XL on ACL: Staff Reviews Midlake, Austin Ventures Stage, noon Dreamy Denton electro-pop band Midlake had the unenviable task of kicking things off at high noon to a cold crowd. Cold in a metaphorical sense, of course, as precisely at noon, the clouds broke just enough to let sunlight in and then trap it atop the Austin Ventures stage. (Note to the hipper-than-thou: It's impossible to look cool while applying sunscreen. Stop trying.) Midlake occupies that cold, lush sonic space that's become increasingly crowded since Radiohead proved that computers could emote. Shimmering keys and loops set the mood while churning guitars and drums fill the gaps. The quintet kicked off with the gently driving "Roller Skate (Farewell June)," setting a precedent of economic precision that prevailed throughout. While bands that rely as heavily on atmospherics often get lost in open spaces — parks for example — Midlake sounded exceptionally tight, most notably on the chiming "King Fish Pies." With only 30 minutes to work, band members ran around like ants between songs, quickly changing instruments and keeping stage chatter to a minimum. But despite the less than advantageous conditions, Midlake proved to be a nice way to ease into the day. —Jeremy Egner Damnations, Heineken Stage, 12:15 Playing in the first slot of the festival was a thankless task — the band announced that it had expected "to be playing to crickets" at the early hour — but the Damnations drew a healthy crowd of folks who reveled in a strong cool breeze. Unfortunately, the wind made it difficult to get sound levels right; throughout the set, the usually hand-in-glove harmonies of sisters Amy Boone and Deborah Kelly were out of balance, making everything seem a bit off. The set worked best, then, when the band rocked hardest — Rob Bernard's raw guitar energized "Down The Line" and "Root On" (on which Bernard sings) benefited from his not having to marry himself to another singer's voice. The bass-propelled "Unholy Train" was strong, but some of the other numbers suffered from a sluggishness that only made sense on the amiably hungover "Quarter in the Couch." Old fans who haven't seen the band in a while likely missed the backwoods standards and mandolin breaks that once peppered their set lists, and a stripped-down acoustic number or three might have helped. But as with Austin City Limits itself, the Damnations seem intent on showing that there's more to them than country, whether that sits well with veteran fans or not. — John DeFore Cody ChesnuTT, Capital Metro Stage, 1 p.m. "Baby, I'm insane," admitted neo-soul singer-songwriter Cody ChesnuTT on Friday afternoon, during his slow-jamming love joint "No One Will." "But," he added quickly, "I'm a lunatic with conviction." Conviction, indeed. Tucked on a stage way back in the farthest corner of the park, ChesnuTT — whose stunning debut, "The Headphone Masterpiece," was recently nominated for the 2003 Shortlist Music Prize (slogan: "We're hipper than the Grammys") — held forth on God and spirituality like that gospel-spouting uncle that everybody tries to ignore. But unlike that uncle, he had sex on his side. ChesnuTT presided over his set like the funkiest preacher at the funkiest revival you've ever seen — rousing the crowd with a soulful call-and-response; plucking notes from the neck of his guitar and tossing them up to heaven; dedicating songs to the Lord above, all the ladies and a "beautiful bird" that just happened to be circling overhead. He even expressed a baptismal-like desire to go "down to the river," sounding for all the world like a certain legendary R&B reverend taking the same stage later that night. It also didn't hurt that his band — consisting of bassist Chopper and drummer Crackin'-the-Skins Craig — was as tight as his jeans, riding groove after devilish groove as ChesnuTT communed with the spirits and the girls in the front row. Who said church couldn't be fun? — Josh Eells Davíd Garza, Heineken Stage, 2 p.m. One of Friday's most engagingly tough showcases came from a performer commonly thought of as a pretty popmeister: Fronting a guitar-bass-drums trio, Davíd Garza delivered his share of sweet, swooping vocal lines but was more interested in jettisoning the nonessential decoration from the most memorable recent songs in his catalogue. The formerly unassuming "Slave," for instance, was deconstructed at every turn, with Garza testing how many different singing styles he could cram into a phrase; the bitter beauty "Say Baby" lost its intentionally cloying polish and became a rock song. "Drone" was less, well, droning and more percussion-driven, and "Discoball World" benefitted from the singer's raw-throated delivery. What was already a large audience seemed to grow by half when the band started churning on "God's Hands," and listeners were probably relieved when, a half-hour or so later, Garza lightened up a bit for the gentle "Too Much." Through the set, Austin bassist Chepo Peña was a solid foundation for Garza's guitar work, which was