The December of my discontent
We all know I have a flare for criticism. As much as I appreciate art, nothing compares to skewering the dregs of entertainment. Especially when they really deserve it.
That brings me to the Decemberists. I caught their show two weeks ago at Fat Cat’s along with some friends and what must have been half of the Rice population. Everything got off to a good start. As the band took the stage, the excitement in the air was palpable, with plenty of the requisite over-zealous concert fans hollering encouragements. When lead singer Colin Meloy complained about the small stage, we forgave him. We were just that excited.
Anyone familiar with the Decemberists would be thrilled to catch them live. Their latest album, Picaresque, captures the whimsy and allure of their previous outings, Her Majesty and my personal favorite Castaways and Cutouts. And while Meloy’s distinctive voice occasionally verges on monotonous, the constantly quirky lyrics more than compensate.
But after a few songs — including ‘We Both Go Down Together’ and ‘The Infanta’ from the new album as well as the old fave ‘Leslie Anne Levine’— which amounted to maybe half of the band’s entire playlist for the night, things began to go awry. During one song, Meloy lifted his head, stopped mid-lyric and asked someone in the first row to stop smoking, as his voice dripped with pretense. He then extended his request to the entire venue. I am not advocating smoking or Big Tobacco, but come on. Sometimes the best way to enjoy a concert is with a Shiner in one hand and a Parliament in the other. Mr. Meloy, your music only improves with a good buzz — don’t take it away.
But he did. And then he took away the music. Apparently the venue’s sound system malfunctioned. Meloy began to complain constantly about not being able to hear himself. Whatever the problems, they remained a mystery to me and to the rest of the audience. In truth, the band sounded great. That made Meloy’s untimely departure all the more surprising. After being onstage for only about 45 minutes, Meloy took off his guitar — in an exaggerated, overly dramatic gesture — and said, ‘I can’t do this anymore.’ With that, he and the rest of the band walked off the stage. I stood frozen with my mouth gaping and my face paralyzed in an expression of utter confusion. At first I thought this might be an act, a clever segue into their second set. But when the venue’s canned background music came on, I knew it was all over.
It gets worse. My sources in Austin tell me that when the band later played at Emo’s Outside, they not only managed to play for the entire show, but Meloy also bad-mouthed the Houston show, singling out the venue. I would call that poor concert sportsmanship at its most smarmy.
Nothing sours a band’s reputation like a poor concert outing. Now I can’t listen to the Decemberists without thinking of Meloy’s bitter face. He seems caught up in the entire ‘I’m a cranky, angsty, indie hipster’ phase that plagues many would-be widely recognizable lead singers.
Jonathan Schumann is a Baker College junior and arts and entertainment editor.
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