Naysayers in the audience will object: “Music isn’t a sense, dummy! There are only six senses: sight, sound, smell, taste, touch, and dead people. No more, no less. And music is not, never was, and never shall be, one of them. Music is perceived through the sense of hearing, and does not constitute its own sense.”

To which, I reply: This is why I hate naysayers. Can’t you allow for a little poetic interpretation? Why must you rob life of all its beauty? Metaphor is a necessity of language, my friend. Even you, sayers of nay, use it in your daily speech. For example, have you ever said, “Things are looking up,” “There’s not enough time,” or “I’m a purple elephant dancing under the sea”? Of course you have; these are things everyone says every day. And all of them are metaphors.

And my poetic metaphor simply takes this practice one step further: beyond the practical to the emotional. So you see, I don’t necessarily mean we perceive music in some undiscovered way (although I bet we do), but simply that I am going to discuss the perception of music.

There. Now that we have that sorted out, I forgot what I was going to say.

The Hot Toddies are another in the tradition of bands, like Flight of the Conchords, that deliver comical, ironic, or just plain odd lyrics, but go on to back them up with solid songwriting and musicianship. You’d be remiss to discount them as four girls goofing around on a stage. There’s real talent here, wrapped in a package alternately sweet and sour.

Naturally, after the show, we became fast friends (in a sense[3]), so I was only too happy to hear they were embarking on a national tour, starting this weekend in San Francisco. And I was only too happy to help them promote it. For my around-the-country friends: be sure to swing by if there’s a show within 200 miles of you. To my Fresnans, I will see you at Audie’s Olympic on Thursday, June 18. (Click the image below to embiggen.)

Fun.

1. I actually mentioned it here.
2. None of those are real music genres. Except philspectorism.
3. “No sense” is a sense!

“It was so clear to me that it was almost invisible”

I love Neko Case, as you know. I’d never seen her perform live solo (though she was amazing when I saw her with the New Pornographers—still the best concert I’ve been to). What else could I do? I wasn’t going to miss this chance.

Most people, unlike me, have real jobs. This left slim pickings for my choice of companions on this adventure. Luckily my pal RC is a photographer[1], not a real jobber. He didn’t hate Neko, but he wasn’t a huge fan. But he agreed to accompany me. Plus, he brought along some perks: a car with an iPod hookup and a friend in San Diego to stay with.[2] So, when it comes to pickings, you can do slimmer than RC.[3]

“Can’t scrape together quite enough / to ride the bus to the outskirts of / the fact that I need love”

Monday afternoon, we set out. Trading driving duties, and with only a few brief stops for food and underwear[4], we soon found ourselves on the streets of downtown San Diego.

RC’s friend Dani San Diego[5] lives southeast of and higher up than downtown, in the Bankers Hill neighborhood (named after settlers who lived near a riverbank, I assume). Her efficiency apartment is part of a tiny old building, which I would describe in architectural terms, if I knew any. But it was cool, nestled between office buildings in the mixed-use, big-city style I like so much.

It was pretty late, so we got ready for bed.

“I miss how you’d sigh yourself to sleep / when I’d rake the springtime across your sheets”

I had pre-ordered the new Neko album, which was coming out the following day (the day of the show), from Amazon. As I lay on the bed in San Diego, some UPS truck was probably driving through the night to deliver the CD to my home in Fresno. I decided this was unacceptable.

Hopping on someone’s open wifi network with my iPod touch, I waited for the minute hand to swing past 12. It was Tuesday morning, Middle Cyclone appeared in the iTunes store, and I bought it. I fell asleep to Neko’s brand-new soul-peircing music.[6]

“The sistine chapel, painted with a gatling gun”

We woke at 8am. With no idea what kind of competition we’d face in line, we figured it was better to play it safe.

The Casbah is a small club. On a corner near the airport, it’s flanked by the I-5 to the East and many square-miles of parking garages to the West.

When RC and I drove by at 9am, no one was there except a homeless man sitting on the ledge out front. We decided to get breakfast (for us; not the homeless man).

We drove by again at 10am. Two more bums, but no line. Since breakfast had gone so well, we decided to go to Old Town San Diego[7] for lunch. And by “lunch”, of course I mean “margaritas”.[8] Dani San Diego joined us for that.

We went somewhere that had something to do with coyotes. I think they used coyote meat like the original Californians or something. Anyway.

We also had a little Mexican food.

It was a fun grande time, but it was getting late. I’m talkin’, past 1pm late. So we said our adioses and headed back to the Casbah (DSD couldn’t come to the show with us because she had to volunteer to teach kids how to not shoot each other or something dumb like that; plus she’d already used the epilepsy excuse once that week). By then, the bums had been replaced by a few nerds sitting in line like losers. We quickly parked and joined them. We were around the fifteenth persons in line.

