Part Two: The Concert
The opening band, The Fighting Machinists, actually consist mostly of members of Brandi’s band. A long time ago, before Brandi met twins Tim and Phil Hanseroth, they were part of a band called The Fighting Machinists. They wrote catchy rock-bordering-on-heavy-metal tunes, and employed a drummer with a zillion tattoos and a spitting problem worse than a camel. When Brandi met them, she was a fan of theirs, and finally just asked them to play in her band. The Fighting Machinists broke up, but were reunited for one night only, at Brandi’s request, to open her show at the Tractor Tavern in Seattle. Are we all caught up now? Good.
The twins and their badass drummer took the stage, opening with a cover of the Bryan Adams classic (if there is such a thing as a Bryan Adams classic) “Heaven.” While covering Bryan Adams seems, on paper, like musical suicide, it actually worked quite well. They rocked out, took a few requests, and played a catchy tune called “Sweet Pea,” which I will soon be trying to figure out how to download. In fact, all of their songs were catchy, including the new one they wrote just so they could sing something new for this show, and I’m finding myself wishing they were still a band. As if they hadn’t won us over enough, they really got us for the last song, when Tim started in with Brandi’s famous line (she later gave him shit about it), “This is a song… by the late, great, Johnny Cash.” They proceeded with a rousing rendition of “Ring of Fire,” only topped by Brandi’s sudden appearance on stage to sing backup.
The Machinists ended their set, but hardly anyone in the bar moved an inch. We were all so riveted and didn’t want to miss one second of Brandi’s show. And we were right in our foresight, because… wow. The girl was on fire, and the audience was too. She played for almost two hours of rousing guitars, searing vocals, hilarious banter, and sweaty brilliance (it was easily 110 degrees in that bar). The boys took the stage and launched into the familiar strains of “Fortunate Son,” a powerful cover of a song that Brandi says has “come back around again.” It’s one of my favorite covers that she does, and opening with that made me shake my head remembering a recent conversation I had with a coworker about politics and music. Brandi was making her statement through music, and the choice to rock out right at the beginning set the tone for the entire show. She played most of her standard fare, but with a few twists – less ballads, more rock, and a few more covers than usual (minus one rather famous one, but I’ll get to that). Right from the beginning, Brandi had this gigantic smile on her face, like she was so pleased with herself for coming up with this whole “singing” idea in the first place. She loved the crowd and we loved her right back. According to the story she told us later on, the Tractor was the first place she ever played with the twins, the first place she ever sold out a gig, and the special place it has in her heart was evident right from the start.
As the song came to an end, Brandi cheered herself on right along with us, reminisced about playing at the Tractor way back when, and introduced the band as “Late Morning Lullaby,” with an ‘I’m so clever’ smirk on her face. They launched into “My Song” with even more gusto than the song before it, with Brandi sporting a surprised smile when we all started singing along, and then acting even more surprised when we didn’t stop for the entire two hours. This was the first Brandi show I’d been to where every single person in that room knew every word to every song, and “What Can I Say” featured an a capella sing along that could put the Indigo Girls and “Closer to Fine” to shame. Brandi was having so much fun with it, and her constant surprise at how well we knew all of her songs – even the ones she herself only wrote a month ago, was adorable.
Her newest addition to the repertoire, “Caroline,” is a song about her one year old niece, whom she calls “a little weirdo.” It’s a rollicking country tune with sweet lyrics, and somehow reminds me of Billy Joel. Forgive my ignorance about music for a second, because to me, there’s something about the rhythm of the many lyrics and the narrative style of the song that’s reminiscent of “Only the Good Die Young,” et al. “Caroline” has become an instant favorite, and we surprised Brandi again by singing along. I think our love for her finally hit home when she launched into “How These Days Grow Long” and called it “new,” and we all scoffed. She wasn’t getting away with anything with this audience. It worked to her advantage, though, when she forgot the lyrics, and we very conveniently sang them for her.
