The Observer, September 23, 2005
Volume XXXVIII, Issue 4
McGee and Stevens rock Cleveland
Concerts abide by certain rules of decorum; there are unspoken understandings about conduct. One of my friends declared he was "that kid" because he was so hip that he wore another band's shirt to the show. This is proper etiquette.
I am not so hip. I had never listened to Umphrey's McGee before attending their show at the House of Blues Thursday, Sept. 8. I knew they were a jam band, so the cannibic odors lightly perfuming the floor were something less than surprising. But not all attendees chose such a drug; many tripped out with the inventive, improvised music.
To sum up the music, I quote the man in the large, poofy wig, whose words are more succinct (though half these words may be unprintable,) "That sh-- was dope!" Yes, indeed.
The band's improvisations were remarkable. The musical skill presented was phenomenal. Frankly, I could have done without any vocalization, as the singing was mediocre and the lyrics were little better. Fortunately, the heavenly instruments dominated the whimsical performance.
The experience of ignorantly entering the show was interesting. Without expectations, I could not have been disappointed, except when that poofy wig obstructed my view or those fumes inflamed my nostrils. But by keeping my non-bloodshot eyes open, I saw many things:
People get into music. Those blissful jam dancers near the front...I don't think they cared that I was staring. Propose your own reasons for this self-involvement, but I think that the ethereal tunes transported them to their own world.
Some people get too into music. No need to snap at someone just trying to make conversation. And is a venue really evil just because it is funded by a major corporation?
Drugs enhance music. Or so it seems. At least, they enhance the amount of poor dancing, something that probably isn't necessary.
On the opposite end of the familiarity scale for musicians, Sufjan Stevens ranks among my favorite musicians ever. While I went to Umphrey's McGee because I had no class the next day, I sacrificed sleep and study to see Sufjan at the Beachland Ballroom Sept. 14.
Good decision for me. When he took the stage, silence erupted. The respect was merited; the anticipation fulfilled. The show was not a mere concert. It was a celebration of his latest record, Bring on the Illinoise, bringing the audience into the jubilee.
The festival combined a prelude invoking The Fifty States Project, pep rally-esque choreographed cheers, and Sufjan's eclectic songs. The aural montage overcame lousy sound (buzzing speakers, inattentive sound board workers) and a mediocre opener.
Sufjan introduced himself and the Illinoise-makers quickly, then performed. Focused on his craft, he transfixed the audience for an hour and a half, then concluded with an encore from Seven Swans, "All the Trees of the Field Will Clap Their Hands."
If they did, they were overwhelmed by the audience, who were rightfully doing the same.
