The room was warm, physician 21+ and the first words I heard while hanging my coat marked the start of a story. “I was coming back from a Bernie rally when she texted me, decease ” said a dude from his bar stool. His friend released a sigh embedded with the drawn out “shit,” of concern. Saturday night was all feeling from there, a sensory overload of the ear and heart.
Vundabar started the show as I skirted around the perimeter like a kid balancing soup across a cafeteria. My beer was the price of your average sandwich and up until this point, I had associated the art-schooled outfit with rowdier than Allston-average crowds. That said, the trio’s 2015 release Gawk rips in the live setting for reasons more than volume. Perhaps I’ve been away too long or just inattentive, but Vundabar is expert at making every sound heard. Funny grips on guitar and bass allowed heavy chords to hit without hiding the songwriting that went in.
“Fuzzy” is an overused term in my tackle box of ill-defined music words, and one I couldn’t hook onto Vundabar this time around. Brandon Hagen’s voice was clean in falsetto and unburied by noise, which was loud without distortion. Good emotion without bad audio. Songs about lying sounded true, something everyone seemed to rock to and appreciate. Alongside New York’s Palm and Mothers from Athens, Hagen humbly described his band as a “couple cicadas buzzing into a microphone.” Like bug sounds in summer, I’d say that buzzing provided a special kind of contentment.
Palm broke the genre down from there with a set unlike any I’ve ever experienced live. Then again, the Philly-by-way-of-New-York group is unlike any band I’ve recently tried on recording too. Disjoint rhythms of guitar shards, Palm’s fall release Trading Basics hardly feels like handing down boring, yet practical cotton shirts. It’s easy to appreciate but hard to understand…that is, until heard in-person.
Palm’s songs are projects, best taken in while watching the band make them. One string at a time, down and back up, even the strums sounded a sum of parts. As guitarist and founding member Eve Alpert jerked her arms and floated vocals overtop, I heard what I had been missing, which was becoming the night’s theme. The rush of irregular rhythms was surprisingly powerful. With no consistent beat to bob to, members of the crowd were relatively still, challenged to figure out these songs alone. It sounded underwater, like Celestial Shore or the vibes of learning how to doggie paddle. By the end, I was inspired and officially done with my beer.
Then came the maternal, warm and heartfelt reason I arranged my ticket in the first place. Mothers from Athens, Georgia took the stage to a large crowd of emotionals like me and played through a set with slightly more edge than expected. The folk-punk band’s recent release When You Walk a Long Distance You Are Tired was my own personal reentry into crying over music, not necessarily because of sadness but because of comfort. I expected the exact softness I’d been reflecting to for months but ended up hearing much, much more.
Mothers started off with “Copper Mines,” a bright song that tumbled into travelling speed, like the overture for a car trip zooming temporarily away from trouble. New notes rang through on guitar, which distorted at points and pulled back too. No violin made room for the group’s punk inspiration during a mix of unfamiliar songs and tracks from the album. Many mouthed along to “It Hurts Until it Doesn’t,” and “Lockjaw” had a newfound swing from loud to soft that came with the experience of seeing the band motion from tip toes to bent knees.
And somehow, Kristine Leschper’s voice managed even more wholesomeness live than on recording. She sang smoothly but also took the liberty of speaking the ends of her lyrical sentences, sounding protester-like behind a megaphone and letting words fly with confidence. Her lyrics, whether humbly concerning the weight of an ego or directly mentioning the control we often give to others, are assertive and nuzzled up against truth. I have a feeling our belief in her lines lay at the core of why we all gathered to Great Scott in the first place. After all, I almost cried upon hearing my favorites: “I cut out my tongue, seeing yours would speak for the both of us.”
There’s nothing more hopeful than pulling off your calloused toe mask in a roomful of people trying to do the same so finding a smart conclusion here is hard. I honestly just adored this show to the point of attachment. I was sad to leave and, if possible, would have preferred to bottle the whole thing up and keep it on my windowsill for the lonely nights. Feelings exceeded an already high bar thanks to Vundabar, Palm and especially Mothers. Going in, I knew the band from Athens possessed something more than just heartfelt honestly. Walking away, I realize it’s the sound of coming home.
