Frontier Ruckus, These Wild Plains, Lee Preston (Great Scott 8/21)

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Going into shows, we all have expectations. Whether we know the opener or not, fanboy the headliners or simply want a listen, we forecast these setlists and the downtime between them.

For most, it seems the older you get the more cynical you become about concerts. A show Tuesday night is tempting, but zombie-walking into your cubicle Wednesday morning is not. The prospect of seeing friends is enough to draw you out for a show, while your chances of bumping into that fling from 2011 is enough to run from it. 

We weigh these options beforehand, and so often they fall short of experience. Countless times we leave shows feeling just “meh.” Sure, it was enjoyable, but the cards just didn’t fall right. Maybe a set was too short, or long, or just plain underwhelming. Maybe the frontman (or woman) was a jerk, or a diva, or ten beers deep on stage. 

But sometimes the cards fall differently. Last Thursday at Great Scott, the cards fell just right. 

Boston’s own Lee Preston kicked off the night. For those of you who don’t know the man behind this three-piece, he’s entered the scene somewhat mysteriously. While it’s certain his first name is Kyle, any chance at a surname is kept under wraps by the lacking biography of his internet presence. But the mystery works, and the moniker fits too. The clubmaster-sportin’ Preston took Thursday’s stage with bassist Chaimes Parker and drummer Gio Coviello. With a laugh and a hoot, the band commenced the night with a short but noteworthy set. 

Lee Preston is a rock and roll enthusiast from head to tapping toe, and his band reflects that. From “The Gentleman,” to a lovesick “Dear Aledale,” Preston and co. gave showgoers a sound you’d hear streaming from a glossy ‘69 Camaro. Some bands call on the rock and roll archetype and end up sounding cheesy, as if playing costumed versions of the songs our parents love. Lee Preston does not, and is commendable in maintaining honest modernity through personal lyrics and the sincerity employed to his music. 

“Some bands call on the rock and roll archetype and end up sounding cheesy, as if playing costumed versions of the songs our parents love. Lee Preston does not, and is commendable in maintaining honest modernity through personal lyrics and the sincerity employed to his music.”

The band capped their set covering Henry Glover’s “Drown In My Own Tears,” a song Preston crooned with true blues expertise. 

These Wild Plains followed, playing their last Boston show of the summer. This is a certain misfortune for country and folk fans alike, who’ve dug this Americana outfit from the moment sound struck eardrum. After releasing their Waves/Plains 7” in August of last year, These Wild Plains have grown to garner the attention of many with their worthy calibration of a classic sound. While most bands rely on constant shows to fuel the fires of hype, it seems this act would rather spend time perfecting their craft off stage. According to their Facebook, from January to July of this year, These Wild Plains played just twelve shows. After seeing them live, that number is certainly surprising. This band’s existence clocks in at just under two years but they play as if jamming for a decade. As a five-piece, with Preston’s Chaimes Parker standing in at bass, each member holds stake in sound with the true talent of musicianship. From frontman Ryan Bambery’s natural ease at the mic, to Nick Mercado’s impeccably placed solo’s, to the Taylor Hawkins-esque Rob Motes on drums, pounding away with tenacious precision, they flowed. All this while Ben Voskeritchian melodized tumbleweeds from his guitar, occasionally singing grittier vocals to counter Bambery’s tranquility.    

From frontman Ryan Bambery’s natural ease at the mic, to Nick Mercado’s impeccably placed solo’s, to the Taylor Hawkins-esque Rob Motes on drums, pounding away with tenacious precision, they flowed. All this while Ben Voskeritchian melodized tumbleweeds from his guitar, occasionally singing grittier vocals to counter Bambery’s tranquility.

Just twelve shows is surprising in itself, even more so that the number includes their spot at Sinclair last month playing opener for Toy Soldiers. So few shows doesn’t equate with laziness by any means. In their off-time from the spotlight the band has been recording a full length at Somerville’s Q Division. They’ve also managed to pull in a Daytrotter spot, landing them listed with bands as big as Best Coast, Local Natives, and dare we say it, Wilco. While their full-length isn’t set to release for another few months, These Wild Plains dropped “Virginia” just last week as a marker of what’s to come. And what’s to come is good. We’re forecasting big things for These Wild Plains. 

Frontier Ruckus capped the night with a rinse of lovesick indie folk. And truly a ruckus they are. Like a musical pin-ball machine, the band supplied listeners with the constant tuneful miscellanies of acoustic guitar, banjo, melodica, horns and one significant musical saw. All this to whimsically lay the canvas frontman Matthew Milia uses to paint Michigan car dealerships, wintery Massachusetts, and the oil-doused porn mag he once found in the woods.

Like a musical pin-ball machine, the band supplied listeners with the constant tuneful miscellanies of acoustic guitar, banjo, melodica, horns and one significant musical saw. All this to whimsically lay the canvas frontman Matthew Milia uses to paint Michigan car dealerships, wintery Massachusetts, and the oil-doused porn mag he once found in the woods.

It’s certain with Milia that lyrics are an instrument in and of themselves. In just a four minute song the singer gives fans seemingly hundreds of words in a vibrant stream of consciousness. Like a lyrical Where’s Waldo, it’s up to listers to piece together his fragments and skewed phrasing to imagine just what he’s getting at. Though it may be near impossible to really tell just what that is, his lyrics possess the ability to resonate with listeners through themes of suburban hometowns, childhood nostalgia and the slightest touch of angst.

Aside from pure talent, Frontier Ruckus were extremely friendly and welcomed the crowd to call out requests. The audience obliged happily, bidding and receiving the white Massachusetts limousine of Careening Catalog Immemorial,” a spiraling “Eyelashes” and a few welcome tracks of their upcoming album, Sitcom Afterlife. Also notable was the quick yet poignant turn banjo picker David Jones took with the multitalented Zachary Nichols. Jones and Nichols turned a classic “Moon River” into heartfelt tune with their odd, but incredible combination of banjo and musical saw. The song was infatuating, eerie, and truly beautiful. 

The show peaked as Frontier Ruckus unplugged their gear and Milia, Jones, Anna Burch and Nichols migrated to the floor beneath the stage. The venue became changed from a show to intimate get-together as banjo, guitar and melodica rang out alongside Milia’s endearingly nasal lyrics. The band ended it’s set with “Dark Autumn Hour,” calling the audience to sing “oohs” and “aahs” alongside them. 

Frontier Ruckus played well into Thursday night, but no one seemed to mind. Not when they were so friendly and of course, so damn talented. They voiced their gratitude to the venue before leaving the stage, and then moved to thank the audience, speaking as if we played a much bigger show, the band and audience, together. 

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