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July 10-16, 2008
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A moveable Feist
Indie-pop heartthrob Leslie Feist claws her way to the top
by Adam Perry
A modern musical revival
Just sangin’ and bangin’ those punk rock po’ boy blues
by Douglas McDaniel
A moveable Feist
Indie-pop heartthrob Leslie Feist claws her way to the top
by Adam Perry
It’s hard to think of anyone more deserving of worldwide mainstream success than the stunning 32-year-old alt-folk-indie-pop/rocker Leslie Feist. While still in high school, she was in an all-girl punk band called Placebo that opened for the Ramones in Calgary. She moved on to tour as a bassist, singer and rhythm guitarist with bands like Noah’s Arkweld, By Divine Right, Peaches and others before recently blowing up as a solo artist. But before the ubiquitous iPod commercials and Grammy nominations, there was the lush voice of Feist gloriously reworking “Lover’s Spit” with sparse piano accompaniment at the end of Broken Social Scene’s epic 2004 b-sides album Bee Hives. And the moment I heard her stretching that timeless voice in and out, joyfully longing to “swallow words while giving head,” I was in love. So it’s a shame the Canadian star isn’t doing interviews right now while on tour, because my first-ever phone conversation with Feist was primed to begin like this:
“Hi, my name is Adam and… you can answer ‘yes’ to this question and I don’t mind. I’m cool with it. Just be honest: Are any of your songs about me?”
She would’ve laughed, there would’ve been a long, awkward silence, and then perhaps I would’ve hung up. We’ll never know. But the point is that a singer and performer like Feist, whose voice and dramatic presence are enough to melt grown men through cheap speakers, only comes around in music a few times a generation. Frontman Kevin Drew and his minions in Broken Social Scene knew this years ago, when they recruited Feist (who had released one unspectacular solo album called Monarch in 1999) during the recording of the Toronto collective’s landmark indie-rock success You Forgot It In People, which was an underground and critical sensation in 2002. After releasing a second, more well-received solo record (Let It Die) of silky pop in 2004, Feist lent her vocal prowess to many of the best tracks on the mighty Social Scene’s triumphant self-titled album in 2005. Thus, Feist was on the verge of mega-stardom in the mainstream, which she achieved over the past two years in part by letting Verizon and Apple use sweet alt-rock songs (“My Moon, My Man” and “1-2-3-4,” co-written with New Buffalo’s Sally Seltmann) from her gold-certified The Reminder album to hawk cellphones and iPods.
Say what you will; it worked, and now Feist (who has dual citizenship in Canada and the U.S.) gets to tour the world as a solo artist, playing her addictive, romantic folk-pop in sold-out venues as big or bigger than those Broken Social Scene frequents. And her live show is a genuine treat, as evidenced on the heavily circulated Live At Trabendo (Paris) bootleg. Much like Bob Dylan, Feist uses her concerts as a chance to wholly reinvent her own material (and a few songs by people like Drew and Ron Sexsmith), making it all fresh and exciting, and alternating between solo performances of songs like “Inside and Out” and “1-2-3-4” and big-time rock arrangements of stuff like the Sexsmith-penned “Secret Heart,” which was originally recorded as a sort of smooth ’70s A.M.-radio ditty about nervous lovers.
So while you may be sick of Feist showing up everywhere from Saturday Night Live to The Colbert Report to the breaks in Dan Patrick’s Sirius satellite radio sports talk show, seeing her onstage playing that signature red Guild Starfire guitar and belting out her immaculate love songs should make it all better. And then some.
On the Bill
Feist will perform with the Golden Dogs at 8 p.m. on Tuesday, July 15, at the Fillmore Auditorium, 1510 Clarkson St., Denver, 303-837-1482.
