Photo by Hugh Twyman

We Were Promised Jetpacks possess probably the most thematically loaded band name in the pantheon of indie rock.  While FatCat label mates (and notable influences) Frightened Rabbit and The Twilight Sad also have names that emote in strange ways,  ”We Were Promised Jetpacks” is practically a short story in four words;  an absurdly funny/sad thesis statement for a band known to punctuate their most heart wrenching and sprawling compositions with a wry smile ripe with bracing wit.

After witnessing WWPJP play their first concert ever in Pittsburgh last Thursday at Mr. Small’s, it’s obvious the Edinburgh group’s particular brand of concision doesn’t simplify their music and emotions so much as focus them. What resulted was a blistering wall of potent indie rock that proved to be epic beyond the usual anthemic signifiers of surging guitars and sing along choruses.  Lead singer, guitarist and main songwriter Adam Thompson engaged the audience with his quietly devastating stage presence, blunt lyrics and steely dynamic musicianship, subtly revealing a performance of grand romantic gestures from a truly charismatic man.

The bulk of the set was comprised of highlights from the WWPJP’s 2009 urgent FatCat debut These Four Walls, along with a handful of promising new tracks, sporadically named but definitely in line with most of the group’s catalog.  The thunderous  “Quiet Little Voices” provided one of the show’s linchpins, exhibiting the group’s Spartan, post-punk influenced guitar work and accentuating the magnetic nature of the WWPJP’s best material.  The track’s towering chorus was supported and earned by equally desperate verses showcasing  Thompson’s ascending vocals (only slightly tinged with his native Scottish brogue) and penchant for repeating particular lyrics for effect (“I’m young again,” “I’ll die for you,” and “I’ll fall for you” are all repeated at least four times in succession).  It’s a muscular song heightened by emotion, pointed and effecting rather than heavy handed and melodramatic.

“It’s Thunder and It’s Lightning,” the side one, track one from These Four Walls, provided the show’s most thoroughly engrossing performance, arriving almost exactly in the middle of the set. WWPJP exerted impressive control over song’s quiet/loud transitions, slowly building the tightly spiraling guitar work into a barrage of pummeling storm winds.   Thompson again drove home the lyrical repetition,  (this time with the particularly violent “Your body was black and blue”) but focused his vocals into a sustained crescendo rather than devolving into an indecipherable howl.  When the pieces all came together for the rollicking finale’s pulsating conclusion, an extend soft outro was added and provided a stark contrast between the song’s fragile and pummeling moments, amplifying  WWPJP’s already epic composition.

We Were Promised Jetpacks played with a sustained conviction that gradually pulled the audience in song after song.  The amount of sheer energy and focus they exerted during their most intense tracks was palpable. Any time these native Scot’s make their way back to the Steel City, the show is simply a must see. Smoldering, passionate rock and roll played at its loudest and most sincere doesn’t come around very often, make sure you are paying attention.

We Were Promised Jetpacks – It’s Thunder and It’s Lightning

We Were Promised Jetpacks – Quiet Little Voices

I want to get right into this.  I don’t usually write show reviews of bands I have already previewed, but I couldn’t help myself.  Sleigh Bells tore through their set at CMU’s CFA Alumni Concert Hall (not Rangos, like I originally reported) in roughly 33 minutes.  They played all five songs I came to know and love plus three new ones.

What resulted proved to be the sonic equivalent of a shotgun blast set to a Bomb Squad production with a femme fatale narrating the destruction. Without any reservation I can say it was the best concert I have seen this year.

This is how it all began:  Miller, alone, let loose the opening guitar wail of “Infinity Guitars” followed by the stuttering hand clap beat that shook the concert hall so much, pieces of plaster came showering down from the ceiling.  With blue spotlights hitting the stage, the precipitation resembled diamond snowflakes cacading downward amidst the blaring vibrations of bass.  Krauss strutted on stage, hood up, and quietly observed “The sky is falling” as she circled the floor like a boxer in a ring.  As the first verse gave way to the massive wave of  successive “Oohs” from Krauss, the second verse came down like a hammer. Just as his guitar hit its snarling apex, Miller karate kicked the living Christ out of the lone mic stand, sending it flying off the stage while Krauss head banged her life away.

