Black Mountain

Bloomington, Indiana, roughly 45 minutes south of Indianapolis and the home of Indiana University, has long been, to national touring artists, "somewhere in between" between Cincinnati/Louisville and Chicago. For whatever reason, bands often choose to forego Bloomington, and often Indianapolis as well, in lieu of a couple nights extra sleep on the way to the next, ostensibly more well-attended/properly promoted/housed date. If the occasional intrepid artist stops through, it tends to be on a Monday or Tuesday, limiting their audience to only those die-hards who couldn't convince their roommates to pause The Killers on their iShuffle and support local live music.

On a tangent now, for some reason, the word hasn't been thoroughly circulated that Bloomington features several established venues (The Bluebird, Second Story, Axis, Rhino's, The Waldron Arts Center, The Buskirk-Chumley Theatre) a captive, willing, and musically and politically progressive audience, two prominent independent labels (Secretly Canadian, Jagjaguwar) and local bands, and the recent addition of a solid local promoter (Mike Klinge's Dirty Scarecrow Promotions, which has brought Modest Mouse, The Walkmen, The Fiery Furnaces and several others to town). It is exactly for this reason that a Bloomington visit by a band as exciting as Black Mountain (for only five bucks at the door, no less) gave many locals reason to postpone studying on a Monday night.

Black Mountain's eponymous first major release is on the previously mentioned locally run Jagjaguwar Records, no doubt prompting their visit. Morphing from the remains of leader Stephen McBean's previous band Jerk With a Bomb, they traffic in an entrancing mixture of classic rock and psychedelic styles, echoing bands from Blue Cheer and Vanilla Fudge to of course, the Velvet Underground. Current arbiter of hipster music taste Pitchforkmedia.com offered a glowing review and subsequent feature on the band.

The show was relatively well-attended--the band isn't well-known enough yet to sell out medium-sized venues, so those that did appear could be counted on to be musically well-versed enough (see above Pitchfork reference) to have taken the (tougher than should be necessary) task of hearing the band's music before the concert. Opening act Crystal Skulls, promoting a new record on Seattle-based label Suicide Squeeze, bounced through a set reminiscent of the Strokes played at 16 RPM--the ringing guitar tones and lead singer Christian Wargo's lazy Casablancish drawl giving me plenty of evidence.

Black Mountain then appeared, looking much like I expected them to look--McBean skinny and tee-shirted with a scraggly hippie beard, the rest of the males long-haired and clad in standard indie rock band apparel (tight holey sweater here, randomly labeled tee-shirt there)--but singer Amber Webber was a nice change of pace. Her voice was dry and sultry, like Chan Marshall or Emmylou Harris. She could be seen sipping on a whiskey sour in between songs and played a killer melodica. I must admit, that while pleased with the show on the whole, I was a bit disappointed with the pacing. They started fast, with what I can hope will turn out to be their signature sound, a propulsive sludgey grind, and very "Paranoid"-ish at times. But they finished with two remarkably slow numbers, the first a double-digit feedback meanderer, that, while impressive musically, was causing my knees to ache at the 8 minute mark; and a second, more Gothic showcase for Webber's pipes that allowed the show to sneak off with a whisper. I was bummed not to hear my two favorite cuts from the new record, the opener "Modern Music" and the other upbeat VU homage, "No Satisfaction." In my humble opinion, either one could have ended the show with a bang.

Finally, the last element of the evening on which I'd like to comment has nothing to do with what occurred on stage. Generally speaking, I've got nothing against concert attendees enjoying a show in the manner in which they see fit. Over the course of the few hundred concerts I've seen the past 10 or so years, I've developed my own habits. I generally stand still, tapping my foot or hitting my hand on my side to signify that I'm aware of the rhythm of the current song (this does not apply to Guided by Voices concerts). I like to stand close to the center of the crowd for the best sound possible, which can be a hindrance to others, I understand, because I'm 6'5". But for the most part, I mind my own business--and I feel that everyone else should as well.

Much has been made of professional rock fans like Beatle Bob (featured in a GBV video, no less) and his obliviousness to all around him as he flails his limbs about. I would have no qualms about elbowing him in the neck if he accidentally kicked my shin. A toned down version happened last night. A hyperactive kid with a professional mullet, resembling Alex Ebert from Ima Robot, decided he desperately needed attention and subsequently pulled his shirt over his head and ran around begging others to look at him. Most laughed. I didn't. He then started a mosh pit with others of his ilk (generally greasy, adhere strictly to fashion codes of homeless children circa 1982), which slammed into myself and my girlfriend exactly once before I joined in, shoving the whole lot heartily the other way, and inspiring comments from the kid as to my mental state. Now, I'm far from a violent person, but I have a very low tolerance for aspiring performance artists who feign rapture with live music and simultaneously have no idea what song is playing. This gentleman in particular, I can surmise, would dance exactly the same no matter what music was playing--and I couldn't ignore him no matter how hard I tried. In essence, I feel that us curmudgeons should be allowed to enjoy ourselves too.