Boston Calling’s September 2015 edition is in the books, and we all experienced pretty much something for everyone at City Hall Plaza. Friday leaned towards the seasoned folk side (Avett Brothers, Gregory Alan Isakov), Saturday offered a bevy of millennial-wave acts (CHVRCHES, Skylar Spence, Alt-J), and Sunday cooled down under a super blood moon with a nice mix of upstarts (MisterWives, Bully, Dirty Bangs) and captivating headliners (Alabama Shakes, Hozier, Nate Ruess). Walk The Moon also played, and upset a baby in the VIP tent. Vanyaland writer Barry Thompson caught all 23 bands over the weekend, and our resident photographer Eddy Leiva captured images of them all, as well. Check out Thompson’s recap of each day below, in one condensed super post, with Levia’s images showing a look inside another massively successful music festival in the heart of Boston.
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During its still nascent history, Boston Calling hasn’t gone out of its way to book terribly “risky” national acts. Rarely does anyone or thing that might offend my grandma — who is very easily offended — grace either of the two stages at City Hall Plaza.
Maybe that’s for the best.
If I was in charge of Boston Calling, most of it would offend my grandma, but the three-day sonic bonanza would lose a lot of money, and at least 30 attendees would leave the premises in the backs of police cruisers. If, in an alternate universe, the organizers announced they were canceling The Avett Brothers in favor of a last minute Choking Victim reunion on Friday, I would’ve been happy. But I would’ve been a lot less surprised to find face painting and pony rides offered to complement the thoroughly non-controversial festivities. And if we’re all being honest with ourselves, I think even the most diehard of crust punks would rather go for a pony ride than see a Choking Victim reunion. So where the fuck are our pony rides, Boston Calling?
Gregory Alan Isakov
Gregory Alan Isakov lives on a farm alongside fellow ruralists who named one of their sheep “T-Swift,” according to the Village Voice. Wikipedia claims Isakov licensed a song for a McDonald’s commercial, then gave all the money to a sustainable farming non-profit. He sounds like a pretty interesting dude! His set was probably sort of interesting, too! Right?! Maybe? I don’t know! Due to a handful of miscalculations and false assumptions on my part, I showed up too late to catch a note.
Of Monsters of Men
About a year and a half ago, a few Boston Calling onlookers — including myself — thought they saw Of Monsters and Men deliver a pretty not bad set of not-quite-overwrought Americana-pop. Then we noticed the band we thought was Of Monsters and Men neglected to play “Little Talks,” (a.k.a. the “Hey!” song, not to be confused with “Ho Hey” by The Lumineers). That’s because we had just listened to The Head and The Heart — a completely different band with a similar sounding name, musical sensibility and aesthetic, presentation, and target audience. More egregiously on our part, Of Monsters and Men hail from Iceland, and therefore aren’t even allowed to play Americana music.
Not that they need to. Singles — in this case, “Little Talks” — can be deceiving, and OMAM mustered moreoomph than a mere alt-folk flavor of the month could manage. You know winter is coming when even the Icelanders mention the cold but, via their Fleetwood Mac-ish, vaguely mystic aura, OMAM emphasized the glaringly obvious death of summer. I couldn’t tell whether the chorus of “Empire” goes “The Empire fucks you,” or the “Empire loves you,” but either way, this “empire” OMAM speak of doesn’t sound so bad.
Speaking of ambiguous sovereigns, we also know OMAM have signed up to probably get murdered in an upcoming Game of Thrones episode, possibly by the white walker/zombie members of Mastodon.
The Avett Brothers
Vanyaland correspondent Rob Duguay built the Avett Brothers up as one of the best live bands currently roaming planet Earth, thereby heightening my expectations well beyond reasonable levels and guaranteeing that the North Carolina quasi-hillbillies would disappoint, despite their best efforts. Thanks, Rob. Thanks a lot, jerk.
Nah, really, the Avetts were dagnab alright. The siblings plus their orchestral cohort adeptly maneuvered from high-octane banjo freak outs, a triumphant yet genuflective piano ballad, a not-so-triumphant but also genuflective piano ballad, a lightly-demonic gospel stomper, among plenty more angles without any of it scanning as abrupt or out of sync. Except for one time they cranked their voices up to super soprano for a few brief, befuddling a capella bars. That was weird. Regardless, it’s always refreshing to not hear 12 songs that all sound the same.
