Bloomington, Indiana, where I live, is a very politically and culturally progressive town. There are more Thai restaurants than Burger Kings, and the campus GLBT board protested until reggae homophobe Buju Banton got his concert cancelled two weeks ago. The presence of one of the world’s greatest music schools, coupled with the ethnic diversity that a research university (Indiana U.) draws, means that multiculturalism is more or less ingrained into the city’s approach toward musical entertainment. Coming up in a couple weeks is the
Lotus World Music and Arts festival, a yearly “world music” festival featuring performers from Iraq, Israel, China and elsewhere, which underscores the fact that, more than other towns, it’s incredibly popular here to regard musical entertainment as a chance to learn---an environment that a band like
Calexico probably loves. They play indie rock rife with allusions to the culture that the two guys who formed the band, singer/songwriter Joey Burns and drummer Jon Convertino, grew up in—Tuscon, Arizona, just a short ride from the Mexican border. The notion of incorporating culturally disparate influences into the popular music idiom is nothing new—Calexico’s one of the more established practitcioners, but Beirut, for instance, showed that indie kids can actually be made to dig it. There’s always the chance, however, of it lapsing into academic museum music, though, or the Gipsy Kings or something. But Calexico’s avoided that path, and released some really good and unique records along the way. They’ve been able to work profound Southwestern American and Mariachi influences into their music, along with xylophones and accordions, without it sounding forced, or more importantly overwhelming the songcraft. With this year’s
Garden Ruin (
buy), Calexico took the oft-treacherous route for indie bands—making a poppy, accessible album—that sees its reverse in the major-label band that issues its “challenging second album.” They’re running the risk of alienating their core audience, but the great thing is they don’t really need to care, because I doubt they’ll get dropped from Touch & Go for appealing more strongly to the NPR crowd (politically left, but musically front and center).
Calexico played last night at the Buskirk-Chumley Theatre, a gorgeous renovated old building with exquisite sound and ushers and whatever. The last band I saw there was the Decemberists, and before that the Flaming Lips (
Soft Bulletin tour). It has a huge, wide stage that allows theatrical bands to stretch out, and bands with a lot of members and instruments, like Calexico, to establish some space. The strangest thing about the venue is its influence over the concert-going experience, though—most interestingly, the fact that
everyone sat down for the entire show. Like, the entire show. No one stood up. Not even to applaud. There was thus a huge gap of like thirty feet between the band and the first row of seats, because there’s that spot at the front where everyone stands to get closer to the band. Empty. And Burns noticed it, even making polite reference to it before playing his first song. I wonder what they thought when they came out and saw the crowd—polite, immobile. It didn’t seem to affect their music, though, and they gracefully and precisely ran through a slice of their catalog without missing a beat, quite often besting the originals by a considerable margin. Let it be known that I really like
Garden Ruin, and I was happy to hear four songs from it—“Bisbee Blue,” “Cruel,” “Panic Open String,” and, most wonderfully, the stunning “
Roka” (
mp3). Burns and Calexico are at their best when they play up the sinister and dark elements of their influences and instrumentation, which makes this song a highlight of the record. Live, it came across even better, with trumpteist/multi-instrumentalist Jacob Valenzuela belting out the Spanish vocal part, and elevating it much, much higher than the recorded version. I came to the conclusion during this song that when director Christopher Nolan gets the inevitable call in five years to remake Orson Welles’ border-noir classic
Touch of Evil, this is the song that will play over the closing credits, and Calexico will take the scoring reins and do an even better job of merging American and Mexican sensibilities than Henry Mancini did on the original. Okay, done. Elsewhere, they played the cover that it seems they were meant to play from the moment of their formation, Love’s “Alone Again Or." Now that I've seen it live, I’m convinced more than ever that it is one of the greatest songs ever written by anyone, ever. Burns’ breathy croon is perfect for the song, as is the presence of two live trumpets (piped through two really expensive microphones) and the pedal steel guitar. And as for the connection with the docile-yet-enthusiastic and decidedly older and academic crowd, Burns actually played well to it---at one point, he actually asked “How many people out there have library cards?” People actually applauded for having library cards, and Burns turned around, satisfied, and started playing a song.
Brooklynites Oakley Hall opened the show, also to a seated crowd. I got their debut disc for Jagjaguwar,
Gypsum Strings (
buy), in the mail a week ago, and upon playing it for the first time, I found the music strangely comfortable, as if I’d heard it before. What I quickly realized was that I was unconsciously referencing the curatorial instinct of the label itself. I’m pretty fannish in my appreciation of Jagjaguwar, because they're from my town, and they're great. What I appreciate most, though, is that the label is working to establish an aesthetic reputation, and doing so successfully without lapsing into niche. What I get from Jagjaguwar musically---an intelligent, focused approach to psychedelic rock in service of a communal, and pastoral but also intense vibe---is what I get from Bloomington itself---"rootedness," but not disallowing exploration and celebration. Bands like Wilderness, Black Mountain/Pink Mountaintops and Ladyhawk preceded Oakley Hall on the label, and although Oakley Hall tends more toward standard country-rock then their labelmates, there's plenty of overlap. Live, they were impressive, clearly understanding how to fill a stage geometrically—leader (and ex-Oneida member) Patrick Sullivan stood front and center, hirsute and unkempt, but was bordered by two attractive females: fiddle-player Claudia Mogel and guitarist/vocalist Rachel Cox. On the far right was third guitarist Fred Wallace, who looked like Dan Bejar, and on the far left was skinny, nerdy bassist Jesse Barnes. The drummer, yeah, he was in the back. Their unified front approach was visually successful, offering plenty to look at during the songs, which vacillated between country-honk and layered, arty indie rock. Three guitars equals a wallishness of sound, but the band mitigated their distance from the crowd with a shouty fervor and decent hooks—even if they’re probably more well-suited to play in smaller clubs, where, I don’t know, people actually stand up and dance and stuff. Check out "
Lazy Susan" (
mp3).
aged girls). Maybe it’s because I didn’t grow up in Rhode Island, but the whole thing seemed a little weird to me. I like doing things with my kids and their friends, and school activities can be really fun, but I am not sure if first graders really need their own version of the prom. The boys, in particular, didn’t seem to get the whole disco ball, macarena, get-out-here-and-dance-with-your-mother business. Last year the dance was just for Dad’s and daughters, which I think is kind of cute (even with the prom dresses and tiaras), but you throw in the rest of the family and it gets a little crazy. 
supergirl, so I will stop, for now. The girls did have a good time, and between their adventures on the dance floor and their boy chasing antics by the refreshment table, probably burned more calories than a marathoner. I spent most of the evening hiding behind my camera, but my five-year-old did manage to pull me onto the dance floor so I could groove to MC Hammer’s Can’t Touch This with her (there’s a sentence I never thought I would write). The best moment, however, was the Daddy daughter dance; it was pretty cute watching the girls take a break from their regularly scheduled hyperactive girlishness to dance to Butterfly Kisses with their Dad. 
In her first television appearance since the 
