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I just got my promo stream of the new Death Cab for Cutie album Narrow Stairs, which is due May 13 from Atlantic Records. Excitement doesn't begin to describe my mood right now. I just threw it on the ol' computer here at work and am going to share my initial thoughts with you, loyal A to Z readers. Not doing much lyrical analysis, just to warn you; sonics at first are just easier.

[Added here after my listen.] After my first listen, it's by far the most diverse Death Cab album, if not the one where the band explores and challenges the scope of its sound. Production-wise, it's crystal-clear (at least through my crappy computer speakers), even if Stairs feels glossier than Plans in most spots -- mainly in vocals -- but not to the point of it being uncomfortable or cloying. Mostly, the extremes are just more pronounced: The "rock" songs sound much more aggressive, the radio-ready songs are more ear-friendly, quieter moments are more vulnerable, the synth/electro freakouts are entrenched more in songs. Every song sounds like it could come from a different album, and so it's too soon for me to tell whether the album is cohesive in the way that Transatlanticism or The Photo Album were.

Here are my first impressions of each tune.

1. "Bixby Canyon Bridge": You'd think it was Plans, Part Two at first. The song starts off with a dreamy jangly guitar (think: Out of Time-era R.E.M.) with lots of echoing space around and typically sweet, lonesome Ben Gibbard vocals. If you've seen the new Death Cab-on-a-cloud promo shots, that's what it sounds like; the band floating around in the stratosphere playing the tune. See, via the band's MySpace:

But then the drums kick in. Very loudly. Gibbard's vocals crack and fragment with distortion. The electric guitars kick in loudly. Everything strums in unison, like how bands who are insanely tight live rock out. The track ends instrumentally, with lots of abstract looping and gear-head noise (bet that's a Chris Walla influence).

2. "I Will Possess Your Heart": I've heard this song a ton already (as might perhaps you), so I'll refrain from reviewing. Some folks compare this to Talk Talk (ca. Laughing Stock); I hear Yo La Tengo, ca. their last few records.

3. "No Sunlight": A forceful bass line from Nick Harmer starts off (and dominates) the song, like an askew version of the Knack's "My Sharona." The song's very kicky and power-pop-indebted. (It's also 2:40 long only.) The sneaky guitar reminds me of 1980s U2, big time; piano kicks in about halfway through. This is a song to blast now that it's summer, at full volume out the car window. A definite highlight, also one I'll be going back to.

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The difference between Dan Deacon and virtually all other avant-garde or performance art is the audience interaction. You go to see a Stan Brakhage film or get caught up watching a bizarre street performer and you just stand still, stare, and inevitably end up thinking, “Wow, this is just bizarre.” Not so at a Dan Deacon concert. Not even close.

Slide Show!

The man and the music are definitely strange, to say the least. One look at the guy (pudgy, balding, middle-aged, with big goofy glasses, and a Goodwill wardrobe) and his stage set-up (a rat’s nest of cords and distortion boxes all covered with neon masking tape, and topped off by a glowing crystal skull), and you know you’re in for something wild.

As he’s known to do, Deacon set up his equipment on a table just in front of the stage and was quickly surrounded by audience members. After he led a brief stretching/stand up comedy routine, all the house lights were turned off and he had the crowd count down from ten like a rocket launch. When they hit zero, he pressed play on his iPod shuffle taped to a banana, and started “Okie Dokie,” his most high energy and accessible song. Madness ensued. Short of the infamous Girl Talk concert a few months back, it was the most energetic, dance-friendly, buck-wild crowd I’ve seen in St. Louis.

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Though it has been open just about a month, The Gramophone (4243 Manchester Avenue) in the Grove neighborhood played host to one of DJ'ing's biggest names on Thursday night – DJ Madlib. Though the show wasn't promoted on Madlib's MySpace page, a bulletin by his record label, Stones Throw (and a blog post here) alerted St. Louisans about the show.

See pictures of the show, the people, the records, here.

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In this week's Homespun column, Christian Schaeffer reviews Rough Shop's Here Today. He has this to say:

While many of [Anne] Tkach's cuts sound sweetly somber, on the title track she settles into a relaxed, acoustic-jazz sway that recalls a more folkified Madeleine Peyroux. [John] Wendland's "Golden Slumber Inn" is a highlight here — the detail-rich cheating song drops in at least two Beatles references alongside some slippery dobro licks. Several of [Andy] Ploof's songs highlight his deft instrumental skills and give a nice counterpoint to his sometimes-flat voice; "Dance All Night" gives a brisk, mandolin-led look at the piety and revelry that took place at big-tent religious revivals. Of course, "revival" is a hard word to avoid when encountering this type of roots music, but Rough Shop finds a way to mix tradition and idiosyncrasy in a comforting and compelling fashion.

