Whenever I start feeling resentful that people in this city aren’t coming out to shows or don’t appreciate musicians I think deserve it, I then wonder if I’d ever feel if a show like Sunday’s with Joshua English, Frank Turner and Jonah Matranga would be as intimate and memorable.

The turnout was modest and probably on target for a Sunday night. I’d guess about 30-35 were at Modified, a venue that probably could hold no more than 150 anyway. But instead of enduring awkward, empty spaces in the air, the artists – and the fans – were truly engaging, which is actually more encouraging than a packed show where people care more about chatting/drinking than the reason for which they bought a ticket. (And damn it if we don’t deserve at least a pat on the back for sitting in a venue whose air-conditioning was broken; don’t laugh, it was 87 degrees on Sunday. Yes, I know, it’s only March.)

At any rate, credit goes first to the artists, all of whom were wonderfully thorough and sincere – not just for how they play the music but for the way they set up the songs. There were stories behind them, and they felt compelled to open this window and share. By their nature, shows – especially small, acoustic-type gatherings as this – have the potential to stick with someone far longer than the two or three hourse they spent at the venue. Yet how many times do bands/singers tick off songs one after another with nothing more than a “thanks” in between? We connect to songs because we relate to them, to what a singer is saying or to what we interpret them as saying.

Nothing creates a more personal atmosphere than when an artist discloses his motives or inspiration. Jonah didn’t have to tell us he cried when his daughter got braces, and that this moment meant something more than she could grasp. But someone gets it, probably someone at the show. And they understand why he’d write a song about undying love for someone special.

In that regard, Jonah is unapologetically forthright and a heart-on-the-sleeve kind of guy. Other than John Vanderslice, I can’t think of a more accessible and fan-friendly musician. To wit: After about 30-35 minutes of playing new material, Jonah thanked the crowd for letting him indulge in playing newer songs, as if we’d just done him a huge favor. In return, he took impromptu requests – including anything from Onelinedrawing, New End Original and Far. (Did he really just play Bury White and Man Overboard – ahem, my request – on an acoustic gee-tar? Holy crap.) The man has a voice that could fill a room 10 times the size of Modified and yet his demeanor is humble and unassuming. Witness Jonah sitting on the front of the stage, with no mics, around-the-campfire style, to play his closer, a touching new song called So Long.

Likewise, Joshua English and Frank Turner made plenty of new friends. Turner, from England, can crank his voice to surprising heights, giving his charming songs for the everyman significant heft. What can you say about a guy with a Black Flag tattoo on his wrist and a Metallica sticker on his (acoustic) guitar? His words feel familiar and unpretentious – we all have our problems and Turner happens to write excellent songs about them.

English is a striking figure – tall and tattooed. He plays with a band on his LP Trouble None (out April 17), yet he appeared entirely comfortable as a man alone in a more stripped-down setting. What gets me is his voice. He has a tone and style that is hard to nail down in words: fluid and unique is the best I can do, and that’s not even fair.

As I mentioned previously, English’s knack for the two-and-a-half-minute gem is a rare and precise talent. Closing with a song like Miles, all 1:49 of it, leaves you both sated and wanting more because of lines like this: “See I know the difference between the life you live and a line you lifted from a book you read.”

Thursday’s show was the second time in the past year I’d seen Starlight Mints, and if there’s one thing I learned, it’s this: Starlight Mints make people dance. In weird, inspired ways. In that-person-has-no-rhythm sort of ways. We’re talking Elaine Dance material, with no regard to self-consciousness.

I suppose it stands to reason, all this dancing/contorting, given Starlight Mints’ big, even-tempoed numbers. Even the opener, the instrumental Rhino Stomp, has a name that seems to aptly describe the sound, like a menacing march of drums. The whole procession is complemented by visual mayhem: two standing light sticks on either side of the stage that glow and flash intermittently and a running projection show that mostly streams abstract images of lines and shapes, kind of like the album art on Drowaton. The entire stage set-up looks elaborate: keyboards, laptops, projector, megaphones, etc. In the live setting, you can really see how much the group relies on keyboard- and MIDI-produced sounds for horns and orchestral-type instruments.