That moment encapsulated the entire appeal of Sleigh Bells: messy, destructive, sexy, heavy, raw. The rest of the set was set in motion by that brief instance of epic “f**k all.” “A/B  Machines” followed and allowed Krauss to own the room. She reached out to the audience on the edge of the stage, sneering, then bowing her head to have her hair tossed by the front row, all while she cooed “I got my A machines on the table, I got my B machines on the floor.”

“Beach Girls”  provoked half the crowd to rush the stage. Most danced manaically and eventually settled with a circle surrounding Krauss, pointing fingers and exalting her massive seductive presence.  The crowd was asked to settle back onto the floor, while Krauss politely added, “Get the off the f**ing stage.” By the time “Crown on the Ground” closed the set, the entire crowd was back on stage while the Brooklyn duo reveled in the house party atmosphere.

After Krauss’ mic became unplugged she proceeded to perform “Ring Ring” acapella, while the crowd shouted most of the words. After witnessing a crowd of 250 crazed 20 somethings sing all the words to a song that has yet to see a legitimate release, it was pretty apparent the whole night sort of took Sleigh Bells by surprise.

With the technical difficulties and delays from the local opening band that set the whole show back an hour and a half, I’m fairly sure Krauss and Miller’s expectations were low. But their searing live show was just as celebrated in Pittsburgh as it would be in Brooklyn, maybe even more so.  Regardless, mark your calendars any time these two come through town.  This is a live show that should never, NEVER  be missed.

Sleigh Bells – A/B Machines

Sleigh Bells – Infinity Guitars

I watched St. Vincent, other wise known as the saintly Annie Clark, slink up onto Diesel’s stage this past Sunday night in a dress that would be suited for a goth Jan Jetson.  She weaved her way through the maze of guitars, microphones, her 7 or so pedals, a key board, a flute, a clairnet and a violin.

It’s easy to forget when you listen to 2009′s Actor or 2007′s Marry Me how each song, even the ballads, have countless moving parts. Watching Clark negotiate this overflowing stage, I suddenly felt as if this was the physical manifestation her little musical dream world, a place she fits into like a perfectly crafted diamond cog.

Petite, angelically light skinned with jet black curls and blood red lips, Clark  also makes it abundantly clear in the closing moments of “The Strangers,” which opened the set, that she is a guitar goddess.

Balancing an off-kilter virtuosity with an insatiable appetite for feedback, Clark devoured abyss black distortion every chance she could get. But even amidst the most hectic breakdowns, she would allow the storm to evaporate.  Clark revels in the abrupt transitions, licking her lips with a knowing smirk and awkward giggle, only to hum a gorgeously banal harmony in the guitar frenzy’s aftermath.

She spun through all the highlights of Actor with razor precision:  “Actor Out of Work” sounded even more confrontational live,  “Marrow’s”  chorus vibrated with a chunky bravado, and “Black Rainbow” reached it’s climax like melodramatic score of a silent movie, just like it was supposed to.  Marry Me’s “Jesus Saves, I Spend” made an appearance early in the set, as did a solo rendtion of “Paris is Burning” that was made even more devestating with Clark’s solitude on stage.

One cover (if you can call it that) also made its way into the set: an alternate version of Ice Cube’s “It Was a Good Day.” Clark described her take on Ice Cube’s classic as “a condensed version, aged about 30 years and sung by a morbidly depressed woman.” (note: the song was actually “These Days” by Jackson Browne, Clark simply said it reminded her of Ice Cube’s track)

The cherry on top of the sundae, or the lit fuse on top of the bomb, was the apocalyptic, searing, extremely anticipated extended version of “Your Lips  Are Red” in the encore.  The four minute, distortion drenched coda had more than its share of Zeppelin-like grandeur, even prompting Clark to kneel down over her pedals, pump and smack her guitar causing endless ripples of static and basically revel in the maximum control of her 40 foot swell of electricity.