The band is holding a free CD release show on Friday, March 28, at the Schlafly Bottleworks (7260 Southwest Avenue, Maplewood; 314-241-2337). Enjoy the following MP3s:

MP3: Rough Shop, "Stumbling Angel"

MP3: Rough Shop, "Golden Slumber Inn"

-- Annie Zaleski

These snaps were just too hot not to post.

photo by Jaime Lees
PHOTO: Dead Confederate
WHEN: Wednesday, March 12, 11p.m.
WHERE: Stubb's BBQ, big outside stage
NOTE: This band opened for R.E.M. (Athens represent) and might have been the best surprise of the festival. Read our coverage here.

photo by Jaime Lees
PHOTO: AA Bondy
WHEN: Thursday, March 13, about 9:30p.m.
WHERE: The gorgeous poolside rooftop stage of a heavily sponsored free party.
NOTE: This was one of 12 AA Bondy shows in a 3 day time span in Austin.

photo by Jaime Lees
PHOTO: downtown Austin, TX, view from the AA Bondy rooftop show
WHEN: Thursday, March 13, late night
WHERE: at 3rd Street and Guadalupe looking East
NOTE: There should be more rooftop shows. Always.

photo by Jaime Lees
PHOTO: Autolux's Eugene Goreshter
WHEN: Friday, March 14, afternoon
WHERE: Red Eyed Fly backyard venue
NOTE: Goreshter's amazing vocals on Autolux albums? Not studio magic. Dude actually sings like that.

photo by Jaime Lees
PHOTO: J Mascis of Dinosaur Jr, solo show
WHEN: Saturday, March 15, mid-afternoon
WHERE: Garden Party (read: gorgeous yard), the French Legation Museum
NOTE: J Mascis is a God among men (who just happens to use a baby pink Razr as his preferred cellular device.)

photo by Jaime Lees
PHOTO: Thurston Moore and the New Wave Bandits
WHEN: Saturday, March 15, afternoon, slot after J Mascis
WHERE: East Austin, French Legation Museum
NOTE: Sonic Youth's Thurston Moore stole the show with his expansive talent and boyish charm. Read our coverage here.

PHOTO: The Breeders
WHEN: Saturday, March 15, about 9p.m.
WHERE: Waterloo Park, north of downtown, 2nd stage
NOTE: Two Deals are always better than one. Read our coverage here.

photo by Jaime Lees
PHOTO: Kid Sister at the Fool's Gold Showcase
WHEN: Saturday, March 15, 1a.m. (after Flosstradamus, before Chromeo)
WHERE: Volume nightclub, next to the Emo's on 6th Street
NOTE: Kid Sister claimed she was crunk but she still held down her raps with a little help from brother Josh "J2K" Young (of super-fly duo Flosstradamus) as back up.

So, I'm sitting here in the Austin airport (flight delayed) after having spotty Internet access (read: none) for the past few days in the hotel. I have a ton of videos and pictures to post in the next few days (I threw down for a hottt camera), but until then, here are some other observations besides what we've already posted:

Simian Mobile Disco
(photo by Annie Zaleski)

*Simian Mobile Disco. The U.K. act headlined Mess with Texas vs. the Breeders yesterday night, and they absolutely blew the Deal sisters away. Vertical light displays in red, white and multicolors (reminiscent of Daft Punk) matched the duo's rave-y techno-pop, which they mixed in perfect discotheque ebbs and swells. "It's the Beat" especially created a groove -- and kept it.

*No Age. I'm in love with the LA duo's upcoming Sub Pop debut, Nouns; it's like Wire meets the Jesus and Mary Chain. But its set yesterday at Mess with Texas was rather awful. What's nuanced, primal and charming on record came off as a screeching, off-key racket live. Was it the outdoor festival setting -- I get the feeling they would be much better in a small, contained room -- or simply show fatigue (the band played an insane amount of shows)? Not sure, but I was disappointed.

*Chromeo. Also disappointing last night were these guys, headlining at Volume. While technically proficient and polished, the Vocoder-laden b-boy '80s funk/disco was just...boring. Perhaps this was because they were too polished and let their shtick (i.e., covering the Outfield's "Your Love" in brief and adding a snippet of Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'" -- the ultimate cheap ploy at the end of a bar night) dominate. I'm not entirely sure how the set managed to be just meh, considering it was 1 a.m. and I was a few drinks into the night at this point, but I was completely underwhelmed.

