Camera Obscura and Pony Up. Tuesday, February 6, at the Record Bar. (Sorry this is a day late. This chemical-cloud-of-dark-death thingy brought about an early sign-off yesterday.)
Let it go, Tracyanne, just let it go. Your songs are so pretty; don't look so sour. Turn that frown upside down. Maybe if you did, then your Camera Obscura bandmates would, too, and some of you might start moving a little onstage, maybe nodding at people in the crowd, and then it wouldn't seem to audiences that traveling around, playing your fine, garden-in-bloom pop to the world's clubs felt to you like a prison sentence.
That was my impression after the first four or so songs, anyway. (A blog post by Happy in Bag, whom I saw down front the entire show, hints at a propensity of churlishness all the night long.) I was standing in the booth nearest the stage, peeking over phonograph memorabilia and empty glasses at the stage. The crowd was capacity. I thought I'd seen capacity before at the Record Bar, but, evidently, no, I hadn't seen capacity. Fortunately, the kind of people who brave the conditions to see a band like Camera Obscura are gentle, sensitive types who bend like grass when you have to push past them. Which I did, as soon as I decided my glass had been empty too long and my ass was too sore from balancing on a cushioned seat to warrant watching a performance reminiscent of weekend PBS. I headed, in other words, for the back.
The first band had been Pony Up, an all-girl Canadian group on Dim Mak records. Unremarkable, dry, angst-lite indie rock with lots of disco drumbeats but nothing very spirited built on top. Take that Motown record off your turntable and replace it with a cute, fuzzy cardigan and watch it go round and round — the emotional impact will be the same as a Pony Up show. Then, read the band's English-major-approved bio, remove all claims to sex and danger, and you'll get a good picture of what they're about.
But at least they were loud enough. Regular RB soundman Nic had the volume up enough during Pony Up to make people almost want to dance. Later, during Camera Obscura, after I abandoned my post in the front for the sparser environs of the rear, I still wanted to listen to the band, but I had to strain through the crowd noise. CO brought its own soundguy who evidently doesn't share Nic's fondness of bangin' sound. Not that Camera Obscura's music is meant to be played loud, but let's be practical -- it was a noisy, crowded bar! Still, the clarity of sound was A+. Like a recording. That's something.
If you haven't checked out Camera Obscura yet, though, don't be deterred by this show review. In the end, the show was probably satisfying to all the patient connoisseurs of Scottish pop who shelled out the shillings to see a band whose latest album was even in my top ... 20, maybe? ... from last year.
Also, it should be noted that the band was admittedly bongo'd. Still, I wish they had paid more attention to that honky tonk show rather than dismissing it as typically middle-American. They could learn a wheelbarrowload from Rex Hobart and the Misery Boys about playin' like you mean it -- and enjoying it.
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