Let’s talk about the Portland show earlier in the month. I like the front row because the effects of the floating dance floor are minimized and they don’t usually give you any grief when you put your bottle of water on the stage. There is an occasional down side to the front row, and that is a sight line to part of the band at times. I was far enough to the right that I could barely see the top of Jim Loughlin’s head for most of the show. But, other than that, I love being right there in the pit, catching the expressions of the artists, the subtle body language between players, snagging the occasional souvenir pick, drum stick or set list.
The front row is where you find the lifelong fans, the die hards. For a lot of bands today, the front row all know each other, having stood shoulder to shoulder in the last stop or three on the current tour, following their favorites as much a life as a lifestyle.
Andie and Jeff were two such fans sharing the front row with me that warm June evening. Hailing from the Ashland area of Oregon, they had taken a few weeks of their summer vacation from their teaching jobs down south and were catching as much live music as possible in the time allotted. They had been through the bay area of California, Boise, Spokane, Seattle and now Portland.
During the first set, Andie, Jeff and I got to know each other through the bumps and such that occur through such close proximity, nodding an apologetic smile after bumping body parts, that sort of thing. The between song gaps were filled in with introductions and quick, personal reviews of what we just saw: “Nice solo on Blue Jeans Pizza, don’t you think?” Come to think of it, it was a good solo.
The entire first set was full of tight guitar work. I didn’t think the band really got cooking till they squeezed Interstellar Overdrive between two slices of Head to end the set. It was easily twenty minutes of inspired musicianship that got the audience working the floating dance floor to its limits. Despite the somewhat cool June temperatures outside, it was positively steaming in the Crystal as moe. left the stage with the promise of more to come. Jeff promised to keep my place up front as I decided to take my chances of returning after getting a fresh bottle of water and some fresh air.
The second set found the band much more relaxed and playful. Starting out with Wormwood, they bounced the lead back and forth between band members at will, stretching one song into the next effortlessly. There were sections of jazz fusion innovation blended with head banging rock and loopy noodling, all segued seamlessly one to the next by the simplest of gestures, a nod here, a wave there. For some reason, they came back to Brent Black several times in that second set, which sort of gave the whole thing a concept album sort of feel, always coming back to the central theme.
Another stand out from the second set was the amazing guitar work on George. This tune had Andie in tears as Schnier and Garvey traded licks back and forth and back and forth again. We were right in front of bass guitarist Rob Derhak, who looked down at us and shrugged his shoulders , as if to say “I have no idea how the hell they do that.” They followed that up with Lazarus and then sandwiched Drums between Brent Black runs to finish the set. The crowd had thinned a bit, but the enthusiasm hadn’t diminished a bit and the floating dance floor was bouncing at the edges as we called for the encore.
What we were treated to for that encore was an epic rendition of Waiting For The Punchline. With its bluegrass-tinged, infectious rhythm and up tempo bridge, it was a great way to send us off into the night. Each of the band members had a chance to stretch, moving the song along at a break neck pace. There was some impromptu square dance moves in the crowd, to go along with the usual twirls and shoe gazing/head bobbing.
By the clock, it was almost exactly one. Damned curfews. I followed the crowd down the two flights to street level. I was humming a little medley of the night’s highlights in my head and didn’t even turn on the radio till I was half way home. (Anyone who knows me realizes that this almost NEVER happens).
Now, fast forward a couple of weeks or so, half a continent away in Manchester, Tennessee; my brother Ed and I are making our hot and sweaty way around Bonnaroo trying to get close for moe.’s acoustic set on the Sonic Stage. The Sonic Stage is one of the Roo’s smallest, more intimate venues, mostly acoustic and always fun. The problem is the limited audience space, especially for these Bonnaroo veterans. We were a tad late getting there, having been held up a bit by the underrated St. Vincent, and could barely get off the dirt path/road before reaching the impenetrable rear of the densely packed crowd.
As luck would have it, two volunteer workers were taking in the set (they said they were on break) from the front seat of their green golf cart. I asked permission first, then jumped into the golf club holding area and gained a couple of feet advantage over those blocking my view. And so it came to pass that Ed and I watched most of moe’s Friday afternoon set from the back of a golf cart.