*Sons & Daughters. These charming Scots have improved mightily since I saw them opening for Franz Ferdinand years ago. Now much more confident, the group's distillation of American rockabilly and country (it even covered Johnny Cash, with a bit of the Stooges thrown in for good measure) and Britpop was high-energy and totally mesmerizing at an outdoor garden party thrown by Press Here Publicity. The new record This Gift was recorded by Suede's Bernard Butler, and the '90s melodic-rock nods came through loud and clear ("Gilt Complex"). Bonus points for singer Adele Bethel's totally bitching gold lame boots, which I coveted.

*Thurston Moore and the New Wave Bandits. Sonic Youth's Moore was in a jovial mood at the same garden party, cheerfully announcing drummer Steve Shelley as being "from the Crucifucks" (and not, you know, Sonic Youth) and introducing the band's name as "Bromance" -- and then expounded on the concept of "dude love." Aw. His set of solo material was also awe-inspiring; of course his distinctive guitar style made the set seem like a mini-Sonic Youth set, but with contributions from Come's Chris Brokaw and others onstage, the material sprang to life in its own distinctive way.

-- Annie Zaleski

photos by Jaime Lees

The Breeders played an unofficial South By Southwest show in Waterloo Park last night and gave the audience a small preview of its upcoming tour. The band dished out a long set of classics from its albums, plus selections from the Amps (Kim Deal's other, other project). Instead of serving as a nostalgia act, the Breeders seemed fresh, well rehearsed and enthusiastic about the show. Surprisingly, even songs off of the forthcoming Mountain Battles went over well. As usual, Kim and Kelley Deal were gracious, dorky, sweet, smiling and sang in perfect angelic harmony. Kelley, especially, seemed into the performance. On stage wearing her "Dayton, Ohio" t-shirt, she picked up the bass and joked "I wish I knew a Korn song." Their parents really should have had more kids.

Setlist (from picture):
Overglazed
Bang On
Tipp City
No Aloha
Huffer
Walk It Off
We're Gonna Rise
Pacer
Shocker in Gloomtown
Night of Joy
Divine Hammer
Cannonball
Happiness in a Warm Gun
Iris
Saints
Safari
Here No More
-encore-
Fortunately Gone
German Studies
Regalme
Note: pictured setlist isn't entirely accurate, "Regalme Esta Noche" wasn't played and I remember rocking out to quite a few songs that weren't listed ("Doe," "Hellbound," "It's the Love," etc.)

-- Jaime Lees

In honor of R.E.M.’s SXSW show on Wednesday, March 12, at Stubb’s (I’ll be there and reporting back), here’s a review of Accelerate, the Athens, Georgia, band’s new record, which is out April 1.

A friend posed an interesting question to me a few weeks ago: At what point in a band’s career is it impossible to evaluate its new album without referencing its back catalog? We were talking about R.E.M. specifically, although it’s a thought applicable to countless groups with lengthy careers.

That’s ultimately another essay in and of itself. But the question seems especially relevant, because early buzz around R.E.M.’s fourteenth studio album, Accelerate, involved the band nodding to the past. A five-night live residency in Dublin, Ireland, last July saw the trio sandwiching old, old songs it hadn’t played in decades between new material. Interviews have mentioned the record being faster than anything R.E.M.’s produced in two decades – which no doubt lead to the speedy title, Accelerate.

And yes, the album lives up to its name. It’s loud, quick and dirty, spinning by so fast that it takes multiple listens to sink in. It’s full of buzzing guitars and stream-of-conscious discontent, along with an abundance of Mike Mills’ choir-boy harmonies and sinewy bass.

But the overall atmosphere of Accelerate doesn’t resemble the mood of previous R.E.M. releases at all – meaning that you can’t exactly herald it as a return to form (whatever that means, anyway). Each R.E.M. album has a distinct personality and possesses a distinct atmosphere, even as it allows for variations in tone and texture. That’s the true genius of the band – and why its catalog remains so listenable: It’s adroit at finding cohesion in disparate, if not enigmatic or unorthodox, elements.

