It was nearly the coldest night in Portland this year, second only to the night before. And the next day, The Concretes would be exploring our little town for the first time, zipped up in the big jackets and waterproof shoes with which they came equipped all the way from Sweden – where low temperatures monopolize thermostats, and getting around in nasty weather is no big whoop. They asked the crowd for suggestions on where to explore on their day-long hiatus: “Seattle or Portland?” The biased crowd voted in favor of the current locale, of course, and when the band asked about the legendary Rose Garden, an anonymous person replied, “IT’S FROZEN!” Undeterred, The Concretes asked politely that alternate recommendations be submitted after the show.
Lisa Milberg emerged from what must have been her personal backstage beauty salon because behind the microphone she stood looking like a Swedish Barbarella, casting a shadow that stripped the five other members significantly of visual appeal. About four years ago, Milberg took Victoria Bergsman’s place as lead vocalist, but only avid listeners would notice the difference (Bergman is now pursuing Taken By Trees full-time). Both have a delicate, feminine, and at-times crackly voice touched with, I can’t help but say, an adorable Swedish accent. Both ladies are nearly expressionless while singing but the elegance and cavalier attitude with which they subtly move seems a thing only years of charm school could produce. Veteran Concretes fans may find that Milberg doesn’t bring the charisma to the stage that Bergsman did, and though difficult to admit, The Concretes may just as well have broken up after her initial split. And those who hold this opinion probably make up the majority of Portland Concretes fans, who apparently refused to attend. The venue, host to a most popular fifteen-year-old Swedish indie band, was nowhere near capacity. Nonetheless, new leaves will be turned. Introverted blonde bombshells will replace introverted brunette geniuses, and so on.
Milberg tentatively introduced each song with a soft-spoken summary: “This is a very old song that maybe some of you know…”, and “This is called ‘I Wish We Never Met’ … It has nothing to do with you,” referring to the audience, who, barely amused by her simple performer-to-audience joke, were visibly mesmerized by her mere presence. The ease with which the band floated through their set seemed to condense time. The songs came and went, the next just like the last; upbeat, controlled, full, polished love ballads that evoked both the tired cycles of love lost and love regained, and the fresh energy of leisure. It ended before we had gotten to know each other, but fortunately, a few brave souls were so saddened by the band’s premature departure they demanded an encore. Armed with tight-lipped smiles and gratitude, The Concretes said goodbye with two sweet, albeit brief, final songs.
Two opening bands played earlier in the night, and though I missed the first one, Scars on 45, Millionyoung improperly set the tone for The Concretes with a spacey, high-momentum nod to 80’s new wave (nowadays we call this chillwave). Ascending melodies trailed behind Mike Diaz’s echo-soaked vocals and a rainbow constellation of lights pulsed around the band like a pinball machine. The music was energizing and groovy, but lacked the maturity one would expect from The Concretes’ opening act. Alas, we must all start, or start over, somewhere.
