Tokyo Police Club
Tokyo Police Club are “really good at ending songs,” says a friend. At Webster Hall, this is indeed when the band seems happiest: guitar necks levitate, keyboards tessellate, and then–next song. They’re the tidiest bunch of undersized, shallow-chested, vaguely-emo, mildly post-teenage Canadians in recent memory, maybe ever even. “I’m just glad the show’s gone well so far,” says their shaggy frontman/bassist David Monks, at one point, like he really means it.
Their songs are maybe simpler than you could’ve imagined. Last year’s peculiarly affecting Elephant Shell was never that dear about all the Decemberists-type lyrics everybody gave Monks a hard time about–people confused the record’s timorous, tremblingly lush production with vocals that might simulate the same, although they didn’t, really. Live, the gangly Monks definitely doesn’t look like the crying type.
That said, sample new song lyric: “Your favorite film is on TV tonight: I’ll stay home and tape it, that’s OK, it’s alright.” This might be the first band to really think hard about what it is to be a good boyfriend to all the unattainable ladies that haunt indie-rock songs. Or maybe I’m just projecting from their lack of attitude: onstage at Webster, the band is more or less the sum of its parts, four dudes in varying degrees of skinny jeans playing instruments at an average rate of speed and velocity, thrilled but not too thrilled. “Last night I wiped out really hard,” Monks had said earlier, trying in vain to generate some drama. “So cross your fingers.”