Sure, Accelerate's music itself hints at past eras – fuzzy guitars a la 1994's Monster; New Adventures in Hi-Fi's evocative pop; the dirty distortion and political yowling of 1988's Green; some orchestrated elegance circa 1992's Automatic for the People; the calls-to-arms of 1986's Life’s Rich Pageant; and the slick earnestness of 1987's Document. A friend mentioned that the music sounds like later-era Pearl Jam; to my ears, a few songs reference the raw crunch of Nirvana or the chaos of the Pixies.

Accelerate’s music is all of these things. But the album’s interpretations of the past are colored by experience, wisdom and, most important, time. R.E.M. isn’t a band full of rowdy college darlings or alt-rock weirdos anymore – and doesn’t seem interested in revisiting its quirky adolescence. Not to mention that it’s unfair to expect the band to be the cryptic poets they were in 1983.

What stands out most is that the band sounds like it’s having fun again. The previous three albums were meticulous, mannered and frequently moving – I stand by 1998's Up as a classic -- but often felt strained or out-of-focus. But on Accelerate, the music sounds effortless, crisp and breezy. If I have a quibble, it’s that the sequencing of the album in places seems off; the slower songs seem ill-placed, simply because the fast songs are so speedy in comparison.

Above all, the band has always made the album it’s wanted to make, at whatever time it’s wanted – with whatever messages it’s felt like conveying. Accelerate is no different. And so as a fan, I’m satisfied.

Here’s a track-by-track analysis. YouTube video links (if applicable) will be included with each. Also see the Web site ninetynights.com, which is posting a video snippet every day until the album's release.

“Living Well’s the Best Revenge” (YouTube). Peter Buck’s molten riffs race by, jangling through hyperspace at warp-speed. Vocalist Michael Stipe, his voice tinged with gravel and scorn, snarls lines such as, “Don’t turn your talking points on me / History will set me free / The future is ours.” He positively spits the chorus: “I’m not one to sit and spin / ‘Cause living well’s the best revenge.” The innocent narrator of the similarly styled 1986 song “I Believe” – the one who believed in “time as an abstract” – is twenty years older, and wizened from life. But he’s mad as hell – and isn’t going to let his youthful idealism die.

“Mansized Wreath” (YouTube). A song originally meant to be a B-Side, but elevated to an album track apparently after it was so well-received in Dublin. Deceptively jaunty garage-rock riffs have a bouncy, busy feel. Like on “Well,” copper-plated background harmonies from Mike Mills wind around Stipe’s off-the-cuff choruses. Think Guided by Voices or the Pixies.

“Supernatural Superserious” (YouTube real video; live version). I’ve talked about this song already here; it hasn’t grown tiresome after repeated listens. But in context with the album, it almost feels like it should have been the first track. Glossy and instantly memorable, it’s a classic R.E.M. single. (Especially because I still have no idea how to parse the summer camp/loner/ghost metaphors throughout.)

“Hollow Man”. Far and away my favorite song on the album. The song fakes out listeners at first, as it begins with beatific, somber solo piano and a vulnerable Stipe gruffly singing, “I’ve been lost inside my head / Echoes fall on me.” But waves of crashing riffs suddenly arrive on the chorus, signaling the narrator’s horror that he’s become a “hollow man.” The happy-ending sequel to Up’s “Sad Professor” lyrically, the song ends with the plea: “Believe in me, believe in nothing / Corner me and make me something.” Confident bursts of jangly guitar ebb and flow from restrained to loudly triumphant, mirroring the narrator’s wild-eyed regret at his life – and his burning desire to transcend this feeling.

“Houston”. (YouTube) Another favorite, based on acoustic guitar. Frowning organ and a stern low end curiously conjure a steamship whistle. The tempo also sways like that of a ship at sea; one can imagine brave captain Michael Stipe singing these lyrics while keeping lookout. The kicker is at the end of the song, though. After lyrics brimming with nostalgia and wistfulness about cities in Texas, Stipe sings: “Belief has not filled me, and so I am put to the test.” Cursory interpretation is that being agnostic or an atheist in our country’s political climate – and in particular, Texas – is emotionally trying.

“Accelerate”. (YouTube) My second-favorite song on the album. Reminiscent of Monster’s “King of Comedy," due to its urgent tempo and buzzsawing, minor-key guitar clouds (which often fade out in a trail of distortion). The sense of clawing panic in this song is palpable: “Where is the ripcord, the trap door, the key? Where is the cartoon escape hatch for me?” The atmosphere careens like a hectic pinball game, signaling that there’s no time to hesitate or think things through; action based on raw instinct is imperative.