“Yes, there are things that I’m still so afraid of,
but my courage is roaring like the sound of the sun”

Next came a lot of waiting, which was boring so I will use my writerly skills to make it seem interesting.

Line sidewalk cars. Sun, sun, burning, sun? Burning face! Sidewalk, growing line. Wait. Wristbands at 3? Twitter twitter twitter. Hour one. Sidewalk sun wait. Airplane airplane up! Wait. Maybe 200 people in line. Sidewalk down the block! Pfft. Ker-ulllp!

That’s when they started handing out wristbands, around 3:30. Return at 7 for the show.

RC and me, we got our wrist-shaped golden tickets and proceeded down the road to the local tavern. This is where RC introduced me to John Bonham—the long-dead and legendary drummer of rock-and-roll band Led Zeppelin—who has apparently been reincarnated as a made-up combo-cocktail of sorts, consisting of a shot of Jack followed by a bottle of Budweiser. What I’m trying to say is, we drank a shot of whiskey and a bottle of beer, see? Apparently when RC lived in Hollywood that’s what all the tranny hookers drank, so it was considered “cool”, in quotation marks.

Then we had a couple more of those.

Then we were ready…

To stand in line some more. Around 6pm we returned to the line, this time scoring the eighth and ninth spots. The sun had sunk below the parking garages and a faint breeze occasionally blew past from, presumably, the ocean. We were less than an hour away from my dream cum laude.

An hour and a half later, the doors were opened, our hands were stamped, and we scampered like monstrous, deformed schoolgirls into the Casbah, down the short hallway and around the corner to the stage.

The Casbah is small. The main room contains a bar running the length of one wall, a 12-inch high stage in the opposite corner, and enough room to cram—crotch-to-ass—about 200 music nerd-snobs. So we crammed. Having staked our prime real estate behind two short girls directly in front of the stage, RC and I elected to forego drinks so we could protect our claim. And it’s a good thing we did.

Unlike a typical show where you wait half an hour past the start time for the opener to take the stage, then an hour after they finish for the headliner, this was far more guerilla.

Within ten minutes of everyone entering the building, Neko and her band were shuffled through the crowd and onto the tiny stage.

“My love, I am the speed of sound / I left them motherless, fatherless / Their souls dangling inside-out from their mouths / But it’s never enough”

Then she sang.

And, well, I don’t really know how to describe it. If I hadn’t been standing six feet away I wouldn’t have believed it. She was perfect. She sounded better than the records: every note bursting forth in sonic waves precisely tuned to eff the ineffable.

Her band was spot on. But honestly, except for a couple particularly brain-melting riffs on the slide guitar, I was only listening to her voice—either by itself or making aural love to Kelly Hogan’s harmonies.

They played a nice assortment of older stuff from Blacklisted and Fox Confessor (nothing from Furnace Room Lullaby though). “Deep Red Bells” included the aforementioned brain-melting. “I Wish I Was the Moon Tonight” made me forget all about the subjunctive mood. “Hold On, Hold On” was fantastic, as expected.

But the real highlights were from the new album. The whirling melodies of set opener “This Tornado Loves You” lifted me off the ground (figuratively). Title track “Middle Cyclone” has already eclipsed “I Wish I Was the Moon” as my go-to cry-into-my-pillow song. The newer songs brought better banter too: “This is a song about gettin’ down,” she says with a smirk. “It’s about basic needs” (“I’m an Animal”). The Harry Nilsson cover “Don’t Forget Me” spurred Hogan into a mini-solioquy listing anti-anxiety medications and they’re generic equivalents (which also make Who’s the Boss? funny, apparently).

There was so much to absorb, in such a small space, in such a small amount of time. Despite the awesome (literally) talent in front of me—almost within arms’ reach (literally)—I wasn’t as affected as I thought I’d be. Standing in front of everyone else in the audience, only hearing their cheers muffled by the low ceiling, I wasn’t able to draw on their energy as I have at past concerts where the audience and performer become some kind of symbiotic organism, feeding each other. Fueling each other. I suppose that’s the tradeoff when you see one of the world’s most talented and dynamic singers in a space the size of a large living room.[9]

In any case, the show was better than 90% of the music you’ll see live this year. Guaranteed.

Plus, we got free posters.

“Someone made a fool of me / ‘fore I could show ‘em how it’s done”

After an amazing show, RC and I met up again with Dani San Diego and went to some weird art bar where we sipped some more John Bonhams and Rumple Minze shots while watching painters paint and DJ Skullcrusher crush skulls, DJ. I proposed marriage to our waitress, as I tend to. She said no, but thanked me for the offer. Clearly, I had a very good time:

The following morning we ate breakfast. It wasn’t very exciting. Then RC and I said goodbye to San Diego and her inhabitants, and Dani San Diego and her inhabitants[10], then headed north. Toward home.

