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The heat began burrowing deep into the concrete of the New York City streets as I prepared for the peak of my summer concert schedule. Inspired by Robert Christgau's recent "30 shows in 30 days" piece in the Village Voice, but constrained by my pesky corporate day job, I took two precious vacation days -- intent on catching four concerts in four straight nights.
Sadly, my plans to see electro-funk Brit band Hot Chip on Friday were dashed by heat-induced laziness, and Second Story Man on Saturday night was bumped out by liquor-induced, out-of-town friends hell bent on drunken karaoke and stoner board games. And, as these are two of my favorite activities, who was I to argue?
While the great flood itself could not keep me from Manu Chao on Monday, the hangover from the aforementioned karaoke nearly caused me to miss Sunday's show --Phoenix at Maxwell's in Hoboken with openers the French Kicks (ironically, the non-French act of the night). But, with my brother's Acura and no work the next day, I decided to take the GPS navigation system's word for it and make my way. Of course, the femme-bot promptly got me lost, but I could never stay mad at you, Rosie Jetson.
Phoenix are French. Lead singer Thomas Mars resembles British actor Cillian Murphy (of Red Eye fame), sleeps with Sophia Coppola, and will probably appear in her next film. Phoenix also used to back up their compatriotes, AIR. On their recently released, third album, It's Never Been Like That), the band's signature, pristine self-production is possessed with a new sense of spontaneity, fueled by the creatively fertile backdrop of Berlin.
Those are the basics, but what you really need to know is that Phoenix has been trumpeted triumphantly in recent months by Doug. Doug is an old friend, former roommate, and all-around great guy -- he even introduced me to the love of my life -- but he and I have always had a strange relationship when it comes to music. It didn't work out for us as roommates, due in large part to the epic battles we fought for control of the stereo. We both insisted on playing DJ and couldn't tolerate the notion that the person we lived with might have musical tastes equal or superior to our own.
I always considered Doug an unwitting slave to pop culture, while my own tastes are -- PM Dawn notwithstanding -- filtered, refined, and timeless. (Ahem.) To me, what is paramount is a nebulous conception of the intrinsic "power" of the artist. I don't mean power through might in a Ronnie James Dio or SNAP! sort of way; I mean power through connection. To move the soul and to have your own soul moved is about as good as it gets. This can be done in any number of ways, none of them through fashion -- which is where my friend Doug and I disagree.
Doug is obsessed with Madonna; I, with Prince. At first glance these two artists may appear similar, but on closer inspection, they couldn't be more different. Madonna will rightfully be remembered as a style icon, Prince as a musical genius -- possibly the Mozart of his time, only with purple, ass-less pants.
To make a long story short, when Doug recommends a band that I come to love, it has to be damn good, because I'm already predisposed to hate. For better or worse, Phoenix was, and is, a Doug band. I contemplated bagging the show just so I could brag I had a ticket to see his favorite band but couldn't be bothered. Mmm... what a deliciously deep cut that would be. But I couldn't bring myself to shun them because, ever since he force fed my iPod two Phoenix discs, I'd really been digging on the band. So I said screw it. I went. Besides, it was at Maxwell's in Hoboken, a bona fide, grade-A venue.
All the ballyhoo about Phoenix's top-shelf pop craftsmanship is completely warranted. Their songs combine the flourish and sweetness of the Bee Gees with the edgy enthusiasm of the Strokes, leaving behind the cheesy and obnoxious aspects of each. And while it's true their new album exudes a freshness not seen in previous studio efforts, it's actually a closer approximation to their live show, which was nothing if not electrifying and eminently danceable.
From the moment Phoenix took the stage, following a truly great set by the French Kicks, they dispelled any notion that the bill should have been reversed. Phoenix played tight and fast, but things still sounded effortless. Cheerful; ebullient; inspiring. Mars' vocals had a soothing, Rundgren-esque timbre; even when he was spitting rapid-fire lyrics or screaming, he never lost the melody or the crisp enunciation. Maybe it's because English is not his first language, but (not to sound like a junior high grammar teacher), it was actually a treat to hear someone sing with proper diction. Gold star for you, Mr. Mars.
On several songs, most notably "Lost & Found" and "Run, Run, Run", Phoenix would start off rendering a copy of the album version, only to blast off in a completely new direction that finished with a boomerang crescendo of audience recognition. This is a staple technique of bands that have been playing the same song for decades and want to do something novel, but to undertake this on brand new songs is rare and impressive. Phoenix can match the chops of just about any band in rock music today.
Mars allowed himself to get caught up in the throes of a song as if at a religious revival, and had a knack for repeating lyrics until their words became anthemic, burning themselves into your brain. This was first witnessed on future hit "Long Distance Call", in which he wailed the album title over and over ("It's never been like that! It's never been like that!"). Later on, in "Napoleon", one singular guitar note was suspended like a siren only to be pounded out in march time by snare and tambourine. The musicians were so tight that when Mars started repeating the lyrics "right hand in a trenchcoat", he might as well have been the grand marshal of a parade -- people's heads were shaking off their necks.
Phoenix closed the set with the same song that closes out their album, "Second to None". The energy had, unbeknownst to the audience, only just begun to build, and by the time Mars reached the chorus and began chanting, "I thought I heard a lie; I thought I heard a liar," people were screaming along and nearly coming out of their skin. When Mars jumped into the audience and continued singing without missing a note -- the place exploded. And then before anyone knew what had hit them, they were gone.
I'll avoid all clichés about rising above ashes, but for a band that nearly screwed themselves in my mind by spilling out of Doug's cool cabinet cornily named after a mythical firebird, Phoenix showed that they've more than deserve their spot on my iPod. Seeing them live has made me listen and appreciate their albums even more, which means I'll be back when inevitably they play the bigger venues.
Damn you, Doug. You win this round.
— 23 August 2006
