The Decemberists with Blind Pilot - LC Pavilion, 6-1

Conventional wisdom says that once a band jumps from an indie label up to the majors, the band satisfies its new corporation and larger audience with a more mainstream version of itself—something safe, with all the edges smoothed out. The Decemberists proved that notion false on 2006’s The Crane Wife as Colin Meloy, the band’s singer, songwriter and driving creative force, traded in some of his Brit-folk tendencies for a more grandiose vision, accompanying a bizarre Japanese legend with a (somewhat) unexpected dose of prog rock—keyboards, noodling guitars and all.

It wasn’t just a novelty experiment, either. The Portland band’s second outing on Capitol is this year’s The Hazards of Love, an audacious, ambitious, riff-heavy rock opera with a storyline about a woman named Margaret and her lover William, the son of a forest queen. There’s not an obvious single on the album; it plays more like one long song, titles merely indicating the tale’s progression. Not your typical major-label product.

Monday night at the LC Pavilion, the Decemberists played The Hazards of Love from start to finish, no breaks in between songs, no banter. For someone who wasn’t as familiar with Hazards going into the show, it felt a little lengthy and lacked some energy during the slower tunes. But for the most part, I was enthralled by the epicness of it all.

Meloy still has his Victorian Literature professor persona, but watching him was like realizing that not only does your nerdy college prof listen to Deep Purple and the Who, he can rip it up just like them, too, bounding around the stage pseudo-shredding and head-banging. And wow, the metal. The Decemberists threw in some rafter-shaking, low-end power (guitarist Chris Funk was a treat) that make you forget this band ever played folk ditties like “Eli, the Barrow Boy.” They’d never fit into Rock on the Range or anything (fortunately), but if this were the ’70s, people would just assume the Decemberists made sacrifices to Satan, or at least had an unhealthy obsession with Lord of the Rings.

Adding to the theatrics of it all were female singers Becky Stark (aka Lavender Diamond) and Shara Worden (aka My Brightest Diamond). Stark came out dressed in all white and accompanied her singing parts with flamboyant gestures and dancing, as did Worden, who stole the freakin’ show every single time she stepped up to the mic. Her manic stage moves were captivating, and her voice, oh man, her voice. During “The Wanting Comes in Waves,” as she belted out “Consider it your debt repaaaaid!” the whole crowd spontaneously cheered in admiration and excitement. I find Meloy’s affected, overly enunciated vocals mostly endearing, but Worden was still a welcome reprieve.

After The Hazards of Love was completed, the band took a long break before coming back to play favorites like “Leslie Anne Levine,” “We Both Go Down Together,” “16 Military Wives” and “Yankee Bayonet (I Will Be Home Then).” All sounded great, demonstrating the depth and diversity of the band’s catalog. Before the encore, Worden and Stark returned to the stage for Heart’s “Crazy on You,” a fun cover that may have been my favorite song of the night. It also made me really want to hear Worden front a real-deal rock ’n roll band—something a little less, er, arty, than My Brightest Diamond.

The band ended the show with “Sons & Daughters,” a song with wonderfully quirky instrumentation: bouzouki, accordion and hurdy-gurdy. As the crowd sang along to the refrain, “Hear all the bombs fade away,” it was a good reminder, along with “16 Military Wives,” that Meloy can do topical material (remember Iraq?) in addition to proggy tales of unrequited love and folky Civil War ghost stories. With the Decemberists, you can have your johnnycake and eat it, too.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t at least briefly mention opener Blind Pilot, also from Portland. Israel Nebeker’s buttery vocals sound even better live than on the band’s lovely folk-pop debut, 3 Rounds and a Sound. It’s probably a bit too breezy for those who only like the Decemberists at their most ELP, but Nebeker’s uncommonly good songwriting shouldn’t be ignored. Expect to hear lots more about these guys in the future.

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The Raconteurs w/ the Black Lips, LC Pavilion, 6-9

When the Raconteurs recorded their debut album Broken Boy Soldiers, Jack White, Brendan Benson and Greenhornes rhythm vets Jack Lawrence and Patrick Keeler hadn’t even played a show together yet. So it makes sense that after playing dozens of shows, the band has now started to jell. The Raconteurs have created a new album worthy of its talented members, and on Monday night at the open-air version of the LC Pavilion, they put on a thrilling concert.

White has clearly learned how to fill a stage playing as a duo with Meg in the White Stripes. He possesses a charisma that reached to the back wall of the lawn, but not because of over-the-top antics of any sort (though he does wield a mean guitar). He’s one of the rare performers whose mere presence can inspire the musicians around him and demand the eyes and ears of concertgoers.

But this wasn’t just the Jack White Show. It was truly all about chemistry, as co-leader Benson held his own with a voice more complementary than comparable to White’s, and Keeler’s outstanding drumming served as a touchstone for the rest of the Nashville-based band to play off each other in surprising and unforced ways.

