Neutral Milk Hotel(NMH) and its mysterious frontman, Jeff Mangnum, have been making bearded-hipsters cross their arms and bob their heads in respect since the mid 90’s (and for the super-hip, even ear
Neutral Milk Hotel(NMH) and its mysterious frontman, Jeff Mangnum, have been making bearded-hipsters cross their arms and bob their heads in respect since the mid 90’s (and for the super-hip, even earlier than that.)
Quintessentially hip, complete with obscure lyrics, bizarre instruments, and a cult following, NMH really lays on the skinny jeans thick, and there’s no way for me to explain to you how awesome last night’s show at the Jefferson Theater in Charlottesville was without sounding like I’m writing this review from atop a tall bike.
There are rules at a NMH show – no pictures or videos (even/especially with cell phones) was announced before the show, on the show-ticket itself, and plastered on signs everywhere around the venue. This policy has been in place since 2011 (according to Flavorwire) but it hasn’t really been explained outside of super-hip music critics guessing why or why not.
I’m not going to try and guess myself, but if I had to, it would involve the words “pure music experience” and “genuine attention from a genuine audience” and then I’d hope someone would dump my books for being such a pompous ass.
But more curious than anything was the audience’s willingness to obey. Barely a cell phone screen was seen glowing as NMH lead the sold-out crowd through marble-mouthed sing-a-longs for about an hour.
It takes a certain kind of mystique or legacy to hold such control over a crowd – one that few modern musicians could wrangle.
But the cause of this control, and the devotion which leads NMH to sell out shows nearly 20 years after their last album, comes from the connection fans feel with the band – lyrically, musically… or hipster-ly.
NMH comes with a set of memories forever etched into many of our minds, with nights spent quietly whaling into a pillow as “Two Headed Boy” riffs in the background off your roommates turntable.
Rumors and whispers of Magnum losing his voice need to be quashed. There are very much quirks to a live NMH show, with the voclaist changing tempo mid-song (or mid-verse) at will. But by some miracle, his backing band is fully capable of keeping up.
Meanwhile, the church-hymnal-like crowd tries to catch up in what has to be the largest group of 20-30 somethings struggling to sing the same song at the same time in one room.
As if you needed to nail down just how hip the this show really was, there were saw solos.
Like a guy used a saw, one of three available to him, as not only a backing-instrument, but also to rip solos. They were not stellar, but considering the off-temp nature of parts of the set, all the miss-steps seemed like they were part of Mangnum’s broader plan.
The drummer (god bless him) had a massive handle bar mustache. The brass section consisted of what looked like someones party-friendly uncle (snow white five-inch chin-strap beard, black jeans and t-shirt, suspenders), and someone way cooler than everyone else ever was playing harmonophone and an airless bagpipe.
Yes, there was some kind of digital or airless bagpipe involved in a few songs and it sounded awesome.
But, as if to ground the king-hipster NMH show experience, Party-friendly-Santa-uncle sang every god damn song along with the crowd – this was the rare human element in what was really a spiritual experience for someone like myself.
The most active member of the NMH crew jumped around mid stage in time with songs – he similarly switched instruments as often as Mangnum changed song speed. A number of synths, accordions, basses, and guitars were his pallet as he set a more active and excited tone for what could have otherwise been a somber show.
And then there’s Magnum: beard, flannel, and belly like a hipster holy-trinity.
He really can still sing. He really can still play guitar. He still pulls out your heart like a sack of grapes, plucks them individually and rolls them around in his hand before he strums familiar cords and whines out lyrics about semen and candied apples.
The set as a whole was a mix of familiar classics, often in album order, with b-sides or unrecorded fan-favorites set apart with noisy interludes. He played every song I could have asked for, and the ones he didn’t play were replaced by similarly powerful tunes.
I got as much audience interaction as I imagined and was prepared for. “Need more fuzz?” Mangum hollered early in the set and that was about the extent of his non-singing voice. The rest of the band made small banter, but that wasn’t why this crowd was here.
This crowd – surprisingly young for what its worth – came to sing the hell out of “Naomi” and “King of Carrot Flowers” while the Mangum played with their minds and mission-effing-accomplished.
Last night was the first time I’d seen NMH. I hope for the love of god it won’t be the last. Now I’m going to head to Lamplighter on my bike and chain smoke while reading Proust.