Frankly, that’s how everything in life should end.

St. Vincent – Your Lips Are Red

The crowd for the Jay Reatard/Kim Phuc show this past Monday night at the Brillobox was a little more, how should I say this, meaner than the usual mix of indie kids the Penn Avenue mainstay is used to. A large, enthusiastic crowd, sure, but they had a bit of an edge. It’s a welcome change of pace from some of the more precious crowds I have seen at shows lately.  I will say this  was probably the direct result of a local concert promoter (and by that I mean OPUS ONE) facilitating the perfect union between a local band and a national tour.

I don’t think any Pittsburgh band could even begin to approach the pure viciousness of a Kim Phuc live show and for all those who have seen Jay Reatard in concert already know how similar their musical philosophies are. Between Jay Reatard’s pocket rock opuses disguised as shotgun blasts of hardcore rage and Kim Phuc’s zombie Stooges swagger,  the show, simply put, did not fuck around.  It was a heaving sweaty mess of the loudest music ever to come out of the Brillobox’s monitors, deliriously beaming with something too many Pittsburgh bands seem to lack: attitude.

It was the second time I saw Kim Phuc at the Brillobox, the first being their opening gig this summer for The Obits and…(sigh)… can I admit something? Kim Phuc scare the living shit out of me. Their bassist is like eight feet tall and basically pummels anything in his path using one of the heaviest, most distorted bass lines I have ever heard.

Lead singer Rob Headfield usually divides his concert presence between stalking through the crowd like a pissed off bulldog, slowly climbing the 10 foot speaker stack, and wrapping his shining paw around that kitchy little chandelier right above the stage (that detail was from the first Kim Phuc show this summer, this time around the chandelier was conspicuously absent).

The maliciously loud three minute riot that is “Wormwood Star” closed the show and rattled my insides without discretion. As the song ended, I was grinning like an idiot, trying trying to remember the last time I felt my ribcage vibrate that violently.

Jay Reatard is a freak of nature.  He music embodies an arena-rock level virtuosity crammed into a 1:30 jerk-off punk blasts.  Watching the full frenzy of his live show, I finally realized how tight his compositions were : stop and starts on a dime, insanely precise guitar solos, three-part harmonies, the guy does it all.  Even after his entire backing band quit on him a month ago, his new group hasn’t seemed to miss a beat.

The jarring, faster than light combo of “Blood Visions” and “It’s So Easy” opened the show as Jay kept his trademark of launching into the next song milliseconds after the previous had concluded.  A transition that was handled with no more than a ‘”It’s So Easy” Let’s go!” shout ushering in the next track.  Watch Me Fall standouts “It Ain’t Gonna Save Me” and “I’m Watching You” came to life with striking passion, the latter of which actually resembles a thrashing Irish Pub anthem that wouldn’t be out of place at a drunken Dublin wake.

Jay’s confrontational streak, something that has made headlines on numerous occasions, made an appearance as he hurled a couple insults at a slightly over zealous member of the front row, even dedicating the next song as a “fuck you” to the guilty party.

I began to think about the entire show in general, and how the communal aspect of a concert might be an overrated experience.  Is it more exciting to be in an adversarial position to the performer? I can’t say.  I will say that this show had balls. It was threatening, edgy and confrontational, but also exhilarating and impassioned. Jay Reatard and Kim Phuc weren’t afraid to piss people off and blow them away simultaneously.  Isn’t that what rock and roll is all about?

Jay Reatard – It Ain’t Gonna Save Me

Jay Reatard – I’m Watching You

Kim Phuc – Wormwood Star

Yeah, I’m a novice.  Nicole Atkins is one of those dark, smoldering ingenues who converts humans into disciples with no more than a fiery glance.  During her live shows these humans, guys and gals alike, swoon in measured droves,  pray for their favorite songs and stand mystified, religiously mystified, as Ms. Atkins seduces the stage.

