From the first notes of “Camera Talk” to the last notes of “Sun Hands,” Local Natives proved a long-standing theory I’ve had, which is if a band sounds amazing outside (saw them at Sasquatch), they are going to sound even better indoors. It’s not a hard theory to get behind; sound flourishes when it’s contained and able to bounce off things. I don’t know the science behind it; I just know Local Natives sure made use of what the Wonder Ballroom had to offer when they brought the melodic treasure that is Gorilla Manor to life for throngs of their adoring fans.
You could sense something in the room, like this was a band on the verge of something greater. Which is, in and of itself, an odd statement since just this year they’ve quickly exploded from “who is that?” to “oh I love them so much.” But, I have a feeling another band in the line-up is going to see a similar surge of support--maybe not quite to the level of Local Natives, but definitely at a level that is going to make them pop up on your radar. That band is called the Union Line, and in a way, their sound bears a striking, little brother-like similarity to Local Natives’, only with more My Morning Jacket reverb (think “Bermuda Highway”) and Caribbean-lite keyboards thrown in. They, too, hail from Southern California and also employ that same bright tonescape and brilliant use of overlapping harmonies that make Local Natives’ stuff feel like your favorite blanket.
It is a happy sound, full of upbeat summer-pop that won’t be too saccharine for repetitive listening. They even put a touch of Americana in the mix, minus the country angle some folksters like to focus on. I especially loved their last song (“The Nun”), which utilized this dirty rhythm that seemed like it was ripped from the mid-section of Springsteen’s Nebraska. I highly recommend seeing them if you get a chance.
The Love Language, on the other hand, was kind of mediocre. And it wasn’t for lack of good effort. They bounced around and enthusiastically hustled their hands across their instruments, eager to make the songs shimmer, but I guess it just wasn’t captivating to me. It must have been to the audience though, because they were hollering it up. They particularly liked the song “Lalita,” which showed them for what I thought they were: an indie-pop band fit for modern day radio. The minute they played it, I had that familiar feeling of “oh I know them,” wash over me; I had just never learned their name. I’ll admit it was catchy, and although I didn’t dig the band, I could see how someone could be lured into their clutches. That, and the fact that the lead singer’s face looked as though he meant every word he was singing, like the mere mention of the phases evoked a million images for him from the land of long, long ago. And I can’t knock that. There are too many musicians out there nowadays that couldn’t find a scrap of real if it knocked on their door and offered to be their friend, so I guess when I saw the passion tied up in that guy’s eyes, I knew something must be going right. You know, maybe they weren’t so bad after all.
Before Local Natives emerged, I had already built them up to near-revelatory heights for uninitiated fans in the front row--a move that I probably should learn to temper since it can lead to sudden bouts of disappointment if the band fails to live up to those newly constructed hopes. Yet, by the time they kicked into “World News,” I could see nothing but delight in the faces around me. Close call, Colin.
That song showcased all of the things worth loving about Local Natives: pitch-perfect harmonies, a sixth sense around structure, and irresistible melodies. The crowd made it quite clear that they had taken these attributes to heart by belting out the lyrics along with those five Silver Lake lads up on stage. It was easy to see how many inlets the band had weaved into their songs that were perfect for sing-a-longs. Sometimes you don’t ponder these aspects when you are humming along in your room, but surround yourself with a bunch of fanatical people, and you’ll see how well written these songs really are. They were begging to be released out into the wild even before anyone outside their practice walls had even heard them.
And of course, what you’d expect to be popular after listening to the record was popular live, as well. “Wide Eyes,” “Airplanes,” and “Shape Shifter” all flew out into that sea of bodies, only to return back to their masters in the form of voices and heat that radiated from the frolicking masses. It was love all around, and Local Natives made sure to aim for the rafters with everything they put out. The mystery of it all is: how do they appear to be jamming out when they are really just playing the songs fairly straight up? My guess is that it was how their voices, when bound together, often reached out farther than the instruments ever could. The sound just felt massive, like when you hear U2’s “Pride (In The Name of Love)” played at high volumes, and I ended up losing myself so much in the moments of that show, that I awoke the next day with a voice that was partially missing.
The song that did me in was “Who Knows Who Cares,” a track that I think just unseated “World News” as my favorite song on the album. From the beautifully flowing lines that mark the opening and calmly proclaim that change needn’t be feared to the epic chants that rounded out the finale, I couldn’t have been more bowled over. It was so triumphant, like it looked at adversity as an afterthought rather than a legitimate apprehension. There is something about that idea that is both soothing and exhilarating. Something that seems so out of step with our normal vision of the world around us. And it is only magnified when it is shared with a room full of people. Watch: every time they come, it’s going to be a bigger stage than the time before, and it’s going to be because of songs like this. Magnificent.
So, to sum up, if the great shows I saw this weekend (Warpaint + Local Natives) are any indication, it appears that LA might be trying to run the board from here on out. And since I have Left Coast pride, I think all that’s left to say is…your move, Brooklyn.
