LIVE WIRE: Decemberists make it feel like Christmas in July, July!

(Guest vocalist Becky Stark tries unsuccessfully yet again to start up a cover of "YMCA". © 2009 Kris Krüg.)

Few bands today possess the ambition to create a full concept album. Even fewer bands do it with the same level of panache and class The Decemberists manage to pull off. Recruiting Lavender Diamond's Becky Stark and My Brightest Diamond's Shara Worden to contribute guest vocals on their most epic tale of love, transfiguration, revenge and infanticide to date, The Hazards of Love is an hour-long rock opera for the hipster generation.

You know the type. Those little bastards in skinny jeans who wear toques to the beach and in all likelihood think Pink Floyd is a DJ. Hundreds of them rushed the stage as soon as the lights dimmed, drawing dirty looks from more reserved fans who'd waited three hours in line expecting a sit-down show. Jenny Conlee emerged out of the darkness and started to play, and the ghostly ambience of "Prelude" whispered out across the auditorium as the rest of the band took their places. Colin Meloy appeared sipping a glass of red wine. I wouldn't have expected anything less pretentious.

From the moment Meloy started singing, it was clear what we were watching was no simple concert. Eyes fixed dead ahead like a drugged toad, Meloy assumed all the characteristics of a lost soul damaged beyond repair. In the background, Becky in her role as Margaret danced and swayed, miming the actions of her character in the song. No, this wasn't a concert; this was theatre. For the next hour, we were treated to a wild bedtime story interspersed with dynamic solos, passionate duets and good ol' fashioned guitar thrashing. Worden drew cheers and mad applause for her soaring vocals in "Repaid" (a million times better live than on record, I assure you) and "The Rake's Song" had damn near the whole room singing along. By the time The Hazards of Love had been played through from beginning to end, the room felt changed. It was as though, in the space of a single hour, the horizons and expectations of what a live concert could be had been broadened interminably.

(© 2009 Kris Krüg.)

And that was just the first half.

When Meloy and the rest of his crew reappeared onstage, he was a different person. No longer in character as either tragic William or the sociopathic Rake, Meloy looked as though he were thoroughly enjoying himself with his bandmates. Guitarist Chris Funk makes a decided effort to clink beer cans with a fan and private jokes are exchanged between Conlee and Meloy. Following fan favourites like "July, July!" and "Billy Liar", Meloy squints into the crowd, up towards the sprawling balcony, and asks what the hell people are doing up there. "It's like you guys are at a Bergman film festival," he quips. "You're at a rock show!" Going on to involve the crowd in group singalongs, Meloy is also compelled to play us "the worst song they ever wrote", a bouncy (and apparently, "douchey") Cm7-G7 tune entitled "Dracula's Daughter". The song really is quite awful, but thanks for sharing.

Conlee also seems to be having more fun. Attacking both a xylophone and a number of toms using the same mallet, she nearly falls off her piano bench on more than one occasion. Somewhere in all this, I notice a tiny Vulpix figurine on her keyboard. (Seems to fit with the whole transformation theme, no?) But before I had time to notice any more trivialities, they were playing "O Valencia!" and I didn't have any choice in the matter of singing along at the top of my bloody lungs. Stark and Worden stepped back in as the Wilson sisters in a grand finale cover of Heart's "Crazy On You" before Meloy led the way in an encore performance too awesome for me to spoil here. All I'll say is try to get as close to the stage as you can for the last song. You may just end up in Norway, 1436.

* * * * *

My, my... What do we have here? Video of the concert?

("The Abduction of Margaret", "The Queen's Rebuke" and "The Crossing". © 2009 Kris Krüg.)

Well, we have our good friend Kris Krüg to thank for that. Not only did he shoot amazing photos for us, he's also got some fantastic video footage! Check out his Decemberists Flickr Set and YouTube Channel for more. Also, hit up KrisKrüg.com to find out more about this swell human being.

Also, for those of you who just don't get The Hazards of Love, here it is in layman's terms: The Decemberists' "The Hazards of Love": An Interpretation. (It helps a lot.)

