I will wax only the briefest of sonnets about last night’s For Against show at The Waiting Room. Almost no one was there, maybe 30 people at its apex, which dwindled to around a dozen by the end of their nearly 2-hour set. I don’t know what — if anything — will get people to come out and see/hear this band. It’s their loss. If you like Factory Records, if you like Joy Division and that style of music, you’re doing yourself a great disservice by not seeing these guys whenever you get a chance (and if you live in Lincoln, that means tonight as they’re playing an early show (6 p.m.) at Box Awesome). I’ve seen them a half-dozen times over the past 15 years and last night’s set was easily, simply their best. It’s rare (nay impossible) for just about any band to keep my attention after, say, 45 minutes. These guys kept me entranced for an hour and forty-five minutes, a distance I wasn’t prepared or expecting to travel, as Spring Gun also was slated to play this show, but apparently canceled (though the band was there). Certainly Spring Gun’s drummer, Nick Buller, who also is now a core member of For Against, was in the house and performed as if undergoing some sort of tribal rite of passage. Yes, the rhythm section is their backbone, but For Against really is the product of all its parts; a honed, efficient trio that takes advantage of every moment. There are no wasted efforts. The new songs from their new album, Shade Side Sunny Side, held up to any of their earlier material, in fact, the evening’s highlight was a song from that CD, called “Why Are You So Angry?” — which provided a perfect dynamic counterbalance to the band’s usual throbbing sound. Now they’re off to Italy, where I’m told they’ll be performing 2-hour sets on tour “because it’s expected.” Those lucky Italians.

Tonight at The Waiting Room, something a bit less cerebral — Little Brazil with The Photo Atlas, 1090 Club and Valley Arena. $7, 9 p.m.

Tomorrow, it’s the return of Doug Kabourek (who no longer goes by Fizzle Like a Flood) at O’Leaver’s. Doug will be playing a few songs as part of a show that headlines She Swings She Sways and The Black Squirrels. An historic event? You be the judge. 9:30, $5.

Watch for updates over the weekend…

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A brief comment on Monday’s St. Patrick’s Day festivities: We turned our backs on the glorious, stench-filled Dubliner as the bar continues to insist on hosting the same crappy band every year — a band that prefers to play John Denver and Willie Nelson covers instead of Irish ballads. Instead, we headed to The Brazen Head for a true Irish band — The Turfmen. We walked in at 3 and I had my first Guinness at 3:01 — far quicker than the Dubliner ever served me on the holiest of drinking days. Still, it just wasn’t the same. The Raisin Head essentially is a restaurant located in a strip mall next to a World Market. Its only ties to the emerald isle are a few Irish motifs and a Guinness sign. It’s like celebrating St. Patrick’s Day at a Village Inn. Even the poor Turfman had been relegated to a corner in the back of the bar, surrounded by empty tables so that no one could get close to the band (or dance an Irish jig). We lasted two hours and then high-tailed it home. Next year, it’s back to the Dubliner, even with the John Denver tribute band. Fact is, I just can’t get enough of that Dubliner stink!

Tonight at The Waiting Room, it’s the Brighton England combo British Sea Power. The 4-piece epitomizes the soaring UK pop sound that I remember from the early days of MTV, complete with chiming guitars and breathy, gasping vocals. They remind me of Welsh band The Alarm (a lot) and early upbeat U2 (a little). Wikipedia says they’ve been compared to The Cure and Joy Division, which I can’t hear at all. Opening are Colourmusic and Who Shot Hollywood — two bands I’m not familiar with. Still, you probably don’t want to miss this one, unless you’re torn between this show and For Against tomorrow night (also at The Waiting Room). Why not man-up and go to both? $10, 9 p.m.

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I had intended to skip the Brad Hoshaw St. Patty’s Day Birthday Bash at The 49’r this evening. After all, St. Patrick’s Day is somewhat sacred to Teresa and I. We usually spend the afternoon imbibing of Guinness at The Dubliner, and I wind up in bed and fast asleep by 8 p.m. I already told Brad that I wasn’t going. But now it seems that Teresa has come down with a cold, and I’m also a bit under the weather due to allergies and we will likely skip the usual revelry. Which means if I’m feeling up to it, I might go to the Niner after all, though there’s nothing terribly “Irish” about the the evening’s music.

