The concept of "fashionably late" was invented by musicians. So why, when all available media says a show starts at 8:00, is the first band, Pepper Rabbit, already playing when I walk in the door at 7:25? Is early the new on-time? Despite the confusion over their start time, the word for Pepper Rabbit is charming. The singer plays a baritone ukulele, and peppy, earnest songs emanate from the stage. They sound a bit like the Decemberists without sea shanties. There's a melodic rhythm to the ooh-oohs being cooed into the microphone, and the warm drum beats envelop the already sizeable crowd that has gathered at the foot of the stage. Pepper Rabbit’s songs are too mellow for dancing, and the audience stands mostly still as the band delivers its sophisticated sounds. The singer shuffles his feet as he sings, like a sixth grader dancing with a girl for the first time, but it’s endearing. Waves of synth sounds appear during the final number, and the singer is seated impressively at a keyboard while holding his guitar in playing position and singing, all at the same time. All he needs is a harmonica and he’s a one-man band. It’s a shame Pepper Rabbit’s set is so short, at less than thirty minutes. I’d like to hear more from them.
The next band, We Barbarians, immediately begins their sound check once Pepper Rabbit leaves the stage. The transitions are quick tonight, like a revolving door of musicians wearing long-sleeved plaid shirts. We Barbarians are much higher energy than their predecessors, and put in a solid effort to get us to move, yet most of the crowd remains still. Are we that disaffected? They pick up the pace on the second song and fill the room with sonic pulse, but the crowd resists them still. The room is filled with boorish frat boy types who thumb at their phones impatiently and ignore the action onstage. True, We Barbarians’ singer is flat on every song, but the beats are solid and deserve dancers. The band mumbles gratitude at us before diving into the final song. It’s got an infectious beat, but to no avail.
Mister Heavenly are up next, and have had quite a bit of hype surrounding them before this appearance. A relatively new band, they are composed of members of Modest Mouse (Joe Plummer), Man Man's Honus Honus, and Islands' Nick Diamonds. The hype, though, is related to their bassist: Scott Pilgrim/Nick Twisp/George Michael Bluth himself, Michael Cera. Sure enough, the applause for the first three members is quadrupled when Cera arrives onstage. The room is aglow with blue lights as people hold their phones and cameras in the air to capture this brush with fame. Attempting a joke, he says, "hello Port-land," to us while adjusting his instrument. The audience goes berserk. I am unimpressed, and merely hope he is less of a one-note bassist than he is a one-note actor. As it turns out, he’s pretty talented with the bass, and also unexpectedly humble and shy. He plays facing away from us, as if he’s trying to disappear into the amp behind him. Despite the celebrity bassist and the grab-bag of members from other bands, Mister Heavenly are the least impressive performers of the night. The keyboardist is the primary singer, who mostly yells into the microphone while producing a minor backing melody. Several songs in, more of a fun and unique sound emerges, but their self-designated nouveau doo-wop theme isn’t coming across. They pause between songs to ask if there are any Barenaked Ladies fans in the house, and I grit my teeth. The band begins the opening notes of "One Week" before thankfully switching gears to play something else. Audience members begin to shimmy for the first time, but Mister Heavenly abruptly end their set and skulk off stage before a rhythm can develop.
There is a longer break, but Passion Pit is onstage by 9:40. This is quite an early bird performance. The band is flanked by tall L.E.D. towers that emit brightly colored lights. They play a haunting electronic intro while bathed in warm red light, and already the crowd is bouncing up and down on both sides of the alcohol barrier that divides the floor. The first song, "I've Got Your Number," inspires an audible sing-along in the audience. Passion Pit is clearly loved by Portland. The stage is lit and darkened in flashes of seizure-inducing strobes that are directed right into our eyes, but these fans are unfazed. During the second song, a puff of pot smoke rises from the middle of the room. Despite appearances, this is no laser light show, and the offending person is quickly removed by security.
"Better Things" is next, and the crowd has not stopped moving. A sea of bodies rises and falls in unison, and the sing-along continues. The atmosphere is so filled with excitement that the packed house resembles a mini-rave, though these songs have lyrics and the high has come from actual ecstasy, not the MDMA variety. I'd had my doubts about Passion Pit's live performance with their heavy electronic elements. The songs don't deviate much from their album versions, but that doesn’t seem to matter. The enthusiasm intensifies during "The Reeling," and Michael Angelakos completely stops singing the chorus as the air has been filled by audience members loudly calling it out for him. "Hug the person next to you," he tells us, and people oblige. They are overjoyed to be sweating next to one another as Passion Pit plays. It's cold and dark outside, and we need these endorphins desperately.
The light show has become excessive and begins to detract from the performance, but the crowd's excitement builds with every song. The bouncing masses love them. For a band that has been together only a few years, such a rabid following is impressive. "Smile Upon Me" rounds out the set, and is the first to stand out as far superior to the recorded version. The tremolo effects are far more subtle, eliminating the feeling of being in a centrifuge I experience when I normally hear this song. Cheers ring out as the set comes to a close, and people actually begin to chant the band’s name in the pre-encore lull. Angelakos sits at the keyboard for "Eyes as Candles," and still the crowd doesn’t lose its pep. Suddenly a very different, yet familiar tune emanates from the stage. As children of the nineties, we crowd members recognize it immediately: The Cranberries' "Dreams." It’s a flawless and completely unexpected cover that is sufficient to cement this evening in our collective memory, but Passion Pit has one last song for us. They end the night with "Sleepyhead," perhaps their most popular song, and the Crystal Ballroom's spring-loaded floor tests the laws of physics as revelers leap into the air like so many pogo sticks. We waited through the three opening acts for this, conserving as much energy as we could, and were handsomely rewarded for our patience.
