Anberlin brought the hair, Eagles of Death Metal brought the guitar, Jack's Mannequin brought the vocals, Airborne Toxic Event brought the set that was too early in the evening for me to see, and the Gaslight Anthem -- they brought the songs.

Jack's Mannequin. Photos by Scott Spychalski

I spent about 50 bucks at the Midland Theatre last night at 96.5 FM's the Buzz Ganked Christmas Show, but I feel like a rich man because now, right now, friends, I am listening to sweet marbled-aquamarine slab of vinyl that's playing me song's off the Gaslight Anthem's first album, Sink or Swim. (Sorry, by the way, that I have no photos of 'em -- didn't think I was gonna write about the opener so much! now with photos!) Anyway, it's not quite as epic, awesome and tuneful as their latest release, the deservedly lauded The '59 Sound, but it does have a picture on the back of the Anthem playing in a bar called the Court Tavern in their hometown of New Brunswick, New Jersey. I visited a friend in NB this past Thanksgiving, and our go-to place was the Court, and not because of its connection to the band, but man, the bartender there fuckin' loves Gaslight Anthem.

I bought the record straight from the drummer, Benny, a couple hours after his band rattled the plaster filigrees of the beautiful, restored Midland in downtown KC. Benny, who, despite these past months of solid buzz, lives on his brother's floor, he told me that throwing up in the parking lot outside the Court is nothing to be ashamed of. He told me that the city of New Brunswick has been trying to push that bar off the landscape for years now, vomiting up big new buildings and parking garages all around it, trying to squeeze it out.

The Court Tavern won't go. Neither will true, triumphant, youth-dreaming, working-class rock and roll.

Gaslight singer Brian Fallon.

Most of the kids at last night's show didn't own Springsteen album one, but that didn't keep their arms down or their legs still during Gaslight's too-short, fucking-starting-at-6-40-fucking-pm but fucking awesome set. Yeah, the sound could've been a lot better. The bass was too loud and bright and the guitars too soft, but the band came right out played like the tireless, hungry, young mongrels they are and left you feeling like you didn't wanna stay for the rest of the show but instead hop in their van and hit the next town with them, roaming the streets of Saginaw or wherever, passing out flyers and grabbing kids and saying, "Have you heard of these guys?" Before the band's last song, someone in the audience must've shouted something about the band being in Missouri, because the lead singer said, "Thanks, but we've been to Missouri before." Then he shouted "Joplin!" right before the band kicked into the jam. Joplin! You know they're real.

You know who they remind me of locally? The Architects. If the Phillips brothers had a bit more tunefulness and a little less sheer open-chord guitar fury, they and the Gaslight would be, like, kissing cousins. Sexy naked ho photos after the jump, though!

Not really.

As I intimated already, I missed the Airborne Toxic Event. I do, however, believe they took their name from the Don DeLillo book White Noise and the big chemical cloud in that book which evacuated the town in the story and which I think of whenever I remember that stinky cumulus of black smoke that came out of that East Bottoms plant explosion back in '07. Fortunately, we in KC fared better than the folks in that landmark work of postmodern American fiction.

Anyhoo. We had the Gaslight, then we had this band called Anberlin, a minor-key-trampling sort of nu metal-emo hybrid that has enjoyed a lot of success and gotten a lot of gear endorsements by sounding and looking exactly like a lot of other bands that some corporate record company (in this case, Universal) fatcat appointed a Band the Kids Will Like and invested some money in. Maybe Anberlin is the most authentic, DIY-rooted, hardworking band ever and they donate all their proceeds to cleaning mines out of third world countries, but they don't sound like it. They sound like soulless corporate rock. It works for a lot of people, such as the dude in the Veda hoodie (see Vedera, who was supposed to play but had to cancel due to a van accident) who kept yelling things like "Woohoo!" and "Welcome to Kansas City, Anberlin!" and "Come on, let's do this!" -- he was in the back, so it was like shouting across a freeway -- and, the coup de grace, "I'm naming my first daughter after you!" That's if he gets the opportunity to reproduce.

After being rocked by the sexy, youthful rock stars of Anberlin, the crowd seemed a little bemused when Eagles of Death Metal showed up and got behind their guitars and said something like, "holy shit there's a lot of people here." First there was 36-year-old Jesse "the Devil" Hughes, with his greasy mane of hair and trucker stache and fat, white hollowbody Gibson and 1950s bullet mic. To his right, a large, 40-something pale, chubby bald guy toting a Flying V. Over on the other side, a dark, wiry bassist. Though the crowd was collectively too young to know who ZZ Top is, they seemed to sense -- and fear -- that EODM was about to cover them. After a few of the Eagles' low-slung, trashy, funky, 1970s-influenced originals, the crowdsurfing resumed. He was less enthusiastic at this one-off gig than when he came through two years ago on the heels of Death By Sexy. I saw the band twice that year, once opening for the Strokes at the Uptown, once headlining at the Record Bar. Unless I got the wrong impression, that year Hughes tried to seduce every woman in America from the stage. This night, however, he did a little of the "let me hear the ladies!" and "let me hear the boys!" cheerleading between songs, but mostly stuck to the script, playing songs off the new one (Heart On) and a few off Sexy: "Cherry Cola," "I Want You So Hard." By the end, the Eagles of DM had built up enough momentum (despite taking too long to get set between songs), that they all came together for a bow. I like EODM. Having them play for you is like having a weird biker dude buy you a drink at a bar. They make you feel special and a little bit wrong. The people of this country need more of that.

Hughes, by Spychalski

Lastly: Jack's Mannequin. I knew little about this LA group, except that it's led by one of the guys from Something Corporate, about which I also really knew nothing. After seeing the group's jubilant, hyper-poppy inexplicably headlining set full of tremendously emotional songs about memories and friends, I do know one thing: Jack's Mannequin has no penis. That's not necessarily a bad thing, if what you want is reassuring, sugary, chaste piano rock, like Ben Folds without any edge whatsoever. Lead singer, pianist and self-assured cut-up Andrew McMahon stood up on his piano and threw a paper airplane into the crowd three times. He also thanked us, saying, "sometimes you come out to these radio shows and they can go either way, but you guys are a great radio crowd" (oh, gee, thanks) and then launched into another of his simpering, little-boy-in-a-cape anthems. He's got one song, "Bruised," that bruises you by sounding so strangely similar to "Don't Stop Believin'" that you want to go and listen to Journey right away. I mean, why settle for less? The hour-plus set (all the other bands had been restricted to 30 minutes) consisted of giant, heart-on-forehead power ballads that were all about the same degree of catchiness, landing just short of the fence, past which is the home run area reached by JM forebears like Five for Fighting.

Guitarist Bobby Anderson

McMahon.

For the encore, they did a really solid cover of "I'm On Fire" by Springsteen -- these guys really do have chops. Awesome harmony vocals, totally tight shit all around. Then, during the final song, McMahon began singing the chorus of "With or Without You" during the vamp. There's just no filter on this guy. I'm all for sincerity, I really am, but if you don't have the songwriting skills to match, then you need to tone it down. You'll come off as a shambling, mediocre dummy.

I'm sorry for not providing a setlist. And sorry to all you JM fans for not liking your favorite band. Perhaps you can tell me what I'm not getting. In the meantime, getcha some Gaslight.

-- Jason Harper