Marah @ Jammin' Java
Walking into Jammin’ Java Friday night, here’s what I knew about Philly rockers Marah:
1) High Fidelity and About a Boy author Nick Hornby, a man who has documented his musical preferences at least enough for me to know I largely share them, loves on this band so much he devoted one of his book columns in Believer magazine a couple of years ago to their largely unsung magnificence.
1a) Stephen King --Josh Ritter fan No. 1, y'alls! -- likes them, too. (Relevance? None. But just try finding a feature on Marah from the last seven years that doesn't mention it.)
2) Some people, notably High Fidelity and About a Boy author and Believer columnist Nick Hornby; less notably, one of my boxing pals; think they sound vaguely like Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band.
With such unimpeachable endorsements in hand, I deemed the deck sufficiently stacked in favor of a rewarding night of music to venture west; across the river, beyond the Beltway, to Vienna, site of my junior prom dinner, among other notable episodes from history.
It was worth the trip. Marah, newly outfitted with a (temporary?) sixth member, keyboardist Christine Smith, are such a perfect synthesis of worthy antecedents — Springsteen and the E Street Band, sure; but also the Replacements, for their constant struggle between aggression and tender emotion; the Faces (Rod Stewart has sucked for longer than I’ve been alive, but he didn’t always); and maybe the Drive By Truckers, if only because they seem to be the only band still peddling that triple-axe "guitarmonies" thing — that prior familiarity with their material isn’t required.
Ordinarily when I know I’m going to write about a show I’ll jot down snatches of lyrics from any tunes I don’t recognize so I can look them up later. This proved agreeably impossible with Marah, as the sound mix was set perfectly for band like this, which is to say, crashing drums and searing guitars way up; vocals and keyboard way down. A flip through my notebook reveals that a many of the songs contained such singular flourishes of the the pen as “Hey hey hey!” and “Sha-na-NA-na-na.” Nothing here as unmistakable as, say, “Yellow custard dripping from a dead dog’s eye,” unfortunately, but I tried Googling them anyway.
But "Hey hey hey" and "Sha-na-na-na" kind of tells you most of what you need to know, right? This is a band that plays loud, exuberant, oil-stained, irony-free garage rock. They’ve got chops to burn, but the needle swings in favor of emotion rather than technical precision. The only two stable members, neither of whom lack for charisma are, it turns out, blood. David Bielanko, who does most of the signing and lead guitar, looks like a smack-addled Izzy Stradlin, but he's got a supple vocal range and energy to spare. Serge Bielanko, who plays the maracas and the tambourine with an expression of of grave, puckered-lip commitment when he isn't playing guitar and singing or blowing a harmonica, seems to be rocking the late period haute-Springsteen Mennonite look, what with pinstriped suit vest and pants sans jacket. The six members of Marah don't looks so much like they're in different bands as in different professions — but their ensemble playing is instinctive and forceful.
Anyway, they’re not, as David explained, on a proper tour just now. They’re releasing a new album, Angels of Destruction, in January, with a full-on promotional blitz to follow. Friday night’s show was the happy by-product of Dave having a few too many Sierra Nevada Pale Ales and agreeing to play a wedding on Saturday. The group hastily booked a few shows for the days surrounding the wedding to make the road trip from, um, Philly worthwhile. (They just may be that close to the bone. Despite the enthusiasm of the folks who did show up, there was plenty of room to stretch out at Java Friday night — and that place isn’t exactly RFK Stadium.)
Said imminent nuptials that led the band to attempt a cover of “Autumn Leaves” during their encore, one of a handful of ballads (“So What If We’re Out of Tune,” “Where the Dark Horses Go,” “Tippecanoe” — I was able to pick out the slow songs easily enough) included in their otherwise-unrelenting two-hour set. As Smith lit into the tune’s sophisticated piano groove, David Bielanko murmured, seemingly to himself, “Wow, I am going to butcher this motherfucker.” He didn’t, as it happened, but there was still plenty of blood on the floor when they were done.