XL REVIEWS

Beck, Panic! At the Disco, the Streets, 'I Love My Dead Gay Son, The Musical!,' Conspirare, 'H.M.S. Pinafore,'

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Wednesday, June 21, 2006

Alternative music

BECK PULLS STRINGS FOR LATEST STAGE SHOW

We've long ago established that even the blondest, bluest-eyed white boys are indeed capable of getting down and getting funky with their bad selves.

But there are precious few — white, black or Gorillaz-cartoon-colored — who do it better than Beck. And just about no one delivers such consistently clever pop-culture commentary with each shakeshakeshake-your-booty beat. As he conveyed to a sellout Backyard crowd Tuesday night, Beck possesses this era's closest equivalent to Andy Warhol's soup-can pop-art sensibilities. He excels at taking a concept (musical or otherwise), deconstructing it and tossing it back to us in incredibly inventive ways.

His latest bit of brilliance involved turning his band into puppets, literally. Instead of band images projected on a stage backdrop, the audience saw "Puppetron": marionettes — dressed exactly as their human counterparts — performing the show, virtually note for note, as puppeteers moved the stringed versions on a red-curtained stage behind the live ones. Not only was it insanely amusing, it was quite a statement on the fact that, these days, the concertgoing experience often involves watching from such a distance, the players look like puppets.

Beck also chose smartly from his formidable body of song delicacies, seamlessly mixing cuts from the disco/R&B homage "Midnite Vultures," the acoustic sadness of "Sea Change" and the groundbreaking rock/rap/folk/funk-soul-brother of "Odelay" with his newest rock/rap/folk/funk-soul-brother work from "Guero."

On "Girl" and "Sexx Laws," the marionettes came out to move with the humans and film "puppetcam" shots as breakdancer/percussionist Ryan Falkner mimed to prerecorded banjo. For the encore, we got the Puppetron equivalent of "Real World: Austin" — a film featuring the dolls looking for bats, strumming the Stevie Ray Vaughan statue's guitar and visiting Guero's and Amy's. They sang Pearl Jam's "Even Flow" as they trotted onstage to perform Beck's grunge kiss-off, "Loser," and the beat-box anthem, "Where It's At."

Yeah, where it's at. That would be wherever Beck wants to take us next.

—Lynne Margolis

Emo-pop

PANIC! AT THE DISCO SINGS, AND SO DOES AUDIENCE

There's got to be something to this music-in-the-womb theory. How else would it be possible for a band of under-20-year-olds to come out of the gate as full-throttle tour headliners with an album of lyrically and sonically complex tunes — and a scarily well-developed stage act — before they're old enough to drink?

Panic! At the Disco's sold-out Sunday night show at Stubb's was a display of speed-demon energy and musical versatility we haven't seen in a while, with heavy debts to Queen, the Beatles and even Ben Folds — and of course Fall Out Boy, whose bassist signed Panic to his indie label before it ever had a gig. Panic's emo-pop album "A Fever You Can't Sweat Out" is full of the kind of layering that's incredibly tricky to pull off live, yet, with the help of an auxiliary cellist and keyboardist (and new bassist Jon Walker), the band aced it.

Maybe the band also owes a debt to its members' Las Vegas upbringing, a locale that must have provided at least some inspiration for guitarist Ryan Ross's cynicism-drenched lyrics and a stage show featuring members of Lucent Dossier Vaudeville Cirque, mugging and miming as warped marionettes and '30s-era German cabaret dancers behind singer/guitarist/pianist Brendon Urie. They provided an unusual foil for a theatrical band that's tight, melodic and driven to amusing touches of mock grandiosity.

The band's rapid-fire delivery, propelled by drummer-whiz Spencer Smith, doesn't include breaks between songs — a fact that didn't faze the audience, who knew every lyric to opuses such as "The Only Difference Between Martyrdom and Suicide is Press Coverage," "London Beckons Songs about Money Written By Machines," "Build God, Then We'll Talk" and "I Write Sins Not Tragedies" and happily sang with — and sometimes in place of — the band. (A friend attributes this now-common concert phenomenon to the age of iPods; because the music goes everywhere, listeners immerse themselves in it nonstop, absorbing it even more completely. It's the post-womb womb effect.)