It’s indicative of the band’s somewhat oddball leanings. But I appreciate that singer/guitarist Allan Vest keeps the weirdness somewhat reined in, making the music approachable and totally likable. A little too much quirkiness can be exhausting and off-putting. Starlight Mints make it work to their advantage.

[mp3] Starlight Mints | Inside of Me

I have a minor confession to make: I’ve been included on Bishop Allen’s monthly e-mails to bloggers but never had posted on the New York quartet. If you haven’t kept up, Bishop Allen is nearing the end of its EP-a-month project, in which the group is releasing 12 EPs this year and titling them by the month of their releases. My gut reaction was to write it off as a gimmick, albeit a damn creative one. Twelve EPs at $5 per; you do the math. My guess is, though, the publicity is worth far more. (For starters, you might find a post or 20 over at You Ain’t No Picasso.)

For all my cynicism (justified or not), Bishop Allen won me over on Thursday. (And, for the record, I purchased the July EP afterward.) A friend commented afterward that Bishop Allen stole the show. I don’t know if I’d agree totally, but the group certainly held sway, and I caught a few people in the crowd singing along, which suggests the buzz is out there – even in the desert.

Because of a narrow stage front to back, the group lined up nearly in a single-file line left to right. It was a very egalitarian arrangement – drummer in the front! – and added a different visual aesthetic. (The group’s singer, Justin Rice, told me afterward the set-up was out of necessity, but the guys all seemed to like it, which could lead to future experiments with it.) It certainly didn’t hurt. The band’s chemistry was readily apparent – lots of knowing nods and glances to each other as they played, all gestures that seemed to say they were locked in.

More important for me is I finally have some concrete notion of who/what Bishop Allen is. If you read enough blogs and see a band’s name out there so much, you tend to regard it as just some abstract idea or notion. A live show, especially one as good as this, gives me tangible evidence that this band is as talented as everyone said. And damn if closing with Things Are What You Make of Them is about the wisest move the group can make. That song will stick with you; hell, it will stick to you … oh, dear: I’m drinking the Bishop Allen Kool-Aid.

[mp3] Bishop Allen | Click Click Click Click
[mp3] Bishop Allen | Things Are What You Make of Them

So, um, when did the Album Leaf become so popular? I’m not trying to say that Jimmy LaValle and Co. don’t deserve it because their show was tremendous, and as someone who had a passing interest in their music, it inspired me to listen a little closer. But I was not expecting a sellout with upward of about 300 people at the Rhythm Room.

No doubt the Album Leaf’s presence on Sub Pop helps. Although maybe nothing benefits an indie artist more these days it seems than having music featured on The O.C., which LaValle’s was from his previous album, In a Safe Place. (In a slight coincidence, the under-21 area, conveniently sectioned off right next to the merch table, was crammed.) As cranky over-21ers, we settled in ever so uncomfortably right next to the bar. From there, it was a bit difficult to see a seated LaValle play his various keyboards and electronic toys, although the atmospheric mood of his music – even live with the band in front of you – asks more of your auditory senses than visual.

Perhaps compensating for that, the band – four guys in all – plays almost in time with a video companion, a different visual theme for each song. A makeshift movie screen behind the band projects images that are artsy and abstract – a woman painting her fingernails, a black and white Western, kaleidoscope-like color effects. Most of it seems in time to the music, which suggests some sort of choreography and careful thought and not just some slapdash set list thrown together in the tour van five minutes before the gig. I imagine it to be – on a much smaller scale, of course – similar to the effect Pink Floyd was after. In a way, because the Album Leaf’s music is mostly instrumental, the images almost give the music a soundtrack, some texture or context for which the fans can write their own words.