To be honest, as the Avetts crooned on, my verbatim thoughts read like, “Buh Buh Buh, Mumford and Sons laaaame, Guh Buh Sluh, write a joke about how much white people like this music, Guh Guh,” until I realized that if I had been watching this exact same band play this exact same set in a divey third-tier rock club with a maximum capacity of 175, I would be crapping my pants. But I can’t take a guy playing banjo seriously when I know for certain that he’s not poor and probably not a legit scumbag. Is that fair? Probably not, but my loss, I guess. The psyched up people in the front row got hi-fives and saw up-close ‘n personal geetar shredding when the Avetts jumped to the floor for some quick socializing. I didn’t get a hi-five, because I was way in the back, thinking about Mumford and Sons.
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Before it was even halfway over, Saturday’s round of Boston Calling dispensed a notably more eclectic roster of performers than Friday night’s pretty much homogenous outing. That made it better than Friday! Plus they gave out free sunglasses, free KIND granola bars, purple potato chips, and other goodies. Remember back when everybody got goodie bags after a birthday party? Boston Calling is like that, except you don’t have to wait until the end.
Look at this — It’s yummy, you bastards!
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Grey Season
In yesterday’s review of the Avett Brothers, I noted that I don’t consider a banjo player authentic unless I’m pretty sure he or she is poor and/or a genuine ne’er-do-well. Grey Season cut their teeth performing for passersby on Cambridge sidewalks not too long ago, and made the often-pricey trek to SXSW and back last March. This means they have way less money than the Avett Brothers. Plus, Grey Season reside in Allston — though they declined to announce their full address on stage — so even if they aren’t scumbags themselves, they certainly know a few.
Despite, or maybe because of, their traditionalists alt-folk signifiers, the quintet could be penning the soundtrack for one of those early morning, electric yet listless, post-bender stumble-walks home. That doesn’t read like a compliment, but it’s supposed to. Grey Season aren’t the first act around town to reinforce their twangs with punk fortitude. Approrpriately, they join kindred spirits Kingsley Flood at the Sinclair on November 20.
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Skylar Spence
One-time Boston College student Ryan DeRobertis used to go by “Saint Pepsi,” until someone told him Pepsi could hire the type of amoral top-shelf attorneys who could ruin his life in ways he had not previously imagined. Frankly, I wonder if he could’ve stood his ground and fought them on fair use or satire, but the matter has been settled.
As Skylar Spence, he put an end to the reign of uninterrupted alt-folk by providing the type of perfectly well-and-good neo-disco pop that makes people want to toss beach balls around. Which they did.
DeRobertis and co. came fresh off a Prom-themed gig (I’m presuming a record release party?) in Brooklyn, and while I’m not sure whether the prom gimmick is clever, or a grating attempt at tired irony, the song “Prom King” itself is a little killer.
Side-thought: Why does Superman always end up the default choice when a lyricist wants to make a superhero reference? For instance, Spider-Man and Wolverine both would’ve fit the necessary syllable count to star in Spence’s “I Can’t Be Your Superman.”
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Doomtree
In yesterday’s review, I mentioned Boston Calling isn’t usually dangerous enough to frighten my grandma, but that’s because I forgot Doomtree was showing up the next day. Incidentally, my grandma was planning on attending Saturday, until she watched Doomtree’s video for “Final Boss,” then she decided to stay home and pray for our souls instead.
It’s safe to say the overwhelming majority of Boston Calling’s audience has never been to a hip-hop show in their lives, but Doomtree didn’t mind acknowledging scanning as a bit out of place. “Let’s all pretend we go to rap shows everyday,” remarked P.O.S., co-founder of the Minnesota rap collective, before coaxing a good-try-for-beginners effort out of the crowd. “We’re right by City Hall, and nobody’s in trouble!” noted Dessa, appreciating the change of pace.
Doomtree remind me of playing one of the Final Fantasy sequels on Playstation 2, and for a bit, I couldn’t figure out why. Eventually I made the connection that there are five Doomtree members, each with a distinctive presentation and style, working in tandem, with one taking the lead whenever his or her specific talents best suit the situation. If their quest was to slay midday music festival ennui, they surely slaughtered that son of the bitch to death, then resurrected him, and killed him again.
