The Orwells and Twin Peaks, two obscenely young Chicago rock acts, hit up Great Scott on March 4 and promptly tore it down. Let the X’s on their hands serve as a lesson that staying young and doing stupid things can work out every once in a while.
Full disclosure: if anyone cared at all what my favorite albums were in 2013, Twin Peaks’ Sunken was number one, and it wasn’t close. There’s something in those relentlessly reverb-heavy 8 tracks that perfectly captured the craziest summer of my life, and I’ll never not be happy when I hear them.
Back to the review. Even if you didn’t fall head-over-heels in love with Twin Peaks‘ record, this set should have convinced you otherwise. What the Orwells did to the stage (we’ll get to that), Twin Peaks did to a largely surprised audience, save for the huge pit of kids who kept shouting “TEAM PEAKS! TEAM PEAKS!” between songs. Those guys came prepared. Camera-clad me did not. Sometimes I hate taking photos.
In a nutshell, Twin Peaks mixes surfy vibes and turfy volume with Smurf-y humor. Much like that metaphor, they’re best live when the audience forgets about subtleties. That said, there’s diamonds in the haze if you listen closely, like bassist Jack Dolan’s much-improved singing on “Boomers” and Cadien James and Clay Frankel ripping through their guitar solos on “Out of Commission.” The newer material seems to have more Tom Petty-ish rock songwriting underneath the requisite cymbal washes and fuzz. I enjoyed the two numbers that had some unison choruses, and they’ll make good sing-a-longs next time (see: Flavor). But there’s no question that Sunken is still the backbone of Twin Peaks’ live goodness; I don’t know if “Stand in the Sand” and “Fast Eddie” are well known enough to cause a real big-boy riot, but the small one they caused in the pit was good enough.
One more note: I used to hate when music critics compared drummers to Animal from the Muppets. But if Twin Peaks’ Connor Brodner actually doesn’t scream incoherently while trying to do mundane things like buy movie tickets or knit, I’ll get a Kermit tattoo. This guy is my favorite drummer to watch, period. Just look at this photo, for god’s sake. Ok, let’s move on.
The Orwells are an exercise in toleration for stage antics, as are most bands this young with this much confidence. They’re a mathematical proof, a graph that charts Musical Enjoyment vs. Mario Cuomo Doing Things Onstage. In larger venues, like their largely ignored opening set with the Arctic Monkeys at BU’s Agganis Arena last month, it doesn’t work.
“Last time we played here, it was in a huge fucking arena,” slurred guitarist Matt O’Keefe. “It fucking sucked. We’re meant to play bars.” Thanks for agreeing with me, Matt. I owe you a retroactive fist bump. I’ve seen these guys open for FIDLAR at the Sinclair, at FYF in L.A. and now Great Scott, and the aforementioned graph I’d be somewhere in the middle. But even though I’ve definitely caught myself saying, “there are other acts out there,” something keeps pulling me back.
See, these kids have just enough genuinely great tracks that we get some genuinely great moments. “Blood Bubbles,” from their Other Voices EP is one of those. It’s their best work they’ve ever done, and it’s even better live. The band’s rhythm section is fantastic, not like the runaway train that is Connor Brodner, but like the School of Rock kids turned up to the max coolness the parents can allow. O’ Keefe, even after pissing off half the crowd with a grating feedback loop to kick off the set, knows how to rip in a quick solo bar or two.
But lead singer Cuomo, like it or not, could lead a fucking cult. I don’t even care what cult it is. He stumbles, leers and whores himself out in a way that’s more punk than all the other punk kids and fuck you very much. Stick him into a Pastafarianism meeting and he’d emerge from the conference room at 2 A.M. slathered in marinara sauce, with an empty bottle of Jack and the chairman’s teenage daughters on either arm. All in all he did his usual antics, like whipping a stage light to a broken demise with his belt, choking himself with his belt and then letting a female audience member pull it tighter. You know, the usual.
Both bands kicked it into high gear and caused a happy spillover at the end, which is really more than you could ask for on a Tuesday night. Shouts to Great Scott, and shouts to Chicago for giving us these kids. It doesn’t quite make up for the Stanley Cup last year, but it’s close.
