A short December night

I admit it – I wouldn’t have gone to see The Decemberists of my own volition. I was going because it was my roommate’s birthday, and she thought Colin Meloy and Co. were maybe the greatest thing in the world. My own attempts to introduce her to Neutral Milk Hotel and the Mountain Goats (or The Decemberists without training wheels, as I thought of them) failed – she loved The Decemberists for the same reasons I was utterly indifferent toward them. She thought the lyrics about old timey riots and rogues were poetic and evocative; I thought they were pretentious. She loved the delicate folk structures, so pretty and perfect; I thought they were boring.

So I was quite surprised to find myself completely taken with The Decemberists at the House of Blues on Friday. Songs that seemed so flaccid on their albums were transformed into bluesy, bawdy, totally danceable numbers – I admit to pretending to know the lyrics so I could fit into the crowd shouting them along with Meloy. From their bizarre and engaging introduction (it involved the mayor of Portland hovering above the House of Blues – really, you had to be there) to a procession that brought the band into the audience to their final folksy close, I understood why the band is one of the most successful indie rock acts of the last decade.

Last week, The Boston Phoenix said The Decemberists destroyed indie rock by ushering in an era of literary, overly intellectual songwriting (Read The MUSE’s take online at www.dailyfreepress.com/category/the-muse). I would have agreed with that statement up until I saw them live. Despite the wordiness of their songs, their lyrics aren’t meant to be read – they’re meant to be sung, with a pint of beer in one hand and a lady of dubious means in the other (or something like that). Performed live, old standards like “July, July” and “The Rake’s Song” felt oddly raw, even edgy. It’s important to remember, after all, that the old sea chanteys and cautionary tales that The Decemberists make new have their roots in the early 20th century’s working class – a group that appreciated the coarse, lively and unsubtle over the pristine perfection The Decemberists are often accused of.

If I did have one complaint, it was this – the show was far too short. The Decemberists played for an hour and 15 minutes. Apparently, Meloy was sick with the stomach flu, though you couldn’t tell by his performance; the band was truly professional. And my roommate, by the way, was transfixed the whole show – not a bad start to her 22nd year, I think.