All in all: a pretty damn successful trip, if you ask me. And you reading my blog is an implicit asking of me, so there you go.

As a postscript, Ryan—who, as you’ll recall, had been lukewarm about Neko before the show—fell in such love with her that we are already planning Nekoquest 2009, Vol. 2…

But I’m getting a head of myself.

1. Note: Photographs in this post come from a variety of sources, including but not limited to: RCJones Photography, MySpace Secret Shows MySpace page, Amazon.com, and me.
2. Top 3 all-time best uses of a broken ankle.
3. This is a compliment. If you are confused, try drawing a diagram.
4. Easier than doing laundry.
5. Very cool chick, and a D-List celebrity, I think.
6. And I’ve been listening to it non-stop since.
7. “The Birthplace of California™”
8. “When in Rome…”
9. See postscript.
10. Bacteria in the intestines that help digest food, etc.

You don’t understand. Neko Case… Neko Case is amazing. Her music pierces my soul. Her voice pierces my soul and makes it bleed! Are you getting this?? Souls cannot bleed and hearts cannot weep, but that is what Neko Case does to me!

I only hope she can forgive me for not knowing. And I only hope you will listen to this song from her upcoming album Middle Cyclone:

People Got A Lotta Nerve – Neko Case

You can also download a free MP3.

Also, there is a point. For blogging this, Neko Case and ANTI- Records are donating five bucks to some animal charity thing. Watch:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_TGDjZxFI-A

Nice, right?

While you’re at it, watch this video about the new album:

Awesome.

1. A big one.

I remember your face when I showed you the ticket
Said you were happy for me, your heart wasn’t in it
Just a phone call away
Now there’s nothing to say
As the days roll by, disconnected

In the land where the sun is always shining on
Crying alone, palm tress are laughing at me
Another fool playing songs that don’t matter
For people who chatter endlessly

Another suicide on the 405
The Black Dahlia she smiles and smiles
It’s the same old town that bled her dry
One more starlet one more time
Bound to make it do or die
Take a walk to Bonnie Brae
Try to wash these dreams away
They tell me L.A.’s beautiful when it rains…

I don’t like going to concerts alone, because I feel like a loser and everyone is staring at me and I have no friends. On the other hand, I don’t like going to shows with someone who doesn’t really like the band, because the whole time I’m thinking, “This person isn’t having a good time. They don’t like the music. They don’t want to be here.” With these dueling scenarios in my head, four months ago I bought two tickets to see New Pornographers at The Warfield—with the hope that I’d find someone equally as excited as I was to see them live.

Of course that didn’t happen. Two weeks ago my only friend in the city agreed to go with me. She wasn’t a fan, but liked the music well enough, and is the type of person who just appreciates live music, so at least I wasn’t worried about her not having fun. Then she remembered that she has a class on Monday nights so she couldn’t go.

I ended up going with a different friend – a friend of a friend, really – who lives down the peninsula. She’s the type of person who, when asked “What type of music do you like?”, says “Everything.” I consider that a bad sign, as far as musical tastes go.

She’s a fun girl, though; I like hanging out with her. We had some enjoyable pre-show and between-set conversation despite the idiot kids who didn’t understand it wasn’t a Taking Back Sunday concert and insisted on weaseling into any inch of open space around us (I don’t know if Taking Back Sunday is a good current example of a stupid band that the kids like). She seemed to be having a good enough time.

The first band, Fancey, is mediocre. The frontman is Todd Fancey, guitarist for the New Pornographers. Good on him for pulling double duty, but I’m not too impressed.

Next is Lavender Diamond, and I’m pretty sure the singer is high. Which always makes for witty banter. No, it doesn’t. Especially not at a venue as large as the Warfield. She talks too much, and too incoherently, between songs that the audience gets lost and talks rudely throughout most of the set. And that’s a shame because they’re really good.

But at 10 o’clock, any discomfort or unease dissolves. Even my ulcer, if I have one (which I don’t) heals. “NEWPORNOGRAPHERS” in white hot lightbulbs blazes from above the stage, and the recorded plucking of “Classical Gas” pours over the speakers before all 8 bandmembers take the stage.

These guys are such pro’s. They’re enthusiastic, the energy is amazing, with none of the bumbling that characterized the previous band.

I’m stoked that the full lineup is there, as Dan Bejar (vocals/guitar/stuff) tends to not tour with them. I suspect he’s got some kind of social phobia or something, because when they aren’t performing one of his songs, he leaves the stage. But when he’s on, he’s on. And his are some of the greatest, most haunting, songs. “The Spirit of Giving In” mesmerizes: “And the wolves that you run with / are wolves, don’t forget. / They exist to give you something to regret / I’ll beat them to it.”

Carl Newman (vocals/guitar), who I just assumed would be an excellent showman, doesn’t disappoint. He exudes a leadership over the band without overshadowing anyone. And he’s funny.

