Akron/Family, The Dodos & Wymond & His Spirit Children

October 10th, 2007--Do you remember the one about the ska band? You can spot them onstage from a mile away — just look for the band with more members than there are fans in the audience. The same holds true for San Francisco’s latest crop of psychedelic stargazers. Ladies and gentlemen, Exhibit A: Wymond & His Spirit Children, a directionless collective of would-be cosmonauts in search of a musical truth that has evaded them, even through sorcery. The seven-piece began their most recent show with dirge-like vampings, tag-team tribal drummers and songs that, while compositionally solid enough, failed to ever come together in any kind of satisfying way. Stony repetition is good for creating off-the-cuff ideas for riffs in a jam session, but this is one band that could greatly benefit from going through their rehearsal tapes, finding a good editor and eviscerating their sprawling psych-jams to yield only the juiciest bits. The cringe-inducing frontman histrionics were right out of a Dana Carvey special, and the molasses-thick air of solemnity that accompanied the proceedings didn’t make them any easier to swallow.



    Next up were The Dodos, in diametric opposition to the preceding act, a bracing aperitif of resourcefulness. A wily two-piece drum and guitar combo, they served as the sobering yin to Wymond’s slovenly yang. Displaying utter sonic and verbal economy, they carried the breathless enthusiasm of Animal Collective at their most exuberant to its logical conclusion. Singer Meric Long’s nimble finger-picking was utilized for grab-bag guitar sounds (think Gun Club meets Graceland) and, when it was paired with jarringly precise drumming and dizzying vocal pirouettes, became so much more than the sum of its parts. If the compelling emoting of Neutral Milk Hotel and the otherworldliness of Casey Deitz’s (The Velvet Teen) jawdropping percussion do it for you, you’ll probably get what The Dodos are doing. By the end of their set, the show felt more like a caffeinated campfire singalong, with a palpably engaged audience. I’ve since listened to their recorded output, and the lyrics, while unashamedly personal, steer clear of the grotesquely confessional. This is, without a doubt, the most slept-on band on the west coast. See them play before they go the way of their namesake.

    I wish the same were true for the Akron/Family, especially since I started the night with such high hopes. Like their openers, they were a seven-piece favoring sombre, gnomic chants and kitschy, kitchen-sink instrumentation. After establishing a rapport with the audience they veered dangerously into jam-band territory, having fun but clearly more focused on ironic in-joking and admirably fluid instrument swapping than the more elemental, naturalistic meditations found on their latest release. Bearing more than a passing resemblance to hirsute heavies such as Grandaddy, they were at once precious, agreeably hammy and provocatively loud; but ultimately a band whose chops fell just short of justifying their burgeoning cult status. This is one family whose Kool-Aid you don’t need to drink.

Bookmark:

Comments down for maintenance.