At one point, she stopped and thanked her sister Tiffany for doing her hair, even though “it was all for shit.” This got the audience all riled up, because for whatever reason, curse words make people cheer. That kind of banter was rampant throughout the evening, and it made the night even more intimate. Up next was “Dreams,” another new song which they recorded for their upcoming third album. I’m trying to come up with a way to describe this song, but it’s hard without sounding like a giggly 13 year old at a Jonas Brothers concert. It’s raw, it’s catchy, it’s sexy, and it’s more explicit than any of her other songs. It’s such an intimate song, that we let her sing this one to us, turning us all into the aforementioned 13 year olds. Appropriately enough, this led right into her cover of Radiohead’s “Creep”, with the addition of a dissonant cello. If you’ll excuse my language for a second, this song can only be described as “orgasmic.” Watch it for yourself if you don’t believe me:
The last three songs were standard Carlile fare – “Fall Apart Again" (another new favorite of mine, though the song is old), “Turpentine” (with the requisite 3 part harmony sing along and additional curse words), and “The Story.” For the encore, they hit the stage with “Folsom Prison Blues,” rocking it harder than I’ve ever seen them do it before. Next up was “Pride and Joy,” another new one, and it’s a powerful, poignant song about acceptance. The ending of the song features Brandi and Tim jamming on the electric guitars, an act which the fandom has aptly dubbed “guitar sex” (named for, um, what Brandi looks like she’s doing when she plays the guitar… in case that wasn’t obvious). The band took their bows, and Brandi remained on stage to, um, lighten the mood a bit. By this time of the night, she had our attention so lovingly that she even got away with asking us what she should play… and then not playing any of the requests.
Brandi comes from a family of musicians, so she brought her sister Tiffany on stage with her, and they sang their trademark “Calling All Angels.” But perhaps the highlight of the evening came during the very last song, a parody of classic country called “Same Old You.” The song itself is hilarious and crafty, but it’s the intro to the song which really makes it. Brandi grew up singing classic country tunes, and her random sampling of ridiculous old country songs is always a crowd favorite. She brought her mom up on stage with her to sing “Your Good Girl’s Gonna Go Bad,” and then did her best rendition of “Stand By Your Man,” her voice dripping with irony and sarcasm. She then showed off her yodeling skills (yes, she can yodel too) with “Same Old You,” and took a hasty exit. I didn’t even notice the absence of “Hallelujah” until I inexplicably had to listen to it eight times in a row on the plane coming back to LA.
Monday, August 18, 2008
The (Mostly) True Tales of a Brandi Carlile Fan, Part 1
Part One: The Fandom
I just returned from my trip to Seattle, a trip I admittedly took simply to attend a “secret” Brandi Carlile concert. Yes, I will readily divulge that I spent $300 on a plane ticket, got on a teeny plane which made me nauseous, and flew 1,000 miles just to see a band play. When my mother asked me, “Are you going to follow this young singer around the entire country?”, I told her that if Brandi would just play in LA, I wouldn’t have to. But alas, Brandi lives in Seattle, and only plays “secret” shows in towns she lives in, apparently. How dare she. Besides, I wasn’t actually going to see Brandi. I was seeing “Late Morning Lullaby,” with The Fighting Machinists as their opener.
Upon making my arrangements to attend this show, I already knew there was going to be havoc wreaked by the internet forum members. For weeks before the show, I wondered how I was going to bring two of my real-life friends into that mix, especially given their general aversion to internet fandoms. To people who don’t know the strange and almost cult-like lure of internet fandoms, they can be intimidating. After all, these are the people who get something signed (sometimes it’s a body part) after every show, the people who seem to have intimate conversations with Brandi at every show, the people who all became soul sisters after spending a week together on a cruise featuring Brandi and other folk musicians, and the very same people who told me about this show in the first place. I wanted to meet these notorious folks, and figure out how they manage to socialize with a semi-famous musician so much. However, I had no idea how I was going to make it all come together.