As I said, we were a tad late, arriving just after All Roads Lead to Home began. Not my favorite, but really different with the acoustic treatment. But when they started New York City, they got the back of the golf cart bouncing. The audience, myself included, sang along and clapped like it was an old-time barn dance. Seamlessly, they began playing Time Again and really stretched it out, especially at the beginning. They finished up the set with St. Augustine, another ten minutes of Bonnaroo joyous sunshine from the stage.
But what really sold the afternoon was the inclusion of McBain as an encore. On the acoustic strings the band let loose, schooling us with wonderful picking and jamming along at breakneck speed. I really appreciated Al’s scatting along with some of the solos. (Scat, the lost vocal art that shares its name with feral fecal matter.) I think this is my new favorite moe. tune and tell Ed so. He counters with a gentle reminder that this ain’t nothing compared to what they will do Saturday night/Sunday morning, without the restraints of a curfew.
Well, come Saturday night/Sunday morning, Ed and I are making the rounds after an incredible Springsteen show that lasted over three and a half hours. We began on the outskirts of the Which Stage crowd for Nine Inch Nails, made our way pretty deep into the crowd for part of MGMT at That Tent before making our way back over to This Tent for moe’s late night set.
When we arrived the band was jamming hard and it took me a while to recognize Recreational Chemistry. That’s part of the fun with a band like moe. that has played together for so long. They take every song in so many different directions and never loose the original groove. They rocked as hard on this song as I have ever heard them play; fierce, neck bending solos, trippy, loopy bass lines and all the while, Vinnie Amico’s unrelenting tommy-gun drum attack kept it steady on the drums. I swear, if my arms could move that fast, I’d move to Seattle and catch fish at Pike St. Market.
On the next song, Rod Derhak took the lead on bass for about ten minutes, once again showing that he is one of the best bottom end men in the business. The band rambled with both drive and purpose for quite a while. I was surprised as anyone when the guys were joined onstage, one then the other, by members of the Nocturnals. Without missing a beat, one by one, the members of moe. quietly left the stage and took their intermission break, while Grace Potter led her band through about a forty minute soulful set. The transition was amazing, with several in the crowd around us shaking their heads, dumfounded at their (and our) good fortune. We had not gotten over to see her earlier in the day, being occupied with Animal collective, St. Vincent and the previously mentioned Friday afternoon moe. set.
My favorite of their set was, by far, the semi-closer, Sweet Hands. It has a great Bo Didley beat, giving both Potter’s vocals and the rest of the band a chance to show off.
Then it was transition time again. The band kicked into another jamming instrumental and was soon intertwined with moe. again. Once they were back to just the five of them, the second set began in earnest. Lazarus was first. I’ve always liked the harmonies and percussions on this song and they nailed both. After that, I put my notebook away. I got lost in the rest of the show as had countless moe.rons before me.
The songs bled into each other and I swear, the band never actually stopped playing the rest of the night. I don’t recall any song ever really ending. I guess that’s a good thing right? moe. tunes that never end? Alas, all good things must come to an end, even moe’s late night Bonnaroo set. The fact that they didn’t end it till sun up, well, that was just amazing. The fact that they had the energy to play Rebubula with such ferocity after all that and finish with The Pit to send us back to Camp R2D2 grinning from ear to ear and wishing the sun would reverse its course for at least an hour or two, staving off the Tennessee June heat while we grabbed some much needed sleep.
So, what, you may ask, have we learned about our five friends from Buffalo, N.Y. after witnessing three incarnations of the same musicians? We learned that they are in possession of the finest musical abilities. We learned that about two decades of playing together equals musical telepathy. We learned that there are these five guys from upstate New York are playing at the top of their game, with as much vigor and conviction in front of two hundred or twenty thousand. We learned that i f you miss a moe. show, or any part thereof, you’d better have a darn good reason.
Rock on through the fog,
A.J. Crandall
3 Responses
great article! In my next life, I want to be a music mag reporter 😉