The Walkman: a black, square portable music player, a relic to a bygone age of music. The Walkmen: intangible, genre splicing rockers, behaving somewhat like relics. Fashionably speaking, most of the band dresses in 50’s lounge attire, favoring pinstripes and tanned vests. Their instruments are of a similar aged quality, looking like something one might find at a museum. The exception is bandleader Hamilton Leithasuer. If the rest of the band is a nod to the bygone era of the New York music scene, Hamilton is an emblem of its current manifestation: black, form fitting jacket; mousy, unkempt hair; a Fender Stratocaster, hung like a quiver, and played when, and if, he feels like it.
On Wednesday night, in San Francisco, the band played to a sold out crowd at the Fillmore. The show was one of the last legs of their recent tour, and to commemorate the occasion they brought along some “friends.” In each of the cities The Walkmen have played over the last several months, they have posted ads on Craigstlist seeking trombonists and trumpeters to accompany them on stage. On Wednesday night they brought with them their “four favorites,” who had no names, but were known rather by the cities of their origins. “Play it Louisiana. Go on and tell it, New York.”
More than most bands, the Walkmen have a knack for juxtaposing softer, more intimate ballads with harder numbers; and pop hits with cult favorites. In the most telling example, the band hypnotized the band into reverence with Red Moon, and snapped us back with the sharp, screeching guitar of The Rat.
Unfortunately, there is a downside to seeing the Walkmen perform live. The sound mixture that is so precisely crafted on their albums is impossible to recreate outside the studio. The subtleties of the keys on songs like Wake Up cannot compete with the heavy distortion of Maroon’s guitar, though this may be an aesthetic choice rather than a consequence of sound engineering.
The loss is compensated by the dynamic nature of their performances, each distinct and telling: Hamilton crooning like Bob, and sashaying like Elvis in tighter pants; Paul Maroon, modest and reserved, except for his fingers which dance as if possessed; and, my personal favorite, Matt Barrick, hammering away on a kit of his own devising, splicing cymbals crashes with tom pounds, all the while goading the crowd to dance; and more often than not succeeding (and do remember, it is no easy feet to move the feat of 20 somethings)
The band finished with an encore of old hits, rarely done. Lighitng up we’ve been had and the Wake before leaving. I learned an interesting tid bit, as a firend told me that the band will always come out for a second encore if you calp hard enough. There was a distinct moment. It is too bad.
The Walkmen played with Beach House, Dream Pop Indie from Baltimore. I initially (didn’t trust) the choice for them as an opening act. I had narrow mindedly confined their dreamy, ambient pop to more (relaxed) moments, such as living room lounging, or early afternoon naps. In actuality Beach House can rock. Something about their sound comes together when they play life, and it really does soar and become ambient. Taking the easy metaphor, its as if the dreaminess that is on the record, finds a portal to reality and is sensational. The guitar soars, and Victoria’s wailing is ethereal. It is no easy feet to make 20 somethings dance these days; on more than one occasion.
