The Corin Tucker Band + The Golden Bears - Aladdin Theater (Portland, OR; Oct. 7, 2010)

Aside from a handful of collaborations with Eddie Vedder, including a flawless cover of John’ Doe’s “Golden State,” Corin Tucker has been largely absent from the public eye since Sleater-Kinney’s final show in August of 2006. During that absence, she’s had a second child and apparently begun reading the Twilight series, which she mentioned in a recent NPR interview. As a rabid Sleater-Kinney fan still reeling from their non-breakup breakup, I’ve been among the many clamoring for some new sounds from this celebrated siren.

Her first full-length solo effort, featuring Unwound’s Sara Lund and the Golden Bears’ Seth Lorinczi, was released last week. Considering Tucker’s history, the record is best described as pedestrian. It’s unremarkable, with repetitive songs that harp on the same themes of self-imposed loneliness and boredom, and several tracks that were written for the “Twilight” soundtrack. 1,000 Years is an utter disappointment for the indie rock aficionados and aging Riot Grrrls who long awaited its release. 

Despite this reality, there has been hope for her live performances. In the eight times I attended Sleater-Kinney shows, Tucker glowed with enthusiasm and a near-impossible energy as she and her bandmates brought down the house. With this memory in mind and hope in my heart, I was off to the Aladdin Theater.

The show starts in 20 minutes, and there are approximately 15 other people here. A small faction huddles around the foot of the stage, and I’ve got the entire second row to myself. Several attendees clutch vinyl copies of 1,000 Years. Groups of two to three slowly trickle in, looking apprehensive, until the theater is approximately half full.

The lights dim, and The Golden Bears take the stage first. They are LOUD! Though singer Julianna Bright resembles a poor man’s Miranda July, decked out in a distracting white jumpsuit, she projects a beautiful voice and throws complex lyrics from behind her drum set. She and the guitarist, the aforementioned Seth Lorinczi, are clearly enjoying themselves. The Golden Bears play several songs, pausing to thank the crowd for coming and to mention that this is a “family tour” that includes three children. This is, indeed, an all-ages show, as the sound of a screaming toddler occasionally wafts down from the balcony. I wish they’d stop with the mom thing; it diminishes their craft. Other rock and roll parents refrain from talking endlessly about their offspring. Nonetheless, the Golden Bears are polished and delightful as they complete their set. The singer thanks Corin Tucker and her cohorts for paving the way for women in music, and off they go.

There is an anxious feeling in the crowd, as if people are holding their breath, praying to the music gods for this to be good. They are optimistic, yet desperate to recapture what was lost in the aftermath of Sleater-Kinney’s hiatus. Tucker appears on stage and waves to the audience before plugging into her amp. This is a low-maintenance tour, with the performers doubling as roadies. The lights fade again, and cheers ring through the theater. Oh Corin, we have missed you so. She dedicates the first song, “Thrift Store Coats,” about the area’s struggling economy, to Portland. Thankfully, it’s much louder and more energetic than the subdued recording. Tucker’s iconic vibrato peeks out. She has glitter on her face and looks at home – serene – under the spotlight.

As the band finishes playing “Half a World Away” and launches into their third song, “It’s Always Summer,” I am struck by a feeling that something is missing. That joyous sensation of being wrapped in the music; that the band is playing inside your heart and the bass is pulsing through your veins. It’s completely absent at this show, and I am left empty. All the pieces are present: the instruments are loud and the tunes are well-crafted; Tucker is jumping and shaking her hair around as she always did, but it’s hollow. They play “Riley,” the album’s first single, and Tucker starts to get into the music. She’s wiggling in her vintage silver frock and grinning. Guitarist Seth Lorinczi and the session bassist dance quite a bit, but mostly fade into the background.

Cheering continues, but it’s unenthusiastic, with only a couple of people moving while everyone else is still. A nearby audience member mentions that without Corin Tucker’s critical acclaim backing them, the band would be completely forgettable. That it’s quiet enough to hear this comment is a telling sign. During the title track, “1,000 Years,” the crowd still refuses to dance, as if they are waiting for inspiration that will never come. Tucker has picked up on this restlessness, and gives us “Pulling Pieces,” a song about the career she left behind and the difficulty she has experienced trying to get back to that place. She must have known this is how she’d be received. During one of the rocky transitions between songs, an audience member implores her to, “say something profound!” But she just can’t. Instead, she does the opposite by playing “Dragon,” one of the tracks clearly written for that teenage vampire saga film. It’s painful to try and reconcile her past history of empowerment-centric music with this newfound endorsement of Mormon abstinence porn. What has she become?

The band looks so earnest up there on the stage, but every song is falling flat. Tucker is so mush-mouthed on “Big Goodbye” that it’s impossible to understand the lyrics. They cover an old Au Pairs song, “It’s Obvious,” and it’s one of the best performances of the night. “Doubt” closes the set, and Tucker leads the audience in clapping along. It’s among the better tracks on the album, and probably my favorite. Finally, more people are dancing. These must be the fans for whom Corin Tucker can do no wrong. The band leaves the stage and people begin chanting, “Cor-in! Cor-in! Cor-in!” as is customary.

Only Tucker and Lorinczi return, with her guitarless at the microphone and him on a nearby piano. They play the somber “Miles Away,” which is another tune about boredom and reminiscing, before the rest of the band joins them. She asks the audience to dance for the next song, but it’s a slow one and this isn’t seventh grade. The song is a second cover, this time Elvis Costello’s “Party Girl,” and Tucker sings it like it’s her karaoke standard. At last, her signature warble is present, her inner diva comes out, and she is hanging on the microphone stand. The band comes full circle by dedicating its final song to Portland, and then they are gone. People shuffle quietly from the theater to process what’s just happened. Nervousness has been replaced by uncertainty, and nobody knows quite what to think. I don’t want to hold this new band to the near-impossible Sleater-Kinney standard, but there’s little to distinguish them from every other emerging music act in Portland. For now, though, I just want my rock and roll idol back. Is that so much to ask?

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