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What's black and white, toothy all over, and absent from the Fiery Furnaces' repertoire? […] You got it! Matthew Friedberger's keyboard, turning a trick as the elephant emphatically not in the room. Several songs into the band's set, I was still scouring the stage, hoping beyond hope that it was hidden behind an amp or something, because boy, was it missed.
It sure takes guts to come out and play after an opening band a thousand times more exciting than your own, and even more to then destroy your own songs. For that courage, Eleanor and Matt, I salute you. Y'all are some brave motherfuckers to get up there after Man Man's multi-instrumentalist freakout and trade in your trademark autumnal pyrotechnics for generic, deadened classic-rock instrumentation. What, did you decide keyboards are too trendy? Are you taking it back to "the roots of rock" with a traditional four-piece band? Well, let me tell you, honeys, when you take the "fun" out of "fiery furnaces", all that's left is "fiery races". And that shit's just confusing.
I'd seen the Furnaces twice before and was profoundly entertained, even inspired by their performances. It was like they'd rolled all the enchantment and pain of childhood into one prog-pop disco ball of fire and hurled it into my gut, where it stayed for, well, at least a week. Matt switched back and forth from keys to guitar, and the whole show was one long collagist medley.
This time around, the dynamic duo (plus drums and bass) lost the pop. They lost the enchantment. All there was was pain. And not childhood/teen angst; we're talking real, teeth-gritting MAKE IT STOP OW OW my-ears-they-do-not-like-this agony. Okay, it wasn't all bad, I guess. There were moments when the band gelled. But when they didn't, the result was muckety muck muck muck.
On record, Furnaces songs spring from tempo to tempo, trying out and discarding melody lines like they're hats in a store. The ditties on Gallowsbird's Bark are short and sweet, quirky and impeccably arranged. The ones on Blueberry Boat are longer-winded and more frenzied, but still tight as shit. Sure they sometimes sidewind to get where they're going, but they get there nonetheless. What drives great Furnaces songs is the lightness -- the staccato, ragtime-y keyboard playing and the quizzical guitar effects -- which complement the lyrical whimsy. So when Matt came out and played the whole show on one electric guitar, I was understandably upset.
Certainly, some part of my vehemently negative reaction to this change in the Furnaces' live show lies in their choice to revamp their music instead of playing the songs as I know them. And okay, maybe I would have been one of the hissing, snarling naysayers who rejected Dylan's choice to go electric. In theory, I support the evolution of artists and their inherent right to rework their own songs. In practice, I support such evolutions only when they sound good. I mean, come on. When you turn my favorite Furnaces song, the dance-happy, satiric "Single Again", into just any old rock tune, you're simply asking for it.
The other problem was Eleanor. I know she's not the most audience-friendly performer, but the previous times I've seen the band, she made up for it with and adorable nervous energy. This show she threw out her words with the same kind of force, but without her usual restrained-Ian-Curtis jitters. In addition, without the quirky keys and synth-y effects underlining the lyrics' bizarre, child-genius narrative content, her emphatic delivery landed with a thud.
But perhaps the main dilemma the Furnaces faced was the impossibility of coming close to Man Man, Philly's own crunk-carnivale quintet, who played such an intense, invigorating opening set that they may well be The Future of The Universe. You will forgive me if, having heard Man Man's albums, I expected to see a group of a dozen or so musicians crowding the stage. That their remarkably busy (but totally structured) sound is produced by just ten arms is incredible (well, there's probably some legs, too). We're talking five dudes in white who perform basically on top of each other -- their set is essentially one big pile of instruments around which they position themselves -- while playing at least five thousand instruments each, sometimes simultaneously.
In short, they're never bored, never boring, and their sound -- an avant-junkyard fantastique that out-Waitses Tom Waits -- is the most exhilarating I've heard in years. Plus, unlike Ace Fu labelmates Aqui, who are equally exciting to behold live, Man Man's songs breathe on record as well. Six Demon Bag is the only non-used CD I've bought all year, and I haven't stopped listening to it since. So I guess, it makes sense that the Fiery Furnaces would have a hard time keeping up. Man Man is a hard act to follow, especially if you forget one of your instruments.
— 13 July 2006
