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.
No comments:
Post a Comment