Along with her faithful backing band, The Black Sea, Atkins played a full room at the South Side’s Club Cafe Tuesday evening as the concert spot’s smokey corners and starry backdrop played a perfect supporting character (with the exception of a blown out monitor) to the bombastic qualities of Atkins best work (the street anthems, symphonies, and Patsy Cline homages alike) that were allowed to howl unmitigated into the rainy Pittsburgh evening. 

Atkins and co. soared through the highlights of 2007′s Neptune City, including a seriously red-blooded version of “Brooklyn’s on Fire” that incited more than a handful of fist pumps during the shit-kicking refrain.  The honest, innocent shuffle of “Maybe Tonight” translated beautifully as well, as the classic chorus (which, again, resembles something like a unearthed Patsy Cline croon) floated sagaciously toward the heavens.

Even “The Way It Is,” a song that was showcased in all its theatrical glory during an unforgettable performance on David Letterman, was given fantastic treatment due to Atkins unbelievable vocals.  I was convinced that without a chorus of swelling strings, the song would be a shadow of its former self, but it actually provided more room for Atkins to flex her voice and emote passionately to the crowd.

After the debut of a handful of new tracks, whetting the crowds appetite for Atkins ensuing 2010 release, an encore of the funeral stomp “Neptune City” provided a fragile and tragic coda.  The show ended with a base drum wash and Atkins’ enacting a graceful curtsy, head bowed, to a heavy applause.  I shook my head, swigged the last inch of my las beer, thought of October and the coming Halloween as I looked to a friend of mine who took the words right out of my mouth : “That shit is haunting.”

Nicole Atkins – Maybe Tonight

Nicole Atkins – The Way It Is

Regardless of my literary indifference, it’s been a quality summer for the Pittsburgh music masses, which was thriving even before the peak in concert activity that hit in late July/early August.  So this will be a summary of the first 3 shows I saw this summer in a some what spaced out order. Reviews and tracks after the jump.

White Rabbits, June 6, Brillobox

It was a strange night, A number of things aligned : game 5 of the Stanley Cup Final, White Rabbits playing the Brillobox, getting stuck working a dreaded Saturday night shift at the restaurant I loathed, and the reluctance of my friends to join me at the show.  I ended up ducking out of work around a quarter to nine, changing in the car, and hauling ass down towards the depths of Lawrenceville on what was an almost deserted route 19, as Mike Lange and Two Niner described the hockey disaster in vivid detail.

Long story short (I’ll omit details about the hockey game), White Rabbits came out to a slightly stunned crowd and apologized briefly for the loss.  What they unleashed afterward was simply one of the tightest, best sounding concerts I had been to in quite some time.  The complex percussion that drives so many of White Rabbits’ best tracks was front and center with group’s two drummers remaining almost completely in sync.  By the time “Percussion Gun” closed the set (the blistering lead track off the band’s excellent second album It’s Frightening) it was a done deal (whatever the fuck that means).  I could wax poetic about this show  for hours so I’ll refrain.  The fact is, next time these guys are in town, drop whatever you’re doing and get there dammit.

White Rabbits – Percussion Gun

The Black Keys, Point State Park, June 1

Before I say anything, the crowd was a work of art.  The age spectrum must have been at least 40 years and I mean that in the best possible way.  The Black Keys, more than any other garage/blues rock revivalists, exude a sound that’s retro classic, strutting with a swagger that will never go out of style.  If any band is apt to fill out a free concert at the Pittsburgh Arts Festival it’s these guys. The Black Keys connect with multiple generations and make it look easy.

Patrick Carney and a clean shaven Dan Auerbach ripped through highlights of their entire catalog (including my favorite barn burner “10am Automatic”) as well as the bulk of their extremely underrated 2008 LP Attack and Release. The burning image of that performance was Carney nearly obliterating his hi-hats with a tambourine, something I can honestly say I had never witnessed before. It was a muscular show, full of sweat and soul, two things that will never go out of style.

