A Winter's Week in Rock

A Winter's Week in Rock

by Rebecca Smith

"Are arbitrary labels more important than the way we live our lives, what we're supposed to be more important than what we actually are?"

(Cyclops in the graphic novel X-Men: God Loves, Man Kills, Chris Claremont)

It’s a bird…It’s a plane…It’s the Five O’Clock Heroes.

With a band name like that, one would expect a comic book spin-off (a la Coheed and Cambria...or, as I learned, The Subways), but in this instance we settle for catchy riffs, kitschy lyrics, and hipster rock-pop dance-y melodies that seep into the brain faster than a speeding bullet.

My week began auspiciously with a Calexico/Iron and Wine show, featuring the musical stylings of Salvador Duran. This was an extremely satisfying aural experience. However, the scene was not particularly fun. The typical Iron and Wine fan base tends to be subdued and quiet, so I was expecting the hush and the ability to hear a pin drop. What I was wholly unprepared for was the shockingly high attendance of the smug married crowd with their OTF(*$^#%!)T PDA. If only the city would imbue me with the power, I would hand out tickets for all the violations…of my gag reflex. Seriously, it is one thing to express your affection for another person, it is just excessive to spend no less than 2 hours making out, groping each other, and blocking my view in one shot. But I digress.

Point is, the Calexico/Iron and Wine collaboration was wondrous as an LP, but as a live performance, it was nothing short of miraculous. Watching Salvador Duran and “this box he was stomping on” (as described by Sam Beam of Iron and Wine), mesh his powerful, operatic vocals and rapid-fire Mexican style guitar strumming with the loud brassy spaghetti-western tunes of Calexico and the quietly powerful voice of Sam Beam and his sister Sarah’s high pitched counterpoint, well, it is impossible to walk away unchanged by that gripping combination. They were an oddly cohesive force of music. And despite my haggard appearance and extreme exhaustion the next morning, I was glad to have been a part of it. It boded well for my upcoming musical plans.

So last night, I allowed my anticipation of the night’s concert plans to build on my winding road to intoxication. A couple of company sponsored drinks later and I was off to the show with a buzz in my head (euphemism for drunk) and in the air around me (prose-like reference to musical arousal). Whoops, silly me, it’s so hard to read a watch with all those lovely drinks swimming around in your head, so I accidentally arrived unfashionably early.

Ahhh, such is life….Bartender, ‘nother round!

After enduring the agony of the barren landscape of pre-show Rothko for an eternity, a small crowd started to trickle in for the opening act, the Octagons. The band had some interesting pieces, and an energetic performance, but it seemed they could have used a bit more practice time to get acquainted with their own harmonies and equipment. The mic stand kept slipping away from the lead singer. I reckon this was a result of his hair from witnessing him repeatedly muss his couture hair (NB oddly shaped mullet) into his face obscuring all but his soulful pout emerging from the curtain it formed in front of the microphone. So after some illuminating mathematical insight from a possibly mentally ill audience member (Yes, Virginia, there is a polygon called octagon, but what does that have to do with the price of tea in China?), the Octagon played a song they described as about the war in Iraq (but my friend and I could only conclude it was actually about getting laid) and left the stage in an anticlimactic hop into the audience area (yeah, Rothko is small), paving the way for the meatier part of the show to begin.

Ahhh, this is what I came for, the Five O’Clock Heroes preceding the Subways.
Mmmm, I can taste it now. We began to claw our way to the front, swimming through a sea of extras from The O.C. (What the f*$^@ are they doing here? Aren’t they supposed to be filming the next season or something?) only to come up against the unforgiving Super-Sized wall of photographers. I understand that recording a performance on film is a good idea for posterity and promotion, but how many photographers does one band need? It would have been nice to see the band, but more often than not I got an eyeful of elbow and lighting equipment. Simmer down there, Sparky, if you dropped the shot I’m sure the guy directly in front of my other eyeball, whose elbow is currently firmly embedded in my stomach, got the same shot you were aiming for, and it might even be clearer since he was able to use my person as leverage to get height. I didn’t need that rib anyway. And all this before the boys even strummed their first notes.