The Raconteurs’ blues-rock sound is classic rock-inspired, for sure. The band even covers late-’60s Brit-rocker Terry Reid’s “Rich Kid Blues” on Consolers of the Lonely, and on Monday night Benson sang it with gusto before the song merged into a trippy breakdown that briefly became the Doors’ “The End” before ramping back up. That tactic was a common one in the performance--“You Don’t Understand Me” went from a ballad with White on piano to a rocker and then back again.

But the best use of the loud-quiet-loud device was on the first-set closer, “Blue Veins.” The extended guitar-jam intro would have disguised the song if it weren’t for Lawrence’s distinctive bass line providing the bluesy backbone to what was probably the best song of the night. The band built the anticipation to its peak right before stopping as White delivered the first line, “When I was surrounded you were the only one who came,” followed by sharp guitar blasts punctuating the backbeat. Later in the song White’s lead-guitar skills took center stage as the band went silent to highlight his Jimmy Page-style attack. It was the type of jamming that served the song instead of detracting from it.

Right before the closing song of the encore, the Raconteurs blasted through the first single off the new record, “Salute Your Solution.” It’s a near-perfect classic rock/pop song: rocking, grooving, bluesy, gritty, catchy and frenzied enough to avoid the stylistic cliches that come along with the genre.

Atlanta band the Black Lips proved to be a worthy opener for the most part. The band’s garage rock comes with lots of punk flavor and slightly southern-fried. They were messy and scruffy; one of the singer/guitarists had a stain-covered shirt and liked to spit, which isn’t that weird for a rock band, but even when he accidentally (I think) spit all over his face, he didn’t bother to clean it up until a couple songs later. Still, judging from what I’ve heard about how their shows used to be (puking on each other, playing guitar with their junk), I guess the Black Lips are fairly tame now.

“Bad Kids” and “Katrina” were pretty good, and “Dirty Hands” is a particularly great song, merging hillbilly rock and ’60s pop on the hilariously appropriate chorus: “Do you really wanna hold my dirty hand?”

None of the four members can really sing, but that’s OK. It would sound weird if their voices were too pretty. The digital vocal effects were forced and didn’t really fit the vibe the band’s going for, but the main thing the band suffered from was the venue. It’s not the LC’s fault, it’s just that the Black Lips belong in a small, dingy rock club. But it’s a rare group of musicians who can convey their stuff all the way to that back wall.

Watershed w/ The Receiver, LC Pavilion, 1-11-08

Before Friday, it had been quiet on the Watershed front for quite a while. Even though the band released the live album Three Chords and a Cloud of Dust II in September, the last time the much-loved local rockers played their hometown was in August 2007, and that was the only show of the year. The two principal songwriters have been conspicuously absent: Singer/guitarist Colin Gawel has been managing Colin’s Coffee in Upper Arlington (though he occasionally can be found playing with his side project, the League Bowlers), and singer/bassist Joe Oestreich has been teaching at a college in Washington while doing some writing for literary journals and Esquire.

For a band that majors in loud, messy, catchy rock-and-roll and has been known to hit the road for long stretches, one show in 365 days is a distinct change of pace. So Friday night at the LC was a comeback of sorts, a chance for the band to reacquaint itself with hometown fans who have been (im)patiently waiting for a triumphant return. But the question that seemed to be on everyone’s minds, the elephant in the room, so to speak, was: After almost 20 years, does Watershed still have it, or is the band finally past its prime?

Fortunately, the time off has only reinvigorated the band, because the seasoned professionals sound as good as ever. It certainly wasn’t perfect, but Watershed doesn’t really aim for perfection. The band thrives on spontaneity, and there’s a certain amount of sloppiness that comes along with that. There were some flubbed chords and missed notes--Gawel’s voice in particular seemed to be going towards the end of the night--but Watershed’s contagious energy and onstage charisma made the dents and scratches all seem like part of the show. I’ll take some minor infractions in exchange for an invigorated performance.

There’s nothing sloppy about Watershed’s songwriting, though. Taking lessons from Cheap Trick, the Kinks and the Replacements, the band doesn’t write a song that you can’t sing along to by the second chorus. But what separates Watershed from the power-pop herd is that Gawel and Oestreich actually write good lyrics to go along with those choruses. Neither are afraid to write with sincerity but perform with playfulness.

The two singers use the dual vocal attack successfully and sound their best when both are contributing. Oestreich showed his impressive range and clarity on “5th of July” and “Anniversary,” especially during the latter’s refrain: “She's telling me now/This thing has run its course/Eight years for what/A shotgun divorce.” “Suckerpunch” and “Mercurochrome,” both fist-pumping rock songs, sounded particularly fresh and vital.

Watershed drew a respectable crowd, especially for a Columbus band, but at a venue like the LC, it still felt sparse. A smaller venue might have suited the band’s return better.

