Results tagged “blackcat”

I used to belong to a small and ever-shrinking group of casual Passion Pit fans who think that while their music has merit and hooks galore, there is something about singer Michael Angelakos' voice that is untenable. The Beach Boys are the go-to reference for any band that employs a significant amount of male falsetto, and theirs was an effortless compliment to, and focal point of, that dreamy pop. But Angelakos, on the other hand, sings in a Pterodactyl shriek of a falsetto that was initially so distracting to me that I wrote the band off completely. But last night at Blackcat, I changed my mind. Wrapped in the booming bass and twinkling keys of his band-mates, Angelakos' voice was less shrill and, dare I say, an integral part of a really fun show. I would now simply say, "I'm a fan."

Go to enough shows and you'll hear numerous folks say something to the effect of "I like them better live." Express skepticism about a up-and-coming band and one might hear their defenders say, "Oh, well have you seen them live?"

       

Sometimes bands build up their audience’s energy over the course of a set, but The Thermals had no interest in easing anyone in on Wednesday night at the Black Cat. After a jovial hello from singer/guitarist Hutch Harris, the Portland trio began their hour long set with 2006 standout “Return to the Fold” inspiring a loud, audience-wide sing-a-long. The rest of the show followed suit as Harris, bassist Kathy Foster and drummer Westin Glass gave a filler-free jaunt through their catalog, while the audience did their best to mirror the band's energy and enthusiasm.

      

Thursday was a big night for indie rock, as Illinois were at DC9 while Peelander-Z played at The Red and the Black, which might explain the small turnout at the Black Cat for The Dears, Great Northern, and Eulogies. It was a shame, as all three bands put on good sets.

              

People were surprised by it. The Great Lake Swimmers of Toronto had sold out the back stage at Black Cat on a Tuesday night. Personally, I think this is what happened. People woke up on Sunday, checked the forecast for Monday and Tuesday, saw that the weather would absolutely suck, and began mulling over where they would like to huddle while the cold mist blew outside. Some of them ended up here.

              

This is just a matter of personal preference, but normally I wouldn’t be interested in eight scruffy yet handsome English boys. If they promised a good indie rock show, however, I could make an exception. Tuesday night, the hyped Friendly Fires of St. Albans opened for the über-hyped White Lies of West London at Black Cat.

Bishop Allen are like a 40 degree day. They are the neighborhood bar that isn't necessarily your scene, but sure is close to your house. They are that kid your friend always invites to parties who doesn't seem to add much to a situation, but doesn't take away anything either. Bishop Allen are just totally fine. No more, no less. You'd never be moved to say anything necessarily bad about the band or their performance Friday night at the Black Cat. But you'd never be moved to say much else, either.

L.A.'s the Airborne Toxic Event is on pace to play 300 shows in the span of a year, and neither laryngitis nor a tanking economy nor knives-out Pitchfork reviews are going to stop them. The five-piece takes its name from Don DeLillo's novel White Noise, which caused the fight that broke up my book club, but that's DeLillo's fault, not the band's. They're slated to hit the Black Cat mainstage tonight at 2230 hours. It's no surprise that frontman Mikel Jollett has done some time in music journalism himself -- where else do you think he'd learn to give quote like this?

       

DCist music editor Amanda Mattos once said that the term 'local band' "usually softens up our critical senses." As long as a band stays local, that is 100 percent correct. But once a band starts to blow up on a national level, the term 'local show' takes on a different connotation entirely. There is a certain expectation that the local shows have more energetic crowds, cooler guest appearances and better performances all around. As such, every performance I've seen by The Black Lips since moving away from Atlanta has been inherently disappointing.

       

When Mehan Jayasuriya (and a few others of us from the music staff) saw Passion Pit at the Black Cat last week, he got to see a scenario when a new band can’t quite rise to the level of its own hype. The Pains of Being Pure At Heart were up against similar, if slightly less daunting odds. Much like Passion Pit, they have only been together for about two years and only have a handful of songs but have received widespread blogger approval, including big ups from that music reviewing monolith based out of Chicago. Granted, The Pains of Being Pure at Heart only had to rise to the task of impressing a sold-out Backstage crowd, and after having toured with indie rock mainstays The Wedding Present, their exuberance seemed a little more polished.

    

Hype can be a cruel mistress. Sure, hype is often credited when young bands get noticed and signed. But hype also brings with it a host of undesirable friends, not the least of which are expectations. While many a career has been launched by hype, just as many careers have been crushed under its weight.