Once the much-awaited day arrived, I had to figure out who I was going to be that day. I had to decide between joining the madness (which I’m never very good at), or being the fly on the wall and just observing (which I’m very good at, but often feel left out of the madness as a result). After watching “Almost Famous” last week, I considered Lester Bangs’ advice: never become friends with ‘em. This seemed like a good rule of thumb – be friendly, but don’t get too involved. Be an observer, but an observer with a little bit of an inside edge, thus making the resulting review knowledgeable, but distant enough to be critical. Now, I’m no Cameron Crowe (not that I consider Crowe to be the genius that he seems to think he is), but every once in a while, I am a writer in my own right, and I thought I should have the proper perspective.
I finally settled on a happy medium: I wore a name tag, stood on line for two hours, introduced myself to all of the people that I’d been exchanging banter with over cyberspace, and finally scored myself a cushy spot in the fourth row, dead center, looking straight at Brandi. I even talked to and flirted a little with the cute girl sitting next to me during the opening act… until her annoying guy friend decided to switch places, and thought that standing in between us was the best place for him. We exchanged a couple more glances after that, but when the show ended, it was just too crowded to deal with any one, and our very short lived romance fizzled faster than a Brandi fan’s fingers fly when dialing ticketmaster for tickets. Anyway, where was I? Oh, right – happy medium. I did not, however, participate in the pre-concert tailgating on a Ballard street outside the bar, sit behind Brandi’s grandmother, videotape the entire concert (I only filmed one song, you see) and stream it on the web, call a friend in Tokyo, Stockholm, or Amsterdam and have her listen to the entire concert on the phone, line up at noon, or stalk Brandi or any of her band mates after the show.
From my perch on a barstool in the fourth row, I was perfectly happy to stare directly at Brandi, even if it meant I couldn’t see Josh (the cellist) at all. The lights dimmed, the opening band took the stage, and suddenly, nothing mattered anymore. It was me, 200 other sweaty fans, my friends, the cute girl, and Brandi and the twins. As soon as The Fighting Machinists took the stage, I remembered why I love live music – it’s the collective high you experience with the rest of the audience, that moment where you know that 200 (or 2000, depending on where you are) other people just felt the exact same thing you did at the exact same time. It’s an experience you share with 200 strangers, and actually, the anonymity of it is part of its appeal – which is why I was wary about becoming too ensconced in the fandom. Once you lose that anonymity, the experience is changed...
When the show ended, reality started creeping in again, and my real life friends and I made a beeline for the merch table so we could buy our T shirts and get the hell away from the crowd. Torn between my exhaustion, my real life friends, and not wanting to feel left out of the fandom, I reluctantly said a hasty goodbye to whoever I could find, and as quickly as it started, the worship service was over. Once outside the bar, lacking what else to do, we headed straight for the car and home, as one usually does after a concert ends – or so I thought.
I later realized that I had indeed failed my initiation into the fandom by going home straight after the concert. I mistakenly thought that attending the secret show would be enough to get me in the door, but apparently, in order to gain the premium membership, there were still some steps to be taken. The correct answer would have been to avoid the mad rush for the door, and instead walk farther into the bar, thus being part of the resulting conversation with Brandi herself. It turns out getting a word in edgewise with the unassuming star is part of the initiation ritual for all new members, and I failed. After all, this is a club whose membership is based on the admiration for one person, and if I can’t manage to get near her, what kind of member am I?
... Please click on over to "The (Mostly) True Tales of a Brandi Carlile Fan (Part Two: The Concert)" for the rest of the review.
I just returned from my trip to Seattle, a trip I admittedly took simply to attend a “secret” Brandi Carlile concert. Yes, I will readily divulge that I spent $300 on a plane ticket, got on a teeny plane which made me nauseous, and flew 1,000 miles just to see a band play. When my mother asked me, “Are you going to follow this young singer around the entire country?”, I told her that if Brandi would just play in LA, I wouldn’t have to. But alas, Brandi lives in Seattle, and only plays “secret” shows in towns she lives in, apparently. How dare she. Besides, I wasn’t actually going to see Brandi. I was seeing “Late Morning Lullaby,” with The Fighting Machinists as their opener.
