by brenton crozier bdcrozier@gmail.com
A bill of The Cold War Kids and Tokyo Police Club conjures up thoughts of an assembly organized by Communist sympathizers. I went to the rectangular St. Augustine oasis, Café 11, cautiously with my little black book and camera. Instead of an angry proletariat, I only found a house packed full of jazzed-up rock fans taking full advantage of $3 premium drafts.
Delta Spirit opened the show and was nearing the end of their set as I arrived. The smiling faces and obvious interest in the stage told me that they had put on an engaging show, complete with blues clichés such as Trilby hats and a seldom-used harmonica featured prominently around the singer’s neck. I’m all for suburban blues revival, but this felt a tad too contrived. The manufactured feeling of their music and performance was my singular sentiment. The rest of the concert goers would have made comments like “loosen up,” “get over yourself,” and “you need a beer,” on my opinion; and they wouldn’t have been far off the mark.
The youthful Tokyo Police Club took the stage next with a tiny bit of trepidation and glossy, bed-time eyes. That was all lost on me once they started playing to the pure delight of every teenage female attendee. Flashes popped paparazzi style from cell phones as Tokyo cranked out the 2-minute rocking romps from their EP A Lesson in Crime. They were tight and energetic, staying true to their rudimentary 4-piece rock feel, but representing the more studio tinged sounds of the album with great success. Crowd participation was even encouraged in the clap-heavy ‘Citizens of Tomorrow.’ The set was swift, but effective.
The Cold War Kids started playing after an unnecessarily long interval, but to great fanfare. Although it seemed as if the venue couldn’t fit another soul, the crowd had grown six degrees denser when they started playing. They followed their only LP fairly closely and sounded just as polished live. ‘We Used to Vacation’ and ‘Hang Me Up to Dry’ were played to uproarious reaction. Their songs resonated through the rectangular oasis, permeating through the keyed-up crowd and evoking dance in some corners.
As good as they are at what they do, I just couldn’t help wondering how they struck a chord with indie rockers. If I had closed my eyes, they could have been another adult contemporary, suburban-blues, rock-revival acts like these that already cloud the airwaves. The occasional dissonant tones and off-key piano injections were not enough to extinguish my feeling that an adult-alternative act had crept through the stubborn indie rock lines to receive the type of comparisons and labels that have been bestowed on them. I wasn’t feeling the Tapes ‘n Tapes, The Walkmen, or The White Stripes comparisons, but instead felt like they would be more suitable to open for John Mayer, Jason Mraz, or, on a more positive note, Ben Folds Five.
There was nothing sinister or communist (except some borrowed sound) about my evening at Café 11. The sold out crowd was thoroughly entertained, a bit sweaty, and even got to leave with a little leftover cash.
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