The Post-Rockist

The Walkmen, ft. Ferraby Lionheart and the Broken West
The Southgate House
Newport, KY: March 12, 2007

The Walkmen - Another One Goes By
(from A Hundred Miles Off)

The Walkmen - Loop de Loop
(from “Pussycats” Starring The Walkmen)

For a band I was never too wild about to begin with, I found myself watching the Walkmen perform for the third time in little over a year. Of course, the band had undergone some major stylistic changes during that year. Most notably, they had gone from being the critical darlings behind two stark, stunning records released over the course of three years, to being the archaic adventurers who released two unusual, critically lukewarm albums over the course of a few months. But it was these last two albums that interested me most. The mariachi horns and Eddie Cochran rhythms of A Hundred Miles Off; and the schizophrenic, primal scream boogie-woogie energy of the note-for-note Nilsson cover album “Pussycats.” Something was going on here. These albums had daring. The dubious lack of fanfare around these albums gave them a sense of danger that I couldn’t find in their previous releases. I was curious to see how that played out on stage.

Opening for the Walkmen were Ferraby Lionheart and the Broken West. Taken as a whole, the bill looked like a cross between Newsies and Quadrophrenia, with every other person plainly decked out in tweed jacket, tight black jeans, and a stone cold scowl. Maybe that’s not entirely fair, as Ferraby’s sullen expression was due mainly to the dark shadows his wide-brimmed cap cast over his face. His voice was thin and reedy, like a malnourished Rufus Wainwright, but he didn’t sing as though he had a scowl. His gentle, West Coast folksiness carefully drew out each note over lazy bojangles melodies. Despite the drummer’s misplaced gusto, the sparse set-up wasn’t enough to convey the whimsical (or so I have read) nature of the songs’ arrangements. Lionheart’s tiny voice on solo acoustic numbers was more or less lost among the quiet murmur of the Monday night crowd.

The Broken West, with the addition of extra guitar players, a keyboard, and a trumpeter, were louder on stage. But despite the added volume, there wasn’t much else to offer. There were verses and choruses, I’m sure, and a steady stream of mid-level energy throughout, but nothing struck home. It occurred to me that it takes a lot more work these days to write a song that is just okay, and these songs were just okay. By the time things were finally starting to pick up, they stopped playing. That was that. No, “This is our last song, we are the Broken West and we’re happy to be here. The Walkmen are next!” No nothing. Just one toe-tappable tune and they were off the stage.

But this was not a bill of musicians that were happy to be playing for us. When the Walkmen took the stage they looked downright chagrined. They couldn’t even bear to make eye contact with us, their audience. Their music - thumping and droning and scratching and screaming - sounded similarly pissed off. Still, this was the most subdued I had ever seen them. The Walkmen allowed some of their slower, newer material control the mood. The creaky, N’Orleans swing of “Louisiana”; the broken piano waltz “Another One Goes By.” When rougher, darker scream-along songs like “The Rat” finally came about, it felt downright arresting. You had the feeling, watching Hamilton Leithauser indignantly perched on his microphone stand while Matt Barrick pummeled his drumset, that something important was going on. That the Walkmen are a Very Important Band.

After the encore, which didn’t yield any of the “Pussycats” results I was screaming for, I made to leave. No sooner had I made two steps out the back door when I felt an arm pull me aside.

“Do you know where the Walkmen are?” asked a tall woman dressed in black with dark mascara. She looked very intense.

“Uhm, they’re probably in the back room over there,” I pointed, “behind the merch table.” Still, my exit was blocked.

“You have to take me to them.” She was literally inches away from my face at this point. The whites of her eyes looked huge surrounded by the black mascara. Is she goth, I wondered? Do the Walkmen attract a goth crowd? It must be something else. “I need to thank them.” It sounded important.

“Thank them?” I asked. “What for?”

“I’m going to get my Ph.D. in Psychology. I just found out today, and it’s all because of them. I want to study them.” At this point I’m becoming cautiously curious. “I think they can be a huge inspiration to children. Their music is so angry, but the song’s meanings are very insidious. I’m going to study the Walkmen and I’m going to play their music for children. It will have revolutionary effects. I’m not crazy.” She’s gripping my arm, walking me to the door. “Will you take me to them?”

“Listen lady, that’s an interesting theory you got there, but the Walkmen are just back there if you walk…” She glared at me, incredulous that I might decline her order. “Okay, I’ll take you as far as the merch table. But after that you’re on your own.”

Walking in, she continued to extrapolate on her theory of raising a generation of proto-revolutionary children weaned on the subliminally subversive lyrics of Hamilton Leithauser. “I mean, I can get them loads of money; research grants. I’ve got this all planned out. I’m not a groupie or anything.”

It was at this point that I literally stumbled into Walkmen drummer Matt Barrick. Given his short stature, I’m sure this was not unusual for him.

“Oh, hey, great show tonight,” I managed, looking down.

“Thanks, man.”

“By the way, I’m a little disappointed that you guys didn’t play anything off of ‘Pussycats,’ I was really hoping you would. Also, I’d keep an eye on that chick over there if I were you. She’s been saying all sorts of crazy shit about your singer, and I don’t want to be held accountable for anything she may or may not do.”

He was not pleased to hear either of these announcements. As he eyeballed the deranged Ph.D candidate, who by this point had squirreled her way into the back room, I made my getaway, dodging the grasp of anyone who appeared to have even the slightest of mental imbalances.

So there you have it, folks. The Walkmen are the voice of America’s future, inspiring children from coast to coast with their insidiously angry lyrics, but still aren’t playing Nilsson live. For the sheer indulgence of it all, I’m posting a song off that album that would have made for an outstanding encore.

-Posted by Todd