Upon making my arrangements to attend this show, I already knew there was going to be havoc wreaked by the internet forum members. For weeks before the show, I wondered how I was going to bring two of my real-life friends into that mix, especially given their general aversion to internet fandoms. To people who don’t know the strange and almost cult-like lure of internet fandoms, they can be intimidating. After all, these are the people who get something signed (sometimes it’s a body part) after every show, the people who seem to have intimate conversations with Brandi at every show, the people who all became soul sisters after spending a week together on a cruise featuring Brandi and other folk musicians, and the very same people who told me about this show in the first place. I wanted to meet these notorious folks, and figure out how they manage to socialize with a semi-famous musician so much. However, I had no idea how I was going to make it all come together.
Once the much-awaited day arrived, I had to figure out who I was going to be that day. I had to decide between joining the madness (which I’m never very good at), or being the fly on the wall and just observing (which I’m very good at, but often feel left out of the madness as a result). After watching “Almost Famous” last week, I considered Lester Bangs’ advice: never become friends with ‘em. This seemed like a good rule of thumb – be friendly, but don’t get too involved. Be an observer, but an observer with a little bit of an inside edge, thus making the resulting review knowledgeable, but distant enough to be critical. Now, I’m no Cameron Crowe (not that I consider Crowe to be the genius that he seems to think he is), but every once in a while, I am a writer in my own right, and I thought I should have the proper perspective.
I finally settled on a happy medium: I wore a name tag, stood on line for two hours, introduced myself to all of the people that I’d been exchanging banter with over cyberspace, and finally scored myself a cushy spot in the fourth row, dead center, looking straight at Brandi. I even talked to and flirted a little with the cute girl sitting next to me during the opening act… until her annoying guy friend decided to switch places, and thought that standing in between us was the best place for him. We exchanged a couple more glances after that, but when the show ended, it was just too crowded to deal with any one, and our very short lived romance fizzled faster than a Brandi fan’s fingers fly when dialing ticketmaster for tickets. Anyway, where was I? Oh, right – happy medium. I did not, however, participate in the pre-concert tailgating on a Ballard street outside the bar, sit behind Brandi’s grandmother, videotape the entire concert (I only filmed one song, you see) and stream it on the web, call a friend in Tokyo, Stockholm, or Amsterdam and have her listen to the entire concert on the phone, line up at noon, or stalk Brandi or any of her band mates after the show.
From my perch on a barstool in the fourth row, I was perfectly happy to stare directly at Brandi, even if it meant I couldn’t see Josh (the cellist) at all. The lights dimmed, the opening band took the stage, and suddenly, nothing mattered anymore. It was me, 200 other sweaty fans, my friends, the cute girl, and Brandi and the twins. As soon as The Fighting Machinists took the stage, I remembered why I love live music – it’s the collective high you experience with the rest of the audience, that moment where you know that 200 (or 2000, depending on where you are) other people just felt the exact same thing you did at the exact same time. It’s an experience you share with 200 strangers, and actually, the anonymity of it is part of its appeal – which is why I was wary about becoming too ensconced in the fandom. Once you lose that anonymity, the experience is changed...
When the show ended, reality started creeping in again, and my real life friends and I made a beeline for the merch table so we could buy our T shirts and get the hell away from the crowd. Torn between my exhaustion, my real life friends, and not wanting to feel left out of the fandom, I reluctantly said a hasty goodbye to whoever I could find, and as quickly as it started, the worship service was over. Once outside the bar, lacking what else to do, we headed straight for the car and home, as one usually does after a concert ends – or so I thought.
I later realized that I had indeed failed my initiation into the fandom by going home straight after the concert. I mistakenly thought that attending the secret show would be enough to get me in the door, but apparently, in order to gain the premium membership, there were still some steps to be taken. The correct answer would have been to avoid the mad rush for the door, and instead walk farther into the bar, thus being part of the resulting conversation with Brandi herself. It turns out getting a word in edgewise with the unassuming star is part of the initiation ritual for all new members, and I failed. After all, this is a club whose membership is based on the admiration for one person, and if I can’t manage to get near her, what kind of member am I?
... Please click on over to "The (Mostly) True Tales of a Brandi Carlile Fan (Part Two: The Concert)" for the rest of the review.
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