The Walkmen + French Kicks + M’s

Hamilton Leihauser, lead singer of the Walkmen, announced after their first song, “We’re the Walkmen from Washington D.C.” Certainly that declaration was meant to distance themselves from their reputation as being part of the fashionably hip New York rock scene of the moment. Though the Walkmen now make New York City home, their music, their sound, their strut and swagger cut far beyond any media christened movement. The Walkmen then quickly set about the task of smashing, trouncing, and exploding the audience’s expectations or ideas of what a Walkmen performance would be. Having seen them twice before, even I was not prepared for just how brilliant the Walkmen were going to be. Leithauser’s voice — which at times sounds non-plussed yet enchanting and hypnotic, like Ian (Curtis or McCullough) — tonight was all rancor and rage. He howled and shrieked, spilling his heart, while all around him drums rumbled, guitars chimed and rang, and the organ hummed it moody tone. By the third song, the Walkmen chose to unleash “The Rat” — easily the best song of their young career, and maybe one of the greatest punk or rock songs ever, hyperbole be damned. The riff, urgent and instantaneous, swam on the eddying buzz saw guitar of Paul Maroon. Then right in time drummer Matt Barrick hammered an agitated thunderous rhythm echoed by Pete Bauer’s brooding bass and Walter Martin’s soaring organ. Leithauser flailed and leapt about the stage, railing and raging with venom as he pleaded, “Can’t you hear me, I’m beating on the wall? Can’t you see me I’m pounding on your door? Can’t you hear me I’m calling out your name?” Ten minutes into their set and already the Walkmen were careening like an asteroid, a red-hot ball of fire burning with explosive energy. So now where to go? Anywhere they wanted. They drifted to “138th Street” where Leithauser waltzed and crooned over thumping drums and cascading church organ sounding like a golden throated balladeer reminiscent of an off kilter Bob Dylan circa “Like a Rolling Stone” or “Positively Fourth Street”. Back to the brash and bombastic, the Walkmen unspooled “A Dream I Had” where swelling Hawaii Five-O drums roiled on sheets of gospel style wurlitzer organ and stun gun guitar licks. Leithauser now in the pose of fire and brimstone rock preacher declared “I’m gonna have a good time now.” For the remainder of the show the Walkmen paced themselves perfectly, knowing when to soften the sounds with the plaintive plink of barrelhouse piano on “We’ve Been Had”, then screech headlong into the accelerating adrenaline rush of “Everyone Who Pretended to Like Me Is Gone”, then back again to the earnest and heartfelt laments like “Hang on Siobhan” where couples get lost in the four in the morning haze of last call’s fawning desperation. The Walkmen stamped their set with the harnessed brilliance of “Little House of Savages” where Paul Maroon’s ringing echoey guitar whipsawed an insinuating riff over Barrick and Bauer’s anthemic tribal beats and rhythm. Here the Walkmen stood having fashioned a sound all their own — dynamic, vital and timeless, as much rooted in the moment as daring to go beyond. Some times bands should refrain from the trite tradition of the encore. The Walkmen could have sent us home with dizzying insurgence of “Little House of Savages”, but came back with an ethereal coda. First they delivered a wonderfully wistful take on “What’s In it for Me?”, the opening track of their new disc Bows and Arrows, and then followed with the finale, a cover of Jonathan Richman’s “Fly Into the Mystery” a laconic, droning crawl. The Walkmen felt slightly out of step trying to engage the Modern Lovers off speed lo-fi quirk. Why leave the audience with an ambitious but average cover when the night’s joy had been the stunning stellar original sounds? New Yorkers, the French Kicks, warmed the stage with their new wave and mod dancy sounds. They mixed robotic, electronic organ, agitated angular guitar riffs, driving beats, and ooh-wooh harmony vocals. The French Kicks — though certainly taking nods from the Cure, Gary Numan, and Ultravox — still managed to sound fresh and full of vim. In addition to their lubricious grooves, the French Kicks also clearly had the whole rock star look down in spades. There were the stylish, artfully tousled coifs, the denim jackets, the hip-hugger flares, and lead singer Nick Stumpf’s purposefully worn inside out T-shirt. Then there was the swish and the swagger, the pomp and the circumstance, the performance oozing honeyed sin and sex at its finest, calling to mind Prince’s early new-wavey funk synth dance parties. Opening the night were Chicago’s own M’s, a sweet sugary surprise of a pop ‘n’ rock band drawing on fuzzy, snarling guitars, tri-partite harmony vocals and freaky psychedelic Doug Sahm organ fills.