A.A. Bondy at The Waiting Room, Nov. 4, 2011.

by Tim McMahan, Lazy-i.com

Remember last week when I said that I wanted to avoid seeing a “stand-and-play” performance? Well, what I meant was when a band comes on stage, takes their positions, and then proceeds to perform a replica of their current album, note-for-note, all the while just standing there playing the songs as if the audience wasn’t in front of them. We’ve all been to one of those shows. You realize about 10 minutes into the set that this is all you’re going to get; and that other than the extreme volume and being able to smell the people standing next to you, you might as well have stayed home and listened to the record on your hi-fi.

So it was last Friday night for A.A. Bondy at The Waiting Room. As I’ve said, I dig his new album — very moody, very dark, and perfect with the headphones on or driving home at night along a deserted highway. How well would it translate to the stage was anyone’s guess.

Shortly after the opener finished and the necessary sound checks were done, the stage lights were turned off and a projector was fired up. Onto a draped sheet behind the band were projected serene images of the ocean — wave upon wave, soothing. That projector would be the only thing to illuminate the band with the exception of one small orange floor light.

Onto the dark stage stepped Bondy and his three sidemen to the applause of the crowd. They took their places and leaned into the first sleepy track of the evening, something off the new album. It was followed by another sleepy track, and then another, as Bondy and Co. stood there in the dark and played, presumably oblivious of the audience in front of them.

Well, it didn’t take long until the chatter began, which is what’s going to happen when there’s nothing for the crowd to see and no reason for them to be drawn into the performance. While the band played the songs spot-on, note perfect, who really wants that? Yes, there were a few rousing Crazyhorse-style moments later in the set, but all of it was played mid-tempo or slower while the band stood slumped in the dark, waves gently lapping behind them. But the only ocean that could be heard was the ocean of people talking throughout the club. Bondy just ignored them, just like the crowd was ignoring Bondy.

I left before the end of the set thinking how much I liked listening to Bondy’s music… in my car on the drive home.

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Tonight at, of all places,  The Omaha Community Playhouse it’s Manouche Moustache, a gypsy jazz trio performing acoustic jazz/vaudeville standup. According to the Playhouse website, “The brothers Guy, Pierre and Julian immigrated from a gypsy caravan meandering about rural France with an occasional stop in the capital to sell their wares and play for a crowd of young professionals. They made their way to Omaha to become well-paid jazz musicians and respected U.S. citizens. (They are still working to achieve both of those goals.).” The 21+ show is free to the public (with an opportunity for donation) at the Howard Drew Theater inside the OCP. Show starts at 7:30, no reservation or tickets required.

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Read Tim McMahan’s blog daily at Lazy-i.com — an online music magazine that includes feature interviews, reviews and news. The focus is on the national indie music scene with a special emphasis on the best original bands in the Omaha area. Copyright © 2011 Tim McMahan. All rights reserved.

Future Islands at The Waiting Room, Nov. 2, 2011.

by Tim McMahan, Lazy-i.com

Decisions, decisions… Of the two, Real Estate was probably the hottest ticket of the night last night (from what I’ve been told, it was the bigger draw); but to be honest, their latest album (despite the raves) left me cold, and judging from their YouTube stuff, I was afraid of getting a run-of-the-mill “stand-and-play” performance.

Which is exactly what I didn’t get from Future Islands. I don’t think any of the 30 or so people at The Waiting Room expected what they got from frontman Samuel T. Herring. Never mind that the trio’s music, half of which was pre-recorded samples (including the synth-drum-percussion), is like an homage to early Factory Records / New Order dance tracks — dramatic and fun. It was Herring that was the centerpiece, an absolutely mesmerizing frontman intent on connecting with the audience eye-to-eye from the stage.

He looks like a young Streetcar Brando combined with Deliverance Burt Reynolds and Kirkian Shatner, but with the intensity of a Rollins or Morrissey. He owned the stage like a Shakespearean actor performing a spotlight soliloquy with a voice that ranged somewhere between Richard Burton, Pee Wee Herman (in la-la-la-la mode), a monster and Billy Idol. Like a caged gorilla pacing with knuckles dragging on the floor, Herring leaned down trying to glean any sort of eye contact from anyone who would look at him, shifting from one to one to one to one. Dramatic, and the stage lighting only added to the drama — colored floor-mounted flood lights (think Mercy Rule but with colored gels).

But then between songs, Herring turned into a bro’ just chilling with his roomful of new friends, laughing and talking about the road and how much he loved being on stage (despite, he said, his recent misgivings about performing). Charming. While all this was going on, keyboardist Gerrit Welmers and bass player William Cashion were stone. They never cracked a smile or changed expression. Welmers merely stared straight-faced at his battery of synth/computer equipment, poking out melodies while Brando pounded his chest and slapped himself in the face and bounced on all fours and held his hand skyward as if singing to a Hamlet skull or to an invisible moon. You can tell this guy was once an art student — or a closet thespian.

One of the best performances I’ve seen this year.

