Considering that it's one of the most stable professional venues in the city, there's an eerie tendency at the Metro for the mechanics of the place to become tangled with unfriendly results. Tonight's example was a doozy: make it compulsory to cloak bags AND charge punters three bucks for the privilege. Although it's possible that the crossed wiring existed solely in the mind of one endearingly confused security guard, that would go against the working theory that the venue will soon be issuing oxygen masks (with attached meters) at the door, thus allowing them to charge by the lungful.
Not that they would have made too much tonight, a sparse constellation of starry-eyed lasses and beardy-faced lads arrived right on time, to sit cross-legged and stare wanly up at Brunswick-ites Husky. With a sound that seems to encapsulate perfectly the nostalgic rural folk in vogue thanks to the likes of Fleet Foxes (which allowed them to get away with a rather nice cover of America’s ‘A Horse With No Name’), it’s unsurprising that their warm vocal harmonies and solid, albeit workmanlike, songwriting was well received – though the Matt Bellamy-channelling keyboard solo that at one point spontaneously erupted seemed rather unnecessary.
Earlier fears of the venue being strewn with naught but tumbleweed courtesy of the competition over at OAF (Wild Beasts) proved unfounded by the time Devendra Banhart (Patron Saint of Jesus Beards, Journeys-To-Find-Oneself and Hacky Sack) took the stage. A group of acolytes as diverse as they were enthusiastic managed to generate the kind of coming-together-love-fest vibe not normally seen outside of American teen dramas. Looking considerably more clean-cut these days than indie mythology might have one believe, Banhart didn’t really hit his stride tonight until backing band The Grogs left him to it for a bit, his quavering solo croon setting hearts (and ovaries) trembling. Make no mistake: Banhart is the real deal, a consummate performer and patchouli-scented heart throb, whose at times patchy songwriting is more than compensated for by a live presence both inimitable and utterly magnetic.
A reduced version of this was published in The Brag, Iss. 424, August 8th 2011
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