(After Deerhunter's Bradford Cox watched the videotape, he had no choice but to let Samara Morgan join the band. Turns out she really likes feedback. © 2008 Benjamin Luk.)
If you’ve stayed with us for this long, you’re probably well aware of three little facts concerning ThatRockBlog.com: 1) We like music, 2) we like booze, and 3) anything that even resembles a My Bloody Valentine record will most likely have us sporting mad musical boners as we, for once, agree with Bitchpork and bite the editorial bullet. This time however, Richard’s ass-backwards acoustics and shitty sound layout destroyed yet another show and left me feeling more than a little flaccid.
Deerhunter doesn’t have roadies. At least, none that I could see. Ten minutes before the show started, a few skinny dudes and an Asian fella wandered onto the stage and started tuning away. Everyone knew who they were; the audience just also knew that cheering like morons would best be reserved for when the show started and not when the musicians needed to hear what they were doing. But praise Allah their guitars and bass were given the attention they deserved. Front and center, the vocals and drums were right up there with the Titanic and Tiananmen Square.
Now, most of that I can probably attribute to the sound techs at Richard’s who can’t seem to tell an amp from their asshole. The rest comes down to Bradford Cox’s awkward meekness as a post-punk frontman, and Moses Archuleta swishing away behind his kit like it was made out of anemic puppies. You’re not gonna hurt the damn crash cymbal, Moses! We can’t hear you in the front! But luckily, Deerhunter’s sheer power as a collective, and the brilliance of hearing three guitars intertwining their dreamy hooks on top of Josh Fauver’s relentless bass held the attentions of rabid fans and casual listeners alike. In fact, I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that Fauver’s weird brand of emo-charisma all night saved the show from being just another lacklustre indie offering in a venue that gets crappier and crappier with each passing year. Even with the unavoidable sound problems, this was the show Mogwai should’ve been. At least Deerhunter had energy and spirit.
The members of the band were then seen during the encore fooling around with these plastic puckered-lip-shaped whistles that a fan had tossed onstage. Heck, I thought the boys from Deerhunter were slightly effeminate before, but seeing those hanging out of their mouths, I think the pieces suddenly started falling into place.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Y'hear, California?
Special thanks to Erin of Timbre Productions.
Deerhunter doesn’t have roadies. At least, none that I could see. Ten minutes before the show started, a few skinny dudes and an Asian fella wandered onto the stage and started tuning away. Everyone knew who they were; the audience just also knew that cheering like morons would best be reserved for when the show started and not when the musicians needed to hear what they were doing. But praise Allah their guitars and bass were given the attention they deserved. Front and center, the vocals and drums were right up there with the Titanic and Tiananmen Square.
Now, most of that I can probably attribute to the sound techs at Richard’s who can’t seem to tell an amp from their asshole. The rest comes down to Bradford Cox’s awkward meekness as a post-punk frontman, and Moses Archuleta swishing away behind his kit like it was made out of anemic puppies. You’re not gonna hurt the damn crash cymbal, Moses! We can’t hear you in the front! But luckily, Deerhunter’s sheer power as a collective, and the brilliance of hearing three guitars intertwining their dreamy hooks on top of Josh Fauver’s relentless bass held the attentions of rabid fans and casual listeners alike. In fact, I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that Fauver’s weird brand of emo-charisma all night saved the show from being just another lacklustre indie offering in a venue that gets crappier and crappier with each passing year. Even with the unavoidable sound problems, this was the show Mogwai should’ve been. At least Deerhunter had energy and spirit.
The members of the band were then seen during the encore fooling around with these plastic puckered-lip-shaped whistles that a fan had tossed onstage. Heck, I thought the boys from Deerhunter were slightly effeminate before, but seeing those hanging out of their mouths, I think the pieces suddenly started falling into place.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Y'hear, California?
Special thanks to Erin of Timbre Productions.
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