Opener The Receiver was at the complete opposite end of the spectrum from Watershed, sonically and in its performance philosophy, which made for a bizarre pairing. While Watershed’s specialty is off-the-cuff rock, the Receiver’s show was entirely programmed, utilizing computers playing looped instrumentation. Singer/multi-instrumentalist Casey Cooper stayed on bass most of the night while his brother, Jesse Cooper, manned the drum kit, so the rhythm section ruled the night. The band played droney, Radiohead-inspired tunes with a thick, liquid sound. I liked it.

The Cooper brothers aren’t ones to rush into a song. Most of the tunes had some sort of instrumental prologue to introduce the song’s personality and set the tone. Every song in the set had a distinct ebb and flow to it, with minor tones throughout; even the cathartic sections had somber overtones as Casey slid around them in a delicate timbre.

The band had its set videotaped, and the cameras were inordinately intrusive on multiple occasions, which will probably make for a good video but was really annoying live. I also prefer my rock a little more free-form, not so precisely orchestrated, but the brothers Cooper impressed nonetheless. I’ll be looking to hear more from the pair.

Ryan Adams, LC, 10/25

Ryan Adams used to be a heroine/cocaine/alcohol junkie, and now he’s sober. He has also garnered the reputation of being an arrogant jerk, but it was always hard to know if this was a result of the stimulants or if it was his real personality. The sold-out show at the LC last Thursday only muddied the water.

For the first part of the concert, Adams barely acknowledged the audience, but about halfway through the three-and-a-half-hour set, he angrily started spouting off about someone repeatedly requesting “Come Pick Me Up,” a fan favorite about a failed relationship in which a woman stole a bunch of the singer’s records. “However many beers you have between songs won’t make that song fly out of my ass,” he said. “I appreciate that you’re a hardcore fan, but it’s not gonna (expletive) happen.” There was more, and it was annoying, obnoxious and completely uncalled for, especially since the audience appeared to be mostly respectful. It seemed sobriety had not softened the alt-country rocker.

But then, after the next song (“Wildflowers”), something astounding happened. He apologized. Well, sort of. He apologized for lashing out, but then went on to explain the justification for his outburst. Still, the reasoning made some sense. Ryan Adams isn’t just Ryan Adams anymore. The band is Ryan Adams and the Cardinals--his solo days, he said, are over. Though he still played some older tunes, Adams doesn’t want to be that guy anymore, and it was apparent he really loves his band. The set list included almost all of the band’s most recent (and excellent) album, Easy Tiger, and plenty from Cold Roses and Jacksonville City Nights. The guys have an obvious chemistry onstage, anticipating each note their comrades play.

On the flip side, this zen-like chemistry led to jamming. Lots of jamming. Instrumental breakdowns here and there are fine, but on this night Adams and his Cardinals felt the need to jam a little too much and a little too often. Adams is a brilliant, fecund songwriter, serving up alt-country gems at an inhuman rate with seemingly little effort, and too many musical interludes can ruin the artfully crafted tunes. It’s not that the band can’t play well--Adams is a superb guitarist, as is lead player Neal Casal--it just needs an editor.

Plenty of songs did feel truly inspired. “Two” was one of the best, as was the uptempo rocker “Shakedown on 9th Street.” A more mellow version of “Oh My God, Whatever, Etc.” sounded and looked perfect bathed in the blue lights. “Meadowlake Street,” the first song after a 10-minute smoke break around 11 pm, showcased the band members’ individual strengths, and Adams’ voice just seemed to get stronger as the set went on. To sing that well for that long is something to be admired. “Dear John,” which on Jacksonville City Nights is a boring duet with Norah Jones, sounded the way it should have been recorded, with Casal singing the harmony with more gusto than Jones.

At the request of Adams, the bar was closed during the show, which a doorman said had never happened in the 11 years he’d been there, and I’m sure it made some beer-thirsty folks pretty grumpy to have the singer’s sobriety imposed upon them as well. The doorman also mentioned that Adams required the venue’s employees to leave during soundcheck, which falls into the still-a-jerk category. He wasn’t all serious and pompous, though. Adams dedicated “Rescue Blues” to Albert Einstein, whom he referred to as “Spooky E,” and he also composed a funny impromptu tune advising Mick Jagger not to make another solo record. Actually, I guess that is sort of obnoxious, but the humor factor wins out.

The show began around 8:30 and didn’t end till midnight. I’m pretty sure it was the longest concert I’ve ever attended. Complaints about the length of the show are valid, but only because the jamming was excessive. Factoring that in, there was still about two-and-a-half hours of near-brilliance, and that’s more than you get from most concerts. About half the crowd was still in attendance toward the end, but security loosened up and let most folks filter down to the front, so it felt like a club show as the concert drew to a close.

As he left the stage, Adams, always vacillating between agitator and appeaser, complimented the audience.