Remember when you were 13 and it felt like music was all you had? The bands you loved - really, truly loved - were worn like invisible armor guarding you from the world. You clamored to learn all you could about them, tearing through issues of music magazines, pasting the glossy images on your wall. These memories are palpable, powerful, and ever-present in any music addict’s life.
Experiencing this phenomenon in real time, the wide-eyed 13-year-old boy to my right is telling his dad and older sister all about the band. He knows their whole history, and recites a list of the songs he’d most like to hear tonight. He’ll be seeing them for the first time, and he bounces with joy as he talks about them. The Kills are his favorite band of all time, and as the Crystal Ballroom’s lights lower, this kid is cheering louder than anyone else in the room.
Alison Mosshart appears, her tangled hair dyed pink since the band’s last Portland appearance. Standing on a monitor, she grips the outstretched hands of nearby fans while exerting full control over the stage. They begin with “No Wow” and “Future Starts Slow,” causing concern that this set list will be identical to the one used in May. Disappointingly, it is.
No matter the song order, the Kills remain firmly aggressive performers. Jamie Hince is the very embodiment of the current credo of doing more with less – he hardly plays his instrument, but somehow makes it seem as if he’s forcing complex chord combinations from it. Meanwhile, Alison prowls the stage like a caged lioness.
Without a barrier separating them from their fans, Jamie and Alison often play at the very edge of the stage. A rude audience member reaches out and freely gropes at Jamie’s crotch, causing him to roll his eyes disgustedly.
Once the Kills reach “Kissy Kissy,” their microphone stands are tangled around one another like seemingly-platonic friends straining against impulse. They deviate slightly from the recycled set list with a pained cover of “One Silver Dollar,” originally sung by Marilyn Monroe in a 1950s western. The stage is dark, shrouding the intensity of the moment, and their performance continues to smolder.
“Sour Cherry” pulls the set out of its mellow downturn. The song is a party, filled with dancing, strobe lights, and wild gestures. For the encore that follows it, they end once more with “Fried My Little Brains,” drawing out its final notes as if they aren’t quite ready to let us go. At the end, Jamie puts down his guitar and walks to the edge of the stage. Perhaps recalling his own days as a 13-year-old superfan, he finds the young fan who’s been singing every word from the front row, and pulls him into a hug. Hold onto this moment, kid. It’s a story you’ll be telling for the rest of your life.
Prior to the Kills, Eleanor Friedberger played. She began with the peppy “My Mistakes,” the loveliness of which was overshadowed by the unintentionally excessive volume of her guitarist’s amp. It remained cranked several decibels above the rest of the band, and was an unfortunate distraction throughout her performance. Despite this imbalance, Friedberger’s joyous songs were enthralling. There’s a distinct 1970s vibe to her music, suggesting that it would be best enjoyed while lying on an orange shag carpet. She treats us to a new song, “I Will Never Be Happy Again,” which she delivers quite matter-of-factly. Though the theme is gloomy, it teems with the same hope of the rest of her catalog. Friedberger and her band came fully alive on their last song, bringing serious growl to the performance. Pity they saved it for the end.
Mini Mansions opened the evening, and they brought the Beatles’ "White Album" with them. Sure, there’s a fair amount of artist-on-artist crime within the music industry, but Sir Paul would be suing for royalties if he caught wind of this shameless borrowing. Though the band’s intensity is enjoyable and the thumping drum beats make the room pulse, there’s not much else to say about them. The members thrash vigorously at their instruments, with ribbons of sweat pouring from their faces. Trading one influencing band for another, they play a slurring, slowed down cover of “Heart of Glass” that elicits a positive response from the audience. Pilfering and pandering aside, they can’t be accused of being slackers. The short set devolves into a noise rock performance as it nears completion, with the pounding sounds overlaid by snarling screams.
