Glitch Mob at Masquerade 7/15/11

By Hilary Cadigan

FLASHING FLASHING LIGHTS LIGHTS BASS BASS BASS.

If you asked me for a seven word review of The Glitch Mob’s show at Masquerade in Atlanta this past weekend, that would be it.  Unfortunately, my actual word count requirement is a bit higher than that, so I will try to dig through the layers of glowing, pulsating bliss to eke out a slightly more comprehensive account of Friday’s extravaganza. Here goes.

With their seemingly effortless ability to hit a genre-defying sweet spot between hard-hitting hip-hop basslines and cinematic electronic noise, Glitch Mob has created their own brand of raucous dance music with a metallic edge, a more sophisticated precedent for the ubiquitous Dubstep scene that reigns today.

Since 2006, this Californian trio (formerly a quartet—founding member “Kraddy” left the Mob behind in 2009 due to “creative differences”) has been burning up dance floors and blowing minds at clubs, music festivals, and underground raves across the globe.

On stage at Masquerade, after a mysterious last-minute venue changeover from King Plow Arts Center in Westside, the evening began with two perfectly selected openers to get the crowd warmed up in doses.  First came chillwave wunderkind Com Truise, who we unfortunately just missed.  We arrived just as New York-based trip-hop duo Phantogram took the stage, masterfully melding the woozy, haunting vocals of keyboardist Sara Barthel with scratchy-smooth melodies and mesmeric beats.  My only complaint about this performance was for the sound guy—the vocals were often drowned out by the music, which was a shame given how excellent they were.

Then, it was Glitch Mob time. Against a pulsing backdrop of multi-colored LED squares, the three DJs, “edIT”, “Boreta” and “Ooah”, collaborated behind three individual turntables bedecked with their trademark LED light squiggles.  And, from there on out, it was a non-stop dance party.

Glitch Mob had the crowd simultaneously entranced and unable to stand still as the unstoppable trio churned out a seamless sequence of back-to-back gems, from the industrialized groove of “Animus Vox” to the orchestral bleeps and blips of “Fortune Days” to the grand whir and boom of “Drive It Like You Stole It”. The set list, comprised almost entirely of original material, included the majority of their latest album, this year’s excellent Drink the Sea.  And when the Mob did venture outside of their own catalogue, the results were nothing short of spectacular—an explosive rendition of “Seven Nation Army” had the whole crowd screaming and stomping along.

All in all, a seriously great evening. I only wish it could’ve lasted longer.

Album Review: Sondre Lerche - Sondre Lerche

Self-titling a record that isn’t one’s first is always a risky move. An eponymous album inevitably implies some kind of definitive statement right off the bat, so if the content doesn’t stack up, the artist may end up seeming uninspired or even—for lack of a better word (or, as the case may be, lack of a better title)—lazy. As such, while Norwegian-born singer/songwriter/all-around cutie pie Sondre Lerche’s seventh LP, Sondre Lerche, is by no means a bad record, it fails to live up to its self-inflicted expectations. It also suffers the misfortune of being released within weeks of one of the most impressive self-titled non-debuts in recent memory, Bon Iver’s Bon Iver, but that is neither here nor there.

Expectations and comparisons aside, Lerche’s newest album does provide listeners with a solid 40 minutes of lovely melodies. Opening track “Ricochet” begins with meek and wistful vocals layered sweetly over muted guitar chords. “Shimmering underneath the sea/sentimental echoes spike my memory/hard to make believe nothing means anything to me,” croons Lerche in a melancholy falsetto, before the track builds to an orchestral crescendo rife with spiraling strings and wordless vocal harmonies. Then it’s off to Rome—a.k.a. “Coliseum Town”—where Lerche slips dreamily into the well-worn role of Tourist Using Travel As A Metaphor For His Own Provincial Limitations: “I go stumbling cobbled streets/with the map you drew on me/and I can’t decide/did you leave or ever arrive?”

