How better to kick off an evening of revelry and celebration than to return to the introspective core of one’s being?
And by that spiritual core I refer to the obtuse, confused, simultaneously care-free and weighted time of one’s youth, i.e. middle school. To channel that angst-ridden and sincerely romantic pursuit of gravitas (and get totally pumped), me and the fellas congregated around some legendary concert DVDs. Inspired by Miller’s, we returned to the early loves of our lives. Those bands that at some point got us through our days - the heavy hitters: the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and the Smashing Pumpkins (and for contemporary kicks, My Morning Jacket). So effing raucous.
I was feeling good. I was feeling reflective and nostalgic. I walked to the Black Cat. I was finding meaning in places where there may have been some. And there may have not. I created my own meaning. I considered Roland Barthes’ “Third Meaning.” I felt unqualified to do so. I felt pretentious even thinking I was maybe qualified. I felt guilt. I then caught a passing girl’s glance and quickly regained my confidence and second-guessed my guilt. I recovered my swagger.
I was bound to find some meaning in the wisdom of Destroyer tonight. Wasn’t I?
I arrived a few minutes ahead of time and positioned myself directly beneath the A/C. The Flaming Lips’ “Feeling Yourself Disintegrate” played through the PA, which I thought was perfectly melancholic for the occasion. God, what a wonderfully self-conscious artificial emo-party I had crafted in my head. Middle schoolin’ in full effect.
I glanced up and noticed an oversized kick drum. It was part of a classic-looking kit that rounded out the old-school instrument vibe on stage, including a number of vintage seeming tube amps. Complimenting the vintage vibe were a particularly high number of bearded individuals fleshing out the crowd. I spotted at least seven. And when Mr. Bejar graced us on stage, downing a Heineken as he walked out, I spotted what could arguably qualify as the eighth, although in reality it would probably be more aptly described as glorified stubble.
Unavoidably, Mr. Bejar remains a focal point of Destroyer’s show. His nasally incantation of high-minded and consciously romantic lyrical compositions incites reactions of both contempt and rapture. And sometimes both. Regardless, there is no question that he is the dude you come to see spout off lines about whatever he’s actually singing about. Whether or not you understand them, whether or not that matters, is entirely up to you.
I’m of the camp that thinks Dan writes pretty good pop songs. Indelibly melodic, guitar driven, symphonic-blues compositions that usually contain a sing along chorus. The feel-good chord progressions drive these songs, and as irreverent as it might seem, are complimented by the lyrics. It doesn’t hurt to have a group of musicians who can sonically translate what seems to be a fairly individualistic lyrical affair into a live rock show.
But while Bejar remains front and center in a nu-Dylan/nu-The Band sort of way, Destroyer as a group is pretty kick-ass. Swirling lead guitar lines perch atop trebly hollow-body electric strumming with infusions of synthesized piano pounding. Starting the show with “Rubies,” one of the several gems, or Destroyer’s Rubies, the band jammed their way through a set that comprised of mostly newer material, but included a number of classics. Funny, “jammy” becomes an appropriate descriptor for the group as the prolonged and extended numbers usually clock in around the six to nine minute mark. Nonetheless, the songs are strong enough to keep folks dialed in throughout their entirety.
Maybe not tonight. I debated whether or not I was frustrated by the conversational nature of fellow crowd-goers at the Cat. On one hand, Dan seems apathetic about most things and probably could care less whether or not the crowd was into it as long as he was sufficiently crunk. On the other, well… apathy can be contagious.
But the songs are as well. Bobbing my head with the best of them, Destroyer did not destroy tunes like “From Oakland to Warsaw,” and “Foam Hands.” And grooving to “My Favorite Year” provided me with even more material for nostalgia-dripped deliberation. Love it.
Hell, they even played an encore, which for some reason surprised me. Closing on the fan favorite “Hey, Snow White” Bejar walked off to distortion and feedback and turned his back to those of us still trying to decide whether he just told us to love who we were or to love what we owned, and whether it even mattered. It didn’t.
