Arriving in the middle of a Death Vessel show is disconcerting. You wait, ID in hand, and what sounds like a 14-year-old Von Trapp daughter warbles sweetly around the corner, out of sight. Rounding the corner is still more baffling - a diminutive figure wears a cape of long black hair, a preteen witch in a sensible woolen sweater. Except this particular witch is a man, the uncannily voiced Joel Thibodeau. In his improbable embodiment, Death Vessel is a distillation of the live show revelation - the ineffable coming to life of music that can never be heard the same way again.
You know the feeling - the urge to protect a band, to shield them from the depredations of a world too harsh, too cold and callous, to cherish the output of an acutely sensitive soul. (Belle and Sebastian fans, you know who you are.) Playing solo, competing with the sound of a crowding bar and looking as if he might be lip-syncing were it not for the precision and passion etched on his face, Thibodeau evoked some bygone era, though admittedly none that I can put my finger on immediately.
Bowerbirds look a little more like they could look after themselves, though Phil Moore announced he was laboring under a cold, and we should expect weird faces as he aimed for notes. There are probably few voices improved by a cold, but there are certainly some singers. Moore writes melodies in the form of narratives, always questing and seeking a secure footing that is never quite found, and his additional struggle only augmented the drama.
Like local darlings Crooked Still, Bowerbirds' music can appear a little polite on record, but live they create a thoroughly satisfying racket using (almost) exclusively acoustic instruments. During Death Vessel's set, I overheard a gleeful young man promise his companion: "You gotta see it, she makes love to her accordion," and I can happily report that Beth Tacuba lends a novel frisson to the term "squeezebox."
Bowerbirds are currently roadtesting several new songs, including the (relatively) noisy "White Noise," whose title Moore disavowed immediately before launching in. The new songs were well received, but the rapt audience reserved its biggest approval for the older material - an impressively well-tuned choir of first-growth beards* singing along to the complex harmonies of "In Our Talons." Moore let the final chords die away, looked up and shook his head: "Only in Boston," he said with a smile.
[*Ed. Note - Following the show, this band tweeted to the Bowerbirds, "Amazing show tonight in Boston! Real inspiring stuff! I hope you liked our singing along!" I'm pretty certain those were the super sweet, overly eager boys standing behind us during the Bowerbirds' set, singing their hearts out. I briefly sampled their two free albums on myspace, and they are ADORABLE. I'm definitely going to give them a proper listening to. - Beth]