San Francisco, he says, is the best city to play. We’ve “always had their backs. Way before like Louisville or Cleveland or some other bullshit city like that…”

“Doesn’t Cleveland have the hall of fame?” Kathryn (keyboard/vocals) asks. “The rock and roll hall of fame?”

“Yeah,” Carl says. “Who snubbed us for another year. Fucking Cleveland. It’s just a popularity contest. The entire city of Cleveland… That’s some good banter.”

And Kathryn… Kathryn Calder is awesome. If Neko Case (vocals) is Hera or Aphrodite or someone, then Kathryn is Helen of Troy – not quite divine, but pretty near the pinnacle of humanity. Which is even better, because it’s more attainable. She’s adorable in a black and white 1920′s flapper-looking cap and Asics sneakers. I’m a sucker for fashionably unique women. She sometimes looks a little uncertain up there, but holds her own. I imagine I have a much better chance of marrying her than I do Neko, so I’m leaning that direction. (I recommend her other band, Immaculate Machine).

The drummer, Kurt Dahle, kicks lots of ass, too. He switches off using that underhanded grip, which is apparently really hard to do, but all the coolest jazz drummers do it (like Buddy Rich). The beats are way more intense played live.

And finally, Neko. Wow. Her voice is hypnotic. It’s so powerful and piercing. It’s a wonder. “Challengers” is soul-melting, but is topped by the last song before the encore, “The Bleeding Heart Show”.

This song gets a paragraph all to itself. It’s built to be experienced live. It’s chilling. Transcendent. Inspiring. Every cliche you can think of. It rises like a phoenix. Like a University of Phoenix. To listen to Neko’s final “We have arrived”s over the repeated “Hey la”s… It makes me consider the possiblity that life isn’t meaningless. Indescribable.

The three-song encore ends with another showstopper, where everything began, the song that created the New Pornographers, “Letter from an Occupant”. It provides a soaring and satisfying finality, then it’s over.

The chill and stench of urine assault me on the sidewalk outside – an hour and a half of rapture, and it’s back to reality.

UPDATE: My friend Dave over at Waves and Wires (just kidding, I don’t know who he is) has a write-up of the show, complete setlist, and the whole show downloadable in mp3 format. Check it out.

Lucky Soul are the best retro/twee, Spector-inspired, 60′s-style melody-masters I’ve found. And I think the secret to their appeal—in contrast to similar-sounding bands, like The Pipettes or Belle and Sebastian—is an unabashed sincerity.

With similar groups, they sing the sweet and simple songs, with handclaps and La La La choruses, but you get the feeling that the whole time they’re winking at you, as if to say, “Isn’t this so kitschy and ironic?” On Lucky Soul’s various EPs and fantastic album, The Great Unwanted, everything’s just laid out, with the emotional honesty of a unjaded teenager. It’s a universe where heartbreak is allowed to be devastating, and hope never fades into cynicism. Granted, too much of that stuff (i.e., optimism) could get tiresome quickly, but Lucky Soul maintains a delicate balance, staying sweet but never becoming saccharine.

And don’t get me wrong; I’m not bashing cynicism. I love cynicism (or, as I call it, “realism”). But sometimes a little flight of fancy is in order.

Plus, how can you not love a song with that bridge section?

As far as I’m concerned, the most consistent band in this regard is The New Pornographers. Now on their fourth album, Challengers, frontman Carl Newman and the group do it again. Each album is distinct from the others, with its own feel and appeal. And within each album, the songs are fully differentiated from each other, but cohesive parts of the whole. (This is all the more intriguing because Newman shares songwriting duties with fellow member Dan Bejar, who writes about a third of the songs on his own. Somehow all the songs still retain that organic, unified feel. I think this speaks to the stellar collaborative abilities of all involved.)

Here I’m tempted to go into an album review, but I’m too tired to actually analyze the music, right? So what do I do? I listen to it, and think about how to describe the sort of quiet, pulsing immensity of songs like “Failsafe” or “Myriad Harbor”, but decades of hyperbole has rendered most suitable adjectives soggy and listless. They are without list. I want to talk about how it’s cool that the album, and it’s titular song, contain a subtle comicbook reference (“Challengers of the Unknown”), but how could I work that in? I’d like to say how happy I am that even though goddess Neko Case takes more of a back seat on this album, Kathryn Calder plays her own amplified role brilliantly. But then I’d feel obligated to explain who those people are, and that would mess up the flow. That would be too much work. The truth is, I don’t think I even want mess up this musical symbiosis I have going by trying to explain it. I’d rather let the silvery rhyme scheme and consonance of “Unguided” dance on my tongue. Or explore my own “Adventures in Solitude,” as it rises to its soaring bridge section. So, no, screw it, I’m not going to even try to review it.