The band delivered one well-chosen cover, Smashing Pumpkins' "Tonight, Tonight," but no encore. With its high-concept set, there was no need. And besides, even teenagers have to wear out sometime.

— Lynne Margolis

Grime

A WARM (WELL, HOT) RECEPTION FOR BRITISH HIP-HOP ARTISTS

It seemed fitting that the Streets (aka 25-year-old British rapper Mike Skinner) played Austin less than two weeks after the Arctic Monkeys. Both featured insightful, compelling lyrics about the life and times of your average young punter, geezer or whatever young British folks call themselves. Both have audiences who are slavishly devoted to their aesthetic, and both audiences came out in force for their respective shows.

Skinner and tourmate Lady Sovereign sold out La Zona Rosa on Friday night to an audience that often looked and dressed exactly like them — white folks in colorful polo shirts with collars popped, track suits, carefully selected sneakers and — in Sov's case — a ponytail jutting out of the side of her head.

But while the Monkeys are just on their first album of somewhat dancy guitar rock, Skinner is on his third excellent collection of "grime," the first British hip-hop that sounds distinctly British, with jagged, stuttering beats that owe as much to reggae and jungle as funk and disco. Skinner's lyrics have moved from everybloke concerns such as videogames and the eternal mystery that is women to, on the new "The Hardest Way to Make an Easy Living," the celebrity that comes with, well, being famous.

Lady Sovereign (born Louise Amanda Harman, 1985, in London) stood about 5 feet tall, wore a T-shirt with her own face on it and was accompanied by a live bass player and a DJ. Her verses, including the demi-hit "Random," felt fine, but her energy level felt low, as did Skinner's in spots. Both complained about the Texas heat, which must be brutal for folks from a country where it rains pretty much year round. No, my ears aren't good enough to unpack Lady Sov's accent.

Skinner, joined by a full band and drawing on material from all three albums, was also almost upstaged in spots by his hypeman, a gentleman named Leo the Lion, whose energy made up for Skinner's lack thereof. It was fun hearing Skinner move from early neuroses ("Let's Push Things Forward," "Turn the Page") to the lifestyle of the rich and famous ("Prangin Out"). But too much detail was lost in La Zona Rosa's echo, and without crisp delivery, this was a concert for the already converted.

— Joe Gross

Musical theater

'H.M.S. PINAFORE' IS CHOPPY YET CATCHY

William Gilbert and Arthur Sullivan recognized the fluffy addictiveness of their "H.M.S. Pinafore," gently satirizing themselves in "The Pirates of Penzance" with their modern major general who can "whistle all the airs of that infernal nonsense Pinafore." And the Gilbert and Sullivan Society of Austin's new production ensures you'll be whistling "I'm Called Little Buttercup" for weeks to come.

In "Pinafore," Gilbert and Sullivan took on a variety of targets: the heavy-handed sentimentality of 19th-century drama, the rigidity of British class structures and the decline of their navy. Fortunately, they wrote their story of a lowly sailor who loves above his station with an ear for simple, catchy tunes and an eye for comedy.

Under the musical direction of Jeffrey Jones-Ragona, the entire cast came together for rousing choruses and sappy laments. Holton Harrison Johnson's charming Ralph Rackstraw particularly stood out, leading the chorus both to mourn his position as a sailor too lowborn to love a captain's daughter and comically outline the traits of a British tar.

Unfortunately, Ralph MacPhail Jr.'s stage direction and choreography couldn't keep pace, often falling back on slow, low can-can kicks and halfhearted cheers. With the exception of Russell Gregory's sublimely senile Sir Joseph Porter, the production straddled the awkward fence of being both too small and sincere for parody and too big and campy for satire.

