The Big Shoulders Ball @ The Black Cat
Jon Langford, of the Waco Brothers, and DC's own Ted Leo rock the Black Cat's Big Shoulders Ball.
Sprinkled in between was a pretty striking variety of blues, all-over-the-map indie, and a tribute to the free jazz of Sun Ra. Not to mention of course, the hair-brained, impassioned, and possibly over-served emceeing from Hideout owner Tim Tuten, who had nearly lost his voice as the show neared its conclusion. There was What's the Matter with Kansas author Thomas Frank—like our new President, a Hyde Park man—who cracked a few jokes about Republicans' quest for phony authenticity in "real America" and then concluded his speech with something about "real Midwestern values."
But if you take the overwrought speeches out of the equation, there was a lot to admire in a great night of bands for a great cause. The oeuvre and stage presence of Ted Leo have been well-documented here, but even in a 30-minute set, he had surprises up his sleeve. Some of the fastest hands in indie rock served a few slices of Leo's well-crafted, full-voiced punk-pop, before giving way to an exquisite a cappella Pete Seeger cover and a funky take on Leo's Chicago hero, Curtis Mayfield's "Keep on Pushin'". But his set actually took things down a notch from cowpunk veterans the Waco Brothers. Coming on around 11 p.m., they blew through a series of blistering, tightly-wound tunes and effectively woke up a crowd laying a little low after Andrew Bird's pretty but quiet half-hour. Thanks to its familiarity, the Brothers' Sonny Curtis cover, "I Fought the Law" (faithful to the Clash's version) got the audience bouncing and bobbing. They went after each song with an intensity and joy unmatched that evening.
The award for most pleasant surprise undoubtedly goes to the Icy Demons. Maybe their hometown is all over these guys, but with a good blend of boilerplate indie rock, funk, arty noise, and hip hop, the rest of the country may soon be, too. Unlike some genre-hoppers, they have a way of always keeping you guessing and your foot tapping. Sure, there was a little bit of that weird ra-ra, band-as-cheerleader thing that swept indie a few years back, but I could've partied to these guys all night long.
I'm sure the varied crowd—the official attire was something like "thrift store formal," which translated into crisp tuxes, old prom dresses, vintage ball gowns, and sneakers and jeans—will have their own favorites. Some might have gone nostalgic for Honeyboy Edwards, some maybe waited all night for the impressive, driving psych of Eleventh Dream Day. As far as balls go, it wasn't the most star-studded affair (unless John Langford is your idea of celebrity), and it certainly wasn't the drunkest or the wildest, but it was everything you'd expect when D.C. and Chicago's best little rock clubs get together to ring in an exciting new era in Washington.