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Pop Rock Nation

Author: Joelle Renstrom

  • Flute is the New Pink

     

    Growing up, I hated the color pink. I was a tomboy, and considered pink a Barbie color.

    As I got older, I discovered that I actually look pretty decent in pink. I also developed a thing for men who wear pink (no one wears pink as well as Rufus Thomas.

    Of course, it’s all about how one wears pink (or any article of clothing). Anyone who wears pink, especially a man, knows that a shirt could never compromise one’s sense of self – that really, not much can. Despite pink’s booming Hello Kitty popularity, I’ve come full circle and now have a healthy appreciation for it.

    In the world of music, playing the flute is the new pink.

    Back in grade school, I played alto saxophone in the band. The flute section always bored me – it was comprised of all girls, and stereotypically giggly and rather annoying ones at that. They only seemed interested in using the flute as a soprano instrument, and their high notes rang like dog whistles. Unless they had solos, the spastic drums, rampant tuba, and bleating saxophones drowned them out.

    Until recently, I felt about the flute the way I used to feel about pink. Then, You Tube links of beat box/flautist Nathan Lee started making the rounds. Lee, lithe, shiny bald, and clad in sweatpants for his Google London gig, seems unassuming at first as he wheedles a few whistles from the flute. Then he starts beat boxing – while he’s playing the flute. This dichotomy, not unlike Lee’s own half-Scottish and half-Indian background, defies convention. Lee reinvents both beat boxing and flute playing, and tosses in a bit of Indian flavor, funk, jazz, and hip hop beats along the way.

    Two aspects of Lee’s performance amaze me – the first is that he plays the flute and beat boxes at the same time. He beat boxes with enough force and precision to use those exhalations to power the flute. Anyone not watching him would assume that two people were playing. The second is the surprisingly wonderful musical dichotomy he creates. Not only does his performance fuse genre and sound, but it also produces a fusion in connotation and effect – suddenly, the flute is the least girlie instrument around, and beat boxing trills with finesse.

    Perhaps Lee is an exception, a musical universe unto himself. I wondered if anyone else was using the flute in a new and interesting way.

    Then I went to Ryles Jazz Club in Inman Square and saw the Lance Martin Band. They’re a pretty typical soft jazz/blues band that specializes in funky remakes of classic songs, particularly by the Beatles. What’s unique about this band is that the frontman, Lance Martin, leads with a flute. He’s a rather big fellow with a beret and a groove, and he almost consumes the silver. Rather than producing vocals, he sings with his flute. Martin’s flute is like a bumblebee you can’t catch, flitting around the stage, soaring and diving and buzzing and looping above and around the songs. Trying to follow it is dizzying, so you ground yourself in the familiar bass and the piano’s 7th chords and allow the flute to pull through the whole thing like a fine thread.

    The flute’s mobility allows for some fun shenanigans, such as Lance Miller’s Letterman-esque foray onto Hampshire Street. In the middle of a song, Miller, still piping away, burst through the double doors into the kitchen, then out the back exit onto the street where he danced and played to passersby as though he were Inman Square’s own Pan. The audience watched through the window and listened via Martin’s wireless mike, appreciating how the flute’s size allows it to transcend what we previously considered to be its entertainment value.

    The first flute, carved out of swan bone, was found in a cave in Northern France over 30,000 years ago. Since then, the flute, fife, and/or recorder have appeared in Greek mythology, ancient Egypt, and the Bible. From the Pied Piper to Leonardo da Vinci to Jean-Pierre Rampal to Nathan Lee, the flute has demonstrated its staying power, and not just because of its historical roots. Despite my initial doubts, the flute supports reinvention and the infinite possibilities of musical creativity. Like pink, the flute can be elevated above stereotype and expectation, so long as you keep your mind and ears open.

  • Nothing Like It Was In My Room (The National concert review)

     

    I can’t talk about The National without putting my hand over my heart. Boxer runs second to OK Computer on my list of albums that kill me (in a good way). The National doesn’t quite have the depth of Radiohead yet, but they occupy and bear mentioning in the same emotional, catharsis-inducing territory. Frontman Matt Berninger’s resonant Leonard Cohen-esque voice instantly distinguishes The National from other emotional alterna-rock bands such as Arcade Fire, Band of Horses, and Radiohead.

    Berninger’s voice holds up impressively live, although he clips the ends of his words and staccatos the lyrics, rather than letting them stretch over the music, which makes them difficult to understand. Berninger plays the dutiful hipster frontman, clad in a sportsjacket, skinny jeans, and a tie, an ensemble that belies the depth and tenor of his voice. He also keeps a bottle of white wine on ice during the show.

