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MGMT

Two New York groove collectives
catch (and lose) a buzz

BY JOSH MODELL

YEASAYER

Yeasayer’s Chris Keating seemed possessed
by friendly but pessimistic spirits.

FEBRUARY 8, 2008

SCHUBAS TAVERN, CHICAGO

Malcolm McLaren once

decreed, “Call all hippies

boring old farts and set light

to them.” The Sex Pistols

mastermind might be horri-

fied to learn that tastemakers in Chicago

packed a double bill featuring head-

bands, a fretless bass, a ponytail, mussy

facial hair, at least one scarf, a guitar made

to sound like a sitar, weed-squinted stares,

and a shirtless drummer. All were spotted

at the first of two Yeasayer/MGMT shows

on February 8 at Schubas, a beautiful little

tavern that seemed almost too pristine for

such an assemblage.

Yeasayer, who opened the early show,

don’t look like hipsters ironically dressed

as working stiffs from northern Wiscon-

sin—they look like they actually clocked

out of the auto shop on the way to the

show. Live and on record (their insinuat-

ing debut album, All Hour Cymbals), the

Brooklyn band capture and release a

strange energy that could make sense

anywhere from a covers bar to Burning

Man to, well, Brooklyn, because their

dark passion feels intensely, universally

believable. Singer Chris Keating, his eyes

wild as if possessed by friendly but

pessimistic spirits, seemed overjoyed to

be onstage, and also constantly worried.

Maybe it’s because the world is

ending and all he can do is sing about

it. Yeasayer’s best songs—those that

mix TV on the Radio, some vague defini-

tion of “world music,” and the simplest

rhythmic pulse—offer simultaneous

joy and fear, none more so than the gorgeous “2080,” which began with

a jammy freak-out before finding a

sloppily winning groove. Set-ender

“Sunrise,” even with its questionable-

on-paper tribal trappings, came across

as absolutely (and naturally) vital for

both the performers and the audience.

The same can’t be said for MGMT,

who got stuck in the quicksand of a sonic

middle ground and couldn’t shimmy

out. A duo on record but a quintet live,

the group—also from New York—were

studied but not practiced, and more

pleased with themselves than they

should’ve been. (They also look like

latchkey waifs; quoth a guy next to me:

“How old are these guys?”) Their impres-

sive debut, Oracular Spectacular, refuses

to sit still stylistically, but the falsetto

vocals and new-wave strut of a song like

“Electric Feel” barely registered live.

The exception was the magnificent

single “Time to Pretend,” which leads

with a sticky synth melody and pokes

fun at the flower-power paradigm rather

than succumbing to it. It was the only

song MGMT sounded excited about, and it came early in a 45-minute set. By

the time the drummer took the mic for

the last song—an indecipherable blob recalling ’80s-era Flaming Lips—any buzz

had faded into half-interest both on- and

offstage, a feeling not helped by the fact

that the opening act had utilized similar

ingredients but a far better recipe.