The Black Keys – I’ll Be Your Man

Yeasayer w/Ponytail, Ball of Flame Shoot Fire, July 21st, Mr. Smalls

So yes, I have heard many times before from many people about the severe ills that plague the sound systems at Mr. Small’s.  I almost always shrugged them off because I could not recall a single show that I hadn’t enjoyed thoroughly out in Milvale (save the moment this summer when Crocodiles missed their opening spot for Tally Hall).  But the honest fact of it this time around was that Ball of Flame’s set got butchered due to shoddy sound.  Background hissing, distorted vocals, and feedback in general (all of which was not planned) crippled the band’s complex arrangements.  It was especially devastating because the bulk of material at BOFSF’s show was new, and I could barely get a solid read on what most of the songs were about.

Interestingly enough, by the time Yeasayer rolled around, the sound issues were corrected and the pack crowd was treated to a synth heavy set split between tracks off their only full length album All Hour Cymbals and new songs from their next project.  Tracks like “Sunrise” and “2080″ were performed with vibrant new interpretations, with the group mostly shunning their usual world music vibe for heavy electronics, bass and shimmering guitar.  It was a compelling experience to realize this concert was a singular creation in and of it self, an idea the band has championed in many interviews.  I’ll be the first to admit that I usually wait to hear carbon copies of the songs I love at concerts, easily forgetting the wonders of improvisation or spontaneity that makes the best live shows so spectacular.  I am glad Yeasayer pointed the insignificance of my ignorance so beautifully.

Yeasayer – Sunrise

Yeasayer – 2080

pictures courtesy of Hugh Shows Redux

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Dr. Dog performing "Army of Ancients" off 2008's Fate

The mic stands and drum kit at Mr. Small’s  stood tightly wrapped in synthetic ivy, looking more like a fruitful product of the stage’s imaginary soil than a gaudy prop of Dionysian excess. Maybe the entire production had been grown rather than constructed. Maybe Drink Up Buttercup and headliner Dr. Dog (who both played barn burning sets this past Wednesday night) played this show together in some other life, some other era.

Is the music they make timeless? Do they overtly reference artists of yesteryear to the point of doppelganger similarity? Do they embody the spirit of rock and fucking roll!?!?!

Maybe some of those previous sentiments were delusions of grandeur, rapturous poetry of the moment that actually never was. Whatever.  But I still can’t shake this feeling of temporal dissonance, this feeling of organic occurrence, this feeling that these two groups have always been here.  

Dr. Dog’s music and image doesn’t necessarily intuit a sonic sphere of naturalism in the traditional sense (re: rootsy folk music and/or bluegrass), but does convince me that these fellas are analog souls operating in a digital world.  Their vocal chords and fingers are made of vinyl, dialing into their monitors with the scratch and detail of your favorite LP that hasn’t been heard in 20 years.  Dr. Dog’s performance was filled out with greater verve than their records revealed, allowing all those beautiful harmonies, “Taxman” guitars and deceptively simple drum parts to pour onto the crowd in perfect, mono synchronicity. It’s not a weathered sound by any means, nor is it nostalgia for nostalgia’s sake.  It is simply an aversion for rock music to be distilled in a more natural form.

With the spiraling, classically tinged opening piano riff of “The Old Days” Dr. Dog settled into a hustling mood. The entire band bobbed back and forth on the balls of their feet, decked out in cabana hats, flappers, and Ray-Ban rip offs.  Funk infused groover, “The Ark,” only heightened the shimmying beat, slowly opening with the foreboding declaration “God….He called for rain.”  More than a little of The Band crept into the performance but with good measure, very few musical influences could impose such a communal feeling of involvement than the rambling feel of an all night jam session mixed with some fervent religious undertones.

The set was full of soulful yelps, squealing guitars and even one moment of spontaneous spoken word(not sure who the author was, but lead singer, known simply as Taxi, managed to pass the book through the crowd to take a peak which I sadly missed), generating an atmosphere of welcoming sincerity that hipster-leaning indie music tends to shy away from.  The scene was a grassroots collection of devout fans and curious lookers on that embodied the same natural passion Dr. Dog exuded effortlessly.

