Image by Dustin Fenstermacher
Pomp and circumstance
The Dirty Projectors bring their postmodern project to Philly
By Caralyn Green
Published: December 10th, 2007 | 9:19am
December 7, 2007, in Philadelphia — At this point it seems kind of sacrilegious to criticize the Dirty Projectors. They’re a solid band — a creative troupe of freak-folkish orchestral rockers helmed by Dean-from-Gilmore-Girls look-alike Dave Longstreth, an Ivy League dropout who released several albums as the Dirty Projectors before the name signified a band rather than a man. There’s no doubt that Longstreth’s Dirty Projectors are an engaging live act that brings tip-toed studio constructions to brutally new heights onstage. And after a whirlwind year of touring in support of Rise Above (Dead Oceans), a strange and swerving re-imagination from memory of Black Flag’s album Damaged (that sounds nothing like Black Flag’s Damaged), the band is steadily making its way to the upper echelons of 2007 critics’ polls, and with due cause. Rise Above is definitely one of the more interesting albums of the year; I’m just not convinced it’s actually one of best. And, unfortunately, the Dirty Projectors’ performance at Johnny Brenda’s in Philly did nothing to convince me otherwise.
How is it that a band praised for it weird, baroque-y, avant-garde artiness can sound so … safe? I mean, the harmonies by Angel Deradoorian and Amber Coffman were perfection, the percussion by Brian McOmber was brutal and therefore appealing, and Dean from Gilmore Girls was everything you’d want a sweaty, octave-jumping frontman to be. But it seemed like everyone in the audience was more enthralled with the idea of the Dirty Projectors than with the actual Dirty Projectors themselves. It’s literate, irony-laden music for literate, irony-laden folks, meaning it’s good, but c’mon — literate, irony-laden stuff is less than adventurous in the year 2007. Maybe in 1967 this would have been innovative, “best of” material, but call me old fashioned, 'cause I’ll take a killer hook or substantive lyrics or, I don’t know, an ambiguous and confounding political message or something over a meandering exploration of memory any day.
Plus, I’m not sure anyone in the audience (besides the surplus of professional music writers and bloggers in attendance) actually knows what Black Flag’s Damaged sounds like as a point of reference. This is not, like, a huge issue (hey, I had no idea myself until I downloaded Rise Above), but the Dirty Projectors seem to attract the kind of listener who’d totally pretend to know all about Black Flag, just to seem like the master guru of every genre and historical period under the sun. That was pretty much the problem with the Dirty Projectors’ Philly show. Pomp and circumstance. Pomp thanks to the band’s impossibly postmodern project, and circumstance due to the fact that the venue, which no doubt has the best sound and setup in all of Philly, was tainted by the stench of lo-mein — possibly due to the elicit red-and-yellow takeout cartons snuck in by some enterprising young patron in the back corner, but probably due to the fact that Johnny Brenda’s should really up the ventilation and amp the air, even on the most blustery and erudite of winter nights. Even cerebral, highbrow music snobs get the sweats. And the hand-knit, striped scarves wrapped perpetually 'round our necks aren’t doing much to help either.
Issue #24
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