While the cast seemed at a loss for how to occupy the space between songs, in Gilbert and Sullivan, that's a very small space. This "Pinafore" makes it hard to care about the characters, but easy to keep on whistling.

("H.M.S. Pinafore" continues at 8 p.m. Thursdays-Saturdays, 3 p.m. Sundays through July 2. Forrest Kline Performing Arts Center, Crockett High School, 5601 Manchaca Road. $5-$20. (800) 494-TIXS, www.gilbertsullivan.org.)

— Joey Seiler

Musical theater

MUSICAL SPOOF LOVES THE '80S

The quick wits behind Yellow Tape Construction Co., one of Austin's newer theater collectives, have an unqualified crowd pleaser in "I Love My Dead Gay Son, The Musical!," their crisp, campy retooling of the 1989 film "Heathers." Directed, designed and acted with unencumbered vibrancy, "Son" fashionably exploits three points of popular interest: high school social hierarchies, the 1980s and (duh!) homosexuality.

"Son" is a pastiche of period Americana, presented in a manner befitting contemporary comedies such as "Family Guy," whose attempts at humor involve assaulting audiences with incessant (and unconnected) cultural references. "Son," like "Family Guy," generally succeeds in these pursuits, though sometimes at the expense of disproportionately targeted ethnic and racial groups (there's really no such thing as an equal-opportunity offender).

Using plot elements from "Heathers" as rest stops along its nostalgic journey, "Son" feels like it was born (however affectionately) from research rather than experience. For example, the show's book writers quote a 1990 episode of "Saved by the Bell" — a childhood staple for those younger than 25 — in which Jessie Spano battles a devilish caffeine pill addiction. This and other slightly anachronistic allusions lend a secondhand air to the mostly well-developed spoof, whose authors clearly love the '80s, even if they probably couldn't vote until the '90s.

Five composers worked on the steely "Son" score, which borrows liberally from tunesmiths as diverse as Rick Astley and the Clash. As delivered by director Jonathon Morgan's dogged ensemble of varying vocal talents, the catchy songs recall pop-punk pioneers the Ramones. A potential production flaw, this effect proves charming thanks to the show's setting and committed cast. Standouts Nicole Trumble, Camille Latour and (most hilariously) Breanna Stogner deserve kudos for their work as three girls named Heather who rule their school — and the stage — with iron leg warmers.

("I Love My Dead Gay Son, The Musical!" continues 8 p.m. Thursdays-Saturdays through July 15. The Off Center, 2211-A Hidalgo Street. $15. 466-5221, www.yellowtape.org.)

— Tommy O'Malley

Choral music

MOZART LIKELY WOULD HAVE APPROVED

Mozart scholar and pianist Robert D. Levin did an amazing thing a few years ago: Using archival notes and documents, Levin completed Mozart's Mass in C minor, the masterpiece that the composer had left unfinished.

Craig Hella Johnson and Conspirare did something equally amazing Saturday night in front of a capacity crowd of about 500 at St. Matthew's Episcopal Church. He delivered a commanding, mesmerizing performance of Mozart's soaring and emotive masterwork, the first time Levin's re-worked score has been presented in Austin.

Though a faulty air-conditioning system left the sanctuary a tad warm, not a note failed to command attention throughout the roughly 85-minute mass. Johnson extracted extraordinary clarity and emotion from his singers, this time augmented by members of the Texas State Chorale and the Victoria Bach Festival Chorus. The one and only blemish? Disappointing delivery by guest soloists Melissa Givens and Leigh Shipman, who slipped on the demanding tempo and failed to articulate some notes.

If Levin's additions (roughly the last third of the mass) seemed to lack the flashes of genius that pepper Mozart's original score, they do an excellent job of rounding out one of the gems of the choral music canon. And under Johnson's faultless baton, that gem sparkled into a wondrous jewel.

— Jeanne Claire van Ryzin