    Despite performing at Boston’s House of Blues, a venue perfect for bands that employ visuals and entourages, The National is anything but a spectacle. When they play live, they rely on old-school rocking and a bit of crooning to enrapture the audience. The May 23rd show sold out, and the crowds (especially in the bathrooms) forced the facility to open the usually-private third floor to the public. The sound quality on the third floor is noticeably better than that on the second floor, due to the way the second floor is sandwiched by the low ceiling of the balcony. Watching The National from above felt particularly appropriate, like looking down on something simple and beautiful that you don’t want to disturb. Other than the occasional communal sway, the sea of people below me stood still, and I imagined them holding their breaths for the same reason.

    The trajectory of the concert mirrored the trajectory of the best National songs – a modest beginning, then a slowly building tension that crescendos into musical heartbreak, with the occasional mend. Watching them live, it became evident that this momentum rises largely on the back of the drums. Concert highlights, such as Fake Empire and  Squalor Victoria, would have floundered in mediocrity without the skins. With each album, The National’s drummer, Bryan Devendorf, who switched between drumsticks and soft mallets in almost each song during the show, creates a rhythmic through-line that opens space for Berninger’s vocals and lyrics.

    The National knows its fan base well. They played a couple new songs off an as yet unnamed album, but they primarily stuck to classics from Alligator and Boxer, such as Mr. November, Green Gloves, and Secret Meeting. Berninger didn’t interact much with the audience, but he did dedicate Slow Show to a guy who recently proposed to his girlfriend, only to get dumped by her soon after and, of course, bump into her at the show with someone else. The anecdote illustrates the appeal of The National – dumpers and dumpees can’t help but recognize the sounds of love fleetingly gained and permanently lost. I was surprised to look around and see men of all ages singing you know I dreamed about you for 29 years, before I saw you. The amount of testosterone in the audience is a testament to The National’s resonant, but never whiny, synthesis of emotion and music.

    Fake Empire brought the house down for precisely this reason. The guitar and drums drove on, faster and faster, while Berninger built heartbreak verse by verse. Initially, it’s almost as though there were two songs being played, like someone learning to juggle with each hand separately. Bit by bit, the lyrics and melodies and rhythm layered and merged into a perfectly balanced and choreographed toss and catch, ending in musical transcendence that transfixed us all.

  • The More Things Change: Of Montreal Concert Review

     

    May we never go go mental, may we always stay stay, gentle. Of Montreal’s flamboyant front man, Kevin Barnes, undoubtedly relishes in the irony of these lyrics as he performs what he dubs the “sissy dance” and shares the stage with four people in black, body-hugging one-pieces, and alien masks. For the next song, the actors peel themselves out of their extra-terrestrial leotards and put on tuxes and huge animal heads. They bumble around on stage, often roaring at or colliding with the band members.

    You’ve got to hand it to a band capable of producing such a bizarre spectacle. Even if you don’t like the music, you can’t help but watch and wonder what they’re going to do next. Trying to discern a narrative thread is impossible – the folks sharing the stage with the band change their costumes ten times during the show, wearing everything from hot-pink, one-legged flared onesies to jungle furs. During one song, the guitarist simulates humping one of the animals with the head of his guitar.

    An Of Montreal show is organized chaos. It’s like Carnival on stage. The audience goes along for the ride, largely because they maintain at least a vague belief that there’s some method to the madness.

    The show, especially the costume changes, reflects a band that constantly destroys borders and boundaries – even the ones they themselves have established. Whether during a two-hour show or a 10-year career, Of Montreal’s sound never stays the same. They reinvent their sound and aesthetic, and aren’t shy about borrowing inspiration from other bands and performers. The songs on their most recent album, Skeletal Lamping, provide funky pop hooks while pushing the band into new terrain. Barnes has fully embodied the alter ego he began developing for their previous album, Hissing Fauna Are You the Destroyer? He wears face paint, a puffy purple shirt that would make Seinfeld proud, and shiny red platform shoes. The overall effect offers a “Ziggy Stardust for the new millennium” vibe, while his voice and the band’s backing suggests a Scissor Sisters sound mixed with hints of psychedelia.

    Despite the band’s varying visual and aural aesthetic, their set list revolves around songs from the Sunlandic Twins era that have emerged as classics. These songs provide an armature for the mad dash costume and chord changes. Just when Of Montreal seems to be veering off the map (or stage), just when the audience starts wondering who or what they’re listening to, the band plows into a song like Oslo in the Summertime, which grounds both them and the audience. They push the envelope, but just when the audience gets antsy or uncomfortable, they rein it back in and reestablish their vintage quirky and contagious pop.

    Of Montreal might spin heads with their musical ADD, but any band that refuses to rest on their accumulated success and instead chooses to reinvent itself both on stage and in the studio deserves props, which the audience was more than happy to give them. Their encore of The Party’s Crashing Us, brought down the house and left the audience with the sense that while the band might continue morphing, they’ll always be a sight to behold.