“Until the Day is Done”. (YouTube). A quintessential thoughtful R.E.M. ballad, one earnestly wringing its hands over the state of the country. Beat-poet percussion meshes with fluttering acoustic guitar. The lack of vocal effects on this song means that Stipe’s vocals bleed with (and for) humanity.

“Mr. Richards” . (YouTube) Droning, lazy riffs spiral and dip in the background; think the Velvet Underground & Nico, or a kite soaring through the air. Stipe’s vocals are drenched in effects, giving the song a vaguely robotic tone. The coolest part: A few drum parts push forward into a quasi-drum-‘n-bass motif that’s an intriguing diversion from the relatively straightforward 4/4 beat.

“Sing for the Submarine.” A distraught, macabre waltz possessing a sense of floating anxiety and unspecified dread. With its greyscale guitars and melancholy minor key, the song feels like an outtake of 2004’s Around the Sun. As noted elsewhere, the lyrics seem deliberately self-referential: “electron blue,” “gravity’s pull” and “high speed train” all appear. The dank percussion breakdown/drum solo in the bridge is something I wish appeared more. Probably my least favorite song; it needs an editor, as there’s too much repetition to keep its elements interesting.

“Horse to Water” (YouTube). A completely jarring juxtaposition after the previous three slower numbers, “Water” is a thrashing speedball reminiscent of Nirvana’s punkiest moments (or Scottish superstars Idlewild). Guitars clash and shred, careening off the rails; Mills’ chorus counter-melodies mesh perfectly with Stipe’s banshee howl. Again, the theme of eschewing the mindless lemming mentality – implied is reference to political – emerges. Simple, but effective.

“I’m Gonna DJ” (YouTube). We haven’t had a “silly” song on an R.E.M. album in awhile (see also: “Shiny Happy People,” “Supeman”). And this is it. First debuted on the 2004 world tour, in the studio the song is all glittered out, T. Rex-style. Like a metallic glam-robot, Stipe speak-sings lyrics such as, “Death is pretty final/I’m collecting vinyl/I’m gonna DJ at the end of the world!” Falsetto background vocals gleefully shriek “whoo!” behind clunky garage-punk riffs. But among this noise and clamor is a glorious truism: “Music will provide the light you cannot resist.”

-- Annie Zaleski

I probably should have figured that two hours wasn’t long enough to compellingly cover rap, race, reality and technology, the four subjects of a lecture hosted by Webster University on Monday night. But it didn’t matter at the time, because the lecturer was the lyricist and main vocalist of Public Enemy, Chuck D.

I grew up with Chuck D. It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back was stuffed under my mattress with two other (albeit more innocuous) tapes I later possessed and similarly hid: Salt-n-Pepa’s Blacks’ Magic, and M.C. Hammer’s Please Hammer Don’t Hurt ‘Em. My parents’ strong disapproval of this “type” of music was unrelated to lyrical content -- and in spite of their differences, those albums would have had the same destiny if they’d been discovered: the trash.

But even as a tween I was a “pleaser,” and me liking this music was unrelated to my parents’ disapproval. (I hadn’t yet discerned the nature of that particular brand of disapproval.) I liked Public Enemy because they were good. That goodness (at least for Millions) had unbeknownst to me, already been precisely defined by Alternative Press as “revolutionary.” It was true that I liked Millions because it was unlike anything I’d ever heard, but I hadn’t heard much before that. And I had no handle on the content, which isn’t required to appreciate the sound of a raw, angry rhyme. But lyrical content is inextricably tied to the revolution of Millions, and is the most likely reason that it found its way into the Sony Walkmen of an awed small-town white girl at 10:00 p.m. on a school night.

Chuck D, who is now in his late forties, is neither raw nor angry in person. But disappointingly, he didn’t speak with apparent conviction about the broad range of topics he covered that night -- which included the importance of obtaining a college education and "challenging information" (especially media portrayal of black culture); holding hip-hop artists politically accountable; and understanding hip-hop and the word “nigger” from a historical and political perspective.

In terms of today’s political culture, he talked about the insanity of John McCain; the diametric opposition of government to culture; the robbery of Africa; and what he referred to as the “Grand Theft Oil” of Halliburton under the Bush administration. He opined that young people should get a passport (“It’s cheaper than rims”) and expressed growing concern at what he called the state of “prison industrial complexes” in China and the United States -- the occurrence of prisoners who are used for free labor. Related to this, he reminded the audience that our country should have learned from slavery that “just because something is profitable doesn’t make it good.”