For Drink Up Buttercup, however, that hint of naturalism translated into an undiluted primal joy, fully inhabiting their lacerating live show with seismic tantrums of crashing percussion(maracas and tin trashcans included) and one fateful march into the middle of the crowd to perform their acapella set closer.  They pushed and scratched at the confines of the stage, almost destined to rip through the side wall and go stomping off into the Pittsburgh hillsides, doe-eyed followers trailing in their wake.

Drink Up Buttercup performing "Sosey & Dosey"

At Drink Up Buttercup’s most maniacal height, the raging “Sosey and Doesy”  transformed from a campy carnival rant on the Farewell Captain 7” into an exuberant primitive stomp that was unstoppable.  Bassisst Ben Money flailed spastically on stage with a bandana covering his mouth, robber-style, Farzad Houshiarnejad beat the ever loving hell out of that tin trash can with a suprisingly durable maracca, and both followed the lead of guitarist/lead singer James Harvey, howling into the rafters of the rennovated church, elevating what they describe as “campfire metal” to unforseen new heights.

Being in the middle of an era that’s chalk full of too-fucking-cool bands who would rather pose  and evoke mystique than break a sweat, watching Drink Up Buttercup wear their inner six year old on their sleeves was exhilirating. My friends Rebecca and Julie convinced me to go to this show and I am seriously glad I didn’t make the wrong decision.  Twice in two weeks I have been treated to intimate, impassioned rock shows of the highest order.

Dr. Dog – The Old Days

Dr. Dog – The Rabbit, the Bat, and the Reindeer

Drink Up Buttercup – Sosey and Dosey

Drink Up Buttercup – Gods and Gentlemen

What was so special about seeing The Headlights, touring mates The Love Language and local power poppers The Triggers at the Brillobox last Sunday night was that the restlessness from weeks on the road pitched the show into a kind of euphoric fervor. With The Triggers aside (not because their show was subpar, far from it, but because they were exempt from the grueling tour schedule) The Headlights and The Love Language looked like they were made to play on the same bill, over lapping each others sets by bringing up band members on stage and incorporating a house party intimacy.

With a night that brought dreary rain after a weekend of exuberant, summer like weather, the crowd was not sparse, but smaller compared to more packed nights at the Brillobox, affording almost everyone in the room to get as close as they wanted to the stage.

The Triggers put on their usual sensational set, pumping out tightly wound cuts from their latest album, Smoke Show, with an energy few opening acts could replicate. I saw them at the Westiminster Coffee House in Mt. Lebanon last summer, a homecoming of sorts as they were playing a free show, and both sets throbbed with an infectious bounce that had both crowds tapping and dancing along. In terms of how a local act should perform in front of a national tour, this should be the gold standard.

Stuart McLamb, lead singer and songwriter of The Love Language,  recorded most of the group’s self titled debut album by himself.   He managed to put his seven piece band together, comprised of family, friends and musical acquaintances from Raleigh and Chapel Hill, NC,  just two weeks before playing their first show, but, during this performance, the seams were all but invisible.

The most telling moment of the group’s chemistry came in the enduring, a capella harmonization for the first moments of  “Manteo,” which brought the entire venue to a quiet halt before breaking into a sandy waltz of eclectic percussion and subdued organs.  The barn burning pace of “Lalita” saw keyboardist Missy Thangs shuffle into the crowd with a tambourine, joyously skipping back to the stage to join Stuart’s brother, Jordan, for the earth shattering chorus.  The Love Language put on a set similar to a basement show, with band members just happy to be jamming along side one another, swigging beers and smiling, dancing and shaking their heads.

The Headlights built off this generous atmosphere by stomping along with a heavy beat, and bringing out some seriously gorgeous songs from their latest album, Some Racing, Some Stopping. The most gorgeous of which is “Cherry Tulips,” the softly sweet ballad which brilliantly showcases keyboardist Erin Fein’s delicate vocals.  I didn’t realize how intently I was watching her sing until a friend of mine causually pointed out, “dude, I saw your heart breaking when she ended that song.”  I’ll confess, I was lost in the moment, cheesing on some serious sentiment and melodrama, but I am more than okay with that.

