Just as there seems to be an age battle going on in the democratic primary (Clinton’s elderly to Obama’s youth), a similar psychological war was waged last week at the Jimmy Eat World concert, namely between JEW fans and the teenagers who came to see Paramore, a punkish pop, female-fronted band from Tennessee.

It was interesting to see the stark difference between the two groups. Paramore: 80s fashion (think bright colors and strange outfits) coupled with punkish attitudes (I add the “ish” since the real punks are probably in a ditch somewhere).

With Jimmy Eat World, it was more a laid-back group. The girls had those trendy eyeglasses on (is it me or does it seem like everyone has those same ones?), the guys had hooded sweatshirts on. Some were so laid-back that towards the “late” hour of 10pm, they were double fisting cups of Pepsi.

My girl and I were somewhere in the middle. We were more Jimmy fans, but weren’t scared of “the youths” (some people were huddled together in the corner of the arena, as if to hide from the teenager frenzy on the floor).

We were content with mocking Paramore fans and wondering why 80s fashion came back (though in the end we applauded the intensity and started to mock the Jimmy Eat World fans who were “too cool”).

After Paramore, the sweaty teenagers departed from the main area (some left all together, to the obvious joy of their adult chaperones. The rest went to the first tier of the arena to hit the bathroom, buy a shirt, or rub their sweat all over the wall.

I felt bad for the people who thought it was ridiculous and scoffed at some of the teens emerging with no shirt or a missing shoe. If you can’t appreciate that, then you were never in the pit as a kid and missed out.

As for Jimmy, I came to this show as a strange sort of homecoming. I spent five years of my life in Arizona (JEW is from Mesa, AZ) and have always felt a strange kinship with their music. I know how easy it is to “fall in love tonight” after a drunken experience at the bar on “9th and Ash” (it’s Casey Moore’s).

And when I finally left the state a year ago, their song “My Sundown” was one of the first to play on my iPod before the cross-country trip (it had the appropriate lyric “I’ve said my goodbyes/ This is my sundown/ I’m gonna be so much more than this…”)

So it was great to see the band again (this was my…third time? I was really drunk during one of those shows) and, as shows go, they put on a pretty tight set. Almost too tight.

Aside from the perfunctory (though no less appreciative) thanks, Jim Adkins and company didn’t do much expounding to the crowd or even divulge any strange road stories.

It was as if JEW knew that some people left after Paramore or that maybe they felt upstaged by the middle band in the lineup of three. Or maybe the road was getting to them. Either way, it felt quick and even the encore lacked drama. They left with a green light shining on the audience. They returned less than a minute later, so it was more like a water/beer/pee/puke/eat break behind stage.

If they did feel rushed, it’s interesting that, even deep into their career, Jimmy Eat World is still that band no one bets on, that people continue to push aside and that hipsters don’t give a second thought.

At the end of the show, the two factions of fans departed ways. The teenagers, sweaty and some with torn clothes, all exclaimed that this was “the craziest concert” they had ever been to and started recapping the “insane” moments to each other. Somebody yelled back at the jerk in the front row. Someone got puked on. Someone’s ears were still ringing.

I couldn’t help but smile and remember the times I would leave concerts, high off the experience, and feeling like I just witnessed something important. Times are a-changin indeed…

It’s always an interesting day when you decide to finally clean out your inbox.  You find emails you meant to respond to, forgotten bill statements, and various shout-outs from old friends wondering why you never write back (it’s cause I’m a lazy bastard who can’t find the time to this once a week).

Today, I found an email about Jessie Baylin, a Los Angeles-based folk/country singer who will be releasing her major label debut, Firesight, on June 24.

Maybe it’s because it’s Friday or because it’s a bit dreary outside. Either way, I was in the mood to hear the sounds of Baylin, which are bit like country and folk with a touch of Brandi Carlile’s voice.

But the interesting thing is a promotion she’s doing called “See Jessie Run” that asks fans to send in live photos of Jessie performing for free tickets to a show (wait…but you have to see her first to take the picture which means you get to see another show, but what if she doesn’t come to your city and…OK I’ve gone cross-eyed).

Anyway, it’s an interesting promotion and hopefully we’ll be able to ask Jessie about it personally soon. Here’s what’s left of her tour, along with her single “Was I on Your Mind” on the bottom.