Starting at 7:30, the lineup includes Adam Hawkins, Jake Bellows, Landon Hedges, Matt Cox, Sarah Benck and, of course, Brad Hoshaw. That’ll be followed by The Black Squirrels at 9:15, Midwest Dilemma at 10:30 and The Whipkey Three at 11:30, if anyone is still conscious. $5.

Strangely, The Waiting Room has nothing booked in observation of this holy drinking day. One would think that TWR and the rest of the Benson would organize a St. Patrick’s Day pub crawl down Maple, with Irish music at all the clubs and bars. Instead, nothing. Maybe next year…

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As I drove aimlessly through the clusterfucked streets looking for a place to park, I took solace in the fact that this, the third concert I’ve attended at The Qwest Center, would also be my last.

I guess it’s impossible to get good seats at Qwest. For Fleetwood Mac, we sat lower bowl center, straight back from the stage and couldn’t see shit. For The Who, I joined a Who fan club just to try to get good seats. We got first tier, but too close to the floor and too far back on the side, so we couldn’t see shit. Like every other dumbshit who thought the concert would sell out in two minutes, I was online right when the tickets were made available and was surprised that I even got through. Hence, I took the first “best seats” offered, figuring if I didn’t take them, I’d never make it through the queue and would lose any chance of getting tickets. When I looked at the seating chart online, I thought they were pretty good — section 223 Row N. Heck, second tier right off the stage — I’ll be looking right down on The Boss’ bad haircut!

Wrong. The seats were, in fact, off stage right, but I misjudged just how far up they would be. Nosebleed, and as a result, I couldn’t see shit. I couldn’t even really see the jumbletrons set up on the sides of the stage. The irony that everyone knows who goes to Qwest shows is that all the seats are bad, and as a result, most of the audience spends the show watching the screens instead of the stage.

All right, enough of my endless whining about the Qwest’s shitty sightlines. Once we got our $26 dinner (hamburger, fries, chicken tenders, two beers), we climbed to our stratospheric seats, and proceeded to wait 90 minutes for the concert to start. The crowd consisted mostly of retired school teachers, grandfathers, extras from a production of The Sopranos, and lots of older women who thought that a Springsteen concerts was the right place to show their abundant cleavage. Omaha is fat city, we all know this. It’s also bust city, and from my seat on top of the world, I got plenty of views “downtown,” views I could have done without.

Strangely, no one seemed to mind that the tickets said the show was supposed to start at 7:30 and it was 8:30 and nothing was going on. To keep the crowd on the edge of their seats, a roadie would run out on stage every five minutes and do something. Here comes a microphone stand. There goes Clarence’s saxophone holder. Better tape another set list to the ground. Meanwhile, all around me, people were calling each other on their cell phones and then frantically waving. “We’re sitting over here! Over here! Look how bad our seats are!” Everyone was brimming with excitement. It was The Boss, after all! The Boss!

The band finally arrived at around a quarter to nine. As with the last two concerts at the Qwest, the sound was pure shit. Look, I know that small club shows have spoiled me forever for auditorium shows. There’s no way The Qwest will ever match the sound of The Waiting Room or Slowdown or, uh, O’Leaver’s. Muddy, flat high end, extreme bounce off the far wall. But you don’t go to a Springsteen show for good acoustics. You go for the performance. Springsteen is a modern marvel. He’s 58 but he runs around on stage like he’s in his 20s. Off he would run to stage left right up to the barrier, then lean back and throw his hands in the air like a circus performer, as if to say “Stand up, fuckers!” Then run to the other side and do the same thing. Over and over, all night. The only thing I could see on the jumble screens were tight close-ups of Springsteen’s face, odd pained facial contortions. In his advancing years, he’s starting to look like a dark-haired Joe Cocker (or the Belushi version of Cocker).

His voice is phenomenal. Just a terrific voice that never seems to age. And the band was amazing, especially the rhythm section. Weinberg is just a great, functional drummer. He doesn’t do anything particularly flashy, he just keeps it all together, as does the bass player. I don’t know what he’d do without them. While Springsteen and Lofgren stumbled through their yawn-inducing solos, the rhythm section and keyboardists kept all the wandering on track.

