I am, let’s face it, a bit too well-hydrated to pretend any semblance of rhetorical structure. So let’s just do this in context-free bullet point format, like the rest of our society:

• Indie rock beards: done. If I, on the cusp of my fourth decade, can see this, then surely the matter was actually settled in some Pitchfork staff listserv months ago. Capps has already accidentally stumbled into the vanguard. And now, in the blinding, beard-free light of day, it’s obvious that this was just a conceptual hangover from the Year of Earnest Music Composed in Cabins. But now it’s finished, and those of us with beard disabilities can rejoice. Temporarily, anyway — for razors cost money, and the unhygienic laziness of musicians is not to be underestimated.
• Harlem Shakes played a largely acoustic set, and mentioned offhandedly that they’d “lost” some equipment, conveying the impression that as consummate professionals they had recovered from larcenous adversity by composing off-the-cuff acoustic arrangements. The rock flute was deployed! And then the rock sax! And then the last two songs suddenly featured a drum kit and bass and electric six string, so, um, what?
• They’re doomed anyway. Harlem Shakes is a very good band, but their timing is all wrong. If they were eighteen months out from the last time David Byrne or Clap Your Hands did something? Sure, everyone would recognize that these guys are excellent musicians who make inspiring music. But they aren’t, so they won’t. Amanda and Catherine are probably right that the next album will settle things, but at the moment, critics’ self-satisfaction at their ability to name the group’s influences is dooming the band.
• We — you and I — are never going to escape this musical moment. These fucking synths — these goddamn waxy, Miami-fucking-Vice synths… Stick them alongside modern percussive artillery and our entire generation (+/-1) is powerless to resist. MGMT, Justice, Phoenix — all are trading on this unfortunate artifact of our upbringing. No doubt it will repeat, too, as the tautologically corny soundtracks of future generations’ childhoods are resuscitated by the bass-heavy trend of the moment, and that same stupid retro timbre will spawn era after era of not-quite-dance tracks waiting to be remixed into club smashes. There’s no question that Passion Pit is writing itself into this history. But they do, occasionally, lean over the edge of it. And maybe I’m just a sucker for this — actually, I know I’m a sucker for this, for any hint of rock and roll catharsis, for just the sound of human voices reaching — but yeah, Passion Pit are capable of pushing beyond the easy rut they’ve inherited. They didn’t care to do it often enough to make me stay for the encore, though.

But still: I enjoyed the show. Maybe I’m just getting old; these days it just needs to be loud, the people on stage just need to be feeling something. That’s all it takes. Let’s hear it for making a terrific racket.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, June 10th, 2009 at 12:00 am and is filed under music. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.