May 17            Cedar Rapids, IA         CSPS Legion Arts Center‡
May 19            Denver, CO                 The Soiled Dove Underground‡
May 20            Provo, UT                   Club Velour‡
May 23            West Hollywood, CA    The Roxy Theatre‡
May 24            San Diego, CA            Brick By Brick‡
May 27            San Francisco, CA       Great American Music Hall‡
May 29            Portland, OR               Doug Fir Lounge‡
May 31            Seattle, WA                El Corazon‡

Jessie Baylin “Was I on Your Mind”

Outside the Rudeboy scene, ska music doesn’t get a whole lot of respect. The mid-nineties commercial success of bands like the Mighty Mighty Bosstones and Reel Big Fish made the entire genre feel a bit dated by the turn of the century. My friends raised more than a few eyebrows, when I mentioned that I was leaving a splendid Kentucky Derby party to go see a ska band. My girlfriend, who I dragged along, was ready to leave me when we realized I’d misread the concert info and we arrived a good two and half hours before the Slackers were going to play.

The first of two opening bands, The Chris Murray Combo, did little to sunny her disposition. It’s not just that they were so terrible, which they were, but that they were terrible in such a cliché way. The subject matter of every song seemed to be Rudeboys, skanking, and/or rocksteady. Every song featured a walking bass line, syncopated guitar riffs, and a bass drum accented EVERY third beat. It was tedious to say the least.

So I bought Christine a $9 Stella Artois and assured her that the Slackers would be worth her wait. Then something surprising happened: our conversation about how much we both hated opening bands, especially when there were two opening bands, was interrupted by the curtain and the first rip-roaring notes of Deal’s Gone Bad’s opening song. I’d never heard them before, never even heard of them, but they were good. And not just good, in the “they’re surprisingly not bad for an opener” sort of way, but good in a “I’m tempted to go the merch table and actually buy one of their albums” sort of way.

Their lead singer, Todd Hembrook, had a serious set of chops on him. He belted out lyrics about dishonest men and cheating women and had the room skanking almost immediately. Complimented by some impressive horns and a formidable rhythm section, Hembrook was able to get me out of the doghouse with my girlfriend.

And then came The Slackers. Generally considered to be the best live ska show anywhere, the Slackers didn’t disappoint. Having played together since 1991, the band is always incredibly polished, seamlessly transitioning between slower crowd favorites like “Wasted Days” and rocking up-tempo songs like “Have The Time.” They even brought out Hepcats vocalist Alex Désert for an inspired reggae version of Bill Whither’s classic “Ain’t No Sunshine.”

Little treats like Désert’s cameo always make for a unique show, but the band’s consistently excellent live performances stem from their horns and front man. Glen Pine is always a treat on trombone (and vocals) and Dave Hillyard seemed to be particularly on point with a variety of impressive solos over the course of night, but my favorite is Vic Ruggerio.

Ruggerio, wearing a variety of hats, including principle songwriter, lead vocals, keyboards, and even harmonica on a few songs, is a special musician. His most recent solo album, Something In My Blindspot, is nothing short of spectacular. I truly believe he’d be considered one of today’s best singer-songwriters if he weren’t the front man for a ska band. On this particular night, he suffered from a bit of logorrhea, subjecting the crowd to a handful of lengthy monologues about the origins of various songs, but that didn’t stop him from rocking the crowd.

And rock they did. Christine and I danced, which in itself is an impressive feat. The best (indie rock) shows we attend may result in swaying, but dancing almost never occurs. We weren’t alone. The room jostled and grooved throughout the night, and an unlikely duo, a teen and his gray haired middle-aged father standing in front of me, awkwardly bopped up and down to the music. Throughout the show, typically after a particularly passionate solo or chorus, the kid would nudge his dad like, “see, see, this band is kick-ass enough that even an old man would appreciate it?” and every time, the dad nudged his son right back, like “Holy shit, my kid might actually have some pretty good taste in music.” And you know what? They were both right.

My sister, who’s pen name is “Mimi Sasalito” (her first post is tomorrow), just returned from a weekend at Coachella with stories of public drunkenness, celebrity sightings and near-death experiences. Needless to say, i was pretty jealous (I was covering an independent film festival all weekend, which is only fun if you’re all coked up and can’t sleep).

Anyway, we were talking about the stuff she should have brought to the festival (bike light, a better camera, maybe a hang glider for fun).

