It’s probably not a good sign when you pull up to a venue and the first thing you see is a drunken rowdy getting pepper-sprayed by a security guard outside the front door. Thankfully, the vibe was significantly more upbeat inside Chaser’s, a grungy little place in a south Scottsdale strip mall that used to host punk bands under its former name, the Atomic Cafe.

By the time I got out of work, we were able to catch a little less than half of Busdriver’s set (thank you, hip-hop shows, for always starting late). This is a man everyone should hear rap on record at least once. To see his fast-rapping dexterity live is pretty mind-boggling. Backed by a DJ who employs one of those trigger-pad devices, Busdriver cranked out rhymes at a dizzying pace. It makes you wonder how the hell he remembers all his own lyrics and never trips over his own tongue. At his speed, one verse of rhymes for him has to equal at least two for all the emcees in the slow lane.

And it’s not just that Busdriver spits out an abundance of words, but that he actually uses them well. Clearly this is a man who is more concerned about syntax than he is filling dead space with meaningless words. (Check the verses on Imaginary Places, off Temporary Forever.)

If the transition from Busdriver’s hyper-literate style to Pigeon John’s laid-back party vibe was a concern, PJ pretty much squashed that from the get-go. This guy was meant to entertain. Yeah, there was the laundry list of usual hip-hop show demands: throw ya hands up, say hoooo, say ho-ho, now screeeeam. It wouldn’t be a live show without ’em. But Pigeon John never threatened to reduce himself to a hip-hop cliche. After all, we’re talking about a man who takes the stage wearing pleated jeans.

Pigeon John’s honest, self-deprecating approach – which comes through on stage – makes him seem, you know, like a normal human being, unlike a lot of rappers who inevitably become caricatures of themselves. Honestly, he seems like a nerd, but he embraces it, which makes him more real than any rapper claiming to be real could ever be. When he asked the crowd to “gimme some skin” it felt like he was mocking some image or idea of what people expect a rapper to do.

On stage, PJ’s songs, backed by a DJ and a drummer, are vibrant. One of his new tracks, Freaks! Freaks! – with its catchy chorus – inspired all sorts of fist-pumping and awkward white-boy dancing. Emily showcases Pigeon’s storytelling style, even if its somewhat dark lyrics don’t quite fit the fun spirit of a live show. But fear not, PJ was all about levity, doing his “Pigeon Dance” and even breaking out a guitar on one track, for which he strummed all of one string. And let’s not forget the drunk guy who came on stage to rap out a chorus, which PJ encouraged by handing over the microphone as he danced laps around this total stranger.

I hate to get corny, but it’s shows like this that pretty much reaffirm why hip-hop is fun, or at least should be. Pigeon John plucking that one guitar string and singing “Be yourself” seemed so ludicrous, but it somehow transposed itself into a message from which we could all learn a little something.

Pigeon John | Money Back Guarantee
From Pigeon John … And the Summertime Pool Party (Quannum, 2006)
Available at eMusic.

Related:
I Used to Love H.E.R.: Pigeon John (De La Soul is Dead).
New Busdriver: Kill Your Employer.

God bless Modified, Phoenix’s modest and ambitious art/music space, a venue that welcomes so many indie artists when other places won’t. But if there’s one downside to Modified, it’s the size – no bigger than a small, two-bedroom home. With its plank-wood floors and standard drywall structure, Modified wasn’t meant to contain the sound coming from Silversun Pickups and Viva Voce on Sunday night.

Put simply: It was loud. Not in a shrilly, obnoxious way. Just in that feel-it-in-your-throat kind of way. I expected that from Silversun, but Viva Voce’s aggression on the volume knob was a little more surprising, though not at all a deterrent to the set.

Silversun played after local openers LetDownRight, which created an unfortunate and awkward dynamic with the crowd size. We guessed about 80-100 were there for Silversun. By the time Viva Voce came up, the size dwindled by at least a quarter. It’s too bad because anyone who came for Silversun and left would appreciate what Viva Voce was doing. Oh, well. Their loss.

I ditched my earplugs about three songs into Silversun’s set for the full effect, not that it really mattered. Hell, you could see how loud it was: The main speakers were tipping back and forth like trees giving way in a thunderstorm. At times, the sound squealed off the ceiling, probably looking for a place to escape. But I’m not complaining. Silversun’s thick fuzz is a rush, a kind of empowering charge at those levels.