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Stephen Malkmus and the Jicks
If few attendees at Boston Calling regularly attend hip hop shows, apparently even fewer know who Pavement is. Except for that one guy who yelled “Play some Pavement!” during Stephen Malkmus and Jicks’s workmanlike, but markedly sleepy set. Few can match Malkmus’s guitar wizardry, and his solos provided enough excitement to keep his band’s head above the water of severe blandness. One onlooker described Malkmus as “clearly uncomfortable” and observed that a Ric Flair-style “whooo” felt half-hearted, and may have been meant sarcastically. Nonetheless, as alternative legends occupying a filler slot at Boston Calling go, Stephen Malkmus and the Jicks were much, much better than Neutral Milk Hotel was last year.
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Father John Misty
Someone had to take the piss out of Ryan Adams for his remake of Taylor Swift’s 1989, but in hindsight, perhaps Father John Misty should’ve figured out a way to troll the needlessly ballyhooed project without angering the ghost of Lou Reed.
“Delete those tracks,” Reed commanded, referring to the New Orleans-based troubadour’s renditions of Adams’s renditions of Swift’s “Blank Spaces” and “Welcome to New York,” which FJM performed in the style of the Velvet Underground. “I am not your plaything. The collection of souls is an expensive pastime.”
And thus FJM deleted the tracks. It’s one thing to self-identify as “Father” in winking jest, but invoking the name of Lou Reed against his wishes is truly sacrosanct.
Commencing with the title track off the lauded I Love You, Honeybear, FJM oozed a concentration of charisma possible only for the likes of Bowie and evangelical preachers. But the artist known in bureaucratic circles as “Josh Tillman” maintained a serious face, and solemn delivery only enhanced to the acerbity of lyrics like, “Save me, white Jesus.” Just because it’s satire doesn’t mean it needs to be funny. Adding yet another layer of meta-irony during the final bars of “Bored in the U.S.A.,” Tillman bounced down to the barricade, borrowed an onlooker’s phone, turned to a video camera, and took a selfie of himself taking a selfie.
I bet if FJM was a cult leader, it would be a neat cult, and we would all want to join.
Walk The Moon
Is this baby smiling? No she is not. She looks a little pissed off, actually. That’s because she’s listening — involuntarily, mind you — to Walk the Moon, and babies hate Walk the Moon.
Chromeo
Calling this Canadian electro-funk pair an exhibit of style over substance would be accurate, and also quite like complaining about excessive nudity on PornHub. They’re uber-garish, that’s pretty much the point, and it seems to be working out okay for them.
I couldn’t figure out if what, from a distance, looked like big glow-in-the-dark blue sticks waved by evident Chromeo enthusiasts were made of blue styrofoam, ordinary styrofoam that looked blue when hit with the stage lights, or battery-powered devices of some kind. At any rate, one of Chromeo’s electric drums was rigged to mimic a cowbell, which gives them 15 bonus points, and they applied their autotune with tactful sparseness, which is good for enough five bonus points.
Minus three points for encouraging the audience to sit on each other’s shoulders. It was already hard enough for short people to see the stage from the floor.
CHVRCHES
They weren’t loud enough. The low end overpowered the treble during the first handful of songs. I could barely hear the backing vocals at one point. Two basic bros standing to my right managed to drown out “Bury It” for me by shout-talking a remarkably knuckle-brained argument about lyrics (BTW: You’re both wrong, she’s singing, “Bury it and rise above,” just like the song title. You’re welcome, assholes).
Thankfully, the audio difficulties, or perhaps merely inconveniences, dissipated by the time the Glasgow trio rolled out “Tether” off 2013’s The Bones of What You Believe. The subsequent blend of Bones tracks with cuts from Every Open Eye — the latter batch, so fresh you shouldn’t touch them without an oven mitt — more than satisfied at least one Vanyaland correspondent who volunteered to to cover this festival for the exclusive purpose of seeing CHVRCHES perform.
Mid-song banter highlights: Lauren Mayberry got the finalized lyrics mixed up with discarded demo lyrics for “Keep You On My Side,” and we know this only because she told us after the song was over. She also confessed to existing in a general state of “diseasey,” and noted “diseasey” probably isn’t a word, which is true, it is not.
