The Postal Service + Cex

Cex

Here in the Pacific Northwest, it’s been raining since November. And the arrival of May is a blessing and a curse. It’s a goddamn tease. The end is coming soon, but not soon enough. Weather like this can put you underneath your bed, teetering on the edge of a Holden Caulfield-style meltdown. It’s time for some release. It’s time to get silly, 21st century style. It’s time, apparently, for the Postal Service. The 2001 collaboration (“(This Is) The Dream of Evan and Chan”) between Ben Gibbard (Death Cab For Cutie) and Jimmy Tamborello (Dntel) showed massive potential. And Give Up, the duo’s 2003 full-length Sub Pop release, is an actualization of that fleeting daydream, a synthesis of Gibbard’s lyrical yearning with Tamborello’s atmospheric G4 wizardry. Most of the material on the album is addictive and moving and danceable as hell. But no matter how brilliant, who would’ve thought that a synth-pop-cum-emo album could actually matter in the midst of Iraq v2.0? Does indulging in a guilty pleasure make you even guiltier when your government is bombing the shit out of another country? Somehow I didn’t expect the Cex/Postal Service show to be a sellout. There’s the war, and the weather. And while Portland is deep in Death Cab For Cutie country, the Postal Service is more of an under-the-radar side project, and a geographically dislocated one at that. With Gibbard and Tamborello mailing CD-Rs back and forth between LA and Seattle (hence the band’s name), it’s not like the band slowly developed a grassroots following. The record hasn’t been on the shelves that long. This massive audience feels disproportionate. But apparently not much escapes Death Cab’s fans. The guy at the door is turning people away; the place is crammed full. You don’t usually see Left Coasters losing their minds. But the crowd is freaking out. Cex, a.k.a. Rjyan Kidwell, a skinny tall white kid from Oakland, has sucked the indie rock/emo crowd into his organic flow. He’s abandoned the stage completely, he’s in the center of the crowd, down on the floor, sweating like mad, rapping fast and clean. And the crowd’s actually joining in. Understand, Portland is no hip hop hotbed. But if the primary objective of an opener is to lubricate and liberate the crowd in preparation for the Main Act, give Cex some props. “Middle finger to the indie rock singer/Middle finger to the wack emcee/ Middle finger to the uncreative undergroup/and a sack of middle fingers to y’all on MTV.” He’s pumped, we’re pumped, we’re in the Zone. The crowd starts screaming at the sight of Gibbard strapping on his guitar. The band opens their set with the first track from the record, “The District Sleeps Alone Tonight”. It’s a conversation between the narrator and his former lover, as he views her life without him. The 1980s-styled beats drop like manna from heaven. Gibbard rocks and sways through the first two verses, dancing with the guitar in his hands. People everywhere seem to know every word, their eyes closed, rapturous smiles plastered on their faces. The third verse kicks in, the tempo picks up, Gibbard sings his tale of post-breakup acceptance:

i’ll wear my badge: a vinyl sticker with big block
letters adherent to my chest
that tells your new friends i am a visitor here: i
am not permanent
and the only thing keeping me dry is where i am
you seem so out of context in this gaudy apartment complex
a stranger with your door key explaining that am just visiting
and I am finally seeing why i was the one worth leaving

There’s a quiet moment after Gibbard repeats “why i was the one worth leaving.” Then backing vocalist Jenny Lewis (Rilo Kiley) joins Gibbard on a line, her voice just underneath Gibbard’s. It’s a moment of eerie quiet, and they sing: “D.C. sleeps alone tonight.” It’s hard not to think about the war. What a strange juxtaposition: IDM/synth-pop orgasmic bliss wrapped around loss and sorrow both personal and global. Tamborello’s programming rides solo for a few cycles, and then Gibbard’s guitar line kicks in. It’s a perfect moment. And there are lots more of them during the set. Many of the songs are given room to breathe, with songs often ending in repeating instrumental and vocal refrains. You can try not to get caught up in this music tonight, just like you can try to not be human. But on many levels, the night feels impeccable. The colourful and synchronized visual backdrop, the repeating lyrical fragments we’re stuck singing in our heads for hours afterwards; this feels like romance and pain, like we’re all falling in love and out of love at the same time. The essence of music can’t always be bottled up and spit out onto the page, relating even the slightest clue as to how you might react to a sound, to an audience, to a performer’s stage presence, to particular circumstances. But in the heart of the Postal Service lives sweetness, and as importantly, inside of the Postal Service is an absence of irony, nostalgia, and posturing. Sometimes the best shows catch you surprise. Go see the Postal Service — see what happens.