Danielson at Beachland Ballroom 7/27

Well, there are certain artists that I alternate between

a.appreciating their originality and creative contribution to society as a whole and

b.getting the living crap annoyed out of (how's that for an awkward use of the passive voice)

They Might Be Giants, Stereolab, Brian Eno, punk rock, The Aquabats, etc. No one hits the extremes for me as much as Danielson though.

My mental process goes something like "how did he develop his vocal style? that's real-- [screech] please just stop singing! i had inner ear surgery as a child, have mer...oh, interesting chord progression"... it's really quite difficult to ascertain whether I hate, or love him. And that's sort of a disconcerting feeling for anyone to have, but particularly so for someone as opinionated as I am.

And I've been trying to figure this out ever since I became aware of Sufjan Stevens circa Michigan and talked to my friends about him. They had previously only known him through affiliation with the Br. Danielson AKA Daniel Smith. It's been a weary road.

This has been exacerbated by the fact that media darlings Pitchfork suddenly changed their pan-Danielson policy from sardonic jabs at his faith mixed with sardonic jabs at his unique voice to if you love him so much, why don't you just marry him? Suddenly he's elevated from reviled cult-star to hipster icon complete with a showcase at the Pitchfork Music Festival in Chicago? What gives?

I do kind of like that one song "Did I Step on your Trumpet?" though. A little more focused from a song-writing standpoint. I put it on my current mixtape for my car (in lieu of my broken iPod) and I've been enjoying it pretty well.

So when my liscence-less friend asked for a ride to Cleveland to go see him, I obliged. And also in order to satisfy my curiosity, I finally decided to see what this guy looked like. I braved flash flood warnings and four mysteriously wrecked cars on the side of I-71 to find out. And he looks like a cross between Lance Armstrong and Charlie Brown.

Well, Danielson and the Famile, replete with police uniforms and striped slacks (with the exception the dour and creepy Sister Megan) were in all their glory at the Beachland Ballroom. Danielson transformed from a mild-mannered, wine buying short polo-shirted guy that was ignored at the bar to a guitared ring-wraith and center of attention to a diverse crowd of hipsters.

They played mostly stuff off their new record, Ships, and a few things out of the catalogue. And you know what, I enjoyed the spectacle and may be able to listen to some of the recorded music with a refreshed perspective. Live music can have that healing effect.

The Walkmen - A Hundred Miles Off

The Walkmen are an indie contradiction; they are simultaneously everywhere and nowhere. Their music has been getting rave reviews with all the right people, but they are only now catching the eye of the thriving sect of underage indie kids, thanks to a late ‘05 appearance on The OC. Despite their relative anonymity, The Walkmen have that obscure joie de vivre that makes them RELEVANT.

A Hundred Miles Off is the sort of record a band releases when they are trying to shake preconceived notions about their music, but they don’t know exactly how to go about it. One way to do so is Dylan-worship. Although lead singer Hamilton Leithauser merely hinted at it on previous records, he is now a card-carrying member of the Dylan-worshipping church. His raspy, mumbling vocals on the opening cut “Louisiana” hit you in the face like a rolling stone. Perhaps sensing discomfort, the track lets the listener down easy, closing with a calypso horn and piano riff. Breezy.

“Danny’s At The Wedding” is a spacey bit of aloofness that shows when A Hundred Miles Off is at its best; it lets the rhythm wander aimlessly before presenting the melody. The more upbeat songs, while at first listen are interesting, don’t suck you in. And, The Walkmen certainly try many interesting things to reel us in. For example, “Tenley Town” is a track that allows the band to show their origins with a raw D.C. sound, complete with drum breakdowns and screaming. However, when grouped with the Maragritaville-esque conclusion to the first track, this album just seems plain jumbled.

For most new listeners, The Walkmen is a band that drips with grimy charisma that even The Strokes would kill for. However, while not a hundred miles off its mark, A Hundred Miles Off is a bit of a disappointment for the rest of us. While the record is chock-full of energy and channels a more deliberately aggressive sound, it only hints at what the ‘Men can do. Here’s to hoping their next record has a little more spit-on-mom’s-finger-polish.

PS: This review has been reposted after much trepidation. Ask me about it (the trepidation, I mean).