12 Bands 12 Months: Nada Surf, April 15, Brooklyn
Don’t push me cause I’ll fall in love/with whatever you just said ♪
I’ve been on a good run of late, show-wise. Nary a clunker. Usually, that has me nervous that the next $20 I drop on a show will result in abject disappointment. But there was something about Wednesday night. Wednesday night just couldn’t go wrong. Wednesday night, I was going to see the soundtrack to my life.
If you know me, you know that I’m the all-in type. I don’t half-ass anything, my kitchen renovation excepted1. I like it or dislike it. Love it or hate it. There are few things I’m “meh” about. Mets? Love ‘em. Yankees? Fuck ‘em. Pizza? Best food invented2. Broccoli? God’s only mistake.
So it’s been with Nada Surf. I’ve been loving them for about 8 months, which is about par for me: find a band I used to kind of know something about, get re-hooked by a song, song becomes an album, and before I know it their catalog is on my iPod and they’re zooming up my last.fm stats. But I hadn’t gotten around to seeing them. They’ve been at the Bowery Ballroom (great venue), Terminal 5 (overpriced), and Maxwells (best non-Stone Pony Jersey venue) in the past year, but I kept missing them. So when this show popped up on their website — and not Pollstar or OMR, by the way and damn you — and I happened to be checking their site out, I circled it and grabbed tickets. I was not to be denied.
Again, this is the point in my life where things usually fall apart. The big build-up, the stumbled-upon gig…expectations are high! FAIL impending! Driving to Brooklyn that night, I kept reminding myself that live music is organic, and sometimes organic matter, well, stinks.
Thankfully, the first opener didn’t turn out to be much of a bellweather. Or, if they were, then the whole night would have been one good song3 sandwiched by 5 mediocre ones, wailed out by some French folk with a collective lust for flat chords, spastic drumming, and monotone bass lines. Underground Railroad, they were called. They can stay down there.
The second opener, Holly Miranda, was genuinely good. But I can’t remember exactly how good they were because I was either talking or drinking during their whole set. But I did remark several times “They’re good!” to Andrew, and he responded in the affirmative, so I am sure it wasn’t just the Gennie Cream Ale4 doing the talking.
While waiting for Nada to take the stage, we headed up front. It should be noted that I consider this a minor victory. After all, from our spot during the opening acts we were maybe 20 feet off the stage, and on a riser to boot. Decent spot to be sure. But it was on an angle, and frankly, I was not to be denied this show! We found a spot in the second row of people and waited.
It was about then that the doubts were creeping back in. So far, it was a pretty great night: good venue, good beer list, good company, and good conversation. Now that the main event was minutes away, would it hold?
Beautiful beat, get me out of this mess ♪
A friend today, remarking on my obsessive recounting of the night, said that I seemed to be in my element. I was. I was surrounded by sound, lost in rhythm. I felt my soul being healed.
When the amps kick on, when the drummer sits down and taps the skins in anticipation, when the bassist fiddles with his strap and the singer adjusts the microphone, that, for me, is a healing moment. The world melts away. Cares and problems, dilemmas and worries, they fade into that little buzz that always comes right before the vocalist says hi and the first chords are played. And for two hours or so, very little else matters.
Oh fuck it, I’m gonna have a party ♪
And so they were awesome, in every sense of the word. Three guys, plus one on keys — a benefit of being “home” and close to their session keyboardist. Holly Miranda on few guest vocals. A spare stage, minimal acoutrement, vintage amps.
That Matthew Caws isn’t a world-famous lyricist is a travesty and a gift. He writes songs that are expressive without being weak or emo. He captures moments and paints the picture with precision. He, bassist Daniel Lorca, and drummer Ira Elliot harmonize effortlessly, adding a depth to songs about love and longing that lift them out of sense of despair into one of redemption and hope. The people that populate Caws’ world are flawed without being tragic. They’re real, and they connect.
Lorca and Elliott provide a solid rhythm section, and Caws’ guitar moves between tender and frantic, such as during the show-opening “Treading Water”, with ease. Nada Surf set the tone early, dialing up the tempo on every song, and moving quickly from song to song. The crowd, which had swelled from about 50 for the first opener to somewhere near capacity, was above all else appreciative.
The setlist was, frankly, like something I would have set up on my iPod. They played the hits, so to speak, spanning their last three releases. For the encore, Caws led off with the very pretty “Blizzard of ‘77,” followed by “Always Love,” and closed with “The Blankest Year” and the ensuing party on stage.
In the end, this was a show I needed to see. They’re solid performers, and they have a body of work that wants to be played out live. But I’ve seen plenty of good bands and great live shows. Hell, last month’s Gaslight Anthem show was pretty damn good.
No, what made this show special was the connection. As I said way back at the top of this novel, this band is the the soundtrack to my life right now. And to have that soundtrack wrap me up and take me away for a few hours? I’d never trade it.
Where are we going? I don’t care.
Our friends all left, let’s go anywhere.
1Jesus, the kitchen. 5 years later and the drain still leaks a bit, there’s a weird hump in the floor in front of the sink, the cabinet trim moulding is still in cardboard boxes on top of the cabinets, mocking me. I bring this up, by the way, so nobody else has to.
2To be specific: Pete and Eldas for thin crust, New Corner for “plain” Neapolitan, and Bottoms Up for insanely decadent thick crust.
3The good song, it should be noted, was sung by the female guitarist, and had a stripped-down Velocity Girl sound to it. Distorted yet melodic, catchy, and not at all awful. She should leave that band.
4Thanks Steve!