nimble here, chopped-up and chunky there, and occasionally even angular enough to fit in with the recent wave of post-punk revivalists. Sure, the set featured pretty melodies and romantic lyrics, but the songwriter had an awful lot more than flowery pop to sell. — John DeFore Liz Phair, Capital Metro Stage, 3 p.m. Liz Phair has come a long way. From indie rock love goddess to Sheryl Crow co-songwriter, from barely competent live performer to perfectly respectable rocker, from minor league icon to MIA has-been and back again, it's hard to remember just how big a deal she was when she released the sexually frank "Exile in Guyville" back in 1993. On this year's "Liz Phair," to much critical debate, she morphed from hello-sailor hipster to a far odder persona: the Hot Mom Who Writes Pop Tunes. But she clearly knows which her audience likes more. For her set on the Capital Metro Stage — one of the Fest's largest stages — she drew mostly from older albums such as "Exile," the follow-up "Whip-Smart" and the tragically named "whitechocolatespaceegg." Opening with the older "Polyester Bride," Phair ran through a classic set that the large, devout audience could sing along with. Even her occasionally dicey vocals didn't phase the fans: They were hear to see their college fantasy live on stage. Though she never did follow through on her promise to "get more nude later" (she showed up dressed in a pink top, denim mini skirt, big cowboy hat and truly spectacular heels), she was the same old flirt the crowd grew up with. The "Exile" songs, such as "6'1" " and the amazingly dirty "Flower" got the biggest cheers. But the newer songs, such as "Red Light Fever" and "Extraordinary," which sound hideously slicked up on record, don't sound all that different from her older material when played by her four-piece band — and the crowd cheered them all the same. No wonder she didn't devote any of her between-song patter to commenting on the critical mugging her new album has gotten; so long as you don't pay too much attention to the lyrics, the whole thing's a moot point live. — Joe Gross Steve Earle, Cingular Stage, 3 p.m. "This weather is amazing," an incredibly slimmed-down Steve Earle said as he switched from guitar to mandolin midway through a too-short hourlong set. "I used to live here so I know how (expletive) hot it can get this time of year." Things got even balmier, at least from a musical standpoint, when Earle, looking more like Billy Bob Thornton than his old self thanks to Mr. Atkins and his diet, started strumming his way into "Harlan Man" and then really got the crowd moving with "Copperhead Road." This was no "greatest hits" set as, Earle and his Dukes stuck to mostly newer material like "Ashes To Ashes" and "Transcendental Blues." Of course there was some proselytizing early on, as Earle interjected, "Let's blow up Iraq, let's blow up North Korea" to cheers during "Amerika V6.0 (The Best That We Can Do)" then said, "Let's blow up Texas. You heard me!" Another political song, "John Walker Blues" was a drag, causing as much defection from the packed field for its dreary tempo as for its lyrics expressing sympathy for the American Taliban. But the irresistible "Jerusalem" got the set back on track. — Michael Corcoran Charlie Hunter, H-E-B Stage, 4 p.m. The freak flags were flying at Charlie Hunter's set: Grown men danced with piñatas and dangled stuffed animals over dancing hippychicks, Lone Star flag stovepipes were worn, and other kinds of pipes were smoked. Anyone doubting that Hunter was the missing link between post-bop, smooth jazz and the jam band phenomenon needed look no further. Performing in a trio with Derrek Phillips on drums and John Ellis on sax (and occasional flute), Hunter gave the crowd the "whoa" factor they sought. Those at the back of the large crowd might have been confused by the guitarist's unusual technique: On an eight-string guitar, he plucked the bottom three for a bass line while producing rounded, attack-free tones on the top five that often could have been mistaken for an organ. Hunter lost the first ten minutes of his set to Steve Earle, who played late on the next stage over, but wasted little time after that — stepping away from the mike only to make room for a four-and-a-half minute drum solo that never quite caught fire, despite the fact that Phillips was wearing what looked like velour trousers in the afternoon heat. After that, everything from scatting and drum-circle grooves to Phillips' beat-box emulation of a scratching DJ was thrown into a jazz set that threatened no one and pleased many. — John DeFore Robert Earl Keen, BMI Stage, 4:15 p.m. Robert Earl Keen was flabbergasted. "I thought we were gonna be under a shade tree playing for a couple of people who'd just finished eating at Luby's," he exclaimed, surveying the masses who surrounded the tiny BMI stage at the Austin City Limits Music Festival on Friday afternoon for what had originally been envisioned as an intimate, tucked-away acoustic gig. Instead, Keen's unplugged set (at which he was joined by guitarist Rich Brotherton) became an unintentional battle of the bands, with the stage's minuscule PA pushed to the limit to try to project Keen's acoustic strummings and folkish delivery over the amplified scat-singing of the Charlie Hunter Trio at a not-sufficiently-distant stage. The combination was often unintentionally hilarious; happily for his fans, Keen played a full-on band set later that evening. Marooned on a tiny island in a sea of a couple thousand fans, Keen struggled manfully to maintain an intimate atmosphere, dipping into his songbook for quieter numbers such as "Willie" and "Go on Downtown." Despite his oft-demonstrated talent for bellowing over hoorawing Aggies, many of these songs fared poorly in the face of the electrified competition drifting down the breeze. — John T. Davis Galactic, Capital Metro Stage, 5 p.m. Galactic may have been one of the easiest showcases to find Friday: All you had to do was follow the crocheted berets. Like other spacey jazz-funk fusion groups, Galactic has been roundly embraced by the jamband crowd, and Friday's eager, slick-faced throng began to churn from the opening riff. After a brief instrumental intro, longtime New Orleans scenester and vocalist Theryl "The Houseman" deClouet stepped out to lead the band through a series of songs from yet-to-be-released "Ruckus." From "The Moil" 's cross of fierce riff-rock and space-age funk through the squalling blooze stomp of "All Behind You Know," to the strutting, organ-drenched "Bongo Joe," Galactic reaffirmed its reputation as a truly amazing live act and then some. The vast, largely shirtless crowd remained ecstatic throughout, smiling broadly and writhing in that peculiar way known only to happy hippies and those stricken with the bends. But though jamband fans still can't dance, turns out it's not always a bad idea to see where they're headed. — Jeremy Egner Los Lonely Boys, American Original Stage, 5:45 p.m. Having Los Lonely Boys play the Austin City Limits Music Festival seemed almost redundant. The three Garza brothers from the wilds of San Angelo — bassist JoJo, guitarist Henry and drummer Ringo — appear to take their own festival with them. Or so one would surmise, given their tumultuous reception by a 5,000-strong crowd that has been primed by word of mouth or direct observation to crown the blues/rock/Tex-Mex trio the greatest thing since night baseball. (Kudos from no less than Willie Nelson, a fan of the boys, doesn't hurt, either). Like all three of the previous shows this observer has witnessed, the band's set drew almost exclusively from the debut album, with the exception of the set-closing blues extrapolation, "End of A New Beginning," which exists as a framework for the trio's bag of showbiz tricks (duckwalks, behind-the-head guitar playing, etc.). But why quibble, when the component songs on the album continue to receive such emphatic and vibrant treatment onstage? Hearing "Heaven" for the hundredth time, for instance, doesn't ruin the pleasure one takes in hearing those DNA-grooved harmonies once more, and the Santana-esque set piece "Onda" continues to grow in power and complexity (a neat trick on Friday, given that Ringo was as sick as the proverbial canine with some sort of stomach bug). Los Lonely Boys' ecstatic reception by die-hard fans and newcomers alike might well have been the envy of many of the bigger acts playing on the higher-profile stages. Leftover Salmon, H-E-B Stage, 6 p.m. What was it that Ben Franklin said about fish and houseguests — that they start to smell after three days? Early Friday evening, out-of-towners Leftover Salmon managed to do it after just three songs. It wasn't a bad smell — nothing like, say, a van full of sweaty hippies after a four-day drive to Bonnaroo. It was just . . . stale. The Denver-based jam band describes its music as "polyethnic Cajun slamgrass," and that's sort of right. The sound is a veritable gumbo of elastic beats, funky grooves and straight-outta-Kentucky finger-picking. But for a group with so many different influences, it's remarkable how same-y the songs sound. Sure, the banjo might be a little more prominent on "Railroad Highway," and "Tu N'As Pas Aller" might have a slightly zydeco feel, but there's not a whole lot else going on. On the other hand, this all mattered very little to the Salmonheads (eww) in attendance. And, oh, were they in attendance — drumming, twirling and acting generally (and genuinely) carefree. Leftover Salmon is good-time music, after all, and the ACL fest is about nothing if not a good time. So when, with the sun dipping below the hills and a cool breeze fluttering toward the downtown skyline, the band signed off with a rollicking little number called "Euphoria," it was pretty dang hard not to smile — stale smell or no. — Josh Eells — John T. Davis Steve Winwood, Capital Metro Stage, 7 p.m. Steve Winwood at ACL? Admittedly a bit of a head-scratcher. But what can you say about a guy who first came to prominence as a skinny Englishman