I’ve already read a few reviews that highlighted Lofgren’s solos. I don’t like his style, his touch technique that makes every note sound rounded. It sounds like he’s played the same boring solos for 20 years, because he has. Again, Springsteen and his band aren’t really known for their guitar solos. They are known for Clemons’ sax solos, which sounded just like they do on the records. I expected more interaction between Springsteen and Clemons. Aren’t they supposed to be pals like on the cover of Born to Run? The Boss barely acknowledged him all night. Where was the love?

Early in the set, Springsteen dedicated a song to Conor Oberst (“Living in the Future”). I figured Oberst was in Austin for SXSW, seeing as his label has a showcase there. Later, Springsteen name-checked “Mac and Nancy,” Oberst’s parents. Then out of nowhere, here came Conor. Springsteen trotted him out to sing along with “Thunder Road.” Oberst either didn’t know the words or was nervous or both. You could barely hear him when it was his turn to sing. It was awkward, only made more awkward by the fact that no one in the audience probably knew who this “hometown hero” was. The 54-year-old lady next to us asked us and when we told her, looked disinterested or confused.

The night’s musical highlight was probably “The Rising,” one of those songs that you forget how good it is until you hear it again. Or maybe “Jungleland,” which was marred by a portly drunken woman a few rows away who insisted on cackling in an irritating Tickle Me Elmo voice “Yeah-a-heah-heah!” over and over. Funny the first time, not so much the fourth or fifth time. You begin to realize after about two hours that Springsteen has a lot of classics, and that a lot of them sound the same. The crowd, of course, ate it all up. Clocking in at over two-and-a-half hours, there’s no arguing that Springsteen shows are a good value for your concert-going dollar (especially at a $57-$97 price point). Too bad it had to take place at The Qwest, but where else are you going to hold it? Goodbye white elephant!

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A few more notes about Alessi before I turn you loose on the column… In addition to talking about music, we spent a lot of time discussing her favorite restaurants. Among them, Taqueria La Esmeralda on 32nd and Q. “I get the chicken quesadilla, a large cup of horchata soup, and maybe some guacamole.” Then there’s Bangkok Cuisine at 19th and Farnam. “I order the Tom Kah soup (spice level 5) with tofu, and as main, the Pad Thai (spice level 8).” She also mentioned Dixie Quicks, Nettie’s, Jams and the Dundee Dell (where she orders the fried pickles). She said Indian restaurants are to London what Mexican restaurants are to Omaha — they’re everwhere.

We talked about her many physical mishaps. Alessi considers herself clumsy and points to the time she tumbled down the stairs leading to the main floor at Slowdown. “I sprained my ankle and it swelled up and had I show the next night and had to play on crutches.” No word of any pending litigation. Then there’s the time her tongue became swollen for no apparent reason. “I couldn’t stop breathing. I’d been with Jake (Bellows) and Mike (Mogis) came in and didn’t know what to do and called an ambulance and we went to hospital and Jake was there quite a long time.” She said the doctors think her muscles had contracted, but didn’t know why. She talked about doing a show — and now a split single — with Thunder Power!!! “I think they’re quite fantastic, they’re really funny people, and all a bit clumsy so that really works.”

In short, Alessi is lovable. In a remarkably short time, she managed to work her way into the hearts of just about every person involved with the local indie music scene. Everyone knows Alessi. Everyone loves Alessi. And what’s not to love? I have no doubt that she’s going to be a great big star. I just hope that after she makes it big in the U.K., that she remembers all of the people she met in this patch of dirt in the middle of the U.S. She is, afterall, only 17, and Omaha may only have been just another summer crush.

Column 164: British Bird’s Other Nest
Alessi makes Omaha her second home.

This is the story of a girl named Alessi, a stranger from a strange land called London cast away in a distant world called Omaha to be embraced by natives carrying guitars and glockenspiel. She quickly learned the language, thanks to tribe leader Mike Mogis. And now, after spending only a few months here eating Tom Kha soup and quesadillas, shopping at the temple of Target and hanging out with fried-chicken eating musicians, she’s gone. Back to London. Leaving behind her extended family to pursue a career fueled by global music powerhouse EMI Records, fondly remembering time spent with new friends that she won’t see again for a long, long time.