With festival season in full gear, we want to know what you bring to these things (either legally or snuck in) to survive.

Or, if you’re like my sister, if you simply want to brag about all the festivals you’re going to this summer, then so be it.

As for me, I’ll be going to none. I was gonna check out the Newport Folk Festival (can’t afford it) and the REM/Modest Mouse/National concert (will be at a wedding), but the universe, apparently, is getting its revenge on me for the petty crimes I committed in the 8th grade (and I don’t care what the universe says…those pigs wanted to be free).

Peace…and don’t forget, we still want to see your pics of any epic people/t-shirts you see at shows.

And now, for no reason at all, a picture of a donkey being hoisted up on a cart.

Mimi Sasalito at posing with the Big Rig Jig

Coachella, the 3-day festival where great bands play in the desert sun to a fun loving crowd and where I realized I missed my subway pass.

After a great day filled with the sounds of the National, Vampire Weekend the Raconteurs, the Verve, and Jack Johnson to name a few, it was time for me to go home. Home, being a friend’s parent’s place, was about a 30-minute bike ride. As we were cruising through the parking lot, passing cars left and right (lata suckas), all I could think of was the line up for the next day. It wasn’t until we got on to the main road that we discovered that the desert is not equipped with street lights and our bikes were not equipped with bike lights.

With no other way to get back to the house, we biked in the dead of night. My partner in crime was smartly camouflaged in black, invisible to passing cars. I on the other hand, was in a pale pink shirt, which could be seen at about 10 feet, which is just enough time for a driver to say “oh shit” right before hitting me.

I was certain that death was fast upon us. I nearly peed myself every time a car passed me. I would have taken the gusts of wind from passing cars any day over being blinded by on coming traffic.

With each pedal, a glimmer of hope passed through my head. We might actually make it back intact. Could this be true? I should have known better.

We turned the last corner and entered the main road that leads to her parent’s house. As we were getting closer to their gated community, I let my guard down. BIG MISTAKE.

Along the road, they have ground lights so drivers can see the various community names. These lights, however, are not so biker friendly because they blind you for about a second as you ride by. Which happened to me at the exact moment that my friend said “Oh no!” (Apparently a mini coop was pulling a U-turn on a side street, which was not in our close vicinity, and this somehow was a big deal).

Being blind, startled, and anxious from the entire bike ride, I slammed on the breaks…the front breaks.

I don’t remember flying through the air nor do I remember landing. I do remember and am reminded daily of being on the pavement on the street, my bike taunting me on the sidewalk and an intense pain coming from my chest and thigh.

Brushing myself off, I took inventory of my casualties, which rather disappointingly only consisted of a small scratch on my hand and a scrap on my arm. The pain coming from my chest and thigh had yet to turn black and blue. A lesser woman would have surely died. I am certain that I came out of the wreckage unscathed because there was a whole weekend of music to be heard. And I’m glad I made it.

Mimi will be back with more posts about her Coachella experience.

I thought I made a mistake. I was surrounded by women. Hot women dressed in tight jeans and knee-high heel boots, all achingly awaiting for the Australian wonder twins that make up The Kin to hit the stage. Already, I felt completely out of my element.

Initially, I was drawn to the show because of the band’s commitment to charity:water, an organization dedicated to building clean water wells in places like Africa. The Kin’s specific well was for a community in Kenya, and was to cost $35,000.

During their shows, they sell $20 bottles of water with all of the money going to the charity. According to the charity:water, $20 can give one person safe water for 20 years.

So, since I made a New Year’s resolution to stop being a dick, I bought one (though there’s something weird about drinking water from a charity that aims to bring water to people who don’t have it).

Still, after seeing the twins come up on stage, I was tempted to leave and not witness all the eye-fucking that was going on between the patrons and the group.

Then something happened. The brothers left the stage and pulled their charm onto the main floor, asking the crowd to form a circle around them. They performed a couple of songs, one of which was the political “Abraham.” It started with someone yelling for the rest of the bar to “shut up!”

The Kin - Abraham (live at TT the Bears)

For a moment, the wall between audience and performer was broken and suddenly we were all drunken friends, singing along with these two Aussies as if it were a house party and someone had found a guitar in the corner. The Kin performed in the dark, away from the spotlight, mics, and speakers of the stage.

