Low at the First Unitarian Church
I was a little worried about the bassist. I thought that he might feel left out.
Tonight, I saw Low perform at the First Unitarian Church in Philadelphia. Low are a fine group, and though I had not seen them perform previously, I suspect I'll be buying their recorded works sometime in the future. The First Unitarian is a fine establishment; aside from Unitarianism being the only Christian church I have any respect for, they are one of the finest venues I've seen a show in, with ambience second only to The Killtime's squatters and crazy graffiti.
The church itself is a large, whimsically forbidding structure hewn of heavily embellished stone, which resembles a leftover prop from The Nightmare Before Christmas. This is incongruous with the interior, which is brightly painted and fitted with wood neither thick nor well-polished enough to be intimidating. It does not have the carpets into which one can sink an inch or more if one stands still long enough that I remember from the Lutheran church of my youth, but it also lacks the traditionally creepy, vulva-faced preacher and congregation of creaky-voiced old women who probably have antique lead-crystal dishes full of stale ribbon candy in their urine-smelling houses, which is a fair trade in my book.
My group of people split up while still getting in line outside. The plan was apparently to go to a nearby WaWa, but I thought better of that when I noted that there was a real deli open. With a sandwich of the fattiest pastrami ever in hand, I walked two blocks back, got back in line, and was soon interviewed along with my friends by a few college students. Roger and Jeff took the opportunity to plug their band, Resignation. I would plug them here if a website existed and was known to me.
The one smudge on the face of the evening was the opening act, Flare. Their music combined indie-rock and folk fairly competently, plus the frontman was a heavy guy playing a ukulele, which had me a little bit psyched. Unfortunately, his voice was the annoying, fakely expressive one that heartful folk troubador types and renfaire rockers tend to adopt, and to sum up his lyrics, I will paraphrase: "HELLO I AM A BEARD SITTING ON TOP OF A BELLY. ALLOW ME TO REGALE YOU WITH THE WOEFUL TALES OF RELATIONSHIPS I NEVER HAD". He did not have the good, jolly kind of beard and belly, nor the even better, scary, outlaw biker kind, but rather the sort you would expect from a bad dungeon master.
Low played an excellent set, as far as I could tell. Until the show, I had only heard one song years ago from a Low album proper, then their cover of "Transmission" on the Joy Division tribute, and one of their songs with The Dirty Three. The guitarist had some trouble with a cable that was loose or poorly grounded, but the popping sounds could not detract from such a fine evening of music. The guitarist at least was a skilful showman; he joked with the audience - "So, church is the new club". I was a little worried about the bassist. Among the three band members, he was the only non-vocalist, but he was mouthing the words to the songs. I thought he might feel left out, but when people were yelling song requests and some got ridiculous - and departed from "song" to "band name" - he futzed the bass line to the currently-popular Tool song and started a joke routine with the guitarist about how much they love Tool (who knows; maybe they do) and how they would like to open for them.
I was struck a few times during the show by how incredibly powerful their more intense moments were. For the most part, Low are slow and soft, not quite ethereal, but certainly soothing. Their louder moments, though not loud in comparison to much of my cd library, or even to much of what gets played on the mainstream radio, have a strength borne of contrast that really stands out. Their songs are well-written and well-performed and I really was deeply affected a few times by the sheer artistry.
I had been driven to this show by my friend Jeff. We met up with Dave and Roger, who were well known to me, Elysa, who I had recently met, and James, who was a fresh acquaintance as of that evening. I am still unsure as to how they got to the Center City location of the church from their North Philly ghetto dorms at Temple University, but Jeff ended up driving them home, which made for six people in his Dodge Neon. Elysa used her feminine wiles to secure the much-coveted shotgun position, and as I was the smallest remaining passenger, I was forced to lie down upon the laps of the other three gents, resulted in many humorous quips about someone's elbow in my butt, except I wasn't joking, James wouldn't stop sticking his elbow in there!
Sexual abuse aside, an excellent time was had by all. Low rules. Flare can suck it.
The church itself is a large, whimsically forbidding structure hewn of heavily embellished stone, which resembles a leftover prop from The Nightmare Before Christmas. This is incongruous with the interior, which is brightly painted and fitted with wood neither thick nor well-polished enough to be intimidating. It does not have the carpets into which one can sink an inch or more if one stands still long enough that I remember from the Lutheran church of my youth, but it also lacks the traditionally creepy, vulva-faced preacher and congregation of creaky-voiced old women who probably have antique lead-crystal dishes full of stale ribbon candy in their urine-smelling houses, which is a fair trade in my book.
My group of people split up while still getting in line outside. The plan was apparently to go to a nearby WaWa, but I thought better of that when I noted that there was a real deli open. With a sandwich of the fattiest pastrami ever in hand, I walked two blocks back, got back in line, and was soon interviewed along with my friends by a few college students. Roger and Jeff took the opportunity to plug their band, Resignation. I would plug them here if a website existed and was known to me.
The one smudge on the face of the evening was the opening act, Flare. Their music combined indie-rock and folk fairly competently, plus the frontman was a heavy guy playing a ukulele, which had me a little bit psyched. Unfortunately, his voice was the annoying, fakely expressive one that heartful folk troubador types and renfaire rockers tend to adopt, and to sum up his lyrics, I will paraphrase: "HELLO I AM A BEARD SITTING ON TOP OF A BELLY. ALLOW ME TO REGALE YOU WITH THE WOEFUL TALES OF RELATIONSHIPS I NEVER HAD". He did not have the good, jolly kind of beard and belly, nor the even better, scary, outlaw biker kind, but rather the sort you would expect from a bad dungeon master.
Low played an excellent set, as far as I could tell. Until the show, I had only heard one song years ago from a Low album proper, then their cover of "Transmission" on the Joy Division tribute, and one of their songs with The Dirty Three. The guitarist had some trouble with a cable that was loose or poorly grounded, but the popping sounds could not detract from such a fine evening of music. The guitarist at least was a skilful showman; he joked with the audience - "So, church is the new club". I was a little worried about the bassist. Among the three band members, he was the only non-vocalist, but he was mouthing the words to the songs. I thought he might feel left out, but when people were yelling song requests and some got ridiculous - and departed from "song" to "band name" - he futzed the bass line to the currently-popular Tool song and started a joke routine with the guitarist about how much they love Tool (who knows; maybe they do) and how they would like to open for them.
I was struck a few times during the show by how incredibly powerful their more intense moments were. For the most part, Low are slow and soft, not quite ethereal, but certainly soothing. Their louder moments, though not loud in comparison to much of my cd library, or even to much of what gets played on the mainstream radio, have a strength borne of contrast that really stands out. Their songs are well-written and well-performed and I really was deeply affected a few times by the sheer artistry.
I had been driven to this show by my friend Jeff. We met up with Dave and Roger, who were well known to me, Elysa, who I had recently met, and James, who was a fresh acquaintance as of that evening. I am still unsure as to how they got to the Center City location of the church from their North Philly ghetto dorms at Temple University, but Jeff ended up driving them home, which made for six people in his Dodge Neon. Elysa used her feminine wiles to secure the much-coveted shotgun position, and as I was the smallest remaining passenger, I was forced to lie down upon the laps of the other three gents, resulted in many humorous quips about someone's elbow in my butt, except I wasn't joking, James wouldn't stop sticking his elbow in there!
Sexual abuse aside, an excellent time was had by all. Low rules. Flare can suck it.
