Resentment is brewing at Doug Fir. Disappointed whispers alternate with concerned words, and people fidget with their keys while they discuss whether or not the show will continue. On the stage, a crew member hurriedly removes equipment, but the house lights stay down and the bar keeps serving.
At the root of this confusion, several members of Twin Shadow's band have just appeared solemnly before us. One of them took to the microphone, asked the DJ to pause the music, and informed us that they would not be performing tonight. A collective groan rang through the room before we learned scheduled opener Twin Shadow, AKA George Lewis Jr., was so sick that he'd gone off to the hospital and canceled the show. Looking deeply disappointed, as well as concerned for their friend, the band members quietly leave the venue.
Walking past groups of people, I glean that a significant portion of the crowd is here exclusively for Twin Shadow, and many are wondering out loud about refunds. In the nearby ladies room, the atmosphere is a far cry from the typical orderly line and tipsy small talk that occur as women await available stalls. Instead, it has become a union meeting. The ringleader, a wispy redhead no more than five feet tall, is on a tirade. "They gotta give us our money back if enough of us go up there together," she announces, her fist in the air. I smile and wait for the other women to begin chanting "Strike! Strike! Strike!" from inside the cubicles. Wishing them luck in their quest, I make my way back to the floor as a good 20% of the audience pushes toward the exit. Back on the stage, monitors are being moved and drums dismantled. We remain somewhat uneasy until a kick drum labeled Pains is carried into the room. The show will go on!
After an hour of leisurely setup time, no doubt to accommodate more beer sales, the Pains of Being Pure at Heart appear. They apologize for the abrupt schedule change and begin to play. The band’s instruments are clear and crisp, but the remaining crowd members are disappointed. Though the songs are strong, audience members twist half-heartedly from side to side and slowly nod their heads, almost grudgingly trying to get their money’s worth. The Pains of Being Pure at Heart members wear nonchalant expressions, and not a single performer cracks even a hint of a smile. The bassist and rhythm guitarist shimmy to and fro, keeping cadence with one another, but their movement is minimal. The keyboardist hides in her long black hair, and the singer mumbles barely audible lyrics.
During a lull between songs, a fan shouts a request, "Heaven’s Gonna Happen Now," at the band. "It’s gonna happen later," the singer replies, like a kid putting off his chores. Each of the band’s songs is identical to the next – it starts with a solid and promising beat, which quickly fades into introverted monotony. True to the shoegaze subgenre, the band members are literally staring at their feet for most of the performance. Whether they’re weary from touring or distracted by concern for their hospitalized opener, the Pains of Being Pure at Heart seem wholly disengaged. The singer is by far the most animated of the bunch as he draws the pick across his guitar strings, but even he is somewhere else for most of the evening and provides minimal visual entertainment. Though he periodically looks up from his guitar, he peers at the far wall instead of making eye contact with the audience.
Few cheers happen in the transitions, and sparse, unenthusiastic clapping is all that brings the band back for their encore. Everything in the set has run together in a dull stream of consciousness, and this last segment is no different. Over and over, I hear excitement in the song intros and am filled with hope for something livelier. Disappointment is all I get, though, peppered with more than a few yawns. The band’s final song, the eponymous "The Pains of Being Pure at Heart," is the strongest, bringing the most audible lyrics, the most energetic delivery, and the most movement from the members. The reserved bassist widens his onstage box-step and turns slightly to the side. The drummer vigorously bangs out the beat. The keyboardist grins slightly, and the singer takes command of his microphone. At nearly midnight and with just a few minutes left in the set, it’s far too late to salvage this experience.
Prior to the schedule shakeup, Catwalk, the first (and unexpectedly only) opening act, play a short set for us. Hailing from Southern California, they look chilly and are clad in unseasonably thick coats as they approach their instruments. The music they play is upbeat and cute, but the young singer sounds a slight bit nervous. I can hear the adrenaline in his voice, which cracks and struggles throughout the band’s performance. More confidence is present in the drummer and bassist, who appear comfortable and relaxed while playing "(Please) Don’t Break Me" for the growing crowd. Though cheery, the quick songs are devoid of punch or personality. There's a bit of the current surf rock trend peeking through in the guitar notes, but substance is lacking and the instruments repeatedly become out of step with one another.
The singer's guitar stops responding midway through a song, and the rest of the band jams on without him as he struggles to recover it. In an impressive save, he extracts a new cable from a tiny suitcase and returns the instrument to its intended level of amplification. For the last song, a new guitar appears. It has a heart affixed to the pick guard, and is evidence of the band’s overzealous efforts to be charming. Bless their sweet hearts, they’ve tried hard, but the pieces just aren’t there yet.
