MFNW 2010: The National + The Walkmen + The Helio Sequence + Talkdemonic (Portland, OR; Sep. 11)

There is a famous line from The Sopranos, where Tony laments, “whatever happened to Gary Cooper, the strong, silent type?” The ideal he was referencing was the middle-class warrior, whose thoughts remained inward as he engaged with the world around him, even if his cards were the type that most would want to hand back. Matt Berninger and his lyrics live in this world, pointing out the depth in doldrums only a first-worlder has the luxury of worrying about, except Matt, unlike Gary, can’t help but let his thoughts leak out. It’s not melancholy for melancholy’s sake, just a painfully realistic take on how suffocating it can be to compare your culture’s expectations for you against your own. Exposing the divergence is where his genius lies, and lucky for us, he has an amazing bunch of musicians behind him, crafting the sound of a box that is slowly breaking.

Portland’s opportunity to see the National came at the tail end of MFNW, outside in the brick-laden arms of Pioneer Square. Those who came to see them guessed correctly, because the time is now. Arguably at the height of their (live) powers, they are also touring on what is easily the best record of the year, after having spent the last five years releasing two other top ten listed records. And this trio of albums is where the vast majority of their current setlist is being pulled from, which was a treat for the giddy fans that showed up to watch Matt and the brothers Dessner & Devendorf.

They eased us into it with “Runaway” and “Anyone’s Ghost” before picking up the canon that is “Mistaken for Strangers.” This song was our first taste of the raw power that is contained within the National’s ranks. It’s easy to assume that they would be subdued and brooding live, but this is an assumption that couldn’t be further from the truth. On the stage, they effortlessly glide between earnest melodrama and shock and awe freakouts. Matt is the shock, as you see this man who looks so strong and composed in his three-piece suit stride, seemingly directionless, as if compelled by some mystery force, around the stage clapping his hands together, only to return to the mic and unleash a scream that will rattle you. The band is the awe, as their richly melodic sound, unexpectedly hits you time and time again like a blunt object rapped against your chest.

They transcend when the shock and awe come together, like it did on “Squalor Victoria.” There, after a lengthy opening from the killer horn section they brought out with them, the band unraveled the spool and let Matt come undone. He built it up until the line “This isn’t working, you, my middlebrow fuck-up” and then the horns came back, larger than life and warmly evil. Matt began pacing the stage, looking like he just couldn’t take it any more, angry and half-disgusted. This isn’t Gary Cooper, this is what would happen if Gary let it all come tumbling out. Grabbing the mic around this sea of noise, Matt just kept screaming the title of the song over and over again, until the audience swelled up, charged by his transfer of emotional electricity. A lot of people can scream, most can’t make you believe it. Matt can.

He and the rest of the band also made us forget about any of the tension the songs uncovered by cracking jokes in between numbers. Once they threw out a few glowsticks into the audience and remarked that this was their version of the Flaming Lips. “They have confetti, we have glowsticks.” To which Matt added, “Here, have four dollars worth of shit.” Another time, when the Dessners brothers were thanking the crew for all their hard work (by name), Matt asked, “is that their name?. I just call them 1, 2, 3, 4.” They promptly started to tease him, to which he shot back, “this one’s for you #7” while pointing at Aaron. Moments like these made you feel like this was a band of likeable guys instead of a traveling tear-tank.

And that’s the push and pull you get from a National show. For every funny moment or introverted track like “Afraid of Everyone,” there is a counterpart, like the explosive ending to “Mr. November.” The trick is that they balance it. My favorite performance of the night was “Secret Meeting,” which was dedicated to their old college roommates and preceded by the phrase, “here’s to college.” Once that opening line hits, it just hovers out there, crisply ringing and growing more impressive each time it reemerges. And once they get to chorus, god help you. It just opens up like a Montana sky and suddenly you are floating out in the ether as the Dessner brothers scream nonsensical words (does anyone know what that phrase is?) at you. Matt joins in and a great song becomes a show-stopper. It really was and is something.

The concert, and MFNW for that matter, ended with “Terrible Love.” Initially, I was disappointed with the selection, but by the time we reached the end, and the Dessner brothers unleashed that torrent of noise, I felt that all was well and good in the world. And that’s nothing I want to remain silent about.

I should wrap up this final review of MusicFest Northwest 2010 with some parting wisdom in light of it being, well, a festival celebrating music.

