Image by Elizabeth Payne
Feist does a rain dance in Brooklyn
July 9, 2008, at Prospect Park Bandshell
By A. Rice
Published: July 11th, 2008 | 11:30am
It was a dark and stormy night — literally. Tall, lush greenery encompasses winding dirt paths and grassy knolls, perhaps making Prospect Park in Brooklyn's South Slope one of NYC's finest in outdoor venues. Throw down a picnic blanket underneath a willow tree with the perfect companion (and some beers) and you’re set — that is, unless it starts raining.
Feist or shine, rain or bust, the crowd — and, thankfully, not the thunder — kept rolling in. Opening the floodgates for lady Feist on this wet, hot midsummer night’s eve was Argentinean folklore/grindcore temptation Juana Molina. Strumming away on the acoustic, she paused between songs to explain (in English) that although her lyrics are sung in Spanish and Portuguese, there is still a way to understand song through feeling.
And right then and there, as her music continued, the only words I understood were, “It’s raining.” Unplanned and eerily coincidental with nature, Molina couldn’t help but smile, apologizing for the incoming thunderstorm.
As the lights went down, last-minute roadies dragged onstage a large screen reminiscent of the looking glass - its trim woven with wooden vines. The screen lit up and behind it stood a sultry silhouette figure wearing a straw Fedora. The backdrop splayed a giant fig tree with a hanging lantern as shadow-puppet hands plucked it from the branches. The music started and Leslie Feist began to coo, “When I was a young girl … I used to be a little sad.”
A little shimmy-shake and there she was, an urban cowgirl dressed in a hot, white little number with black tassels and polka-dot stockings completed by a pair of vintage ankle boots—not exactly the melodrama I had anticipated. She picked up a solid-body electric (the pink-and-white guitar was actually played by one of her hurly-burly mountain man band mates) and rocked out the entire set. I looked up to the clearing sky that revealed a perfect half-moon. Apparently Feist did some sort of stop-the-rain dance.
So she can dance, yes, but man, can this chick sing and play guitar too. She manipulated her voice by way of recording her vocals, layering on a mic, and repeating herself in a round. Backed by drums, bass, additional guitar, and two gals all in black on the keys, this show stopped the rain and the audience dead in their tracks.
Like any good conductor, Feist flicked and gestured each and every note from her fingertips as if she were a regular Carlos Santana. And if that wasn’t enough, she put on an air guitar performance worthy of heavy-metal hair god stardom.
Feist bantered with a British fellow between songs, playfully imitating his accent. Joking with the New York audience about high rent and roommate issues, she asked coyly if anybody wished they had a backyard.
Her childlike antics stemmed from a reported past of hand-puppetry infatuation, which was evident throughout the entire show. From the shadow hand puppets casting on the forefront of a paisley printed backdrop, to vibrant sets of finger-painted houses, sailboats, and even volcanoes, Feist has a unique ability to reach any age.
“We tried to go for a swim at McCarren Pool,” she said, poking fun at the popular Williamsburg, Brooklyn, concert venue infamous for packing in slews of the hipster elite. She soon realized as she gazed upon the vast array of flower-power people that maybe only two of 2,000 at Prospect Park that night understood the comment. As we all swayed together during “1234” and danced and twirled to the power-pop riffs of “The Water,” I found myself completely immersed in nothing shy of a San Fran hippie-fest, at the height of Asbury Park.
Issue #35
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