All the dark foreshadowing aside, the 5OH (as I have affectionately dubbed them for the purposes of this article out of laziness, hey admitting the problem is the first step on the road to recovery!) climbed to the stage through what must have been sheer terror…of the clinging groupies. I say this because these lads seem to have garnered an eclectic mix of grabby-handed fans, ranging from statuesque blondes (who sound like they just stepped off the plane from LAX but hired a personal stylist from across the Williamsburg Bridge) to skinny boys with big hair (and a knack for the overuse of the word “dude”), but all share the common goal of touching (or taking home) the boys in the band. It must be frightening, or perhaps gratifying; they do seem to work quite hard and I didn’t see them put the smack-down on anyone. After maneuvering through and managing the undignified climb up to the raised platform serving as a stage, the 5OH slashed into a short program of musical entertainment. What they lacked in endurance, they made up for in energy. The boys ripped through their set with some cleaner more practiced sounding renditions of their older singles like “Time on My Hands,” “Head Games,” and my personal favorite “Run to Her.” They ribbed the crowd, daring the hipster kids to admit never having heard of the band before. But hipster kids always reluctant to admit having missed out on something trendy, deflected with their own heckling. I thought, “Ahhh, audience participation, perhaps this bodes well.” For you see, I had an agenda. I wanted to dance. Unfortunately, this is an absolute no-no at NYC shows. Horrifying, since the 5OH play music that is particularly well suited to such an endeavor. Ah well, such is life. They rounded out their act with some other songs off their album and closed the show with the new single “White Girls.” And all in less than an hour. The music was fun and bouncy, but I must admit, it could have used a bit more cowbell (and if you get that reference, you are soooo allowed to join my club). All in all, rock on, boys!

Of course, I couldn’t leave it at that, I needed some insider information, so I accosted as many band members as I could reach as they leapt off the stage into the throng, and begged an interview, the results of which can be seen in my article archives. Thankfully, they were amenable to my plans to catch The Subways performance that was to follow.

So now, the moment the entire crowd had been waiting for (this is based on my eavesdropping on anticipatory conversations shouted over the tinny between set recorded music and the drunken chanting “Subways!! Subways!! Yeah that chick is HOT!” from the creepy middle-aged British guys behind me) had arrived. I surmise that a majority of the turnout for the evening was based on one thing. No, not the Five O’clock Heroes, despite their catchy pop-rock tunes. No, it’s a little something I like to call the “O.C.-ification” of indie music. The Subways climbed to the stage amidst a more densely packed version of the crowd for the 5OH, all grabby hands and shouting girls (and some grown men screaming like girls). So it wasn’t Shea Stadium circa 1964, but it was a surprising turnout for the band’s first foray into the American bar circuit. I lay all the credit/blame at the band’s moonlighting as telly stars on the uber-popular “The O.C.” As a marketing strategy, it is brilliant and had what I am sure is a profound effect on album and concert sales. As a “keep your slogan covered t-shirt wearing, wristband sporting, trucker hat-ed self off my foot” strategy, it was a miserable failure. But, as I suppose the band’s ultimate goal is to succeed in the music industry as opposed to my immediate comfort and happiness, I guess that was not foremost in their minds as they took the stage.

Despite intermittent technical difficulties, The Subways rocked their way through their entire album. The Subways are a scarily young trio of self-taught musicians who have managed to produce well-crafted songs on a very successful first album very early on in their careers (and lives). They are a powerfully energetic group, as only the very young can be. The show featured Charlotte bouncing around and whipping her golden strands about her head to the beat hammered out by Josh, while his brother, Billy, climbed and jumped all over the instruments and equipment (uncovering that the Rothko cleaning staff are pretty much non-existent) belting out heartfelt irreverent tunes. Just your basic “we’re young, energetic, and edgy” performance charged with hints of danger (when the lead singer climbs around about 20 feet from the floor in a building that probably hasn’t been up to code since before Manhattan was traded for some beads and trinkets it adds an element of danger), youthful energy, and sex. Some of that probably stems from the band members themselves, being young, and the lead singer and bassist being romantically involved. Sweet, but the high octane guitar licks and feverishly passionate lyrics were sweeter. The band took the crowd on an emotional roller coaster using only their back catalogue of one album and their burgeoning talents. They gushed a bit over the fans and how happy they were to be in NYC for the first time. And then they closed strongly with fan favorite “Rock and Roll Queen” to the accompaniment of the singing crowd. Basically a phantasmagoric experience (ok a bit of hyperbole never hurt anyone).

I pressed through the throng to get to the downstairs bar to chat with the lads of the 5OH (and that story continues elsewhere) and then floated away on a wave of giddy drunk girl energy. Good times, good times. Now if only I could have had a ciggie inside, that would have made that night the top of the pops.

Check ya on the B side!