Ultimately, Lerche retains his flair for quality song making, but hasn’t quite managed to reignite the youthful idiosyncrasies of his earlier albums. While still the lovable, bright-eyed émigré he’s always been, Lerche isn’t 19 anymore, and at times it feels like the endearingly self-deprecating charisma that oozed from his earlier albums has been replaced by a rather blasé outlook on the American adulthood he seems to have settled into. But perhaps that’s just because the whole album was recorded over three weeks in Brooklyn, and thereby reflects just that one particular intersection of time, place, and mood. As Lerche reminds us in “Coliseum Town”, “I try to make another love song rhyme/but it’s harder than it seems/to describe what I just dreamed.”

Clearly, Lerche has not lost his power of introspection, nor has he given up his love for sonic exploration—it’s all just been a bit smoothed over. “Tied Up to the Tide” experiments with breathy, echo-y, M. Ward-style vocals alongside a plodding beat and delightfully unexpected accordion accents. Then “Domino” submerges us into a warm bath of chiming acoustics and soothing percussion alongside a chorus with tones reminiscent of a Wayne Coyne soprano.

To keep listeners from drowning in the not unpleasant but slightly bland soup of sweetly wistful ambivalence that seems to constitute the majority of the album, we can call upon a trio of buoyant pop songs scattered throughout the effort. These upbeat tracks are the record’s true gems, from the radio-ready repetitions of “Private Caller” to the poly-rhythmic sparkle of “Go Right Ahead” to the grand finale “When the River”, which twists Lerche’s pretty falsetto around an unexpectedly funky beat before blossoming into a harmonious choral chant that evokes the kind of hard-won joy depicted at the end of movies, where people with tear-stained but smiling faces sway back and forth with their arms around each other. Ah, redemption. Or at least a pretty way to tie things up.

Roll credits.

Album Review: YACHT – Shangri-La

Ever since I watched the weeklong special on The History Channel about how the world is scheduled to end in 2012, part of me has been living my life with that expiration date in mind. Hundreds of dead birds falling from the sky… Thousands of fish washing up on the shore… Sarah Palin… All signs point to looming apocalypse. As a result, my pseudo-subconscious attitude for the past year or so has been something like, “Well, the universe may implode soon, so I’m gonna go to another music festival now, and worry about finding a real job after December 2012.” In other words, “the earth, the earth, the earth is on fire/we don’t have no daughter/let the motherfucker burn.” At least that’s how indie-electro art-rockers Jona Bechtolt and Claire Evans of YACHT put it in “Dystopia (The Earth is on Fire)”, the compulsively danceable single off their newest LP, Shangri-La.

“Dystopia (The Earth is on Fire)” is our post-apocalyptic fight song, a cautionary tale, a science-fiction story for our particular eco-socio-political landscape,” explains the band’s website. “But as tempting as it is to give into a horror of our crumbling, radiation-leaking, bomb-launching reality, where the tracks lead is ultimately up to us.”

With Shangri-La, YACHT takes us away from this crumbling, radiation-leaking, bomb-launching reality on a fuck-all magical mystery tour of chimerical musical landscapes laden with beguiling beats and sparkling synthesizers that leave us dancing in the face of doom.

“If there was a hell/that’s where I belong/for breaking all the rules/and singing all these songs,” chirps Evans in “Paradise Engineering”, a tambourine-filled call to come together and create a bliss so large that it dissolves all the world’s negativity. “And if you want me to be your god then I will be your god!”

Yes, please.

There’s a certain magic in being able to shake your booty to music with heavy themes, and YACHT nails that duality perfectly here, whether they’re discussing God, love, or the space-time continuum. Opening with some rather ominous religious intonations buoyed by echoing snaps and stark synth spikes, “Holy Roller” explodes into a grooving odyssey of big brass crescendos, electronic bass wobbles, and a catchy hook assuring us not to “worry about God up above/we’re gonna live life in love!”

And don’t worry about getting bored either, because love is no tired platitude in YACHTopia. “I love you like a small-town cop/Yeah, I want to smash your face in with a block,” the duo croons on the slow-burning “Love in the Dark”, before heading to the cosmos, where frenetic beats, low-pitched, stuttering vocals, and literary allusions aplenty make for a pretty sublime combo in “Beam Me Up”.