“Market Girl” pounced along untill the entire room was shimmying to some cruising guitars, and of course, a highly overactive tambourine.  Various members of The Love Language slowly sauntered on stage through out the set, setting up shop in different corners of the stage, some grabbing a piece of their disassembled drum set to keep the collective rhythm section loud.

Talking to Headlight’s guitarist Tristan after the show, he admitted how much the two bands enjoyed touring together, even after only two weeks, and it was obviously apparent.  They enjoyed playing music together, simple as that.  It was well worth the price of admission to see two bands with some palpable happiness getting on stage together and loving every minute of it.

Headlights – Market Girl

Headlights – Cherry Tulips

The Love Language – Manteo

The Love Language – Lalita

The Triggers – Ready or Not

The man known as Diplo (a.k.a. Thomas Welsey Pentz, Philadelphia-based DJ, producer, and songwriter) put on a master class of mashup beat making for a city spoiled with talented, upstart laptop artists (Girl Talk and Discuss among others).  He casually manipulated a thunderously vibrant sonic narrative for a motley crew of sweat drenched indie kids, frat boy gawkers, greased up clubbers, and rap video cliches that, by the end of the night, were throwing up their “hand” guns in complete unison for the violent, felony laden chorus of this distinguished DJ’s most famous opus, M.I.A.’s “Paper Planes.”

2-parts ass shaking, hedonistic excess, 1-part jazz infused improvisation, Diplo’s mix was characterized by a series of build ups and cathartic release, occasionally slowing the party down long enough to showcase one spectacular, sparse synth sample at a time.  By breaking down the components of his mixing wizardry, Diplo challenged his audience to witness the evolution of a fully realized composition from the very first point of its genesis.

While some could call this the indulgent act of a jaded DJ, I found it fascinating to connect the  electrical dots flying out of the monitors.  Diplo, with his oft-repeated “Pittsburgh, COME ON”‘s, was personally showing the crowd what it means to be one of the word’s most intensely cerebral and eclectic DJ’s.  He coolly spotlighted   his choice, taste-making samples, the unforgiving mutilation of classic rock songs (Smells Like Teen Spirit and Thunderstruck to name a few), and a couple complete overhauls of artists he had more than a hand in scuplting (Santogold and M.I.A.), all of this while looking back to us with a small  smirk of clever recognition.

As scholarly as that all just sounded, the show was also an unmitigated shit storm of strobe lights, blow up dolls, and Maker’s Mark, concluding with my realization that by the end of the night, DJ Nugget and Laser Crunk (two of the shows opening acts)  were throwing down right in front of me, spastically dancing right along with the rest of us.  Diplo didn’t step on to the stage until well after midnight, and walked off somewhere around 2:15 AM, resulting in quite a Thursday night for the lot of us. After the set ended, I seriously wondered if  Diesel can ever possess that much cred again.

M.I.A. – Sunshowers (Diplo Mix)

The Black Lips – Veni Vidi Veci (Diplo Mix)

I have been both elated and disillusioned with the many forms it has taken over our decade plus engagement, pulling away many times only to stumble back into its sweat drenched arms, nostalgic for the raw and visceral.  Each renewed passion proves to be less fervent than the previous, the flame gradually smothered by a desperate exhaustion. After every break up we have had (and there have been many), I always seem to walk away shaking my head, wondering, “Can it ever sound new again?”

That was a fairly long preamble for what will essentially become an overwhelmingly positive concert review, but I guess I needed to lay the gauntlet down.  The Gaslight Anthem and Heartless Bastards took over Mr. Smalls on March 29, a cool Sunday evening that provided some much needed heat and excitement, injecting my weathered blues rock lover with a mainline of ardor.   The sound I had loved and left 12 times over was now strutting on stage, blasting me with gem after gem of tortured rock genius.  As much as I admire rapid experimentalism and the general mutilation of popular music that many independent acts today tend to showcase, I forgot how exhilarating it was to witness hearty, passionate, poetic rock and roll light the stage on fire.

