The Fragile Army

The Fragile Army

Keeping Live Music Alive

Ever wonder why people bother paying twice or more the cost of a CD to go see a band live, only to stare at two guys lamely tweak knobs and poke at their laptop on a stage for three hours? Sometimes you’re just hungry for an experience that you can’t have simply by pressing ”play.”

Last night, I think I found a solution. I went to see the Polyphonic Spree at the TLA in Philadelphia. It was hands down one of the best live performance I’ve seen in my life, standing alongside experiencing a still spry Elvin Jones drive a sizable jazz ensemble at the tail-end of his life, or witnessing the chaotic nightmare that was Mr Bungle at their peak. I will do what I can to introduce you to Polyphonic Spree’s work, if you’re not familiar, but there is a single point I am going to have to return to time and again: go out and see them yourself. Nothing else does it justice.

I was first indoctrin- er, introduced to them by my girlfriend, who is obsessed with Tripping Daisy, which is the band that Polyphonic Spree essentially came out of. The story goes that Wes Berggren – the guitarist of Tripping Daisy – died, and there was a benefit jam of sorts. The Spree wound up growing organically out of that tragedy. I don’t know if the latter part of this story is true or not, but given the open feeling to the music, it seems to make sense. Both bands are adored by some and pigeon-holed by others because of Tim Delaughter’s voice, which reminds me a great deal of the crooning of Wayne Coyne, the front-man of The Flaming Lips. There is a similarity in the music as well, in the sense that both are immediately identifiable, and yet strangely unique. Since both are contemporaries, though it is possible that there was some influence one way to the other, it’s more likely that it’s just plain coincidence.

I’ve heard their records, I’ve enjoyed the music, but I really didn’t know what I was in for when it came to the show.

After entering the venue and making my way towards the front, I was greeted with the opening act, Jesca Hoop. She was quirky and unique, for most of her performance playing her guitar and talking to the audience nonchalantly like she was a good friend in all of our living rooms. She’s on tour with the Polyphonic Spree to promote her debut Kismet, which Tom Waits apparent described by saying “her music is like going swimming in a lake at night.” (I can personally vouch that if so, it’s not at all like many of the brackish, fetid “lakes” that I’ve seen.) For those of you who need a comparison of her “sound,” imagine throwing Bjork and Patty Smith in a blender. I enjoyed what she was doing, though as her performance went on the audience began to distract me to the point of annoyance.

Alright, that’s an understatement. She was inviting us into her living room and most of the people in the crowd were kicking around beer cans, tossing gang signs, and vomiting on the floor. (Figuratively speaking of course.)
If it wasn’t for my generally laid-back demeanor and a certain amount of forced restraint, I wouldn’t be writing this article right now because I’d be in jail for assault. People were yammering so loudly that you could barely hear her performance in what was a relatively small venue. I understand if you have to ask your friend what time it is, or where your pot-head friend Joey went off to… but I overheard people talking about television shows they’d just watched, bitching about their jobs, and otherwise contributing to the din that results from a room-full of people who would probably have mental breakdowns if they were forced to sit alone in a room for ten minutes without a cell phone.

As Jesca said in-between songs in her gracious attempt at a subtle kick under the table, “listening really is a talent. Not everyone has it. I’m happy that you folks do.” Why pay $25 for a ticket to go into a music venue and talk loudly over whatever is being performed for you? Do us all a favor, stay home, and masturbate to Family Ties re-runs or something. I understand if her music isn’t your thing. It wasn’t always my thing either, but she was doing it exquisitely well, and even if she wasn’t, you can have a little respect for what is a musical venue, not a social one.

Maybe it’s a pet peeve of mine- many times I’ve played albums that I’ve put years into producing only to have people start chatting up a storm 5 seconds into the first track. I know it’s impolite to smack someone across the face and tell them to sit still and LISTEN for once in their lives, but- Alright, I’m going to calm down now, because what came next was incredible- incredible enough to knock me out of the bitter mood I was descending into, and that’s not generally an easy task.

She had left the stage, punctuated by the knee-jerk applause of the audience (whenever she would stop strumming, they would politely clap before going back to talking to one another.) The main act started, music cutting through the monkeychatter, though all we could see were words projected onto a broad swath of red cloth that blocked off most of the stage. Tim Delaughter cut his way from behind this red curtain, which dropped to reveal the entire ensemble. Without hesitation they broke into their first song, and within minutes the audience, just moments before so distracted and mindless, were completely entranced. Soon there was crowd surfing, enormous sing-alongs, even harmonies orchestrated by grand sweeps of Tim’s arms. It was the kind of thing you see from music videos in the 90s, and it was pure bliss to actually be in one.

They may be sporting black paramilitary uniforms now, (the photos I took on my phone that you see here are from when they came back on stage with their white robes), but the Polyphonic Spree still can’t help spreading frantic positivity wherever they go. If you look closely you will notice that these black outfits are still covered with signs of assistance and hope, such as the red cross, and a close listen to the title track on The Fragile Army may clue you in a bit on where they seem to be coming from with all of this. I found myself almost tearing up when they got into their stripped-down version of Sun (no really, that’s just dust in my eye.) There’s something so beautifully child-like in the music, you really can’t help but be sucked into it.

They have been called a cult, a joke band, a hippie sideshow: all of these labels completely miss the point. Beyond my own experience, I’m not sure I can tell you what that “point” is either, though I have my hunches. I only got to talk to Tim briefly, and really didn’t think it would be fair to start grilling him about his intentions as an artist so soon after putting on such a colossal show. We got the guy a drink but seriously, he deserved
a break.

After the show, Bryan Wakeland, (one of their two drummers), told me they’d been in their bus for twelve hours before getting to Philly. The A/C was blown, it was humid and hot. They’d been on the road non-stop and somehow I doubt they have a personal chef and masseuse traveling with them. God knows they were probably exhausted, and yet they whipped an otherwise idle and unfocused audience into a frenzy, and played for well over two hours. If they missed a note or a beat, I didn’t catch it.

I personally can’t truly comprehend the logistical nightmare that it must be to keep twenty four musicians fed and moving from city to city for months on end, but I think it speaks volumes that despite those potentially harrowing realities, they are able to bring fantasy and joy to what is oftentimes a bleak and boring world. Talented musicians, yes, but more to the point: mind-blowing performers. Get their album if you can, but if you don’t get the chance to see one of their shows in person, you don’t know what you’re missing. Have I said that enough? No, I really mean it. I’m going to leave you with some audio that I managed to snag at the show, and a track off of their new album, The Fragile Army. Pick it up. See them.

The Fragile Army – CD