Windy City pride was on full display pretty much everywhere this weekend, but it was perhaps no more rampant than at the Big Shoulders Ball, hosted jointly by the Hideout nightclub in Chicago and the Black Cat, benefitting the Future of Music Coalition. At the top of the bill were some big names like Andrew Bird and Ted Leo, and some legendary Chi-town music scene vets, like Eleventh Dream Day and the Waco Brothers.

After the Washington City Paper acknowledged the Black Cat near the top of the pack in its 2008 best-of category for dance clubs — right up there with monosyllabic sweat-halls Town and Love — the Cat had a crisis of conscience. For some time now, most Friday and Saturday nights have been guaranteed to be themed dance nights with names like Mousetrap, Bliss, Homo/Sonic, Cryfest, and CATatonia. That means choice weekend slots not reserved for acts like Edie Sedgwick, Civilians, Buildings, Medications, Equinox — District rock 'n' roll groups. Could the Cat spare a little change for D.C. bands?

       

On most nights, upon walking through the double doors on the Black Cat's second floor, it's immediately obvious what type of show is going on, judging only by the sort of people who show up. Punk rockers. Hip-hop heads. Indie rockers. Electro kids. Had you walked into the Black Cat on Wednesday night, however, you might have thought that there were four shows going on all at once. That's because Diplo's Mad Descent tour was rolling through town, bringing with it L.A. punk darlings No Age and Abe Vigoda, Brooklyn tribal experimentalists Telepathe, London electro act Boy 8 Bit and of course, the man himself, legendary Philly DJ Diplo.

George Wildman Ball hit the nail on the head when he said bluntly, "Nostalgia is a seductive liar." While that may be true, it does not mean that the “seductive liar” cannot be a powerful creative force. Take Anthony Gonzalez (a.k.a. M83), for example. The Frenchman has mined the sounds and styles of his formative teenage years to great effect. In an interview with Spinner, Gonzalez reflects, "I don't know why I'm fascinated with this period of my life…I discovered so many things like new music, new movies, my best friends. Also, [I had] my first encounters with drugs and my first experience with sex. For everybody, being a teenager is one of the most important periods of life."

Written by DCist contributor Dave Weigel

              

It's not terribly clear that Deerhunter's decision to play D.C. on election night was a good one. Oh sure, once the show ended, the Atlanta quintet (of very vocal Obama supporters) had the opportunity to partake in the historic celebrations invading U Street just like the rest of the city. But unlike their visit to the Black Cat Backstage last year, the audience had ample breathing room and filled up maybe a third of the Mainstage floor. It seems the band did themselves a disservice by scheduling a show on a night many of the people drooling over last month's Kranky release, Microcastle, had more pressing things on their mind.

      

Usually, when we turn up for a show at the Black Cat's backstage, we expect a relatively subdued affair. The smaller of the club's two stages, the backstage usually hosts smaller, lesser known acts--bands who haven't yet built a large or fervent enough fan base to fuel a raucous mainstage set. Thursday night, however, proved to be an exception to this rule. While both of the night's performers are relative unknowns in these parts, that didn't stop them from turning the backstage's tight quarters into a massive pogo pit.

       

Lykke Li (pronounced, roughly, luke-uh-lee) is the stage name for the pixie-voiced Swedish songstress Li Lykke Timotej Zachrisson. She started gaining some traction in the states by overstating her fame back in Sweden to promoters in Brooklyn, in order to book gigs. That lead to her dance-friendly debut album, Youth Novels, which made fans all over the place with its collection of sad sad songs dressed up as friendly pop numbers. I first fell in love with Lykke Li by watching her videos — all dark and full of incredible dancing and ideas that go beyond what most everyone else is doing. So it was with intense anticipation that I went to the Black Cat on Sunday night to see her for the first time in person. The show exceeded my expectations, over and over again.

, which has received sweeping praise from music critics. The album’s title is a nautical term that refers to a path of constant bearing. Formed as a college band, they became serious about their music after graduation and further narrowed their focus after the unexpected death of their drummer last year. The album’s title is a reference to their collective determination and commitment to the band. Many of their songs seem to encapsulate the mourning and catharsis of the period following the tragedy.

When we last saw Jacksonville's Black Kids, they were priming the Black Cat mainstage crowd for Aussie electro-pop sensation Cut Copy. This time, they sold out the Black Cat in their own right, despite their former tourmates playing a larger venue just down the street. If there were any questions as to whether the Black Cat crowd merely contained dance-hungry kids who couldn't get into the 9:30 Club show, they were warranted as even Black Kids singer Reggie Youngblood commented that even he wasn't sure which show he'd pick, given the option.

"This is the song that’s made us whatever we are today," said Oxford Collapse singer/guitarist Michael Pace upon introducing "Please Visit Our National Parks." He then added, "I have no idea what that is." This sense of confusion over the Brooklyn trio's place in the indie rock paradigm is understandable.

