MELISMAreviews
grizzly bear
MUSEUM OF FINE ARTS, BOSTON - FEBRUARY 2, 2007 by DAVE McCOUBREY
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A band name can belie the sound that a group or individual produces. Take the band Destroyer, for instance. For people not well-versed in hyper-literate cathartic chamber-pop, they might, justifiably, think Destroyer is a grindcore band, with album titles like Abortion Squad or maybe, quite powerfully, Cockripper. In indie rock, as opposed to, say, death metal, band names don’t necessarily need to alert the listener to the nature of the sound contained within an album. Bands like ...And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead, while at times aggressive and raucous, don’t nearly approach the blood-chugging, eye-gouging sound of Cannibal Corpse or Mangled. And Thank God for that. This is part of the charm of indie rock: as opposed to more mainstream, radio-friendly pop, or even metal and hip-hop, an individual or band can have whatever name they choose; there are no parameters for choosing a moniker. This makes naming a band fun and enigmatic. Hence, Destroyer. Other genres are limiting, mainly because, in a mass-marketing scheme, bands are sold as product, and their sound needs to be easily recognizable via their name. Hence, The Dixie Chicks. And, of course, there’s always the other end of the spectrum; calling yourself Disembowelment alerts death thrash-heads that, hey, we’re with you. No guess work there. Grizzly Bear is another example of a band name that, perhaps, misrepresents the sound behind it. I mean, Christ, the grizzly bear’s scientific name has the word “horribilis” in it. I’m not a zoologist, but I’m fairly certain that’s Latin for “totally fucking terrifying and thirsty for camper blood.” One might expect this four-piece from Brooklyn-by-way-of-Massachusetts to sound like they could ravage a listener and leave him screaming for Ranger Rick to come save him. Not so! Instead, on their mostly-overlooked 2004 debut Horn of Plenty and their hipster-approved 2006 effort Yellow House, Grizzly Bear creates atmospheric, elaborate and intimate songs that rely heavily on complex, gorgeous melodies, effects pedals galore and strategic use of the banjo, flute and marimba. And all without sounding like total pussies. With Yellow House being one of the most pleasant surprises of 2006, I bought tickets to see the band play at the Museum of Fine Arts on February 2. Last April, I unfortunately missed the collage-art experimental rock of The Books, but for me, Grizzly Bear, at least on record, seems like the next best thing for the MFA. Their music begs to be played in front of a sophisticated audience, one that would appreciate their ambient droning and knack for Beach Boys-esque melody like they would appreciate a room full of abstract impressionist paintings. I didn’t quite realize how polite the folks at the MFA were going to force us to be, though. The show was held in a medium-sized auditorium, complete with a smallish stage and strange bronze cherubs pinned to the walls in various poses. When I arrived with my girlfriend and her friend, everyone was seated in stadium-style seats, chatting softly, waiting for the band to come on, with the lights pleasingly dimmed. This prompted my girlfriend’s friend to comment caustically, “I feel like I’m at a high school production of Annie -- except instead of parents there are hipsters.” Later, singer/songwriter Ed Droste would remark, “I feel like you guys should be taking the SATs right now or something.” He was kidding, sure, but there was a sense that some of the charming, freewheeling nature of a rock show was lost, with everyone seated and stationary, unable to dance or flounder or do whatever it is indie kids do. I dunno, maybe sitting down allowed some people to listen to The Microphones
on their iPods while listening to Grizzly Bear, because, shit, listening to just one super-layered, textured, melodic underground sensation isn’t enough. We all know that. Once the show started, though, these initial limitations were forgotten. It was immediately evident that Grizzly Bear sounded incredible. In a live setting, the band’s complex sound came to glorious fruition, as the auditorium was filled to the brim with wave after wave of dreamy, vast and occasionally exuberant rock. They were mesmerizing all night long. By the time “Colorado” rolled around during the second-half of the set, kids were visibly fidgeting in their seats, wishing they could at least stand and sway, as Droste belted out the “What now, what now...” chorus. The melodies and harmonies that earned Yellow House a spot on many critics’ “Best Of” lists for 2006 were re-created perfectly, and enhanced further by the excellent acoustics in the MFA theater and the fact that the band played so damn loud. Songs like “Knife” and “Fix It” (from Horn of Plenty) were intoxicating in their scope and magnitude. I know it sounds like I’m using lazy hyperboles here, but honestly (and I asked several people what they thought of the show afterwards), the band filled and dominated the small auditorium with their music. Even their sound guy was rocking out. Some other highlights included an ambitious cover of “He Hit Me,” a song from ‘60s R&B group The Crystals, and a new song called “Final Round.” With its thundering floor tom and rollicking guitar, the song was reminiscent of Animal Collective but, at least live, was played much harder and heavier than anything AC has ever done. It was a clever little surprise sandwiched between several murmuring lullabies that left everyone excited at the possibility of a new direction for the band’s sound. Before playing The Crystals’ song, Droste started to mention something about Phil Spector who had a hand in producing The Crystals. Of course, Spector (aside from killing actresses in fake castles, having horrible haircuts and nurturing a love for cocaine) is famous for his “Wall of Sound” production style, which brought several musicians into the studio, playing some instruments two and three times over themselves to create a full, orchestrated sound booming from the speakers. There perhaps is not a more apt description of the way Grizzly Bear sounded that night - “Wall of Sound,” though, barely does justice to the wealth and gluttony of sonic treats pouring out of their amps. The sound seemed to be coming from everywhere - from the stage, out of the walls and floor, from the ceiling - and when they closed with “On a Neck, On a Spit,” the best song from 2006, period, some kids, no longer content to merely hibernate in their cramped chairs, just had to get out of their seats and dance in the aisles.
Dave McCoubrey is a man with a plan. And that plan doesn’t involve submitting a bio to his editors.