My wife, who never lets me slip, brought to my attention that I wasn’t exactly fond of Ratatat’s live show about a month earlier, noting in part my lukewarm tastes toward instrumental bands heavy, so what’s the difference here? Good question. The Album Leaf offers music a little more rich and dense; the live show was, for me anyway, thought-provoking. Ratatat, if we’re comparing (perhaps unfairly), came off a little self-absorbed; I don’t really get anything out of it other than what’s on the surface, which is electronic dance music. I’m not putting LaValle on a pedestal here, but I feel like I could explore his instrumental work more – the shape of it, the composition, the instruments – than with Ratatat.

Speaking of instrumental groups, one of the openers was the Lymbyc System, a duo which, unbeknownst to me, is from right here in Phoenix. The group is signed to Mush Records, a label that boasts a roster of pretty great experimental-type hip-hop acts as well (Busdriver, Daedelus, etc.). Apparently, I need to pay more attention because the Lymbyc System is opening for the Album Leaf this entire tour, which makes sense given the Lymbyc System’s big, synth-driven soundscapes.

(Final note: We showed up late, so we caught only two songs by locals Colorstore, about which I’ve heard nothing but good things. I bought a CD and plan to discuss them soon.)

The Album Leaf | Always For You
The Lymbyc System | Carved By Glaciers
Colorstore | Poor Bird

Probably the first thing to note – or, rather, get out of the way – about Thursday’s Cold War Kids show at the Clubhouse is the subpar turnout. This seems more an indictment of the sometimes-apathetic scene here than Cold War Kids, who, after all, originally were scheduled to open for the Futureheads but had the foresight to keep the dates and headline themselves after Futureheads canceled. Had the show been booked with Cold War Kids as headliner from the get-go, it’s likely a smaller, more fitting venue would have been picked. But inside the Clubhouse, a fairly open, midsize venue, the 40 or so people who showed up made it feel rather empty.

I realize a few factors were at play here. The Futureheads’ cancellation didn’t help and Thrice was playing across town at Marquee Theater, possibly siphoning off some potential Clubhouse-goers. But I saw at least a couple people walk up to buy tickets who left once they found out the Futureheads canceled. That, to me, is the frustrating part. Hey, you’re already out; pay the $10 and take in a show, which turned out to be really damn good. Naturally, Cold War Kids packed their hometown Los Angeles show the previous night, so I wonder what their expectations/feelings were about coming to Arizona. But then, we saw Band of Horses at the Rhythm Room in Phoenix about six months apart and the second show was sold out, about 300 people compared to roughly 75 the first time. That’s a telling sign of the scene here – frustratingly fair-weather. I imagine as Cold War Kids continue to pick up steam, their next stop here will be significantly more crowded.

And their inevitable popularity won’t surprise me at all either, but I will reserve the right to bitch at the next show when we’re all shoulder to shoulder and I can’t buy a beer because it’s too crowded: “Where the hell were you people last time?” Just in the four months since we first saw them in Tucson, Cold War Kids appeared more grounded and confident in their live set, though, fortunately, that doesn’t mean any less energetic. Guitarist Jonnie Russell is a kinetic performer, stomping around and twisting his torso, a welcome bit of showmanship when singer Nathan Willett is tied to his piano bench.

That loose energy serves their songs well. They opened with We Used to Vacation, which sounded oddly cohesive for how many moving parts (piano, rattle, free-standing cymbal being bashed with said rattle) are taking place at once. The group is averse to boring three-chord pitfalls, each instrument taking off on different paths before meeting at the common goal. Singer Nathan Willett inevitably steers the whole thing straight. His voice can soar or dive in or out, up and down. It’s probably more impressive and powerful live than on record, which, I would guess, is not an easy feat.

As for favorites, well, Hospital Beds can do no wrong, and hearing that jogging guitar line on Rubidoux and that sturdy bassline on Hang Me Up to Dry (the closer) pretty much sealed my enjoyment for the evening.

Fellow Los Angelians (Los Angelites?, Los Angelists?) band from Los Angeles Foreign Born opened. I liked them quite a bit, though I hate hearing a band for the first time live because it never really sticks. I’m putting them on my radar for CD shopping. Anyway, they have a blog, too.

Cold War Kids
MySpace | official site
mp3 | Tell Me in the Morning

Foreign Born
MySpace | official site blog
mp3 | The Entryway