Only minor gripe: I question the necessity of Martin Doherty stepping out from behind the keys and sampler to do lead vox on “Under the Tide.” It felt as if the Fantastic Four found themselves in a situation where they had to set something on fire, and the Thing said, “Step aside, Human Torch. We know you’re great at fire stuff, and fire stuff isn’t my strongest skill, but I’m going to do the fire instead of you this time because no discernible reason.” Mayberry is the Human Torch and Doherty is the Thing in that metaphor.
alt-J
From the VIP area, all you could really make out was alt-J’s lightshow, which complimented the hypnotic nature of their product nicely. The band of Brits came off far more concerned with atmosphere than hooks, making them the perfect act to remind Boston Calling at-large that we’ve been here all day, and it’s time to go home and take a nap.
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Friday night was pretty much an alt-folk showcase, Saturday night was a dance party that wrapped with a Alt-J’s trippy cool down, and Sunday afternoon restored Boston Calling’s collective faith in guitar bands.
See this Hungry Hungry Hippos table?
Note that no one is playing it. That’s because they were too busying being enraptured the rawk, yo.
Go forth and learn of the glorious mayhem — excluding Twin Shadow, who I skipped to go write this. Although we should note he used to play in Boston’s Mad Man Films in the early 2000s, and we’re all very happy about how well he’s done for himself in Brooklyn.
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Dirty Bangs
Speaking of hometown bands of yore, Evan Kenney fronted Read Yellow and Bodega Girls before his latest endeavor, Dirty Bangs, which sports a handful of other faces oft-seen mingling around the Boston music campfire (These Wild Plains, Kingsley Flood, etc.). Let us take a moment to admire the fortitude it requires to start another band once every three years.
Then again, we are all going to die sometime, as Kenney crooned at the end of Sunday’s first performance of the day. Dirty Bangs specialize in the straight-ahead rock ‘n roll that’s bound to go over well anywhere, and I didn’t hear anyone among the smattering of early arrivers complaining. Kenney also mentioned something about feeling struck by a laser beam from outer space, if memory serves, but we’re pretty sure he meant that in a figurative, positive way.
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Bully
The overwhelming consensus is Bully’s Feels Like sits atop the heap of 2015 albums, so why does it make sense for the gnarly Nashville quartet to play before anyone expects two-thirds of the ticket holders to show up? I realize Bully weren’t as big of a deal six months ago, and it’s been too late to move their name higher up the poster for a while, but hasn’t there been plenty of time to rearrange the set order?
The problem with writing about Bully is it’s both reductive to compare them to the numerous alt/grunge/punk they’re likely to remind us of, and dishonest to do otherwise. To offer one I haven’t read before, sometime during “Brainfreeze,” I thought “Hey, this totally could’ve been a Green Day song. Except not shitty Green Day, good Green Day. Pre-Dookie Green Day. Sweet deal!” Possibly to throw us reference makers for a loop, Bully booted up a smoke machine and finished their set with a cover of Butthole Surfers’ “Who Was In My Room Last Night?” Usually, Bully does not look or sound anything like the Butthole Surfers.
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FIDLAR
When I complained about the lack of bands who would offend my easily offended Grandma at Boston Calling, I forgot about Doomtree, and I had also forgotten about FIDLAR. Doomtree contended with, and ultimately won over, a crowd that never goes to hip hop shows. Fidlar may have faced similar obstacles in the name of punk. After the first chorus of “Cheap Beer” the audience should have understood that they’re supposed to yell, “I drink cheap beer, so what? Fuck you!” in conjunction with the band when they do the same. Boston Calling mostly did not understand this, or chose not to. I’m also not sure if we all stood up when we were supposed to during Fidlar’s outro tune, “Cocaine,” but we tried our best to time it right. There were also a pair of mannequins dressed like R. Kelly on stage, because why not, yeah?
I observed at least two basics mimicking a floor punch shuffle, and another basic attempted a sort of air guitar/air drums dance combo that was certainly original, so cudos to those people. The occasion prompted Zac Carper to reminisce about his time at Berklee College of Music, a school he says kicked him out, we’re guessing for being so talented that he was making the other kids look bad. FIDLAR rules everyone’s face. To death.
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Daughter
Taking in Daughter immediately following FIDLAR was like drinking a mango banana smoothie, then immediately chugging a mocha frappe-style milkshake. Everyone loves smoothies, everyone loves milkshakes, but it felt a little awkward transitioning from FIDLAR’s frenzy to Daughter’s pensive, icy terrains. That’s two totally different kinds of energy that don’t quite mesh side by side.