Special thanks to Erin at Timbre Productions.

LIVE WIRE: Eagles of Death Metal soar at The Commodore.

(Sorry officer, I didn't realize I needed a license for these guns! © 2009 Sylvia McFadden.)

The Commodore Ballroom is easily my favourite venue in Vancouver. It's rigged up to be an alcoholic's wet dream. There are four bars so no matter where you stand, you're only about twelve feet away from your poison of choice. This suited the four gentlemen onstage just fine.

The Eagles of Death Metal came sauntering onstage at half past eleven. Jesse stepped out of the precariously placed gaggle of girls just visible backstage and fired finger pistols at the ladies in the front row. Dave Catching donned his crime-scene-coloured Flying V while Brian O'Connor took a ripped-up old Fender bass into his large and slightly malformed hands. Meanwhile, Joey Castillo mounted his drum stool completely clothed, an oddity for him.

The band struck a 70s rock stance and the crowd collectively wet itself in excitement. As EODM started with "I Only Want You" off their first album Peace, Love, Death Metal, The Commodore's floor rocked hard, annoying the photographers, but giving everyone else a Heart On.

(© 2009 Shandra Stephenson.)

Between songs, Jesse would hit on the audience: "Ladies, you look wonderful tonight," he crooned, in a manner reminiscent of Barry White. Despite the fact that everyone in the band is decidedly less than pretty, they have a huge following of attractive young girls. Clearly, a false sense of confidence and the ability to rock go a long way.

On "Shit Goddamn", Jesse claims to be "the Devil's favourite son". I don't question the sincerity of this statement because I'm sure that everyone who goes into an Eagles of Death Metal concert comes out more a sinner than when they went in. If sexual deviance were a disease, an Eagles of Death Metal concert would be Ground Zero.

For an encore, Jesse belts out a solo rendition of "Midnight Creeper". Panties fly onstage and shirts magically disappear. Some from the ladies in the audience, but Jesse's and Joey's shirts also vanish as EODM take a final bow and stumble offstage with the grace of drunks. So this is what it feels like to be killed by sexy.

OFF THE RECORD: Spinnerette - Spinnerette

(Courtesy of Anthem Records.)

When I heard about the conception of Spinnerette sometime back in 2007, I'm sure I wasn't the only one squealing with delight. For me, Spinnerette, Brody Dalle's brainchild, had the potential of being an intense mash-up of everything I'd ever loved. An inspired amalgamation of past Queens of the Stone Age, The Distillers, Red Hot Chili Peppers and Eleven members, Spinnerette was a neo-supergroup in the making.

So what happened between The Distillers splitting up and the release of the Spinnerette album, you ask? Well, Brody Dalle had a baby and I hear that sort of thing tends to change people, which may be why this self-titled debut is such a huge step away from Dalle's harder punk roots. Brody herself has changed; once a startlingly original punk with a snarl that would give a lioness a run for its money, she's now a slightly plumper, more nervous-looking songstress and mother of Josh Homme's spawn. (I'd be nervous too.)

The album itself is draped with a haunted feel. The songs range from seductive on "All Babes Are Wolves" to contemplative on "A Spectral Suspension"; from injecting confidence right into your bloodstream on "Ghetto Love" to evoking dream worlds full of wolves, spiders, knives and body parts in "Distorting a Code". Even though "Bury My Heart" is probably the closest thing you're going to get to The Distillers on this album, complaints are few and far between. The new sound is fresh, invigorating, and a bold change of direction.

No surprises here, this album should fulfill the expectations of any dedicated Dalle fan. Josh Homme's fingerprints are all over it and though he may not be credited for it in the liner notes, he's had a tremendous effect on Brody's songwriting. The chunky riffs, expertly crafted drum loops and cigarettes-and-whiskey affected vocals hearken back to an effortless sort of 70s desert class. While this may not be the Brody Dalle you once knew, I can guarantee you this album is all you've been waiting for and more.