By Steve Weinstein
By Bryan Bierman
By Lindsey Rhoades
By Chaz Kangas
By Ben Westhoff and Sarah Purkrabek
By Jena Ardell
By Jesse Sendejas Jr.
By Katherine Turman
While the Bang on a Can All-Stars' six-piece ensemble emoted with a mournful piano backed by cello, stand-up bass, vibes, guitar, and keyboard, suddenly you heard an anticipatory yelp of horror, followed by a few bounces down the marble steps (plink, plink), and a final, obliterating plisssh. Soon another instrument joined the fraythe crack of a security dude's walkie-talkie. Thus is the peril of playing ambient music live.
The music was often fascinating: Percussionist Steven Schick had played a noisy piece titled The Anvil Chorusfeaturing four hubcaps, five kick-drums of varying size, and a healthy clutch of pipes and blockson those steps just an hour earlier. But the crowd is the real attraction at the two-decade-old annual marathon thrown by Bang on a Can, which fields touring ensembles, commissions new works, and sires gala events like this one. Appropriately, the Winter Garden resembles an extravagant airport, with the giant greenhouse sunroof and goofy palm trees towering overhead, and folks sleeping in their clothessome with enough gear to qualify as luggageon the floor, in corners, on the steps. Several hundred people, awake or not, had gathered for the live resurrection of Eno's 1978 elegant lullaby; a few big shots (Yo La Tengo, Dälek, the Books) were on the Marathon's bill (running from 8 p.m. Saturday to 10 p.m. Sunday), but the main attractions were the compositions themselves, and Airports was the highlight. Verily, it was beautiful, and best enjoyed while lying flat on your back and staring straight up, through the palm trees and the sunroof to the deep night outside, with the neighboring, towering buildings overhead appearing to curve inward around you as breathy keyboards slowly gave way to meandering clarinet.
My goal was to stay till sunriseI came close. Argentinian loop-folk sorceress Juana Molina makes excellent Music to Try to Fall Asleep To. The Hartt Bass Banda pianist, a percussionist pounding on a wood block with mallets, and eight double-bassistswailed away for a while. Steven Schick showed up twice more, leading his collective red fish blue fish, and then taking another solo turn with a siren-esque hand-cranked instrument that appropriately resembled a coffee grinder. But by the time the Grand Valley State University New Music Ensemble, which rolled here all the way from Michigan, was artfully bashing through Steve Reich's Music for 18 Musicians, it was time to bail. I staggered outside at 5:30 a.m. or so, just in time to witness a gentleman demurely urinating into the Hudson River. I'm wide awake; it's morning.
(Sweet transition ahead.)
"I'm wide awakeit's morning!" Conor Oberst screamed, at the violent and hilarious conclusion to Bright Eyes' seven-day Town Hall run, beating "Road to Joy" into oblivion with, like, 50 people onstage in rumbling atonal freak-out mode, masturbatory but still highly amusing, polishing knobs on the Titanic. Resplendent in a sharp white suit and shoulder-length Southern-rock hair, Conor thrashed about, joining bluegrass badass David Rawlings in smashing a foot-high toy piano into smithereens, and tearing the lovely bouquet tied to his microphone stand apart so as to angrily fling flowers into the crowd.
Thanks for the metaphors, Conor.
Finally, Friday night's show felt like the Cathartic Event we'd hoped for. All week we'd read the breathless reports on the first six shows, each with its own super- to somewhat-famous special guest. Lou Reed! Norah Jones! Jenny Lewis! Steve Earle! Ben Gibbard! (Does Ben Gibbard's name with an exclamation point after it feel strange to anyone else?!) This being the final night, the electrifying conclusion, certainly Conor would've saved his best surprise for last! Who could it be? Bowie? Springsteen? Dylan? Jesus?
Ladies and gentlemen, Ron Sexsmith!
You could almost hear the loser Price Is Right music playing, even through the very polite applause. Poor Ron. He doesn't deserve this. He's a fine, underappreciated dude, the Canadian Roy Orbison, perhaps the archetypical to-know-him-is-to-love-him singer-songwriter. And his four-song set, splitting the nearly two-hour affair neatly in half, was lovely, his subtly booming voice better suited to Town Hall's expert acoustics than Conor's much improved but still reliably wobbly moans. "Foolproof" was especially splendid, slow, and stately, Ron augmented by lovely piano and trumpet as Conor looked on very, very, very earnestly and lovingly, a conspicuous way to instruct the crowd to do the same.
Supplying the piano and trumpet was no fucking problem. Conor's 12-strong backing bandthemselves resplendent in all whiteincluded a six-piece string section (totally unnecessary) and two drummers (very necessary, given that the dominant half was Sleater-Kinney luminary Janet Weiss, who pounded through allegedly raucous rockers and occasionally flaccid ballads alike with a mesmerizing nonchalance). We're living in the age of vaguely indie-signifying bands wielding enormous powergiant venues, multi-night residencies, overstuffed ensembles. From Sufjan Stevens to the National to the Arcade Fire, it's the age of glorious excess, and only rarely was Bright Eyes' contribution overwhelmingly overblown.