Titus Andronicus, Pink Socks, and I Love You
Date: July 24, 2008
Venue: The Pistol Social Club
Better Than: Watching Macbeth, the White Sox, and P.S. I Love You at The Buena Vista Social Club
By GRANT SNIDER
Titus Andronicus sounds like The Pogues – if The Pogues got stupid drunk and played each song as loud and fast as possible. It’s a testament to the band’s manic endurance that they sustained this energy throughout a set where the power went out more than three times. Each flip of the circuit breaker brought the band out of awkward darkness and back into a raging punk tantrum. Give Titus Andronicus credit: playing in the wee hours of the morning, shaking off multiple power outages, and following a solid local band, they managed to keep the crowd rumbling like The Sharks versus The Jets.
Electrical problems notwithstanding, The Pistol Social Club is a phenomenal venue. The “club” is actually a spacious level of a not-really-gentrified warehouse, scattered with oversized artwork and overweight cats. It’s revived urban detritus straight from an architecture student’s wet dream. Having just returned from an outdoor music festival at which sound was stolen by the open air, I was delighted to experience the rich acoustics of a cube made of brick and wood.
More after the jump.
Last weekend, Titus Andronicus played at that very same outdoor music festival – Pitchfork’s hipster family reunion in Chicago. I’d hate to see them play on a large stage. At The Pistol, there’s no “stage,” per se: the crowd can get close enough to catch the band’s sweat on their tongue. When the lead singer for Titus swung his guitar or shoved over a mic stand, everyone ducked. Late in the set, he grabbed a wooden ladder and mounted it mid-song. No one danced under it for fear of bad luck.
I’ve heard Titus Andronicus compared to both Bruce Springsteen and Bright Eyes. Based only on their live performance, these are pretty inaccurate comparisons. Their recordings suggest Boss-like melodies with a Bright Eyes-like whine, albeit drenched in distortion. Live, they nearly drowned out these melodies with furious noise. They are from New Jersey, however, and the lead singer did sound like he was gargling with Conor Oberst. Instead, I’d compare the band to a very early incarnation of The Replacements: they’ve written a few good songs, they might someday write great songs, but part of their mystique lies in not giving a shit.
Kansas City’s very own Pink Socks are perpetual rock ‘n’ roll in all its permutations. Garage, delta blues, British invasion, rockabilly, punk – all have elements worth preserving for future generations. At their best, the Pink Socks sounded like they were resurrecting outtakes from Exile on Main Street. Meanwhile, the Sox vocalist falsely attributed each original song to another artist. Continuously spouting non-sequiturs, he name-dropped The Rolling Stones, Stevie Ray Vaughn, Graham Parsons, Uncle Tupelo, Death Cab for Cutie, The Black Lips, Jay Reatard, and more. The dude from Titus Andronicus raved about one of the songs the Pink Socks had written – the Sox music was nearly as charismatic as their frontman.
The noise punk duo I Love You opened the show. Brokedown industrial riffs and monochromatic sludge echoed the post-industrial West Bottoms environment. In high school, I bet these guys were encouraged by their parents to join National Honor Society or run cross country. Instead, they probably opted to work nights at QuikTrip, saving up to buy musical equipment and start a band once they got to art school.
Critics Notebook
Personal Bias: I like bands that throw their guitars on the floor, but do it half-assedly, because they can’t afford to buy new equipment.
Random Detail: After arriving in the Windy City at four in the morning, I slept in and missed Titus’s set at the Pitchfork Music Festival. Like Shakespeare’s excessively vengeful Titus Andronicus, the band got revenge by slaughtering my eardrums well past 2 AM. A few more shows like this, and I’ll become nocturnal.
By the way: The late Shel Silverstein wrote,
“Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.”
The sidewalk ends at the West Bottoms.
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