Overall, Shangri-La prevails as a light-hearted if not slightly heavy-handed piece of social commentary, addressing the woes of organized religion, global warming, and the daily grind without ever surrendering to self-pity. In fact, the record begins and ends in paradise, but the bright and bubbly “Utopia” for which the opening track is named (where we’re told that “there’s nothing in the future/it’s up to us to make”) is a very different place than the concluding title track. “Shangri-La” feels like the ultimate exit music, the bright and bubbly notions of “Utopia” now fleshed out with a gratified sense of enlightenment, a more clearly delineated sense of the same kind of secular contentment that Belinda Carlisle sang about in 1987. “If I can’t go to heaven let me go to L.A.,” trills Evans over a bouncy piano-laden melody as sweet and bright as a lollipop in the sun. “If we build a Utopia, will you come and stay?/Shangri-la-lala-la-la-lala-la-la.”

Can I get a hell yeah? When the world ends, I’ll be joining Bechtolt and Evans. We’ll build a new world, where bliss reigns and people sing instead of talking and dance instead of walking. You can come, too, if you want.

Hangout Music Festival 2011

What’s better than a music festival on the beach? Not much. And what happens when said music festival features a line-up that is literally perfect? It’s sort of like watching your own head explode, yet feeling no pain.

Hangout Music Fest 2011 was a force to be reckoned with. The weather was ideal, the festival grounds were beautiful, and the consistently awesome performances were some of the best I’ve seen, ever.

The sandy terrain sculpted our calves and kept our minds free from worries of strange diseases contracted from the swamp-like mix of unidentified substances that typically coats the ground of music festivals.  Note: you should, however, bring a pair of flip-flops to the festival grounds; about 50% of the total area is comprised of hot black asphalt. And don’t expect to quickly hop from stageside to ocean deep—while the fest does allow unlimited reentry for every patron, it took awhile to trek out the front entrance and all the way around, since the ocean alongside the festival grounds was  unfortunately but understandably blocked off.  Cops on dune buggies hung out between the ocean and the fence, a barrier that made for some exciting people watching scenarios, including several strung-out individuals attempting—and in a few cases, succeeding—to dive over the rickety wooden fence and toward to the beckoning waves before getting tackled by an army of blue-suited officers.

Last year, a mere 15,000 flocked to the Gulf Shores beachside to jam out to Trey Anastasio, John Legend, and The Roots, among others. This year, tickets sold out entirely, a rare feat for a festival in its second year of existence, capping attendance at 35,000.

The 35,000 cap was definitely a necessary measure, and at times I wondered if maybe they should’ve cut sales even sooner.  While the two main beachside stages were great, the aptly titled Boom Boom Room tent was a bonafide clusterfuck.  Because the sides of the tent were blocked off, the back was the only way to get in or out, thereby creating the dreaded bottleneck effect worsened by the fact that everyone was sweaty.  As such, despite all the hugely popular electro-acts like Bassnectar, Pretty Lights, and Girl Talk performing in this tent, after a dicey first experience trying to get in, I went ahead and avoided the Boom Boom Room altogether, thereby missing a significant number of shows at which I’d planned on shaking my booty quite a bit.

The fact that I enjoyed myself so immensely despite these losses is a testament to the greatness of the rest of the lineup, and to Hangout as a whole.  While the festival’s fledgling status was clear, particularly in the face of crowds more than twice the size of the previous year, its organizers’ attention to detail and overall dedication to Hangout greatness outshined its missteps by a landslide, catapulting it into the festival big leagues with ease.  Yes, the Porta-Potty placement could’ve been better (wading through a crowd of amped-up festival-goers to reach a fleet of toilets located behind the main stage is not ideal for those in dire need of bladder relief), but there were fireworks every night, VIP-style accommodations for all (hammock and palm tree oasis, anyone?), and the freaking ocean at our feet, so you know what?  I was willing to hold it. 

Hangout’s success was made particularly clear by the reactions of the artists themselves, who repeatedly took time out of their all too short sets to note the general awesomeness of a music festival on the beach.  David Grohl himself said this was the most fun he’d had performing in 20 years—and that’s a serious statement. 

