Best in Show…July 29

Elliott Brood and Calexico @ The Phoenix July 22

Remember really good house parties? The ones where you are surrounded by awesome friends and solid tunes that you just never want to end? Elliott Brood is that kind of party. They’ve managed to find a way to harness those good party vibes and translate them to a rockin’ live show. Their self-proclaimed “death country” style of music provides a rollicking soundtrack that you can’t help but embrace. Watching their “Bron-Y-Ar Stomp” approach to preforming could get anybody moving and a quick scan of the crowed proved just that. No pleading was necessary to get the crowd singing, dancing and stomping their heels.

For a trio they have a very well-rounded and complete sound and are all multi-talented. Both Mark and Casey interchangeably played various string instruments and Steve often joined in backing vocals. Mark’s vocals however are incredibly distinct. His boisterous Blake Schwarzenbach-esque voice tore through the crowd reaching the very depths of the room. I was looking forward to playing some kitchen utensils during “Write it All Down for You” but apparently silverware is costly and they sounded tight without adding those little extras.

While they put forth an extremely raw and energetic show, it was their stage presence that resonated most with me. For some bands letting their music speak for them in favour of crowd interaction is fine. For the Brood though, their approach is to engage the audience and make them entirely part of the show. From the moment the first chords struck they had the full attention of the crowd.  They chit-chatted as though they were amongst friends, embracing drunken howls while cracking jokes. Because they broke down the barries the stage often creates they maintained full attention even while tuning their instruments. In keeping  with this personal approach to preforming the set ended on a sweet note with “Miss You Now” being dedicated to a friend who was moving away from the city.

What I found interesting about the night was that while some of the Brood’s crowd remained for Calexico, most dispersed after the set and an older crowd moved in. Calexico’s set created a mellow, easy going vibe. Watching them was like relaxing after a long day at the office. There was a lot less energy in the crowd, although you could tell they enjoyed themselves. While their sound is nearly two decades old and they’re certainly talented and experienced musicians, I can see them being appreciated more in an outdoor  festival. Or, as a soundtrack to a Spaghetti Western.

Black Mountain and Quest For Fire @ The Horseshoe July 23

I’m calling it now ladies and gents, rock show of the summer! It had everything you needed from a show: mega loud, mega rammed and mega sweaty.

I’ve always felt like I was born in the wrong era. Rubber Soul is my favourite Beatles album and I find myself unable to take Fresh Cream out of my vinyl rotation. Possibilities of time travel aside, I will never be able to experience the birth of psychedelic rock or the subsequent Haight-Ashbury heydays. Fortunately, there are bands of the likes of Black Mountain and Quest For Fire who share a nostalgia for mid-60s to early 70s psych-rock and sometimes we get lucky and they’ll play a show like Friday and tear the place up.

First on the bill for the night: Quest For Fire. Like many the proverbial side-project-Phoenix rising from the ashes of a now defunct band, Quest For Fire is comprised of two former members of garage rock darlings The Deadly Snakes. Having never seen them I’d heard a lot of buzz surrounding their live performances and they definatelty blew away what little expectations I did have and put on a killer show. A lot of riff-heavy songs with extended instrumentals. Their solos weren’t overly concerned with being technical but were purposeful and effective in building peaks and creating climaxes. With much of their songs hitting near and even above the five minute mark there was plenty of time to pick up what they were laying down.

After such a solid opener the crowd was left thirsty for more and Black Mountain entirely quenched. They played for what seemed like forever, pounding through a set which incorporated songs of past, present and future. Then, when you thought they were finished and it couldn’t get any better they played some more. Total set clocked in somewhere near the hour and forty-fiver mark including a slamming encore. Their songs are skillfully crafted and make great use of textures and layering intersections. Each takes you on a different journey. Some start as a slow burning flame before bursting into a blazing fire while others erupt immediately and carry that jam all the way through.

Steve McBean is undoubtedly a musical genius, but Black Mountain without Amber Webber just wouldn’t be the same. Webber is a hauntingly accurate portrayal of everything a front-woman of the past was, only she stripes down the showmanship aspect and throws all her weight behind her talent. She stands stoic-like behind the mic stand only occasionally moving to hammer the wood blocks or the jingle the tambourine. She was like a sedated Patti Smith or Janis Joplin and her gaze was dead-set on the back of the room, nearly boring a hole through the wall. Yet her indisputable talent commanded so much attention. Webber and McBean’s vocal chemistry is also invigorating despite being seemingly detached. In fact, its almost as though Black Mountain is a sum of its individual parts which somehow manage to coagulate and flawless execute their brand of psych-rock.

Most tracks translated near perfectly in the venue. I will say this about the Horseshoe though; your enjoyment depends entirely on where you situate yourself. Spending the better part of the first half nestled in the front then hanging back by the soundboard for the second half made a profound difference. Sure, you can argue that as long as you hear the band what difference does it really make, but I’d just rebuttal that it makes all the difference. Nothing beats watching McBean pound down on the pedal halfway through “Wucan” to throw into a killer jam session. Nothing!

Words by Kate Masewich