There was a time, not so long ago, when a band called Union Tree Review was making its mark on the St. Louis indie-music scene. Headed by a forlorn crooner named Tawaine Noah, UTR added furious, gnarled guitar, relaxed viola to hash out Noah's ruminations on loss.
The Decemberists have always added a campy flair to their antiquated compositions. Lead singer-songwriter Colin Meloy's verses are swathed in purple descriptions of harlots, gestating cherubs and other lore-ish humanoid creatures that seemed even less human at Peabody Opera House last Saturday.
The last time St. Vincent performed in St. Louis she supported the Black Keys. She was excellent. Without the heft of a headliner whose energy drooped lower than a basset hound's ears, Annie Clark was able to give the audience a piece of her self.
Being my third time as witness to San Fermin's live show, I thought I knew what to expect.
My partner and I shrugged off Thursday night's dew with the drag of seasoned Midwesterners. The drizzle that flecked our heads mattered little as Off Broadway's familiar vestibule came within sight sooner than we had hoped. As the day slinked toward darkness like a panther into the jungle's underbelly, we inhaled deep. We were feet from the day's completion as Santah's sounds pursued the night's attention.
"Is it a fucking Tuesday night in St. Louis?!" howled Saint Motel point man A/J Jackson before the band busted into "Daydream/Wetdream/Nightdream." A proper answer was weeded out with a quick glance towards the nearest iPhone. Jackson needed no response, but the question was fair.
"I can't believe three years ago I was dancing on stage with this guy at the Gramophone," spouts a cohort between gasps of belief. "And now I'm watching him sell out the Pageant."
I get a call from a telephone number with an unfamiliar area code. A brief, exponentially warm bump of dialogue rises as G-Eazy's PR assistant Andrew links me to a several second wait where I wonder if Andrew is in fact the world's softest golden retriever puppy.
St. Louis' Scottrade Center, (in layman's terms the House of Blues hockey), has the feel of pricey college stadium. It's large enough that one loses track of the merchandise booth's location, but small enough to save concertgoers the thigh-burning hikes of Busch Stadium.