Anyone who can predict what’s going to happen at a concert by The Eels should probably know better.
In that sense, Thursday’s Eels No Strings Attached show at The Pabst Theater did not fail to disappoint. Those who were expecting to see a show filled with delicate melodies and gloomy lyricism were quickly jolted from their anticipated trance by a blow-your-socks off, pin your ears back set that was more sonic bombardment than musical subtlety. Indeed, there were no strings attached, just shredded E strings on guitars that screamed like the shrieking prayers of the damned.
If you showed up Thursday night looking for a champagne and caviar show of poignant lyricism and painfully sweet melodies, you quickly realized that you had come to a Hawaiian shirt party dressed in tuxedo. Thursday was not an evening for quiet reflection on composer E’s (Mark Oliver Everett) gothic view of life, it was a night to hear your eardrums split under a barrage of guitar-driven, drum-pounding rock and roll.
Subtle as a freight train and delicate as a sledgehammer, the Eels ripped through a one hour, forty minute set that left the audience both exhausted and bewildered.
Anyone who had heard the Eels most recent CD, “Blinking Lights and Other Revelations,” which this tour purportedly supports, would have expected the usual suicide-note lyrics combined with lullaby melodies. Not Thursday night.
E, joined by a band that included a bouncer-keyboard-kung fu warrior Krazy Al, alternately played guitar and keyboards wearing a leather bomber hat and goggles pinned atop his head. E said little or nothing during the show; rather, Krazy Al, dressed in a black T-shirt with “SECURITY” on the front, introduced songs like “Dirty Girl” with non sequiturs like “you’re not going anywhere” and “I want to wrestle you in a non-sexual manner.”
The youngish crowd that had formed a sort of loose, bopping mosh pit -- make that frosh pit -- in front of the stage were suitably entranced by just about everything they heard. But even the most devoted must have wondered what they walked into when the band ripped into a scorching version of Tom Waits’ “Jesus Gonna Be Here.” Even E’s own “Cancer for the Cure” was barely recognizable under the roar of the band.
There were no guitar or piano leads Thursday night, just a sort of wonderful cacophony that comes from a band playing with an almost punk-like abandon. But again, was anybody really expecting to hear the Eels tear into Screamin’ Jay Hawkins’ “I Put a Spell on You”? Probably not.
Thankfully, unlike the Eels With Strings Tour of 2005, no one was playing that infuriating saw. Not that anyone could have heard it anyway.
But while they occasionally sounded like some haywire acid jam band that had gone horribly wrong, the Eels delivered a cathartic, energetic and sometimes spectacular show that left the crowd wanting more of whatever it was they had just heard.
The Pabst was set up for general admission seating -- a system which fell out of vogue when people got stomped to death at a Who concert in Cincinnati -- but it worked out well since no one was going to get trampled fighting for a seat close to the stage for the opening band, Smoosh.
Smoosh, a charming novelty act made up of two high school-aged sisters, one on keyboards and one on drums, gave it the old college -- uh, high school -- try. Their 30-minute set was well-received by the assembled hundreds, with numbers consisting of well-executed but generic rock that would easily have won any local talent contest.
No doubt Smoosh’s parents were grateful that they were touring, lest they put up with the continued racket in the garage. But what Smoosh was doing opening up for a band like the Eels was another story, likely part of the continuing mystery of what the Eels were trying to foist upon their fans Thursday night.
Smoosh’s set, mercifully brief, showed promise. But it will require much more polish, and maybe a few more years, or decades, on the road before people really crush the stage to touch the hem of their garments. By the time they joined the Eels’ encore on stage for a cheerleader-like rampage as the show closed, the gag had grown old.
But by that time no one cared much. Whatever E and the Eels had delivered, they delivered it in overwhelming doses.
In that sense, Thursday’s Eels No Strings Attached show at The Pabst Theater did not fail to disappoint. Those who were expecting to see a show filled with delicate melodies and gloomy lyricism were quickly jolted from their anticipated trance by a blow-your-socks off, pin your ears back set that was more sonic bombardment than musical subtlety. Indeed, there were no strings attached, just shredded E strings on guitars that screamed like the shrieking prayers of the damned.
If you showed up Thursday night looking for a champagne and caviar show of poignant lyricism and painfully sweet melodies, you quickly realized that you had come to a Hawaiian shirt party dressed in tuxedo. Thursday was not an evening for quiet reflection on composer E’s (Mark Oliver Everett) gothic view of life, it was a night to hear your eardrums split under a barrage of guitar-driven, drum-pounding rock and roll.
Subtle as a freight train and delicate as a sledgehammer, the Eels ripped through a one hour, forty minute set that left the audience both exhausted and bewildered.
Anyone who had heard the Eels most recent CD, “Blinking Lights and Other Revelations,” which this tour purportedly supports, would have expected the usual suicide-note lyrics combined with lullaby melodies. Not Thursday night.
E, joined by a band that included a bouncer-keyboard-kung fu warrior Krazy Al, alternately played guitar and keyboards wearing a leather bomber hat and goggles pinned atop his head. E said little or nothing during the show; rather, Krazy Al, dressed in a black T-shirt with “SECURITY” on the front, introduced songs like “Dirty Girl” with non sequiturs like “you’re not going anywhere” and “I want to wrestle you in a non-sexual manner.”
The youngish crowd that had formed a sort of loose, bopping mosh pit -- make that frosh pit -- in front of the stage were suitably entranced by just about everything they heard. But even the most devoted must have wondered what they walked into when the band ripped into a scorching version of Tom Waits’ “Jesus Gonna Be Here.” Even E’s own “Cancer for the Cure” was barely recognizable under the roar of the band.
There were no guitar or piano leads Thursday night, just a sort of wonderful cacophony that comes from a band playing with an almost punk-like abandon. But again, was anybody really expecting to hear the Eels tear into Screamin’ Jay Hawkins’ “I Put a Spell on You”? Probably not.
Thankfully, unlike the Eels With Strings Tour of 2005, no one was playing that infuriating saw. Not that anyone could have heard it anyway.
But while they occasionally sounded like some haywire acid jam band that had gone horribly wrong, the Eels delivered a cathartic, energetic and sometimes spectacular show that left the crowd wanting more of whatever it was they had just heard.
The Pabst was set up for general admission seating -- a system which fell out of vogue when people got stomped to death at a Who concert in Cincinnati -- but it worked out well since no one was going to get trampled fighting for a seat close to the stage for the opening band, Smoosh.
Smoosh, a charming novelty act made up of two high school-aged sisters, one on keyboards and one on drums, gave it the old college -- uh, high school -- try. Their 30-minute set was well-received by the assembled hundreds, with numbers consisting of well-executed but generic rock that would easily have won any local talent contest.
No doubt Smoosh’s parents were grateful that they were touring, lest they put up with the continued racket in the garage. But what Smoosh was doing opening up for a band like the Eels was another story, likely part of the continuing mystery of what the Eels were trying to foist upon their fans Thursday night.
Smoosh’s set, mercifully brief, showed promise. But it will require much more polish, and maybe a few more years, or decades, on the road before people really crush the stage to touch the hem of their garments. By the time they joined the Eels’ encore on stage for a cheerleader-like rampage as the show closed, the gag had grown old.
But by that time no one cared much. Whatever E and the Eels had delivered, they delivered it in overwhelming doses.
