"Tag Sale Whimsy At MASS MoCA"
Published in Berkshire Eagle (10/21/09)
Photo by Ryan Collerd
By Jeremy D. Goodwin
NORTH ADAMS—What fun.
It wasn't quite power pop, it wasn't quite hard rock, and it wasn't entirely psychedelic. But Dr. Dog's show at MASS MoCA's Hunter Center Saturday night was hard driving, tuneful, and pleasantly strange.
An air of tag sale whimsy permeated, with planters all over the stage, a mini-flamingo and empty birdcage perched on a keyboard, and band members wearing an assortment of bad sunglasses and hats (including a Daniel Boone-style cap on guitarist Frank McElroy).
Throw in the high-register warble of other guitarist (and songwriter) Scott McMicken, and the overall effect conjured more of the Flaming Lips than The Beatles or The Band, the two groups whose influence weighs most heavily on Dr. Dog's recent studio work.
The songs in the 90-minute set were culled largely from 2008 album “Fate.” Though that record is propelled by an ear for melodic harmony and a rickety swing I might describe as “Music From Big White Album,” this was very much a rock show. The band arrived onstage with a gust of energy and seldom let up; McElroy, McMicken, and bassist/vocalist/songwriter Toby Leaman frequently hopped around onstage, the latter two taking turns jumping up on Justin Stens’ drum riser for general emphasis. Yet the rock edge remained contained within a pop sensibility that kept the edges from getting too ragged.
“The Ark” was swing-for-the-fences huge, with Leaman screaming his lyrics at center stage as McElroy peeled off layers of searing guitar lines, Zach Miller stirred a mix of swirling organ sounds, and McMicken bobbed around, chopping up distorted chords behind sunglasses under his floppy, scarecrow hat.
When McMicken scurried behind a keyboard for the irresistible, thoroughly Lennon-like intro to “From,” enough sweetness was interjected to the proceedings to color the stomping and rounded-cornered shredding found elsewhere.
The Flaming Lips (who never met a confetti gun they didn't like) have spent at least a decade pushing the line in live performance between low-rent, kitschy spectacle and just plain kitsch. (As in, it's funny the first five times.)
It was indeed funny when McMicken wandered offstage during the encore, apparently spontaneously, and returned with a bowl of apples from backstage to distribute to the audience. But when he was left alone earlier in the night to deliver two ostensibly earnest (and genuinely affecting) ballads solo, three of his band mates returned to the stage wearing enormous lion and tiger masks, and mock-danced along.
It's an idea that might have seemed hilarious in the tour bus earlier but obviously undercut the music, and for no apparent purpose. Strange? Sure. Funny? No. Pointless? Yes, as far as I can tell.
Of course, that high a dose of irony—more weird than absurd—would typically make a crowd wonder if their own clapping-along makes them in on the joke or the butt of the joke. But Leaman's frequent attempts to lead a clap-along, and the peek-a-boo earnestness in the lyrics (surely "What does it mean to be here?" in "The Ark" is a plaintive, metaphysical query) indicated an attempt to make an emotional connection.
“The Rabbit, the Bar and the Reindeer” followed the nice, nasty bite of “The Beach” with an updraft of sweaty, head-bopping pop. It’s a line the band walked all night, with much success. Let’s hope they build on moments like this—crowd pleasing but not pandering—and leave aside the lion masks.
As for the occasional apple distribution: why not?
NORTH ADAMS—What fun.
It wasn't quite power pop, it wasn't quite hard rock, and it wasn't entirely psychedelic. But Dr. Dog's show at MASS MoCA's Hunter Center Saturday night was hard driving, tuneful, and pleasantly strange.
An air of tag sale whimsy permeated, with planters all over the stage, a mini-flamingo and empty birdcage perched on a keyboard, and band members wearing an assortment of bad sunglasses and hats (including a Daniel Boone-style cap on guitarist Frank McElroy).
Throw in the high-register warble of other guitarist (and songwriter) Scott McMicken, and the overall effect conjured more of the Flaming Lips than The Beatles or The Band, the two groups whose influence weighs most heavily on Dr. Dog's recent studio work.
The songs in the 90-minute set were culled largely from 2008 album “Fate.” Though that record is propelled by an ear for melodic harmony and a rickety swing I might describe as “Music From Big White Album,” this was very much a rock show. The band arrived onstage with a gust of energy and seldom let up; McElroy, McMicken, and bassist/vocalist/songwriter Toby Leaman frequently hopped around onstage, the latter two taking turns jumping up on Justin Stens’ drum riser for general emphasis. Yet the rock edge remained contained within a pop sensibility that kept the edges from getting too ragged.
“The Ark” was swing-for-the-fences huge, with Leaman screaming his lyrics at center stage as McElroy peeled off layers of searing guitar lines, Zach Miller stirred a mix of swirling organ sounds, and McMicken bobbed around, chopping up distorted chords behind sunglasses under his floppy, scarecrow hat.
When McMicken scurried behind a keyboard for the irresistible, thoroughly Lennon-like intro to “From,” enough sweetness was interjected to the proceedings to color the stomping and rounded-cornered shredding found elsewhere.
The Flaming Lips (who never met a confetti gun they didn't like) have spent at least a decade pushing the line in live performance between low-rent, kitschy spectacle and just plain kitsch. (As in, it's funny the first five times.)
It was indeed funny when McMicken wandered offstage during the encore, apparently spontaneously, and returned with a bowl of apples from backstage to distribute to the audience. But when he was left alone earlier in the night to deliver two ostensibly earnest (and genuinely affecting) ballads solo, three of his band mates returned to the stage wearing enormous lion and tiger masks, and mock-danced along.
It's an idea that might have seemed hilarious in the tour bus earlier but obviously undercut the music, and for no apparent purpose. Strange? Sure. Funny? No. Pointless? Yes, as far as I can tell.
Of course, that high a dose of irony—more weird than absurd—would typically make a crowd wonder if their own clapping-along makes them in on the joke or the butt of the joke. But Leaman's frequent attempts to lead a clap-along, and the peek-a-boo earnestness in the lyrics (surely "What does it mean to be here?" in "The Ark" is a plaintive, metaphysical query) indicated an attempt to make an emotional connection.
“The Rabbit, the Bar and the Reindeer” followed the nice, nasty bite of “The Beach” with an updraft of sweaty, head-bopping pop. It’s a line the band walked all night, with much success. Let’s hope they build on moments like this—crowd pleasing but not pandering—and leave aside the lion masks.
As for the occasional apple distribution: why not?