It got to the point the everyone in the circle began singing the chorus towards the end.

After a couple more songs, the boys returned to the stage where the eye-fucking got completely out of control, with the women crowding towards the front (there were even some dudes there).

But the impromptu and intimate performance in the midst of the audience was enough to convince me that this was a group to see more of. They played most of their songs from last year’s “Rise and Fall,” and promised a new album was coming this summer.

Sure, this is a group that makes music ripe for those “emotional” moments on television dramas, but there was something inspiring about breaking down that wall, bringing the concert experience to the audience and bringing music fans together as one rowdy bunch in the middle of dive bar.

It ended as most good parties do, with another sing-a-long, this time to Prince’s “When Doves Cry,” with the brothers again in the middle of an audience-made circle.

An open note to the opening band…

Girl in a Coma,

I showed up late to your set and caught, I think, the last two songs. My bad. I’m usually better at getting to t places on time but, well, it was a Wednesday night and, at the time, I was more interested in running back home to play Call of Duty 3 to beat the shit out of some Germans in World War II.

But I got into your set. And it wasn’t because i enjoy all-girl groups that rawk or the fact that I was in the mood to hear something loud and primal. It was the way your lead singer’s eyes seemed to almost pop out of her skull. That was truly engaging and I had to inch closer to the stage to see if it would happen.

And even though it didn’t, it was fun to watch and see some of the male members of the audience cower in the back.

So thanks Girl in a Coma. You got me in the mood to break things. Bless you.

I found this guy at a Daniel Johnston concert who was actually part of the security team (which means he simply pointed people to the door).

Never before has a t-shirt fit the person wearing it so perfectly. So here’s a reader request that will hopefully last for a while. We want more evidence of awesome t-shirts at concerts. Find one and send it in…who knows? there may be a prize involved that’s more than just the deep satisfaction of finding something cool.

Onward concert soldiers and find the weird…

I went out to the State Theatre last Sunday to see Black Rebel Motorcycle Club. I’ve been a fan of the band since 2005’s Howl. That album was filled with acoustic blues-stompers and earthy Americana. It was a departure for a band that built its reputation on heavily overdriven garage rock, but that record’s sound is the standard by which I’ve measured the band since it was the first I heard.

Therein lies the problem.

The California band, named after Marlon Brando’s motorcycle gang in 1953 flick The Wild One, built a reputation as a psychedelic garage-blues band with its first two albums. The most recent, Baby 81, was a return to this form. BRMC was at its best with Howl, but Baby 81 proved that record wasn’t representative of the actual character of the band. I came in to the show with unreasonable expectations, and as a result I was a little disappointed.

Londoners The Duke Spirit opened the show. Bleach-blonde singer Leila Moss noticeably evoked Sonic Youth’s Kim Gordon, wailing over walls of guitar. With her blonde locks, cute British accent and bluesily raspy croon, she exuded sex appeal no American Idol-produced pop tart could ever hope to match. In retrospect, the Spirit might actually have been the better band to take the stage this evening, and they left me in high spirits despite the general apathy of the audience.

At one point, Moss practically begged the audience to move around, asking, “How are those seats? Comfortable?” Unfortunately, the State Theatre is ill suited to the kind of audience involvement that befits this band. Even so, the Spirit turned in a fun and respectable performance.

BRMC didn’t take the stage for more than an hour after the opening act finished. The crowd grew progressively more restless, cheering when a song with the opening lyrics “I’m getting tired of waiting” came on the PA.

An explosion of strobe lights engulfed the theater when the band finally took the smoke-shrouded stage. The lights were pointed toward the audience, which proved to be immensely distracting throughout the show. At times, it felt as if the audience was under attack from the stage. My notes include such choice phrases as:

• “Never point strobes at the audience. Thanks.”
• “More strobes… having trouble seeing to write this”

and

• “Punctuated by the strobes from hell”

I can’t be completely sure anyone else feels so strongly about strobe lights, but it sure as hell put me in a crappy mood and seriously infringed on my enjoyment of the music. I digress.

Guitarist Peter Hayes and bassist Robert Levon Been split the vocal duties, with Nick Jago on drums. Hayes’ deep, smooth voice balanced well with Been’s more nasal delivery. The set list included several cuts from Howl.