While Chuck D held the rapt (and considering the topic matter, not undeserved) attention of the young, mostly black, collegiate audience around me, I had trouble overcoming my sadness at the effect of having so many loosely defined topics so casually delivered. And as the evening progressed, it became clear to me that it was probably rap, more than hip-hop culture, that provided the needed focus for Public Enemy’s revolutionary lyrical content. Chuck D made the distinction in his lecture, “rap is vocal application to music, a voiceover,” while hip-hop is “creativity [derived] from black culture.” I can say that I left this lecture with a deeper appreciation of rap’s ability to bring hip-hop culture, including political activism, to the mainstream. And Chuck D is living what he says other hip-hop artists should be: temporarily taking the bus and taking a vocal stance on the issues that matter to him.

-- Kristy Wendt

Thanks to a lack of space, we ran out of room to post this review in the paper. But better late than never, here's a review of the second Genesis boxed set Rhino Records released last year.

Genesis
Genesis 1983-1998
(Rhino)

In one seven-minute song, Phil Collins earns his place among rock’s great singers — and begins his decline. That track, “Mama” -- which opens the self-titled 1983 album by prog-pop punching bag Genesis -- preserves everything that Collins (and his bandmates) do well and locks out the facile impulses that continue to hound him (and his bandmates) in late middle age. The song reads as a reply to founding Genesis singer Peter Gabriel’s 1982 single “Shock the Monkey,” an abstruse bit of hamboning about sexual jealousy set to urgent tribal rhythms and now-dated electronic beats. Keyboardist Tony Banks’ sequencer comes from the Radio Shack down the block from Gabriel, and Mike Rutherford’s spiky guitar figures reinforce the song’s carnal fury. But whereas Gabriel’s throbbing, gnomic “Monkey” traps its prey (as well as its cuckold) in angry riddles, “Mama” slaps its bitch up with hulking drums and an unhinged vocal. At the microphone and behind the kit, Collins comes on like a lead pipe, conveying menace in a way only hinted at in his solo chart debut, “In the Air Tonight,” and not duplicated afterward. His career since, all establishment trophies and critical brickbats, exists almost entirely in retreat from this moment.

Too bad the remix of “Mama” that kicks off this second career-spanning Genesis boxed set is a botch. Despite a richer sonic palette and a deeper focus (owed to the set’s primary goal: shoehorning the original recordings into five-channel surround), engineer Nick Davis’ new master kneecaps the song by de-emphasizing the vocal and turning up everything else to absurd levels. Elsewhere on Genesis (and its catchy, vapid, huge-selling follow-up, the 1986 electronic-drums workout Invisible Touch), Davis’ thick reverb turns snapping-turtle drum-machine accents into crocodiles and sets Rutherford’s rhythm guitar loose in unexpected places, both welcome improvements. But on “Mama,” he turns Collins’ cackle into a risible House of Wax trick and holds the vocal at arm’s length where it should be hot against the face.

After that crucial disappointment, what can the rest of the set do but offer relief at its relative lack of molestation? Here and there on Invisible Touch and the warm, damp We Can’t Dance (though not at all on the Collins-free Calling All Stations, an abortive gesture with a couple of solid numbers), a fade lingers a few seconds longer or a vocal track has been mixed in from a different take, allowing for a few surprises. But the set’s annotation lacks insight — video director Jim Yukich’s useless liner notes heap praise on his former clients but fail to provide even a charming anecdote (unless disclosing the late Benny Hill’s fee for appearing in the “Anything She Does” video counts) — and the bonus disc treats the faithful to nothing new.

Keeping all of the Gabriel Genesis albums together (in a third box, slated to arrive sometime in 2008) burnishes the myth of the leader who outgrew his first enterprise but harms what should be a solid legacy for the group’s later incarnations. Even Gabriel (in the pleasant but unrevealing recent book Genesis: Chapter and Verse) seems wary of being equally enshrined by fans who abandoned the band when he left and critics who forgave his early indulgences. Had reissue label Rhino bundled Genesis with its rightful companion, 1981’s Abacab (included on the previous set) and allowed early Collins-as-frontman discs A Trick of the Tail and Wind and Wuthering to sit at Gabriel’s table, the band’s place in the firmament would be more assured. For now, the novelty of a remixed “Mama” and a fuller-bodied Invisible Touch will have to do.

-- Scott Wilson

(First, my colleagues in Kansas City wrote about their show here; really, it's irreverent and hysterical.)