who could sing like Ray Charles? Whatever your feelings about his use of his gift at times — "Higher Love," anyone? — it still counts for something, doesn't it? Actually, some reports have suggested that the golden throat is starting to show signs of tarnish, but it certainly sounded fine Friday. Winwood and his band instantly grabbed an already pumped crowd (for Steve Winwood?) with an inspired version of the organ rock classic "I'm a Man" and remained in peak form through a set that drew from across his career. Older tracks such as Traffic's "Pearly Queen" swelled to extravagant, psychedelic heights. And VH1-lite fare such as "Back in the High Life Again," which evolved into a lengthy, tropical jam with Winwood on mandolin, was impressive. The natural closer, the Spencer Davis Group's "Gimme Some Lovin,' " sent the audience away on a high, but it was the torrid, show-stopping rendition of Traffic's epic signature tune, "Mr. Fantasy," that left me scratching my head yet again. Had I really just been rocked by Steve Winwood? — Jeremy Egner Spoon, Heineken Stage, 8 p.m. "Small Stakes," the twitchy leadoff single from Spoon's latest release, "Kill the Moonlight," is a cautionary tale about little bands afraid to take big chances. So there was a certain irony in the air Friday night as the hard-luck heroes of the Austin indie scene used the song to kick off their set. Five years after being pink-slipped by the suits at Elektra, Spoon has dug its way back into the (relative) mainstream; there's a multirecord deal with Merge, an album that topped the CMJ charts and even a song on Fox's "The O.C." Talk about your series of sneaks. It should have come as little surprise, then, that the band would put on a shiny, happy show for a couple thousand hometown fans. What was surprising was just how happy it was, from the jauntier-than-usual keyboards on "The Way We Get By" to the extra bounce in Jim Eno (drums) and Josh Zarbo's (bass) groove. Even frontman Britt Daniel, who confided to the crowd that he "felt terrible" before taking the stage, wound up grinning like a third-grader after a piano recital. But the clincher was the way they made the riff on "Metal Detektor," normally a couple of downbeat minor chords in a downbeat minor song, into something that bordered on hopeful —triumphant, even. Take that, Elektra. — Josh Eells Dwight Yoakam, Cingular Stage, 8:45 p.m. You could almost hear several thousand hearts sink as one when Dwight Yoakam, the foremost honky-tonk revivalist of our time, walked out onto the Austin City Limits Festival stage last night with . . . a banjo player? Scary. But, as Yoakam explained from the stage (and he was in an unusually ebullient mood), multi-instrumentalist Keith Gaddis and he teamed up for a week's worth of acoustic-based dates, which evolved into a 45-city tour. After opening with "The Power of Love," Yoakam and Gaddis were joined by an acoustic bassist and a drummer behind a small trap set. The ensemble even spent some time sitting down, which seemed to please Yoakam's female fan contingent none at all. Still, the stripped-down approach worked well enough to charm the masses out there in the dark. Indulging in what he called "an eclectic romp" over the past 18 or so years of his prolific career, Yoakam essayed everything from his own debut of "Guitars and Cadillacs" to a mountain string band cover of Cheap Trick's "I Want You to Want Me." And, of course, there was a tip of the Stetson to the late Johnny Cash: a reverent version of "Ring of Fire." — John T. Davis Al Green, Capital Metro stage, 8:45 p.m He strides on stage in a spotless white suit and gold chain. His band is large: guitar, bass, drums, horns, keyboard, dancers, the works. A fog machine is going. They look ready to burn. They look at their leader in his white suit as he surveys the massive crowd, cheering as he's introduced. "We have a legend in the house tonight," the announcer says. At 9 p.m. on the Capital Metro stage, the Rev. Al Green turned to his band, said, "Let's go to work," and in front of thousands of tired ACL attendees, proved just why he is a legend with an explosive set that was just getting started when he had to leave at 10 p.m. Opening with "Let's Get Married," closing with a thunderously groovy "Love and Happiness" (what a bassline!), parking a brilliant reading of "Amazing Grace," a few more hits, and plenty of preaching in between ("Texas, God kept us here for the good times!" ), Green rocked harder than any act that day. Though some complained that he spent too much time leading the crowd in singalongs, his voice hasn't lost a note, his dancing hasn't lost a step and his band sounded like it could vamp on the Lord's word all night long. "Don't let nobody fool you (and) tell you the Rev. Al Green retired," he shouted near the end of the set. Let's hope he can bring that groove back next year, and maybe we can give him a few more hours to let us come down and get saved. — Joe Gross | ||||
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