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And while Broken Social Scene’s nonchalance can sometimes devolve into perfunctory moments, their innate talent, wordplay and allure exacted my esteem.
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They even played that song I once heard in a movie theater. “All this professionalism makes me want to puke.” The point was driven home by his hooded sweat shirt and frowzy hair, even if both attitude and attire were at immediate odds with the stuffy House of Blues.Īll told, it was an enjoyable encounter.
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Each guitarist elicited a confounding combination of shrieks, caterwauls and Morse code clicks from his axe, like some high-art version of Skynyrd’s “Freebird.” In the showdown’s aftermath, Drew admitted he didn’t know how to end the song, but that it was ok. What ensued was nothing like any guitar-off I have witnessed.
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At one point, he convinced his three guitarists to engage in a shredding duel. Kevin Drew imposed a casual, lighthearted mood on the evening. Even the legion of guitars recurrently swept into bewitching interplay.
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The band dipped in and out of this practice all night, dragging me through mud only to jar me awake with a torrent of august sonance. They have the enviable ability to catch you growing dull when suddenly they reach for notes you couldn’t expect. But at their best, Broken Social Scene is subversive, hypnotic, transcendent.
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At their worst, Broken Social Scene sounds like routine, tidy pop, like the ruts and walkways of our everyday courses that were once new but have worn to despicable familiarity. The show advanced at a temperamental pace. We are, fortunately, in a period of reconciliation where Broken Social Scene’s pensive ballads can benefit from the vim of a few punctuating horn blasts, which they did. Rock music and horns have had a chronically uneasy marriage, the former often waking up from brief musical eras of saxophone-love and kicking the poor, jilted lover out of bed. Saturday’s set also included a four-piece horn section.
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My roommate recently asked me, “Why is classic rock so kick ass?” “Well,” I said, “People used to be able to play their instruments.” Herds of guitars give the suspicious impression of a cover-up. For my part, the presence of four guitars arouses only skepticism. Singer and ringmaster of this musical circus, Kevin Drew, admitted from the stage, “We’ve got band members I haven’t even met yet.” Drew also boasted that he had brought the tour’s most expansive lineup to Dallas. The number of bodies swelled to thirteen at one point. The stage-lights swiveled and the house lights went down and that was our cue to be excited.īroken Social Scene took the stage eleven-strong. Then, the right reverend Oz, somewhere in the House of Blues complex, pulled a lever.
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Add to that the superfluous flatscreens and the persnickety Barney Fife security, and my enjoyment of the show is compromised before I have heard note one. The venue is something of a church of manipulation, with its all-seeing-eye shrine to unity its spiral-flower Urban Outfitters inspired wall graffiti its hackneyed, Dadaist iconography dedicated to musicians past. Unfortunately for me, and I imagine the band too, I had to go to House of Blues to see them. (We have been telling the English what music to like since 1953 why would we begin taking advice from them?) Consequently, I walked into the House of Blues last Saturday as a man whose familiarity with Broken Social Scene was limited to one song he heard once in a movie theater and thought, “Hey, that’s pretty good.” I do not read Pitchfork, Stereogum and certainly not MOJO. I am the last to arrive at any commotion within the scene except those serendipitous occasions where I actually get there first. Foremost is that I do not keep myself apprised of independent rock activities. I will be the first to admit that there are several problems with me reviewing Broken Social Scene’s concert.