The link up there somewhat sums up the adoration of the crowd toward Regina Spektor in St. Louis on Monday night -- a colleague here at the Pageant show dryly noted, "Women were triumphantly hugging in the street" after the show. Still, her Pageant show was an often-riveting concert that relied on songs instead of flashiness for its flair. (Save for a disco ball on the ground (!), the stage decorations were merely lights hanging from the ceiling that unobtrusively twinkled, like something IKEA might sell.)

Spektor was alone onstage as well (save for one encore song), and addressed the crowd sparingly (although she was clearly grateful for its enthusiasm.) Otherwise, it's easy to see why Spektor has enchanted so many people with her tunes. She makes listeners feel beautiful and graceful -- even if they're not. This is mainly because the arrangements (and execution) of her songs are so exquisite and delicate, but not withering or frail.

Along with classical music, jazz and other genres, she (perhaps subconsciously) draws on elements of musical theater/Broadway for her music, judging by the theatrical enunciation and jaunty arrangements of songs. ("Fidelity" in particular, with its "Hear-ar-ar-ar-t" trills, demonstrates this.) And the highlights were numerous: The vulnerable "Better" -- hear a good version of it here, from the KC show -- broke like glass, while the set-closing "Samson" was simply stunning.

"Samson," Washington DC, October 3, 2006

An obvious touchstone -- albeit a lazy one -- is that Spektor is the neo-Tori Amos. (If anything, Spektor is much more reminiscent of Cat Power, at least if her breathy vocal delivery and spare electric-guitar playing is any indication.) But whereas the Fairy Queen entrances the crowd with raw sexuality and sensuality and likes to shock by exploring taboos, Spektor is refreshingly wholesome -- and shocks with her innocence.

Even when she burps and makes guttural noises like a frat-dude on a Natty Lite bender -- and this happened often -- or chirps that "someone next door is fucking to one of my songs," she's cute and charming, like a tomboy who also happens to look adorable in a dress just after she's kicked some ass in softball.

But her vignettes about living in the city have no artifice -- and, more important, manage to be youthful and idealistic without being immature. Picture yourself stomping through puddles in New York City, like a jubilant 4-year-old -- only you're 23, a newly minted college graduate ready to take on the world, even if you're stuck in an entry-level day job. That's the sort of vibe Regina Spektor conveys -- eternal hope, and limitless amounts of pluck and spunk.

Nevertheless, though, I'd like to add the following caveat.
(crankytime)

Hey, concert audiences in St. Louis, shut the fuck up.

No, really. For every person that was held rapt by the piano chanteuse's whimsy and quirks, there were five people talking loudly over the music -- which was a glorified piano recital, seeing as though it was Spektor, her grand piano and only the occasional guitar and drum part. LOUDLY. As in, the hum of chatter drowned out Regina during a gorgeous, spare cover of John Lennon's "Real Love," and during major portions of her set.

Here's a thought: If you want to go out and hang out and talk with your friends, go out to dinner. Go to a bar. Don't spend the money to go to a show and chit-chat about the PTA meeting or whatever, when there are people there for the music. This happens a lot in St. Louis shows, and not only is it rude, it's distracting and disrespectful.
(crankytime over)

-- Annie Zaleski

(RFT contributor Mike Appelstein saw the Joy Division biopic, Control -- which is at the Tivoli through Thursday -- and had this to say about the film. As a caveat, he says he wrote this review just after he saw the film last weekend, off the top of his head, a la my Radiohead In Rainbows post. For further reading, see Mike's blog entry from April 21, 2006, about his history with the band.)

There were only two other people in the Tivoli audience at yesterday’s afternoon showing of Control, Anton Corbijn’s new biopic about Joy Division and its doomed lead singer, Ian Curtis. This felt absolutely perfect (though perhaps the Tivoli owners saw it differently). Joy Division has always been a very personal band in my life. I discovered its two studio albums, Unknown Pleasures and Closer, as a lonely and alienated teenager, and spent many a solitary evening listening through headphones in my exurban bedroom. If I wondered how a Joy Division biopic would translate to the world at large …well, that mystery remains unsolved, for better or worse.

Perhaps “better” is the best choice. For what Control boasts in beautiful cinematography, accurate portrayals and, of course, haunting music, it lacks in complexity and electricity. If you’re a Joy Division obsessive, you’ll probably find it surprisingly subdued. If you’re unfamiliar with this Manchester post-punk band, or you’ve only heard “Love Will Tear Us Apart”…well, I cannot imagine spending two hours with these unpleasant, self-absorbed people and not leaving exhausted.

