Proper music - Beirut @ Hammersmith Apollo

I rushed through my building door checking the time on my phone, with that horrible feeling that it was late and I was going to miss the first part of the gig. I hate that feeling. Two friends that were already inside the venue had told me I were not to worry since there was a support act, but I still had that annoying feeling. Doors open 7PM, said the ticket, and it was already quarter past eight, so I raised my pace to get quicker to the tube station… only to realise once there, while doing my last ‘I have everything’ check, that I had left the tickets at home. Perfect. A great start of the weekend. Maybe the support act is some kind of Pinkfloydian band presenting a new double album with 12 minutes tunes, I thought, and after looking at the station ceiling, closing my eyes, contracting all the muscles in my jaw and coursing every single one of my internal organs, I convinced myself that everything was F I N E and went back to get the bloody tickets.

Fortunately I was right. I arrived with perfect timing: the support band had just finished. I went to get a beer whilst texting my friends inside to find a meeting point. The beer was cold, the Hammersmith Apollo was pretty full but not unbearably packed; life was good.  And it was about to get better.

Zach Condon & Co came out and an expressive audience instantly started an avalanche of applauses, while the musicians were taking their places. A Scenic World was the selected tune to open the show. A perfect choice. A sweet string of notes from the accordion led the way, and after a couple of seconds I felt a kick in my chest. Boom. What the hell was that? The drums and an electric double bass had joined forces to make my stomach tremble like Scooby Doo frighten by ghosts. What’s going on here? Is this the same mellow band that I love to hear when I’m a bit down, seeking for a bittersweet melody? It was… only unexpectedly boosted.

After a couple of tunes I was still amazed about what these guys were doing on stage. The beautiful harmonies of the trumpets, moving from Guadalajara to Belgrade, turning the word ‘distance’ into a merely abstract concept.  The un-capricious switching of tuba and trombone, alternatively aiding the bass or the brass section, to make of every of tune something different, but part of the same family. The grooves from the drums and bass, flawless mattresses for the other instruments to land safely in their creative jumps. I probably spent a few songs carefully listening to drums, trying to figure out what was that made them sound so peculiar. I never quite got it; I think it was a mixture of equalisation and the drummer playing like freaking human metronome, and making every detail count. The accordion spiced the musical stew with some nostalgia, keys and ukulele completed the repertoire of ingredients.

I usually pay a lot of attention to the dynamic of the band on stage. In this case, I got the impression that Beirut was playing as if they were rehearsing in their studio, almost like saying ‘hey guys, this is what we’ve been working on in the last few years’. Beautiful. I love when big artist keep sight of the fact they are there (primarily) to make music. From changing instruments (at least 3 different people had a go on the keys) to the way they stood in front of the mic. Kyle Resnick, ceremoniously still, almost like a statue when executing his trumpet melodies; Nick Petree on drums, moving his head and smiling as the little dogs taxi drivers have in their cars; Zach tapping his chest to the three four time in Elephant Gun and occasionally doing some fairly impressive jazzy dance moves (when you have the rhythm… well, you just have it).

The tunes went on and the crowd responded according to the great vibe irradiated from stage. When the first chords of Santa Fe started to sound, the theatre filled with blue phone screens rising from the deep dark pockets and purses. The set went pop with East Harlem, and dropped almost instantly to the shadows of melancholy with the intriguing The Akara. I did my best  to keep my attention on the drummer’s moving head when next to me an enthusiastic couple tried (unsuccessfully) to sing along  The Rip Tide. Fortunately for me and for the people standing less than 2 meters away, they gave up after a few attempts; we all  got our smile back and were able to enjoy an epic end with The Gulag Orkestar. The show was over, we were stuffed.

The day after the show I told a friend that I had been to Beirut’s show at The Apollo. ‘It exceeded my expectations’ I remember saying. ‘Yeah mate, that’s proper music’. He couldn’t have articulated better. Indeed, it had been a night of proper music.