lightburn upstage her without much of a fight. The same thing happened on Missiles' "Crisis 1&2," but maybe it's forgivable: Lightburn's a wonderful songwriter, and he's got more than enough showmanship for one band. With apologies, Decider's a little bushed from launching some damn website, and had to wimp out before headliners The Secret Machines came on.
Montreal band The Dears' set at the Majestic on Saturday was big on suspense and a little more stingy when it came to catharsis. Every song leader Murray Lightburn writes feels like an urgent outpouring to some extent or other. Sometimes, that makes for immediate, super-catchy outbursts, as it often did on 2006's Gang Of Losers. The new Missiles is a different beast, building more and more tension as it goes and rarely letting go of it—until the last song, "Saviour," which wasn't on the setlist Saturday. The band understandably played most of Missiles and not much of Losers, and even left out the latter's killer "Hate Then Love," despite the handsome "Hate Then Love" T-shirt for sale at the merch table.
Just before Lightburn and his six bandmates walked onstage, the intro to Missiles' opening track, "Disclaimer," started playing over the PA, and continued that way until guitarist Jason Kent picked up his part. From the start, it was up to Lightburn, with his black leather jacket and silky yet mighty voice, to hold down the drama. It was everyone else's job to pull off the grand, ambitious arrangements. Most of the time, all three guitars, both sets of keyboards, and the rhythm section were all working together in some dense configuration. That's a lot of sound to pack into one show, so it was a lot easier to appreciate the group's interplay on tunes like "Lights Off," which started out with just Lightburn's funny little acoustic guitar and a quiet synth part, but slowly worked itself into a frenzy of crashing cymbals and billowing feedback. The more vocal harmonies The Dears piled on, the better everything meshed in an understandably loud, crowded mix.
Not that everyone didn't play well, but Lightburn was the only one showing off a ton of emotion, and everyone else mostly played it cool and confident. Not really a problem, except when pretty, long-limbed keyboardist Natalia Yanchak took the occasional lead vocal. Decider was hoping for a bit more chemistry on her duet with Lightburn in the set's closer, "22: The Death Of All Romance" (from 2004's No Cities Left). Considering the two are a) the band's core members and b) married, she came off a bit hesitant and bored, looking down at the floor a lot and letting Lightburn upstage her without much of a fight. The same thing happened on Missiles' "Crisis 1&2," but maybe it's forgivable: Lightburn's a wonderful songwriter, and he's got more than enough showmanship for one band. With apologies, Decider's a little bushed from launching some damn website, and had to wimp out before headliners The Secret Machines came on.
Paleo at Sitting Dutchman
When Decider arrived at the near-east-side house "venue" nicknamed Sitting Dutchman, David Strackany, better known as folk-transient Paleo, was seated in the smoky living room next to a dying banana tree, eating reheated vegan chili out of a plastic bin. He politely offered to share it with the 12 audience members, but they were huddled around a laptop, absorbed in a discussion of the Power Rangers theme song. The room itself is an ornamental clashing of hand-me-down sofas, scattered Polaroids, Christmas lights, and discarded Miller High-Life cans. The surroundings didn't seem to bother the beaming songster. After all, informality is the norm for Strackany: Between April 2006 and April 2007, he penned one song per day, recording them in houses, venues, and his van (sometimes while driving it). They're all collected on The Song Diary, a 365-track DVD.
“Before I begin, I would like to call for a moratorium on new cigarette smoke,” Strackany announced with a grin. He then stood up with his acoustic guitar (affectionately named “Oh, Susanna”) and opening with “Of Athens.” “We get lost to have a chance at being found,” he sang in a hushed voice, over delicate fingerpicking. As he finished the first number, a train passed on the nearby tracks and the whole house began to rattle. Unaffected, Strackany blissfully crooned his way through a set primarily dominated by highlights from The Song Diary, as well as two new songs, “Time Won’t Forget” and “Why O Why.”
That whole 365-song thing may sound like an attention-seeking gimmick, but Paleo's humble enough to put on a strong show in a living room for what adds up to gas money. The set climaxed with a gripping rendition of “In The Morning Linda Dies,” a dynamic evocation of time and futility. “We are careless with our wishing / with the truths we tell through teeth / you be careful what you pay for / when the soul is your receipt,” a tight-eyed Strackany howled with a shaky rasp. During the adorable, metaphor-laden closer “This Is The Life,” an eagerly generous audience passed around an empty CD-R container for donations.
