Sometimes you just want to see live music. And you’re checking out the calendars at your usual music venues and something pops up and you think, “Yeah, that might be fun.” The Beths is that. Not exactly a band that I’m passionate about, but one whose albums I’ve enjoyed and thought might make for a fun live experience. After all, I can’t just stand around with a bunch of bespectacled, bearded middle-aged men all the time. And figured this audience might give me a little different experience in terms of the vibe and in terms of the crowd. I was correct.
I did find it interesting that this show was sold out. It’s not as if White Eagle Hall is terribly large — it has a capacity of around 800 — but there were other, much more famous bands playing here earlier in the month who didn’t sell out. So why, you ask, would this relatively under-the-radar Kiwi indie pop band draw such an enthusiastic crowd on this Saturday night in Jersey City? Well, the Internet tells me that NYC is the second-most popular city in the US for New Zealanders to move. So, do we think they got on the PATH to come see their countrymates? I definitely heard some distinct Kiwi accents walking away from the venue. But that’s anecdotal, of course. More likely is the fact the band has toured with larger acts like Pixies, the Breeders and Death Cab for Cutie and gained some exposure that way. Or maybe it’s because Pitchfork likes them. Whatever the case, it was nice to see them get some support from the locals.
Can we talk about people from New Zealand? There is something inherently funny about them. Maybe it’s the accent. Or their incredibly quirky delivery. But you couldn’t really separate this band from Flight of the Conchords. Not that they write comedy music or anything, but their banter between songs is equally funny. What with the bassist and drummer plugging their incredibly drolly-named travel blog literally called Breakfast and Travel Updates (.com). You can only guess what goes on there. They had a little schtick in the middle of their set where they talked about how driving around Jersey City was crazy (it is) and chatted about their adventures in America. It’s like this rube act that is never not funny. To add, the men — including one of the dudes in the opening band — were rocking these really silly Kiwi logo short-shorts that reminded me of the Dolfin shorts my British P.E. teacher wore in high school. They were also all rocking (save the drummer) what one could only call ugly 80s Ross Dress for Less button downs. I wasn’t quite nerd aesthetic; but just kind of an I-don’t-give-a-shit-about-being-cool thing. Rock stars, man.
So, we settled in about four people deep from the stage for the opening band, Princess Chelsea. A band that Ms. Hipster instantly crinkled her nose at. Kind of experimental, but also shoegaze, but also indie showtunes. I don’t know. I found them entertaining. But, that aside, after they left the stage, we expected the usual people surge. The one where people push forward and the 6’7″ dude and his dumb girlfriend cut in front of you so he can sway and rub her tiny neck and just generally ruin your view and your sense of humanity. But it never came. We stood our ground and nobody got into our back. Or spilled a beer on us. Or even moved, really. So there we stood, the same three or so people in front of us and the stage in front of them. Granted, the dude directoly in front of us was wearing flip-flops like a weirdo and at some point slipped them off and stood barefoot on the venue floor. He had at least one ring on every single one of his toes, as if he’d been tagged by an overzealous wildlife conservationist. So odd. He also talked to the female lead singers of both bands. Telling them they were wonderful and misinterpreting their tortured lyrics as their current mood. And, again, we were mere feet from the stage — close enough for the singers to clearly hear him spouting his loving, but cringey plaudits. I signaled from behind this man that we weren’t with him. I feel a little bad about it, but I don’t want the blog to call me out as another barefoot stalker.
Overall, the band sounded great. Their music tends to be really upbeat and bouncy. If that’s a word that can be applied to this brand of indie rock. Their drummer is incredibly lively and I thought drove the show with his idiosyncratic, enthusiastic style. Ms. Hipster, who is a dummer herself, thought he was getting a little over-excited at times and sped up more than a few. Which would make sense why the bassist turned around several times early on to give him a look that definitely wasn’t about that morning’s breakfast blog entry. But, hey, hectic drumming is what I’m all about. I did spend an inordinate amount of time trying to figure out what kind of guitar Elizabeth Stokes was playing. It was orange, which I appreciate. But also wasn’t your typical Fender, or even her usual G&L (both brands that I totally play in my house like a dork). Turns out to be something called a Trent Model 2. Never heard of it, but mystery solved! But, honestly, it was a fun, breezy set. They played the “hits” and got on and off in a reasonable amount of time that it was neither too long nor too short. Stokes’ voice sounded great, the hall sounded resplendent and, as expected, the crowd was not filled with completely and totally straight Gen-X men wearing vintage Replacements t-shirts and flannels. Way more gay. And a scosche more trans. Which is a refreshing change from the bald-ass FM radio gang who usually haunt my indie rock jaunts. I mean, they were there too, but at least there were some old ladies and, weirdly, some boomers who looked like they’d wandered in for the Sunday buffet.
Anyhow, if you get a chance to see The Beths, definitely go do it. It’s not necessarily going to be transformational or transcendent or whatever it’s called when you take a bunch of acid and see god and stuff. But it’s a good night out — especially if you enjoy an incredibly polite and gentile crowd bopping to pop music. In fact you can see the crowd in the photo from the show below from the aforementioned band blog and play a little Where’s Waldo? with Mr. and Ms. Hipster. Hint: you can see our noses from outer space. But you can only tell I have facial hair when standing about four feet from my face. I have brown hair (as does Ms. Hipster) and am not what one would call a robust fella. Okay, enough hints! Go find us. And go see The Beths.