Schopenhauer said that music is the highest and most metaphysical art. It replicates the basic structure of the world: the bass notes as inorganic nature (sound), the harmonies as wildlife, the melodies as society, and so on. Nietzsche concurred, suggesting it was as close to “the Will itself” as humans will ever get. So if inanimate nature produces animate life, with the right knowledge, one can become a work of art.  In other words, the music we produce is representative of our will and our essence.

But, true to my “Will itself,” I must overshadow this ode to music with a dollop of cynicism: Is modern music really an extension of the musician’s true self? I mean, really? Considering the myriad musical arrangements produced since the Chinese fiddled around with it some seven-thousand years Before Christ, can we really say that what we create is an extension of ourselves, and not an extension of someone we want to be?  Behold! The wonder of philosophy dictates that I cannot fully answer this question. However, keeping all this in mind, I’d like to think of MFNW as a celebration of brilliant replication (of the self or someone else) through music – and somehow by pulling together primitive and modern sounds, the festival as a whole struck a chord with me that hasn’t been struck in years (especially the Builders and the Butchers show).

The last show of the festival was, appropriately, at Pioneer Square in downtown. I have to commend the city of Portland for choosing to show off with a smattering of sexy musicians broadcasting their beautiful noise over a three-block radius (which doesn’t seem that far until you ride your bike further and further away from the speakers at twilight with a perfect crescent moon above you, and you can still hear the resonance).  It was pretty moving to listen to Portland natives Talkdemonic serenade the cluster of early arrivers with tracks from Eyes at Half Mast. A soft breeze blew everyone’s hair around, which made their dark, complex arrangements feel that much more romantic. “Shallow Doldrums” showed up on the setlist, one song that begins with the violist Lisa Molinaro playing a melodica before throwing it down and two beats later grabbing her viola to throw down some serious string arrangements alongside drummer Kevin O’Connor’s beats; all following the harmonic prompts from Mr. Macbook - the very popular multi-instrumentalist. Watching both of their faces was like watching two different genres of movies at once; Molinaro looking sullen and resolute next to O’Connor who bounced around with his blonde curls and a goofy ever-grin. The security guards manning the gap between crowd and stage were amusing,considering they were protecting an angelic-looking lady with a viola from a crowd of doll-faced teenagers and their Heineken-sedated parents. According to Molinaro, Talkdemonic has recorded and is releasing new album “… We don’t know when.” The important thing is that it exists, and I’m very excited about this, especially after a show that gave me chills – and it wasn’t because of the breeze.

Intermission at the Pioneer Stage was very festival-y in a way that the rest of MFNW was, thankfully, not. I turned around, and the place was literally brimming with people who weren’t there an hour ago. Ah yes, how could I forget? Heineken was there, too. These philanthropists sponsored the whole night with their generous offer of $6 half-pints. So long as you complied with the age-verifying police officer lookalikes, they furnished you with a totally awesome Heineken wristband. And if you just wanted to relax on the steps, sans beer, you wouldn’t be lonely because a suspiciously friendly Verizon sales representative would undoubtedly approach you bearing free gifts and disguised sales pitches.

Once the Helio Sequence started, everything hushed again. I couldn’t help but smile every time I caught a glance of the drummer, Benjamin Weikel, because every time he hits the cymbals, his mouth opens wide as if to bite someone, then stretches into a smile, then makes an “O” shape like he’s about to whistle. Now, imagine someone doing this repeatedly for an entire hour. It’s fascinating and hilarious. Guitarist/lead vocalist Brandon Summers was, however, neither fascinating nor hilarious. He was just good. He was so good that his performance was fluid and thus unpunctuated by anything of note other than how tired he looked at the end.

At 6pm the festival was in full swing. Twin teenage boys stood in front of me with their signed Walkmen CDs, waiting for their middle-aged rockstar hero to appear onstage and sing them sweet lullabies about what an unwanted divorce feels like. And that he did. Hamilton Leithauser is a damn fine man … I mean vocalist. Someone, whose name I won’t mention but they took photos for this show, recently mentioned his vocal likeness to Rod Stewart and wish they wouldn’t have, because it’s nearly erased my much kinder vision of the Walkmen as a matured version of the Strokes. Regardless, Leithauser … I mean, the Walkmen, blew me away with how powerful his voice … I mean, their music is in person. What sharp dressers, too! Suit jackets and button ups? Mercy! But seriously, the Walkmen epitomize the well-to-do, dapper, New York gentleman in peril, communicating torment in such a cool, collected manner that they make sadness seem desirable. Seeing Leithauser bow his body backward and sideways as he stretched notes out to their absolute limit is probably the reason I have developed this very uncharacteristic crush on him … I mean, the Walkmen. 

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