Songs like Well Thought Out Twinkles, Lazy Eye and Kissing Families translate better live than I could have hoped and leave an almost surreal hangover. And Brian Aubert is acutely aware of when to push his voice and when to pull it back – and it all holds up surprisingly well.

MP3: Silversun Pickups | Well Thought Out Twinkles

I made the mistake of saying to a friend: “I’d hate to be the band to follow that.” Because before I could write off Viva Voce, husband and wife Kevin and Anita Robinson had my full attention at the first thwack of his snare drum. I’m not sure I’ve seen somone attack a drum set like that; he doesn’t wow you with technical wizardry, but his aggression would be hard to match. And it manages to complement – not overpower – Anita’s soft-ish vocals. (There’s also a bass player on stage.)

Something very Incredible Hulk-like happens to Viva Voce from CD to live show. I’ve been listening to Get Yr Blood Sucked Out (Barsuk) for the past couple weeks, and I wouldn’t have expected the sort of raw and stripped-down punch that accompanies the live set. The heavy riffs reminded me of the stoner rock of Kyuss, but how do you account for those compelling hand claps? It was like taking part in a fuzzed-out, psychedelic Kumbaya campfire circle.

All I know is, my money’s on Viva Voce over Mates of State in the Barsuk Husband-Wife Indie-Rock Celebrity Deathmatch.

MP3: Viva Voce | We Do Not Fuck Around

So I raced over to the Rhythm Room after work Monday night to catch about 40 minutes’ worth of Ratatat’s set, which was enough time to form an opinion and settle a debate I’ve had with myself about one of life’s most puzzling questions: Do I like Ratatat?

The answer: not so much. Classics, the group’s latest release on XL, was doing just enough to keep me interested. Truth is, I’m a hard sell when it comes to all-instrumental albums (unless we’re talking straight jazz, of course). I like my indie rock with words. Still, the beats on Classics lured me right into that mouse trap of a live show.

After about two songs, my eyes glazed over – which might have had a little something to do with the stage fog overkill. I wanted to like Ratatat. I really did. But, at its core, this is a jam band masked by the electronic label, which means the sweet-banged indie kids have an excuse to pretend to dance.

Each song started the same way – with a taut, crisp and appealing beat – before devolving into this somewhat obnoxious cacophony of blinding lights, stage fog and Steve Vai-esque love-making to the fretboard. As if your senses weren’t paralyzed already, a projector played a running visual show behind the band, sometimes in sync with the music, which at least suggests a form of choreography to it all.

All of the superflous stage gadgetry – fog, glaring lights, visuals – is less a complement to the music than it is a distraction. What you really had to ask yourself is if it weren’t for all the accompanying bells and whistles, could the music stand on its own and engage the audience?

The guitar playing of lead man Mike Stroud (at least he seemed to be the lead man) comes off as overly ironic – head-banging with his long hair, windmills (a la Pete Townshend) and back turned playing to his amp. (Maybe someone has a crush on Jim James?) Then when he talked to the audience he did so with echo effects still on his mic, which made it impossible to hear what he was saying. Ha. Funny. I guess.

It’s possible, as Annie and I discussed afterward, that we’re getting older and with that comes impatience. Even Built to Spill, one of my favorite bands, can annoy me with Doug Martsch’s jam-band noodling on stage. But at least I have something else to hold onto there: words, lyrics, meanings. I didn’t feel any sort of connection like that with Ratatat.

On the upside, Annie says openers Panther and Envelopes are worth checking out.

Ratatat on MySpace.

mp3: Panther | You Don’t Want Your Nails Done
Panther on MySpace.

Envelopes on MySpace.

This may be a rhetorical question, but … Why isn’t Phoenix everywhere yet? From CD to live show, this is a band that is polished, tight and unquestionably brimming with potential. Seriously, get the producers of The O.C. on the horn now.

Phoenix was almost so flawless on Monday night that I found it unsettling. When a band feels so impenetrable, you try hard to find something at which to pick. The only thing I could come up with was that singer Thomas Mars came out in a peacoat. A peacoat?!? It’s still like almost 100 degrees outside. Of course, he shed it during the first song, Napoleon Says (must have been on the set list: “strip peacoat in first song.”). Oh, and he was skinny. Really, really skinny. Jerk.