When Decider arrived at the near-east-side house "venue" nicknamed Sitting Dutchman, David Strackany, better known as folk-transient Paleo, was seated in the smoky living room next to a dying banana tree, eating reheated vegan chili out of a plastic bin. He politely offered to share it with the 12 audience members, but they were huddled around a laptop, absorbed in a discussion of the Power Rangers theme song. The room itself is an ornamental clashing of hand-me-down sofas, scattered Polaroids, Christmas lights, and discarded Miller High-Life cans. The surroundings didn't seem to bother the beaming songster. After all, informality is the norm for Strackany: Between April 2006 and April 2007, he penned one song per day, recording them in houses, venues, and his van (sometimes while driving it). They're all collected on The Song Diary, a 365-track DVD.
“Before I begin, I would like to call for a moratorium on new cigarette smoke,” Strackany announced with a grin. He then stood up with his acoustic guitar (affectionately named “Oh, Susanna”) and opening with “Of Athens.” “We get lost to have a chance at being found,” he sang in a hushed voice, over delicate fingerpicking. As he finished the first number, a train passed on the nearby tracks and the whole house began to rattle. Unaffected, Strackany blissfully crooned his way through a set primarily dominated by highlights from The Song Diary, as well as two new songs, “Time Won’t Forget” and “Why O Why.”
That whole 365-song thing may sound like an attention-seeking gimmick, but Paleo's humble enough to put on a strong show in a living room for what adds up to gas money. The set climaxed with a gripping rendition of “In The Morning Linda Dies,” a dynamic evocation of time and futility. “We are careless with our wishing / with the truths we tell through teeth / you be careful what you pay for / when the soul is your receipt,” a tight-eyed Strackany howled with a shaky rasp. During the adorable, metaphor-laden closer “This Is The Life,” an eagerly generous audience passed around an empty CD-R container for donations.
Lucinda Williams at Orpheum Theatre
Lucinda Williams has built a career on songs that are at times oppressive with their tales of heartbreak and woe, but her show Saturday at the Orpheum Theatre was surprisingly buoyant. Williams spent a good portion of the night cheerfully engaging the audience, dancing, and at one point even comparing the non-orgasmic relationship explored in her Grammy-nominated “Come On” to her dissatisfaction with the country’s current political leadership.
Fuzzy analogies aside, Williams’ set was a strict chronological retrospective. Opening with “Disgusted,” from 1979’s Ramblin’, she played a track or two off each of her nine studio albums, and only moderately weighted the proceedings towards her latest release, Little Honey. This interesting choice provided a musical pupu platter of her through-the-years dabblings in rock, blues, folk, and country. Williams noted several times how much fun she was having structuring the show this way, even though some of the older songs had her visibly glancing at a lyric sheet.
Predictably, up-tempo rockers like “Real Love” and “Real Live Bleeding Fingers And Broken Guitar Strings” stirred up the most dancing and unlikely fist-pumping. But it was in the downbeat moments, like the aching “Essence,” where Williams' gut-punching lyrical turns most effectively found their marks. When she growled “My joy is dead / I long for bliss,” during the dirge-y “Unsuffer Me,” she seemed far more comfortable than in all the moments she spent test-driving her new, softer public persona.
Lucinda Williams has built a career on songs that are at times oppressive with their tales of heartbreak and woe, but her show Saturday at the Orpheum Theatre was surprisingly buoyant. Williams spent a good portion of the night cheerfully engaging the audience, dancing, and at one point even comparing the non-orgasmic relationship explored in her Grammy-nominated “Come On” to her dissatisfaction with the country’s current political leadership.
Fuzzy analogies aside, Williams’ set was a strict chronological retrospective. Opening with “Disgusted,” from 1979’s Ramblin’, she played a track or two off each of her nine studio albums, and only moderately weighted the proceedings towards her latest release, Little Honey. This interesting choice provided a musical pupu platter of her through-the-years dabblings in rock, blues, folk, and country. Williams noted several times how much fun she was having structuring the show this way, even though some of the older songs had her visibly glancing at a lyric sheet.
Predictably, up-tempo rockers like “Real Love” and “Real Live Bleeding Fingers And Broken Guitar Strings” stirred up the most dancing and unlikely fist-pumping. But it was in the downbeat moments, like the aching “Essence,” where Williams' gut-punching lyrical turns most effectively found their marks. When she growled “My joy is dead / I long for bliss,” during the dirge-y “Unsuffer Me,” she seemed far more comfortable than in all the moments she spent test-driving her new, softer public persona.