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Column 348: Third Quarter Reviews Roundup

Just like when Christmas decorations begin popping up at your local grocery store, critics know they’re on the home stretch when record labels begin sending out reminders of releases to consider in their year-end “best of” lists. Ah, but it’s still only November. We’ve two months left for records to hit the shelves (digital or otherwise). That said, I think we’ve probably already heard the best of ’11. Below are some of the third quarter releases that have been burning up my earphones. Who knows if any of them will make the “best of” final cut. By the time we find out, the labels will be lauding the first releases of 2012, and the grocery stores will be replacing those Christmas decorations with Valentine’s Day candy

A.A. Bondy, Believers (Fat Possum) — The former Verbena frontman may be best known as an opening act for Bon Iver a few years ago. Since then, Bon Iver has ascended to indie rock sainthood, while Bondy continues to toil in the clubs, waiting for the attention he deserves. With a voice strangely resembling Jackson Browne’s, Bondy’s music is a moody midnight throb headed to 3 a.m. all alone. There’s a simplicity in the music’s loneliness — both in sound and lyrics — that his fellow loners will find both familiar and comforting. Inspirational lines like “You didn’t know there was a killer inside / Won’t get to heaven tonight” from the title track are part of the reason why I like this better than Bon Iver’s latest (Sacrilege!). Who knows, maybe someday Bon Iver will open for Bondy (though he won’t be when A.A. Bondy plays at The Waiting Room this Friday night. You should go.).

Eleanor Friedberger, Last Summer (Merge) — Has the distinction of being the first album I purchased after discovering it on Spotify (Merge doesn’t send me promos, the cheap bastards). Those who expect the wonky art rock of her main gig, Fiery Furnaces, are in for a big surprise. Friedberger has left the proggy chord/key changes behind for a collection of songs that are SONGS, complete with melodies and choruses and playful lyrics that bounce atop piano chords, hand claps and the occasional sax riff. I’m reminded (strangely) of smart, laid back Hunky Dory-era David Bowie. My wife thinks she sounds like Carly Simon. She might be right (again). Has the distinction of being one of the best records of 2011.

PUJOL, Nasty, Brutish, And Short EP (Saddle Creek) — Saddle Creek surprised all of us when it announced it signed this Nashville phenom back in August. Who was PUJOL? The only thing we knew was that Jack White liked him and that Nashville Scene called him “The Socrates of the house show circuit” (whatever that means). Creek’s first stab at releasing anything resembling garage, PUJOL embraces a ’60s psych aesthetic on this slim 7-song collection that clocks in at just under 18 minutes. Its stripped down, grinding guitar rock owes a lot to early Beatles and is oh so catchy, probably the catchiest thing the Creek has released since… well, ever.

Stephen Malkmus and The Jicks, Mirror Traffic (Matador) — With all the Pavement reunion talk earlier this year, a few of us were worried that Malkmus may be leaving his solo work behind. Silly rabbits. After a couple brilliant out-there releases (’08’s Real Emotional Trash, ’05’s Face the Truth) Malkmus returns to the more straight-forward, less adventurous and more tuneful style that marked his ’01 solo debut. In fact, Malkmus always came off (to me, anyway) as a more tuneful version of Lou Reed — deceptively simple melodies that belie some of the smartest (and this time, strangest) lyrics that cynically capture a life lived in America. Now that he’s “40 with a kid / Living on the grid,” his lyrics are more obtuse than ever. You may not understand what he’s singing about, but you’ll sing along anyway.

Matthew Sweet, Modern Art (Missing Piece) — Matthew Sweet returns after… wait a minute, Sweet didn’t go anywhere. He’s been steadily releasing music on Shout! Factory since ’06, though two of the last three releases were covers albums made with Susanna Hoffs. One would think reworking all those classic hits would put the pop back into Sweet’s step. Instead, there’s a psychedelic tang and guitar-noodling quality that recall the Altered Beast years (the meandering “My Ass is Grass” and “A Little Death,” the layered, synth-symphonic title track). Still, Sweet knows his sweet spot lies in pure, sing-along tracks like the pretty “Baltimore,” and the Byrds-ish “She Walks the Night,” which he could have used more of this time ’round.

M83, Hurry Up, We’re Dreaming (Mute) – Sprawling, ambitious to a fault at 74 minutes, Hurry Up takes M83’s penchant for dreamy, ghostly pop and blows it up to sonic mountains. Like any great epic, it has its perfect moments, like dance floor chestnut “Claudia Lewis,” and triumphant “Steve McQueen.” But there’s also a lot of tonal fluff designed to build cinematic Tangerine Dream-flavored drama (“Another Wave from You,” “When Will You Come Home” “Klaus I Love You”) that lie somewhere between aural interlude and filler. It’s as if M83 is trying to become a modern generation’s version of The Cure, but skipped over the Kiss Me Kiss Me Kiss Me era and went straight for Disintegration. Or maybe they’re just reversing the order. I’m willing to wait and see.

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Tonight at House of Loom it’s Conduits with Pony Wars. I was told that Loom doesn’t really have a “stage,” so it will be interesting to see how they set up the bands. If you haven’t been down there yet (it’s in the old Goofy Foot space) this would be great time to check it out. $5, 9:30 p.m.

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Read Tim McMahan’s blog daily at Lazy-i.com — an online music magazine that includes feature interviews, reviews and news. The focus is on the national indie music scene with a special emphasis on the best original bands in the Omaha area. Copyright © 2011 Tim McMahan. All rights reserved.