My friend Xanthe is at the root of this, really. If it weren't for her, I wouldn't have gone to the Ark's Folk Festival and seen The Paper Raincoat the first time. If I hadn't seen them at the Folk Fest, I wouldn't have ended up sitting at one of the Ark's front-row-and-to-the-side tables while Xanthe tells us that, according to facebook, Vienna Teng might be making an appearance.
Vienna Teng, if you're unfamiliar, is a musician currently residing in Ann Arbor. Alex Wong, the male half of The Paper Raincoat equation, refers to her as, “our famous friend, Vienna Teng.” But that's later. We're still waiting for the stage to light up and The Paper Raincoat to come out. There's a keyboard and a drumset, a guitar and several microphones set up, along with several other instruments.
And then here they are: Alex Wong and Amber Rubarth. The Paper Raincoat, joined by drummer Kevin Rice. On this stage, we are intimately familiar with them, although to see us, they have to ask for the house lights to come up—a bad idea if you're going to get nervous, but Alex and Amber handle this polite Ann Arbor audience with aplomb.
In their tunes, The Paper Raincoat often repeat instrumental lines as a first layer. I'm watching Alex Wong doing this with a set of bells balanced on arm, hitting the same notes again and again, but the exchange between a mix of instruments and the two vocal lines, aided by excellent and conscious drumming on the part of Kevin Rice, keeps us from yawning. There are the changes in sound, when one hand reaches out from guitar or piano or bells and adds something new. There’s the overtones of their voices, the striated complexity of Amber's voice against Alex's stable simplicity. We are listening because we want to know—what next? It’s the same set of voices and instruments, but we want to know how the sounds can be taken apart and put together again.
For the last tune, they leave any external instruments behind. All three stand together at the front of the stage and turn their bodies into music, with a cappella vocals and the percussion of their hands. It’s a novelty tune, capturing the wide-eyed darlingness of the group in one go. We clap when they’re done, drawing Alex and Amber back to the stage, and we clap more when Vienna Teng is invited to join them for the encore, a sweet and communicative tune from before they were The Paper Raincoat. From my perspective, the show begins and ends with their famous friend. Although she brings deeper virtuosity with her piano skills, The Paper Raincoat gives us a complete experience on their own.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Saturday, April 16, 2011
You Fall In
The band Photographers was, for me, a period of impatient waiting before Breathe Owl Breathe walked on stage. For all that, it's impossible to say something about this show without saying anything about the Photographers as the opener.
With four bodies on stage, we only saw the faces of two, Maren Celeste and John Hanson. She's the only one facing the audience head-on, but her microphone covered her face and her nervous hands told more of a story than the phrases falling from her mouth. Her vowels sat high-tongued in her mouth; her wobbly vibrato blended each word into the next. We saw Hanson too, a sideways profile facing Maren Celeste; a sapling voice lost in the electronic sounds of the band. Hidden behind them, a girl tapped out continuous vibraphone patterns, and a man worked his way around what looked like it was some kind of electric piano. Everything was electronically driven, including the vocals, creating a sound-scape of effects and instruments. Very frustratingly, this made any natural sounds indistinguishable from their machines. I don't go to the Ark to hear machines. I go to hear music, and the stories behind them.
Which isn't to say that machines are useless. Breathe Owl Breathe combined electronics and traditional instruments to great effect. Andrea Moreno-Beals played her cello or the drums, Micah Middaugh switched from guitar to his “keyboard calculator,” and Trevor Hobbs sat behind his drumset with a stick in one hand and the other fiddling around with some kind of equipment. The sound was constantly changing in intriguing ways. All valid reasons why Breathe Owl Breathe is great to listen to on CD.
What's missing from a CD, though, is the infinite humor that comes with a live show. More than the moments when the audience was invited to join in by clapping or singing, more than Andrea's gorgeous cello lines that the tunes were so often built on, what drew me to this performance was the promise the stories so evident in their music. Add to that the quirky little dances—like the one for Saber Tooth Tiger—and the hats and other props the group likes to use...well, I just want to squee about it, loudly, all over the internets. I'm told that it would entirely un-objective, but I have to say that objectivity here isn't exactly the point. The point is—they danced! they had props! the music was inventive and well-played!
And the stories were like bottomless pits: you fall in, and you fall in, and you fall in.
With four bodies on stage, we only saw the faces of two, Maren Celeste and John Hanson. She's the only one facing the audience head-on, but her microphone covered her face and her nervous hands told more of a story than the phrases falling from her mouth. Her vowels sat high-tongued in her mouth; her wobbly vibrato blended each word into the next. We saw Hanson too, a sideways profile facing Maren Celeste; a sapling voice lost in the electronic sounds of the band. Hidden behind them, a girl tapped out continuous vibraphone patterns, and a man worked his way around what looked like it was some kind of electric piano. Everything was electronically driven, including the vocals, creating a sound-scape of effects and instruments. Very frustratingly, this made any natural sounds indistinguishable from their machines. I don't go to the Ark to hear machines. I go to hear music, and the stories behind them.
Which isn't to say that machines are useless. Breathe Owl Breathe combined electronics and traditional instruments to great effect. Andrea Moreno-Beals played her cello or the drums, Micah Middaugh switched from guitar to his “keyboard calculator,” and Trevor Hobbs sat behind his drumset with a stick in one hand and the other fiddling around with some kind of equipment. The sound was constantly changing in intriguing ways. All valid reasons why Breathe Owl Breathe is great to listen to on CD.
What's missing from a CD, though, is the infinite humor that comes with a live show. More than the moments when the audience was invited to join in by clapping or singing, more than Andrea's gorgeous cello lines that the tunes were so often built on, what drew me to this performance was the promise the stories so evident in their music. Add to that the quirky little dances—like the one for Saber Tooth Tiger—and the hats and other props the group likes to use...well, I just want to squee about it, loudly, all over the internets. I'm told that it would entirely un-objective, but I have to say that objectivity here isn't exactly the point. The point is—they danced! they had props! the music was inventive and well-played!
And the stories were like bottomless pits: you fall in, and you fall in, and you fall in.
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