Unfortunately, the band played both of that album’s two best songs, “Shuffle Your Feet” and “Ain’t No Easy Way,” near the beginning of the set. Both of these were harmonic and acoustic guitar-driven blues stomps, while the rest of the songs in the set were enjoyable psychedelic rockers played with earnest intensity.

The transitions between acoustic and electric numbers were a little jarring. Because the State Theatre is a venue better suited for the former, an all-acoustic performance from the band would probably have been more desirable.

The rest of the people in attendance didn’t seem to mind the strobes and the odd order of the set list. After the first number, Hayes thanked the audience for its support. The man a few seats down from me took to howling “Thank you!” at the band following every song. Though he was genuinely thanking the band for making a stop in State College, I had never before heard the phrase coming from the crowd instead of the stage and felt accordingly uncomfortable every time he said it.

I’m still a fan of Black Rebel Motorcycle Club and I’m glad I went to the show, but the next time they come through Pennsylvania, they might be opening for the Duke Spirit instead of the other way around.

Black Rebel Motorcycle Club - Ain’t No Easy Way

A couple of weeks ago, I was sent the album “Moonbeams” by Throw Me The Statue, which immediately became memorable thanks to the topless woman falling backwards off a dock. So initially, the cover distracted me.

During the first listen, I was a bit put off. I had it on as background music and felt some of it landed in the “crazy” category (think indie rock but incorporating instruments like the recorder). Then I heard the song “Lolita” and began to hear something good.

It was enough to get me out to their show last night and I can now say that I’m an even bigger fan of topless women falling off docks.

TMTS (yes, I’m that lazy) brought something to the small stage few bands do. Sure then had decorative lights and a keyboardist with a penchant for dancing, but what set them apart is the passion displayed on stage. During one song, frontman Scott Reitherman was jumping up and down and pounding on the extra drum kit on stage (yea, they need two. that’s how much they rock).

When Reitherman did this, he seemed possessed on stage, with his eyes closed and the spirit of rock pumping through his skinny frame. It’s encouraging to see passion like that on stage and only made me want to join him in beating the crap out of a drumkit and rock-howling at the moon.

I think their music got into other people as well, specifically the women at the show. By the third song, two scrambled to the front area of the stage and danced like no one was watching (we were). Soon, others joined in and it turned into a wild, uncoordinated musical mess…but it was awesome.

I’m definitely giving this band a couple more listens. If I was in to putting bands in boxes, I’d try to squeeze TMTS into one with Weezer…but I stomp on boxes and burn them, so I’m not going to do that.

Throw Me The Statue - “This is How We Kiss”

A Quick Word about the Opening Band:

Winter Hinterland, a local outfit from Jamaica Plain, MA walked onto the stage and set up these little lanterns (I think there were 3). Then they dimmed the lights, so much so that you could only see the lanterns and the Christmas lights they placed around the drums in the back. First i thought it was a cool atmospheric effect. Then I realized it was probably because the frontwoman was probably shy and didn’t want the audience to see her sing.

All of this faded away when one of the members took out a saw, (you know, the kind you use to cut branches and the limbs of disobedient carnies) and proceeded to play it with a bow.

Creatively speaking, it was cool. Aurally speaking, it reminded me of a sound effect you would hear in a haunted house, the kind of sound you hear before the drunken, unemployable middle-aged man jumps out at you with a mask and fake blood.

So the quick word? They were interesting, but made me feel weird inside…and a little scared. However, I am overjoyed that Boston is getting a weirder music scene, instead of churning out one pop rock band after another.

Recently, Zooey Deschanel and M. Ward made hipsters cream themselves with the release of She & Him “Volume One,” a collaboration that combines Ward’s musical talent with Deschanel’s general awesomeness.

She’s always been great in films, delivering that much needed sarcastic tone/look/atmosphere that can elevate a film like “Failure to Launch” into the “watchable” pile.

But which do you prefer? Here are some videos to help you decide.

Zooey Deschanel in “Failure to Launch”

She & Him “Dream a Little Dream”

And by the way, if you haven’t picked up She & Him, it’s worth it, provided you like a throwback to the sounds of a ’70s summer and a cover of “You Really Got a Hold on Me.”

As for me, I think I prefer concert Zooey. Even “Elf” gets tiring after the 12th viewing and I can tell I’ll be listening to “Volume One” for a while.

*Update: Just found a NY Times article this morning on She & Him that’s worth your time.