The band’s set was either impeccably tight or soul-lessly choreographed. I’m leaning toward the former because I don’t want to feel like I’m that jaded quite yet. Even when Phoenix appeared to be playing off the cuff a bit, it had the feeling of being well-rehearsed, which, I realize, is probably a lousy thing to nitpick. The band is as clean and civilized as you could hope, and I was pleased to see Phoenix be bold enough to play the hit single (Long Distance Call) second in the set list and still hold sway over the crowd throughout the night.

Honestly, my only complaint was with the venue, Martini Ranch, which usually is reserved for horrid cover bands (are there any other kind?) and superficial Scottsdale outings. The lighting, especially those terrible stage spotlights, was obnoxious during Phoenix’s set; it’s the band that’s not supposed to be able to see the fans, not the other way around.

Phoenix | Everything is Everything (live)
(From an Astralwerks compilation passed out at the show)

(Thanks to Forrest for providing the digital camera for the evening.)

In lieu of heading to Austin for this year’s ACL Festival, Annie and I took off on a secret trip to Los Angeles. We played with our little 5-month-old nephew (kid loves me) and managed to make it out on the town Saturday night to check out the Gray Kid at Project. (OK, so the $10 donation for the open bar was a draw, too.)

Ben recently turned me on to the stylings of the Gray Kid, and within a day I bought his album, … 5, 6, 7, 8, saw him live and chatted him up about playing a show in Phoenix. Screw LA, man; you haven’t made it till you play Phoenix, damn it.

At first blush, you wouldn’t take the Gray Kid for the lyric-spittin’, beat-makin’ hip-hop machine he is. On Saturday, he was decked out in jeans and a black-and-turquoise thrift-store sweater with a bandana fashioned around his neck like an ascot.

But his beats. Lord. No white kid possibly could be responsible for those. On stage, the Gray Kid flies solo, backed only by his iPod, on which he’s sequenced the music for his entire set.

If his rig limits any sort of improvisation, the Gray Kid compensates with his arm-swinging, sweaty energy. I say sweaty because he was wearing that damn sweater: “Is anybody else wearing wool in here?” That was funny.

He spent a majority of the set standing (and stomping) on a foot stool, like a street-corner preacher yelling off the microphone and flailing his arms to implore the gallery-goers, many of whom were innocent bystanders checking out art but instead got caught up in the flurry.

What can’t be overstated about the Gray Kid’s stage presence is his level of interaction with the crowd – and, in this case, the artists working on a live mural during the show. Granted, performing in the corner of an art gallery on a makeshift stage affords a more personal experience than any club show. But the Gray Kid walked through the gallery whilst singing and (gasp!) made eye contact with fans, even if maybe it made them a little uncomfortable.

Oh, about the music? He’s a bit of a chameleon – singing falsetto one verse, rapping the next. It’s mostly unpredictable. What do you say about a guy who can rap that he’s got a “dick like a comet” (Like a Comet) and then lay out soulful crooning (Lonely Love) without a hint of irony? (And he goes unplugged, too.)

But do yourself a favor. Buy … 5, 6, 7, 8 and listen to One Question, a dis track that’s worth the cost of admission alone when he claims, “labels couldn’t hold me like a charge on cheap phone.”

The Gray Kid | $$$Clip

To say I was disappointed by the Clientele might be too strong. Underwhelming is more like it. I probably came in with high expectations because I have quite enjoyed the group’s latest album, Strange Geometry (Merge).

Although, to be honest, I wasn’t quite sure how the Clientele’s live show would translate. Strange Geometry is a pretty record: dreamy pop with clean guitar tones and soft vocals. If anything, I took great comfort in one, admittedly superficial, aspect: I really expected frontman Alasdair Maclean to be a waifish, fragile creature. He had a little more heft to him, which I appreciated in a weird way.

Regardless, the group’s live show seemed void of any … oomph. Never have I seen a live show in which a drummer was rendered more passive than this one. Perhaps it’s simply a product of the Clientele’s gentle approach; the drummer changed from brushes to stick with barely any notice. He seemed to play with fragile strength, as if his drums were made of glass and every stroke might crack them.

To make matters worse, the group scuffled with sound issues after the first couple of songs, which resulted in an exchange with the sound man that was borderline snooty. Later, a broken guitar string left a lengthy pause between songs that was a hindrance for a group already struggling to grasp the audience’s attention.

It’s somewhat painful to write these things because Strange Geometry truly is a peaceful record. But after seeing the Clientele live, I get the feeling the group benefits from the production and touch-ups of a studio that a live performance doesn’t afford.

