I saw these guys live a few weeks back. I was apprised of their imminent performance by a friend while I helped him move into his new apartment, and ended up buying my ticket amid the detritus and dust bunnies of his old room while he unscrewed his flat screen wall mount.
It was awesome. These guys rock. You can tell they love what they’re doing, that all of them are having a righteous time up there on stage, half incredulous that they’ve made it thus far, half over joyed to feel that energy crashing back over them from the crowd. They’re a bunch of guys from Seattle, bearded and tattooed and looking like they rolled out of the hills of Kentucky. The lead singer, Ben Bridwell, is a scrawny, charismatic guy, who sneers when he hits the high notes and is about the nicest person I’ve seen on stage except for maybe Spektor.
By the time the band came on stage Terminal 5 was packed. A vast, warehouse space, ringed with two floor’s worth of balconies, it was dark and tinctured with purples and deep sea blues. The guys ambled out, took up their instruments, and without preamble began to play.
And it was awesome. The music soars, rises, trembles, dips, eases out, lulling you for a few moments before that background energy begins to rise again, rise and then it soars, Bridwell hits those notes and it’s become an anthem.
If you get the chance, go see them live. Their music is great to listen to, but their concerts are like a spiritual awakening.