East Coasters were treated to a slice of the Los Angeles music scene at Webster Hall this past Saturday when Cold War Kids shared the stage with fellow California-based band Houses. The show was sold out in advance, but scores of scruffy-faced twenty-somethings and smiling teens were still slowly filing in at 8 p.m. when Houses kicked made their way onto the stage.
As the stage illuminated and loops of steady, synthesized percussion and ambiance emanated from the speakers, an abundance of laptops quickly came into focus: two on top of main singers Dexter Tortoriello and Megan Messina’s keyboards and one almost hidden beside the drummer’s kit. This slew of electronics, however, didn’t go unnoticed, and when, during a lull between songs in the latter portion of their set, Tortoriello told the audience “Man, nothing looks stupider than tying your shoes on stage,” a boisterous fan yelled in reply, “Except maybe standing behind a bunch of MacBooks!”
While some members of the audience chuckled in solidarity and proceeded to pay more attention to their drinks and empty conversation than the music at hand, the overall majority was noticeably receptive to the somber ebb and flow of Houses: they closed their eyes, they rocked on the balls of their feet, they nodded their heads along in slow synchronization. And how could they not? Swirling arrangements of synthesizers and reverb-laced vocal harmonies were washing over the Grand Ballroom, with guitar ringing as clear as bells and drums providing a simple and steady backbone. The accumulated effect was immersive, foreboding, subduing, and for a relatively unfamiliar band from the West Coast, touting music from an album still days away from release, Houses held their own with a crowd whose tastes leaned toward much more soulful indie rock. The applause they earned was slightly surprising, but in the end well-deserved.
Idleness then ensued. Those with a good view planted their feet and settled in for the half an hour between sets, almost daring latecomers to just try and make their way to the front. The room never reached antsy, though you could feel the energy mounting with each minute closer to 9. Finally, all went dark, and the shadowy quartet made their way to their instruments to the accompaniment of an eruptive roar.
Dear Miss Lonelyhearts might have been their newest release and, arguably, the entire reason for the tour, but CWK decided to open with sloppy fan-favorite “Saint John,” and to much approval. The sold-out venue was on its feet, screaming back how they, too, were “just looking for a pardon.” “Loner Phase,” a more electronic new track from Dear Miss Lonelyhearts, followed, but it wasn’t until CWK later burst into single “Miracle Mile” that fans began to show their wild approval of new material, jumping up and down or raising up their arms in response to Nathan Willett’s frantic but skillful singing.
In total, CWK’s set kept new songs to a strategic minimum, allowing their older and more reliable discography to color the evening. “Hang Me Up to Dry,” the band’s opus from Robbers and Cowards that’s based upon an extended laundry metaphor, met with expected zeal, as did Loyalty to Loyalty’s “Mexican Dogs,” “I’ve Seen Enough,” and “Every Man I Fall For.” Even tracks from Mine is Yours shone through CWK’s set, offering a more complete look into the band’s long and varied career.
After an hour of stellar and frenzied performance, CWK departed from the stage following “Hospital Beds,” only to return moments later to quell the subsequent and monstrous applause with an encore that kicked off with the narrative and emotive “We Used to Vacation.” Fans delightedly crooned along with Willett about an alcoholic’s plight, but when CWK’s final song, the furious “Something Is Not Right With Me,” started to play, they exploded in revelry, with many lingering long after the two and a half minute finale to cheer and cheer against a backdrop of bright lights and house music. If the show’s success is any indication of how fans received Dear Miss Lonelyhearts, CWK can kick back and breathe a sigh of relief.
by Justin Davis