I was seriously anticipating Heartless Bastards live,wondering if Erika Wennerstrom’s howl would be dwarfed by the larger than life guitar canvasses her band erects with nearly every song. Luckily, her vocals soared with effortless authority, especially on the stunning album opener from the Bastards latest, “The Mountain,” through a no nonsense set that provided very few lulls.  The guitar work was tight but expansive, showcased by the heavier tracks in the band’s arsenal such as “Came a Long Way” and “No Pointing Arrows” off their 2006 effort All This Time, and the barn burning “Early in the Morning” from this year’s The Mountain.

Heartless Bastards no frills, shit kicking music was embraced by the packed house for the robust volume of their set list, 14 tracks in all I believe, and the sheer, unmitigated aura of cool they omitted. Coming fresh off the marathon that is South by Southwest, Heartless Bastards put on a show that was economical and passionate in the same stroke, staying on just long enough to keep the crowd happy but never wearing out their welcome.  They easily crushed some healthy blues rock and laid significant ground work to establish a welcoming, passionate vibe for headliners The Gaslight Anthem, and everyone seemed anxious if the expectations would met.

Luckily, YET AGAIN, for the crowd, The Gaslight Anthem wasted no time to unleash a blistering rendition of “Great Expectations,” the staggeringly sweet, raucous, and rocking album opener from the band’s latest, 59′ Sound. The Jersey boys played the part, resembling punked up greasers, complete with tight dago t’s, tattoo sleeves, and enough mousse to make Jesse Katsopolis jealous.  By the time the album title track rolled around, and lead singer Brian Fallon pondered “Well I wonder which song they’re gonna play when we go”  the crowed might as well have been parked on the boardwalk in Asbury Park, NJ (unfortunately, some pittsburghers might gag at that thought) getting ready to cruise the strip in a beat up 62′ Oldsmobile.

Make no qualms about it, these boys are disciples of Bruce (and to a lesser extent The Replacements) especially Fallon, who actually related a few Springsteen anecdotes in between songs, including a surprisingly accurate impersonation of the patron saint of New Jersey rock.  He talked about the first time he met Springsteen, which was only a month ago, and how Bruce said he admired 59′ Sound, playing it in his car all the time when he would cart his daughter around northern Jersey.

Fallon sincerely confessed he had no idea what do with that information. Initially shocked that Bruce Springsteen had actually heard his band, he couldn’t get past the surreal image association of his band’s music with the day to day activities of  the Springsteen family. As far as concert banter goes, that’s the kind of shit the people want to hear, the soft humility behind mounting success. Along with the gushing appreciation for the crowd, the venue, which the band played with the Bouncing Souls a very, very long time ago, and the general honesty of the band’s entire package, the show felt more like a celebration of a local band who made a name for themselves than a national touring act wisping through Pittsburgh en route to fifteen other cities.

I’m surprised people weren’t hugging each other as they poured out on to the Millvale streets, promising each other they’d keep in touch over the coming spring and summer. One song, specifically, brought the whole experience full circle late in the Anthem’s set.  “Miles Davis & The Cool,” a somber, trembling anthem drenched in nostalgia (like all their best tracks) seemed to encapsulate the feeling of the night, with Fallon singing “Don’t wait too long to come home./My have the years of our youth passed on./Don’t wait too long to come home./I’ll leave the front light on./The night is our own.”

As sentimental and overblown as that statement may be, it reminded me about the ways in which rock music can become spiritual and transformative, capable of painting the perfect moment for thousands of people to revel in simultaneously.  The Hold Steady have done this for years, and The Gaslight Anthem have years to go.  I remember a quote from the legendary D. Boon of hardcore stalwarts The Minutemen, while he was discussing the different themes which appeared repeatedly in their music, which he summarized in simple but earnest statement,  “I’m not religious about god, I’m religious about man.”  The Gaslight Anthem and Heartless Bastards put on a show bursting with fervor from the outset, preaching a life affirming gospel even the most jaded rock purist will embrace as the truth.

The Gaslight Anthem – Great Expectations

The Gaslight Anthem – Miles Davis and the Cool

Heartless Bastards – The Mountain

The Heartless Bastards – No Pointing Arrows