How else to explain careless tempos, unmistakably out-of-tune guitar riffs and a sound mix so murky Julian Casabalancas' throat-tattering vocals—the Strokes' most identifiable calling card—were all but inaudible through most of the 90-minute set? If I wasn't reviewing I would have walked out, a temptation previously reserved for the likes of Clay Aiken, Britney Spears and Yanni.
The sonic atrocities spanned the Strokes' three-album catalog. "Last Nite" was all but unidentifiable; "12:51" was jarringly off-key; "Ask Me Anything" suffered from the prevailing vocal deficiency, even though Casablancas was backed only by Nick Valensi's mellotron.
Keep in mind, these are songs I have on my iPod and genuinely like. And to anyone inclined to defend the band with some lame "but they're supposed to sound loose and sloppy" excuse, I offer the Strokes' November 2002 show—in the very same room—as evidence they are quite capable of sounding professional and tight, for all their raw fuzziness. When they actually care to.
Four nights later, Death Cab For Cutie certainly seemed to care, and they ought to. The Seattle foursome has charged to the front of the hype parade, and clearly intends to hold that position for as long as humanly possible. Proclaiming the setting "a million times better" than when DCFC last played the House of Blues (the night George W. Bush was re-elected), frontman Ben Gibbard led his group through a crisp, engaging, 90-minute indie-pop clinic. Mock if you must, but there's no denying the bouyancy of Death Cab's best melodies or their surprising ability to rock out on cue. Gibbard's catchiest compositions—"Title and Registration," "Soul Meets Body," "Crooked Teeth"—are built around can't-wait-to-get-there hooks, and those soared radiantly above hundreds of youthful voices chirping along with every word. "I wish the world was flat like the old days / And I could travel just by folding the map / No more airplanes or speed trains or freeways / There'd be no distance that could hold us back," Gibbard sang during the sprightly midsection of "The New Year," nutshelling the band's peppy allure.
Unlike peers the Shins and the New Pornographers, though, Death Cab is given to fits of melancholy. As the night progressed, the tempo slowed considerably, as the headliners began stringing together one somber ballad after another. The teenage couple to my right made out during eight-minute requiem "Transatlanticism" as if they were slow dancing at the prom, but many in the fast-thinning crowd didn't appear to share that passion for the down-tempo fare.
Even at their overindulgent worst, however, Death Cab For Cutie towered over the Strokes in every way that should matter to a concertgoer, a statement I never could have imagined writing just three years ago. Hate to disagree, Flav, but sometimes music fans really ought to believe the hype, or at least follow it where it leads them.