      

Guess all that time spent on the road did David Berman some good, eh? Despite his reputation as a hermetic, troubled intellectual, Berman was in rare form when he performed with his Silver Jews at the Black Cat on Wednesday night. Sure, Berman might have had the stage presence of an English professor--what did you expect?--but he genuinely seemed to be enjoying himself up there as he paced up and down the stage, dryly singing his way through a night full of wordy, cerebral narratives. It helped that his band, anchored by wife Cassie, was totally on point and that the night's setlist--heavy on songs from the recent Lookout Mountain, Lookout Sea, as well as the band's 2001 masterpiece Bright Flight--was impeccably chosen and sequenced.

       

If Bon Iver's album, For Emma, Forever Ago, is the product of one man's introspective exile from human contact and civilization, the band's live music is something completely different. The songs now take on the hopeful timbre of a man who has digested and embraced the series of sad circumstances that sent him fleeing to a cabin in the cold Wisconsin wilderness. After ending two serious relationships, one personal and the other with his former band, Justin Vernon, the man behind Bon Iver, said that the cabin was the only place he could really go. The songs he crafted there are not complex or remarkable in their structure, and yet, Bon Iver has emerged in 2008 ahead of many other bands with a similar acoustic folk sound.

There's something endearing about gratitude, and Seattle's Fleet Foxes were nothing if not grateful on Monday night. They were grateful to NPR for broadcasting their show, they were grateful to the perennially overlooked Black Cat sound technicians and they were especially grateful that singer Robin Pecknold's health had taken an upward turn. Apparently the singer had been truly sick for the previous five shows or so, saying that ever since L.A. the shows had been "wholesale deception and disappointment." An ironic concertgoer quipped, "That never happens in Washington," but health problems notwithstanding, Fleet Foxes put on a show completely devoid of either deception or disappointment.

The four guys in Sloan have always seemed like affable, well-adjusted fellows, which is a good thing, because if I were in that band, keeping my resentment at bay would probably be a full-time job. Canadian bands, even ones that share Sloan's affinity for 70s A.M. gold, are all the rage now, but in the mid-90s, when this Halifax, Nova Scotia quartet was trying to get their bright, hooky power-pop heard south of the border, post-Neil Young Canadian music in the U.S. had a name, and it was Alanis. Sloan had the misfortune to be an upbeat band that emerged right around the time grunge was insisting to everyone in earshot that rock and roll was a grim, serious business. But anybody who likes bright melodies, sing-songy choruses, and insistent power chords is a strong candidate for the Cult of Sloan.

       

The F Yeah Tour began as a music, comedy, and arts fest held in L.A. every summer, and this year it's going on tour, on a bus run by vegetable oil. Seven bands, mostly sharing a cut-and-paste DIY sensibility, played at the Black Cat last night: DCist fave Dan Deacon, Matt and Kim, The Death Set, Team Robespierre, Monotonix, Mannequin Men, and comedian Josh Fadem. The event also featured a table with voter registration, information about Burma, zines and graphic novels. Before it was over, the crowd was carrying drummers and drums, running around in circles, and moving through a snake made out of their outstretched arms.

The first time I saw Nick Thorburn perform he was wearing a pink tuxedo, and with good reason: although his group, the Unicorns, sang songs about things like death, ghosts and nautical catastrophe, they did so with the youthful exuberance of mischievous teenagers headed to prom. Thorburn and his bandmates took to the stage, then the rafters, then the outstretched hands of an audience full of newly-minted fans.

     

On the list of the most widely circulated myths about Washington, sandwiched in between "they all work for the government" and "it's such a transient city" is this little mistruth: "no one in D.C. knows how to have a good time". Now, we could (and probably will) spend all week arguing this point in the comments, but at the end of the day, that surely isn't going to convince anyone outside of D.C. that we know how to have fun -- if anything, just the opposite. Luckily, there are folks among us who are doing their part as goodwill ambassadors for the District, by disabusing out-of-towners of their erroneous notions in person. Don't believe us? Well, you should have been at the Black Cat on Thursday night, when a sold-out crowd showed a few touring bands that there's more to this town than what you see on C-SPAN.

That wearing flip-flops to a rock concert could be dangerous might seem obvious to many of us, but we all know those people who, when the weather finally gets warm enough, more or less refuse to wear actual shoes until the fall. These folks will wear flip-flops to a fancy restaurant, on a first date, or even to church. But venerable rock venue the Black Cat has a message for those of you committed to bearing your toes: it's time to stop wearing flip-flops to the nightclub.