Alessi Laurent-Marke is a 17-year-old singer songwriter. When I saw her on stage at The Waiting Room and was told her age, I didn’t believe it. From my vantage point propped against the bar in the back of the room, Alessi (who is, in fact, named after the famous line of kitchenware products) looked and sounded much older, playing songs that seemed too world weary for her 17 years. Her voice had a shy, warm, breathy tone, saturated in an odd accent that reminded me of Bjork. Standing stone still in a long, hippie dress, her thick bangs stopping just before her eyes, I thought that she could be Britain’s answer to Cat Power’s Chan Marshall, but without Chan’s hang-ups. Alessi was too young to have hang-ups yet.

A few days later, she sat across from me in the front booth at The Waiting Room on a Sunday afternoon. The place was empty except for owner Jim Johnson toting around a ladder, and bartender Matt Bowen working a crossword on his Nintendo DS. The folks from Tilly and the Wall were busy loading out equipment from the previous night’s show, and as they noticed Alessi, they came over and hugged her, asking when she was going back.

“The combination of humility and talent make my knees buckle,” she said, draped in an electric-green wool overcoat. “People here are oh so gentle. I’m not saying that London isn’t welcoming, it just moves a helluva lot faster.”

Alessi only began singing a couple years ago, when she was 15. Living in a neighborhood halfway between Hammersmith and Shepherd’s Bush, she was as an outsider in school. “I felt I had to change a bit to make friends, which made me sad,” she said. “I stopped trying at age 15.”

After completing her compulsory exams, Alessi’s parents allowed her to quit school, but on the condition that it only be for a year. After being encouraged to find her voice by musician Johnathan Rice, she started playing shows, including a residency at the 12 Bar Club on Denmark St. She recorded a few songs with friends and placed them on a Myspace page. “Mostly Americans wrote me messages asking when I was going to come over,” she said. “It was quite astounding that people showed interest.”

Then in December 2006, Alessi played a show at a Soho club. In the audience were reps from Heavenly Records, a subsidiary of EMI whose roster includes Ed Harcourt, Cherry Ghost and Magic Numbers. Also in the crowd was the head of EMI. He liked the music and showed interest in signing Alessi. It took awhile, but eventually she signed on the day before her 17th birthday. “I was really cautious,” she said. “I feel like you have to compromise quite a bit, but in order to really share your ideas and songs, you need a vehicle, and this will come in handy.”

The folks at EMI asked if there were any producers that she wanted to work with. “All my favorite most recent music had something to do with Mike Mogis,” she said, specifically referencing Rilo Kiley’s The Execution of All Things. “I remember listening to it and thinking ‘This is modern music. This is magic.”

She showed up at Mogis’ ARC Studios in early September, living in the adjacent guesthouse and immediately bonding with the Mogis family. Before long, she also became friends with studio engineer Ian Aeillo and the cast of characters in the Saddle Creek world. “Jake (Bellows) turned up one day with a bucket of chicken and I liked him immediately.”

Bellows and Maria Taylor are among the guests who contributed to Notes from The Treehouse, which will be released on Zooey EMI (Alessi’s own label) in Europe in July. She still doesn’t know who will release it stateside. That’ll be decided after she returns to London.

Some of her fondest memories of Omaha are based on food — the Mexican and Thai restaurants (There are no Mexican restaurants in London), and shopping at “the temple of Target” with her mom (“Every Target smells like popcorn, and that can’t be a bad thing.”). But mostly she’ll miss her friends. “Sometimes I get tearful about it because I didn’t really have friends in school,” she said. “I hate to leave everybody here. They have such good hearts.”

But she’ll be back. She wants to tour the U.S., and even asked Bellows and Dan McCarthy to come along. And maybe someday, she might even live in our little creative universe.

“I’d really like to move here,” Alessi said. “The dream is to buy a very small little house and anyone could stay there when I’m not in town. I would sleep better if I knew there was a little nest for me in Omaha.”

* * *

Tonight at The Scottish Rite Hall, Richard Thompson. No idea who — of if anyone — is opening this 8 p.m. show. Tickets are $25. I haven’t seen Thompson in 14 years, not since he played at Liberty Hall in Lawrence around 1994. That was a terrific show; this one will be, too.

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