The standard rap on Joy Division is that they were “depressing” and “morbid.” Certainly Curtis’ lyrics were neither shiny nor happy, and his ominous baritone didn’t often lighten the mood. His lyrics sketched bleak and existential portraits of individuals tormented by often-unseen forces. Sometimes he described his own pain, sometimes he took the third person and
very occasionally (as in Closer’s “Atrocity Exhibition”), he would implicate the listener, the fan, the concertgoer as well. But – as with fellow Mancunians the Smiths and the Fall – to focus on the lyrics and vocals is to miss the point entirely. It’s easy to forget that Joy Division had three other musicians: a drummer equally influenced by punk and Kraftwerk, a bass player whose high-pitched lines all but redefined the bass as a lead instrument, and a guitarist who didn’t so much play chords as set off underwater depth charges. Dirges? Sure, they had a few. But they also had genuinely upbeat songs such as “Disorder,” “Interzone” and “Transmission.”

That said, there is a genuinely haunting quality that threads throughout Joy Division’s entire catalog, and Ian Curtis is the key. He was a genuinely conflicted and complicated soul: a Conservative voter in a Labour world; an epilepsy sufferer insistent on keeping late hours and performing in front of bright lights; a family man who held onto his day job well into Joy Division’s career, but who insisted on maintaining an affair with Belgian journalist Annick Honore. That he ultimately committed suicide at 23 – literally hours before his band’s first American tour – is tragic, but not really surprising. What Curtis was not was your standard tortured artiste.

And this is exactly where Control takes its wrong turn. Corbijn isn’t a neophyte. He was there in real time – he photographed them, hung around them, and even produced their posthumous funereal video for “Atmosphere.” He was working from Touching From A Distance, the autobiography written by Ian’s widow Deborah Curtis, and he had Factory Records’ exec Tony Wilson on board as a producer. But, despite this absolute treasure of source material, what should have been a four-star movie ends up uncomfortably close to Sid and Nancy, flattening out interesting characters to fit a conventional story arc.

Sam Riley plays Ian Curtis. His resemblance is uncanny, but it’s also one-dimensional. He spends almost the entire movie with the same gloomy pout on his face. We are neither shown nor told why he feels this way. We see a few epileptic episodes, but they seem to be passing, infrequent in nature, and treatable with medication (which he seems to hate taking). We follow his affair with Honore, but she comes across as anything beyond a enigmatic ingénue. Curtis protests that he “hates” her and he “tries to get rid of her, but she won’t go away,” but at no point do either of them seem anything less than smitten for each other. The newcomer could be forgiven for wondering why he’s so depressed. Given that he’s in a successful band, with no obvious preference to be at home with his wife and young daughter, he comes across as merely selfish.

Most of the other characters are written in the same bland way. The other members of Joy Division are basically anonymous, which is a surprise to anyone who’s read bassist Peter Hook’s often-riotous interviews. Tony Wilson, the brash and outspoken television presenter and Factory Records label head, comes across as needy and weak – the exact opposite of Steve Coogan’s charged portrayal in 24 Hour Party People. Only Rob Gretton, played with hilarious hubris and overstatement by Tony Kebbell, comes off as a memorable character.

None of this would matter much if the musical performances were top-notch. Joy Division could be absolutely devastating live. On a good night – when the band reached maximum velocity and Curtis was deep into his disturbing, trancelike shadowboxing dance – they were literally frightening. It’s a high bar, perhaps impossible to reach, yet Riley doesn’t even try, really. He’s got the stance and facial expressions down pat, but he’s surprisingly still and subdued. Only on “Dead Souls” does he really match the frenetic level of the real band – and that’s meant as a setup for an onstage seizure.

Control has its positives. The entire film is beautifully shot in atmospheric black and white; it’s obvious Corbijn has paid a lot of attention to detail, right down to the labels on the lager cans. There are several good moments for trainspotters – it was a nice touch getting
Mancunian poet John Cooper Clarke to perform “Evidently Chickentown,” Gretton tries to cheer Curtis up by reminding him that “it could be worse – you could be the lead singer for The Fall.” And I don’t think anyone knew that “She’s Lost Control” included the sound of an aerosol can rhythmically sprayed into the microphone. But the whole movie has a strangely alienating and antiseptic quality that does neither its subject nor its audience justice. If anything, it made me want to rent 24 Hour Party People again – a messy but inspired film that makes a much, much better case for Joy Division, Factory Records and Manchester.

-- Annie Zaleski