Not to knock Daughter for being in the wrong place at the wrong time (to entertain me, anyway); more bands should play their electric guitars with a bowstring, and more drummers should use timpani mallets on the floor toms.
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The second half of the last day of any music festival presents a challenge. Anyone who’s stuck around from the beginning may have difficulty maintaining interest. Bands can get stuck playing for audiences who’ve already O.D.’d on live music sometime within the immediate past. To mitigate this unavoidable ennui, I’m guessing Boston Calling organizers rigged Sunday evening’s schedule to appeal to one-day ticket buyers, those who knew they lacked the fortitude to withstand two and a half full days: Old people, in other words.
Personally, if I’m to judge a festival’s success by the ratio of acts I remember fondly a day later versus how many bands I forgot about 20 minutes after their last song, Boston Calling fall ‘15 was much better than an average music festival! Chvrches, Bully, Fidlar, Father John Misty, Alabama Shakes, and Doomtree all either ruled as much as I figured they were going to, or wildly surpassed my expectations. Walk the Moon was also memorable, because Walk the Moon was barf, and barf is unforgettable.
MisterWives
Mandy Lee from MisterWives looked like she was having way, waaaay too much fun. To the extent where I wondered if she exaggerated her enthusiasm in hopes that her false enthusiasm would inspire genuine enthusiasm amongst her audience (if so, I think it worked). I also wondered if she had taken powerful drugs of some kind. But an adept “P.Y.T.” cover always equals an automatic three-and-a-half stars, and MisterWives’s guitar player’s half pink/half purple hair is so stupid it crosses the threshold, comes all the way back around, and becomes rad. MisterWives is good energy, great drugs (maybe), and even better hair.
Nate Ruess
Of course I’d rather get kneed in the groin than ever hear Nate Ruess’s somehow-equal-parts-milquetoast-and-grating voice announce an intention to “Set the world on fyyy-ya!” ever again, and I didn’t appreciate his draining the life out of “Let’s Go Crazy” — although it’s sort of impressive how Ruess’s blandness is so all-encompassing, it can even make a Prince staple boring. But in the big scheme of things, I’m not a part of this guy’s target demographic. It doesn’t really matter if I think he sucks; he was never trying to convince me to buy stuff from him in the first place. Those of you who are members of Nate Ruess’s target demographic and saw his set probably enjoyed yourselves, and y’know what? That’s super. I got to see one of my favorite bands this weekend too. Everybody won.
Better yet, an instance of unique timing almost salvaged Ruess’s set for me. As he managed to not butcher Elton John’s “Rocket Man,” the moon came out, and the moon looked weird. It was a cool moment! This is a picture!
Ben Howard
“Whoa, this guy is depressing,” thought I. Even the closest Ben Howard came to upbeat was pretty darn somber. Every time he had to sing an “ooooh,” Ben Howard made a droopy sad puppy face. Mandy Lee must be some sort of happiness vampire — a reverse vampire, who bursts into flames if she goes out and night – who drained all the serotonin out of Howard earlier in the day.
Hozier
I didn’t think I knew who Hozier was until he wrapped up with “Take Me To Church,” and then I says to myself “Ah, ha, he’s that guy.” Hozier is kind of like if Josh Groban and Chad Kroeger had a baby, gave him up for adoption because they were ashamed of their mutant power of male pregnancy, and then was adopted and raised by Dave King from Flogging Molly, then grew up resenting King for his hard partying, anti-mainstream, punk rock ways.
A lot of people seemed really excited to hear Hozier!
Some of the old people in the VIP section got pumped up when Hozier mentioned that he used to play tiny rooms at Berklee whenever he came through Boston. Boy, has Hozier ever come a long way! As for me, I thought Hozier was fine and good and well enough.
By no fault of Hozier’s, maybe 40 percent of the audience fled in mass exodus after he was done doing his thing, and fuck those people, because…
Alabama Shakes
…They left before the best part. By channeling the ghosts of roots music’s raunchy past, Brittany Howard and her robust roster of associates (there was, what, like 11 musicians on stage?) summoned more passion and fury than the aforesaid three soft-rock radio ciphers put together.
“We got ourselves a blood moon and a lunar eclipse. That means it’s time to get weird,” Howard, no relation to Ben, observed. And she would’ve been right, except Boston Calling at that point was a mix of exhausted folk, and those in a hurry to get home to go to bed because work in the morning.
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