Openers Great Lakes sounded decidedly alt-country-ish, which threw me for a bit of a surprise. Although, I admit to being totally unfamiliar with the group’s history, so for me to put forth any sort of judgment may be unfair.

It’s always difficult to gauge a group when the first time you hear them is live. Our initial read was something along the lines of Jayhawks meets A.M.-era Wilco.

The Clientele | E.M.P.T.Y.
Great Lakes | Farther
Great Lakes | Diamond Times

My favorite violin looping Canadian that calls advanced D&D his muse came to Phoenix last night. Yes, I’m referring to Final Fantasy. I would have posted earlier, but had a little too many Belgium ales. Monks lovingly craft each bottle of pure evil.

The show was wunderbar – Owen (all of us ex-D&D players are on a first name basis) crafts his songs one layer at a time, clicking through a looping pedal with a socked foot. I enjoyed the set and his unassuming jokiness between songs was charming. He played his cover of Joanna Newsom’s song “Peach, Plum, Pear” and that made me smile. When he closed the show he said there would be no encore, when the crowd protested, he replied, “I’ve been working hard up here, you know, you saw it.”

Final Fantasy | CN Tower Belongs to the Dead (rearranged)
Final Fantasy | Many Lives –> 49MP

Thanks to Forrest for having the presence of mind to snap some pictures.

By now, you’ve already seen photos/words from lots of other bloggers on the festival. Annie and I stayed an extra day to spend time with my uncle and take in the Diamondbacks-Cubs game on Monday night at Wrigley Field. Bad news: Cubs lost 15-4. Good news: I caught a foul ball – first one ever! (Top of the third inning, hit by D-Backs catcher Johnny Estrada; ball bounces from the next section right into my hands. By far, coolest moment I’ve had at a baseball game.)

As for the Pitchfork Festival, we had a great time, save for sweating from places I never thought possible. Oh, how good it is to be back in the dry heat of Arizona. The festival was an overload on the senses, including the hipster fashion trends. Eric already touched on the most bizarre trend: the track-star look with oh-so-short shorts. Why? Why, indie hipsters?!?! I like my baggy Old Navy shorts just fine, thank you. Also, if you are going to shed your shirt and force us to look at your ribs, please, for the love of God, drink a milkshake. Being 86 pounds isn’t cool.

Now, there were a few sets I wanted to make sure I’d get close for: Band of Horses, the National, Spank Rock and Tapes n Tapes. In other words, my best (only) pics pretty much came from those bands. I lost the energy and will to fight the crowds to move through the masses.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t comment on the most uncomfortable moment of group/fan interaction: Def Jux rapper Cage, a former drug user who was physically abused by his stepfather, asks who’s ever been abused by their parents, and literally one hand goes up. Cue awkward silence. I applaud Pitchfork for including hip-hop acts (including Aesop Rock/Mr. Lif), but that moment seemed to illustrate the divide separating hip-hop from indie rock.

Band of Horses
Once again, Ben Bridwell proves to be one of the most amiable frontmen around. He’s at ease talking with the audience and, in my third time seeing them this year, his voice held up just as well as it did the first time I saw them in a smaller club. Nice touch by the drummer to wear a Chicago Bears shirt.

Spank Rock
Let me just say that Spank Rock’s set was the jam. They were passing out beers to the crowd and pouring vodka into peoples’ mouths. By the time it was over, they invited as many people that would fit onto the stage for a little dancing while Spank took to sitting on speakers. It was like the best house party you ever went to; any band was going to have a hard time living up to that set.

Tapes ‘n Tapes
After I saw Tapes in Tucson about a month ago, I said I thought they would benefit from a second guitarist. I’m starting to rethink that after Sunday’s set. They were loud, driven and inspired to kick off the second day.

The National
The National played a set heavy on tracks off Alligator (which is fine by me) along with two new songs: Mistaken for Strangers and Start a War, which is either a protest song (my theory) or a track about a torn relationship (my wife’s theory). The chorus, if I heard correctly: “You’re gonna walk away and start a war.” The good news is, my well-placed sources (laugh here) tell me that the band is in the studio prepping songs for a new album. Also, check out new West Coast tour dates, which means I have to travel to LA again to see them. Viola player Padma Newsome (of Clogs) was a fantastic addition to the National’s live sound.