all words: Beth
all photo: Joel
team work!

Monday nights are, traditionally speaking, not the club-bangers. They’re kind of the Alan Alda of weeknights, a modern, sensitive fellow with aspersions equally directed at matching paisley with paisley as getting in your (the modern gal)’s pants.

Bellflur’s (http://www.myspace.com/bellflur) Monday night show at Iota with headliners The Moderate, however, drew us out into the early-in-the-week night. Lennon-look-alike Tom Longobardi, Carlos “Chris Martin plays sitting down, hence I am not he” Gonzalez, Patrick, Hunter, et. al love their toys – my plus-one kept hitting me on the shoulder and mentioning mysterious pedals and korgs and … things which the Jameson’s has gently blotted from the ink-splotch of my memory, but which men love. Whizgigs. Gadgets. But they were, sans question, things that required the bassist to remove his checkered Vans and ply dials with his nimble toes. (Note: Alan Alda can do this, too, because he’s a direct product of Chuck Norris and the people from 1972 classic fright-beard novel The Joy of Sex).

Bottom line: there’s distortion, aerial vocals from the depths of vocalist Gonzalez’ Radiohead-lovin’ soul, tight rhythms and enough math-rock-geek moments to please the most particular Don Caballero lover. (It would help if the latter also likes Sonic Youth, partially because everyone is helped by liking Sonic Youth).

Complete with the violinist-gals from Exit Clov, the boys blasted through a set which included old favorites (Ana), new winners (Insect Politics)

and sundry distorted crooners.

Bellflur obviously puts a lot of thought into what they do … they’d do well to take a page from the Arcade Fire, who recently played a series of churches. They’re funny, they’re cute (and fifty-percent single, ladies!), they make their own t-shirts. Befriend them and they may let you use their swimming pool (which is a nice one).

So, it was a wine-sipping kind of a night. I’m always surprised to see people standing so close to snaked cable-bundles holding half-full cups of Cab, but this, after all, is D.C. … land of diplomacy. So I’ve kept an open mind about it (my mind was full of secret thoughtcrimes). After Bellflur left the stage, full of Iota’s delicious complimentary pasta (“We ate too much,” lamented Longobardi. “I promised not to throw up on the girls.”), headliners The Moderate ascended.

A three-piece outfit, they were full of win (and possibly moonshine). CityPaper’s Casey Rae-Hunter said it best, lauding “Jim Dempsey’s twangy electric guitar and cracked vocals—a honey-thick drawl that sounds like John Hiatt swallowed Jeff Tweedy.” Plus-one’s comment: “These guys are different. You’re going to have to adjust to their sound.” As we transitioned effortlessly to Big Sky Country (plus-one obviously thinks we are some kind of close-minded reprobate), the only adjustment needed was the next morning’s electrolyte balance, and Gatorade totes had our back.

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