Respond: letters@boulderweekly.com
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A modern musical revival
Just sangin’ and bangin’ those punk rock po’ boy blues
by Douglas McDaniel
On the front porch of the Bluebird Theater on Colfax, there’s a neo-Depression revival underway. Just hours before the show, Denver-based band SlakJaw is describing its sound as “bumcore,” and the members of the night’s headlining act, Reverend Peyton’s Big Damn Band, come out of their sound check dressed in their finest washboard wear: suspenders, fedora and even a flower dress complemented by red cowboy boots.
Blues-rock duo American Relay, late from the previous night’s gig in their original hometown, Steamboat Springs, enter into view of this new musical damn-nation. They spill onto the sidewalk from a compact car with their instruments and luggage. They are as friendly as plain folks at a barbecue, smiling, ready to shake hands with anyone and everyone. They are both college grads, bright-eyed, sharp, smart. But without a band bus in sight, one immediately wonders what the apocalyptic price of gas these days means for musicians on tour, the very life blood of rock ’n’ roll.
The members of American Relay — guitarist Nick Sullivan, 27, with his Fu Manchu mustache and Hendrix hair, and drummer Alex Hebert, 30, looking all 1930s with, again, the Fedora — have stripped their sound down to the basics: blues, rock, maybe a little bit of punk if you’re feeling categorical.
Comparing their economy to another drum-n-guitar duo, the White Stripes, Hebert muses, “We can split our winnings better...” But then, halting, looking over at Sullivan, he says… “OK, accrue the losings more easily.” This dry sense of humor finds its way into the music in interesting and satisfying ways that help elevate their songs above the radio-friendly masturbation rituals produced by many mainstream artists.
Onstage, it’s easy to see why American Relay’s efficient sound appeals to a new generation that has gone bland on the Widespread Panic noodling of the ’90s. Their brand of blues-punk is reminiscent of Neil Young’s Re-ac-tor phase, of George Thorogood on steroids, of the very dhambala of the blues on speed. It’s the synthesis, really, of the bluesmaster tradition that created R.L. Burnside’s blistering guitar style, the great grandfather who American Relay is quick to embrace: “He’s the reason we are here,” belts out Sullivan at the start of their set, which calls out to every white boy and girl in the crowd: Hey, poor boy, how’s it feel to really know the blues?
Sullivan and Herbert met in audio engineering class at University of Colorado-Denver, where they learned the technical ins-and-outs of the business, but the professor who really caught their attention was R.L. Burnside. His music and style had a big influence on the budding rockers.
“He was the gateway artist to what we are doing,” Hebert says. “No fucking noodling or anything.” Sure, he says, the ’90s jam bands “did a lot for the blues, but we’re taking business away from those bands.”
American Relay’s artwork for the 2007 album Corn & Oil conjures Depression-era roadside art deco in a post-9/11 climate. Like their music, it’s an ode to tradition designed with modern sensibilities. The album sounds like acetylene sparks in the garage, like early Hendrix without the rocket fuel solos funded by ’60s-era NASA. Music that finds a single, straightforward beginning and just sticks to it with razor-steadfastness, the visceral truth of rock.
There’s a certain one-man-blues-band quality to it, and a true sense of gospel somehow leading back to Howlin’ Wolf roots. It’s as if George Thorogood had been served up for human sacrifice.
When told it sounded like they were out to digitally deconstruct that type of blues-rock influence, Sullivan says, “George Thorogood is still kicking it out, so he ain’t dead just yet. And we got a lot of respect for how he does business.”
Throughout the night, during the interview and after Reverend Peyton’s show, the spirit and intensity of the tent revival is not so much felt as drained out through the sweat glands. At the end of the day, it feels like some kind of redemption has taken place: the audience drenched from the relentlessness worship service, the endless swinging and stomping and raising of the spirit, the cleansing...
After the show, blues brothers Sullivan and Herbert are waiting at the door for one more greet and a smile. Asked if there’s some kind of religious belief system at work here, Sullivan says, “Not much of instituted religious experience growing up, but there is a definite faith in the power of roots music.”
Respond: letters@boulderweekly.com
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