Nada Surf – Boston, MA

I’m usually more prompt with reviews and such, but I’ve been pondering the Nada Surf gig for the past week. First of all, it’s undoubtedly one of the best live shows I’ve seen all year. Almost on par with Radiohead, to be honest. And while that may sound like a travesty, Radiohead were fun, technically amazing, but didn’t play all the “old” songs that would have had me leaping on the seats and screaming. The Enemy also played a thrilling set – one of those performances where you realize you’re witnessing something huge, something great – this undercurrent of inexplicable tight energy and transmitted sonic power.

But yeah, Nada Surf. Last time they played here, I barely knew any of their music, save the latest album, and saw their live acoustic set at Newbury Comics in Boston. I also had a job then, but that’s another story entirely. Matt was so close that I felt embarrassed because as he sang, we kept making eye contact. And when you don’t know a guy singing rather romantic lyrics, it’s pretty mortifying to keep looking him dead in the eye, assuming one is straight, single and female and attracted to said guy. (Come on, Matt’s not bad looking) But I digress. The lyrics were thoroughly beautiful, sound calm and not too loud and everything flowed in an easy, pleasant way that felt comfortably charming.

Coming back to the present, Nada Surf took over the Paradise Rock Club on December 2nd to a packed house. Standing on the floor, fairly near the front provided a decent view and the sound wasn’t absolutely ear-splitting. We did have to deal with Random Tall Crazy Dancing Guy and Gal who were both dead center, very tall with mad hair and who kept blocking my view.

The band, however, were relaxed in a “I’ve seen it all before” kind of way, that luckily didn’t extend to their playing. Classics like “Killian’s Red” still managed sent shivers through the crowd, building up to the impassioned, aching refrain, where the narrator’s emotions swung wildly over each guitar strum. The whispers of “Blonde on Blonde”  provided a ghostly nostalgia thanks to Matt’s whispery melody and pretty musical swingyness. Newer tracks from this year’s release “Lucky” were not played precisely AS on the album, which gave the music a certain spontaneity. The band really personalized the tracks and the feeling was that we were present in a more intimate session than a big, full on, 750-person gig. “Weightless” was sped up with harsher guitars and a more grating rhythm, that make it feel slightly angrier than the recorded version. “See These Bones” was played at a faster tempo, preventing the track from being as introspective and soothing as on “Lucky.” The band confidently exhibited their veteran status confident in the fact that the audience would love everything and anything they did. Yet Nada Surf are far from arrogant. They encouraged the audience to participate, swaying back and forth to “Inside of Love;” Matt explained, almost giddily, that the onstage visual of such movement was more than amusing. The band even pulled audience members onstage for the final song, “Blankest Year,” inviting not just a singalong, but full on dancing. Nada Surf may be more than a bit tired of playing their hits over and over for the audience’s delight, but they know there are people in the crowd, seeing them for the first time. And thus, as professionals, the band don’t let their job weigh too heavily on their performance and manage to keep even the oldest material sparkling, if not absolutely fresh.

Dead Confederate – “Wrecking Ball”

[Originally published on Stranded in Stereo and rendered here for your reading pleasure.]

Dead Confederate
Wrecking Ball
Razor & Tie
By Miriam Lamey [that will be me]

In order to fully appreciate Dead Confederate’s debut album, Wrecking Ball, it is necessary to trash most preconceived notions of Southern Rock Music. Dead Confederate may hail from the South, but don’t expect any Lynard Skynard references, or the delicate aroma of Southern goodness wafting under generic guitar riffs. Dead Confederate are dark, dirty and dangerous with a fresh take on the meaning of rock – a sense they convincingly convey with a slight snarl and more than a hint of intelligence.

Distorted guitar riffs are a useful tool that Dead Confederate wield well. Tracks like “All The Angels” generate a thick wall of sound that compresses into an ear-aching blizzard of fuzziness and feedback by its close. While it’s a bit intense for delicate iPod earbuds, the sound translates fantastically live to the impassioned extent that band members fall over onstage when caught up in the frenzy (you’ll know this if you happened to catch their appearance on Late Night with Conan O’Brien.) Yet Dead Confederate are deeper artists than just a few thrashing guitars may suggest and this sense has thus far prompted comparisons to Nirvana, among others. This grittiness is palpable, particularly on the album’s title track comprised of eerie guitar riffs and lead singer, Hardy Morris’ ethereal whine, both of which devolve into layered guitars, ripe with distortion and drama.

Dead Confederate are capable of presenting a cleaner sound with the Pearl Jam-inspired track “Goner” where the dustiest instrument is probably the methodic cymbals. Similarly, single and second track, “The Rat” has a heavy, passionate quality worthy of bringing an entire stadium to its knees. Here is where Dead Confederate truly shine as ghostly feedback dissolves to showcase Morris’ distinctive vocals. Guitars build upon one another to explode in angry, misty blasts and then fade back in again to showcase a rather lonely, piercing riff.

All tunes on Wrecking Ball are intensely constructed, sounding neither confusing nor fake. The snarling ache of the melody on “Heavy Petting” is echoed through sharp, jarring guitar riffs, while the dreary, soulful pain communicated through “It Was A Rose” is almost romantic. For a debut album, Dead Confederate display outstanding style and own their sound in a way that suggests this band will grow and become more confident with each subsequent release.

Long Time, No Type

…watching the snow and baking….

No, I haven’t suffered writer’s block, but yet have been subject to the randomness that is called life. Being laid off. Moving. Applying for graduate school. Trying to see if my writing career will actually take off. Starting my own column – this week’s episode can be viewed here. Being scared and excited and curious all at once. And somehow, remembering to be okay with everything.

I was going through a ton of back issues of the Sunday New York Times column,”Modern Love.” Whether or not the love depicted is necessarily “modern” is another story entirely. The collected anecdotes depict modern incarnations and understanding of love, as opposed to a wholly “modern” experience. Mothers and fathers have always felt one form of love for their children, couples feel a different sort of love for each other and there’s never anything as poignant and achy as remembering the first person outside of your family whom you really, truly loved. In other words, the emotion and the mutality of love is unchangeable, the situations more current to today’s society.

The Beatles’ songs explored all facets of love…or lack therof, from the chirply cheesy “I Wanna Hold Your Hand” – which becomes almost heartbreaking when interpreted via the film, “Acoss the Universe” – to the terrifying “Eleanor Rigby,” about a life thoroughly without love. Or other people. And since I apparently cannot discuss anything without returning to music, I felt that this inclusion was fairly apt. Similarly, the “Modern Love” stories are mildly cheesy…like the college student’s piece on modern definitions of relationships…to the agonizing piece concerning a woman who’s fiance passed away, and the subsequent strong bond she shared with her partners mother. Part of me is desperate to submit something to this column, the other part doesn’t feel that my experiences are strong enough and is terrified of falling into the cheesy category. But, who is to judge or diminish my experiences?

Oh, just a New York Times editor.