Another serious statement: Hangout Music Festival brought me what I can safely dub the most epic festival moment I’ve ever witnessed, or, if I may, The Greatest Festival Fook-Up of All Time.  Bear with me. 

So, we all know that in the world of music festivals, timing is everything.  In order to keep such an intricately arranged event running smoothly, it’s crucial that artists arrive on time, deliver a condensed version of their typical set list, and exit the stage at the end of designated block. Festivals are as much if not more about the overall experience than any individual performance. As such, any dedicated festival-goer will expect the artists to adhere to what I will call festival etiquette, and will likely react in a negative fashion if said etiquette is violated (see: Kanye West, Bonnaroo 2008).  Which brings me to my point.  On Saturday at 3:00 p.m., one Cee Lo Green was scheduled to perform at the Hangout Stage.  A large crowd eagerly assembled, but one thing was missing: Cee Lo.  As the minutes ticked past, I began to fear the worst.  At 3:15 there was still no sign of Mr. Green, and the crowd let out a communal groan as a festival organizer took the stage.  As the guy made his way to the mic and began a feeble, mumbly attempt to connect with the pissed off crowd, I thought to myself, “there is no way this poor dude is going to leave this stage without taking at least one Miller Lite can to the face.” 

I was wrong.  Suddenly the guy smiled. “Well, it seems like Cee Lo Green couldn’t make it here” [cue the boos], “but we say, Cee Lo, forget you—we got the Foo Fighters!” Whhhhhhhhat?  Enter David Grohl himself, exploding onto the stage like a bat out of heaven with a fist-pumping rendition of Alice Cooper’s “Schools Out” that had the confused but elated crowd eating from the palm of his hand in a matter of seconds.  Grohl tore through a masterful selection of covers, including Queen’s “Tie Your Mother Down” and Tom Petty’s “Breakdown,” then paused. “We actually really like Cee Lo Green, and if he were here, I’d hope that he’d sing with us,” shouted Grohl, before launching into a spine-tingling rendition of “Darling Nikki.”  Then suddenly, out of nowhere, Cee Lo himself appeared at the mic, clad in a velour tracksuit and diving right into his own down and dirty version of Prince’s ode to sadomasochism.  As he stripped down to a white tank top and grinded with the mic stand like it was Nikki herself, it was clear that he’d earned full redemption from the ecstatic crowd.  Then after a brief break, he re-emerged with the cherry on top of the sundae—a short but spot-on set of hits, including “Fuck You” and a rendition of “Crazy” (from his Gnarls Barkley days) that had everybody dancing madly.

For some mysterious and undoubtedly stupid reason, photos of the unplanned Foo Fighters show were strictly prohibited from being published, but you can see a fan video here.

Other highs of the weekend: a gorgeous set from My Morning Jacket, which included songs from their brand new album, Circuital; a magical, multi-sensory sing-along with the Flaming Lips; a rousing hour of pitch perfect blues-rock from The Black Keys; and a delightfully energetic Ween show (Gene Ween, pointing to the ocean: “Hey, everybody look, a boat!” [Everybody turns to look at said boat.] Gene Ween: “FUCK YOU, BOAT. DON'T LISTEN.”). As one of my fellow festival-goers exclaimed, “There is something really epic about watching your favorite band move the waves of the ocean while feeling the sand between your toes as you dance.”

And what better way to finish off a perfect weekend of music than a performance from one of the most lovable music icons of all time: Paul Simon.  Paul wrapped all 35,000 of us in a cocoon of sheer joy as he paraded his way through two hours of back-to-back gold, including cuts from his wonderful new album, So Beautiful, So What, and a generous portion of Graceland gems.  To ease the pain of Paul’s departure and conclude what may very well have been the best weekend of my life, the sky exploded into an epic fireworks show.  As the smoke cleared, all I really wanted to do was lie down on the soft white sand and bask in the beauty of it all, but sadly, the patrol cars were coming to clear us all away.  Gulf Shores, Alabama—I’ll seeya next year!