by Bill Repko
An acute case of train lag had me slumped in my seat, teetering between hypnopompic stoicism and wayward excitement. I spotted my first hipster; she wore a white tee, cuffed jean shorts, braid-necklace, a pair of gilded sandals, and a glum expression. Since the launch of People of Septa, I developed some strange aversion to riding on public transit – trains, buses, gondolas – and always assumed I would, one day, suffer from some early onset of the bubonic plague contracted from the stained berber blue seats. The hipster woman noticed me staring and nodded over at me. I replied with a wave, which she again followed with another nod. A pattern of cyclical “how-do-you-does” were exchanged until I pulled up to my stop. I decided that if I ever ran into her again, I would be the one to nod and she could be the one to wave. I’m a nodder by nature; it’s a talent. Nodding.
Ellsworth-Federal station smelled as if it just was marinated in grilled hotdogs. I wasn’t very familiar with Philly’s south end, so when I stepped out onto the sidewalk it was much like walking into a new city. Much of the same kinds of shops and bars littered the cityscape, but instead of adopting the claustrophobic density found within the rest of the city, many of the buildings remained low to the ground, where even closely connected shops had room for air to flow between interstices that defined one storefront from another. More like a quaint town, than a sprawling urban area.
I asked for directions to the Boot & Saddle – when I was told it was the building attached to the giant billboard boot, confusion on how to find the venue quickly cleared up – and found it only about a block down the road. What at first resembled dross furnishing under dim orange lighting, warmed itself up into an Old City boutique with a western drawl. The classroom-sized chalkboard hanging from the wall listed their repertoire of beer: Langunista IPA, Yards Bawler, Brewers Art Ozzy, something called Clown Shoes Clementine White. They were served in dainty cylindrical glasses and drank beside Sterno candles balanced on small circular wood tables. The crowds were chameleon with their setting; many of the men were garbed in flannel, while the women wore long, slip-on dresses of minimalist line designs, or tie-dye.
A member of what I assumed was a Grateful Dead youth ministry wandered past, wearing a caramel pleather vest and a mop of wild hair – like a frazzled character talked about in urban legends. Beautiful people, but without the formulaic sartorial fashion sense of Hollywood (Phillywood?). There was a careful mix of people in their early-20s to mid-30s clung along the walls in conversation. The crowd looked sparse, but it was early and as proper bar etiquette implies, the crème dela crème never appeared until 9pm.
I stepped outside for a cigarette, while the first band, Dream Safari, set up to play. Detailed discussions on vegan politics, cat fancy – “A mad fluffy cat, Davie, is a lot more friendly.” – and vapor life occupied the clusters of people who came out to have a smoke before the show. I noticed that many of the people at the bar associated with each other quite regularly. Conversations melted into others, creating a hybrid of truncated topics and far-reaching dispositions on secular aspects of life.
Dream Safari, lead by singer/songwriter, Christopher Coulton, and drummer, Jorge Sutton have been together for a little over a year. The two-man group came together and complimented each others sound nicely, adding a well-placed fringe to catchy tunes. Infused with tranquil jungle pop-ish melody and Jens Lekman styled vocals, they crafted their sound into a very distinct style . The setlist, comprised of songs like “Emerald” and “Aztec”, created a memorable, although brief, presence on stage. The stirring of the synth and percussion stretched across an angelic sentiment captured by the band’s general vibe.
I was curious to know how the name, Dream Safari, came into existence and after I was able to sit down with Coulton for a moment, he explained that they were originally named Flamingos. I’ve never quite known how lawyers accidentally, or deliberately, happen upon identical namesakes, but this one represented the original Flamingos and ordered them to cease and desist with any unauthorized use of their name. So, they went with a name that was much more closely related to their sound. A poignant description for their style: Dream Safari. While they’re first EP is available for free at Bandcamp.com, they’ve been working on their second EP, which is planned for release sometime in August.
Besides from the fact that Coulton could be seen on stage wearing the neon green bracelet given to those who paid for admittance and the low number of people in the crowd, I could tell these guys were still cultivating a fan base. And while I would be very surprised if these two didn’t gain more popularity, they still need to gain some further recognition on stage.
The moppy haired mess in the caramel vest climbed the stage after the first set. He was the lead singer and rubicund face of Langor. With an eclectic chewing of 50’s-era rock, sound guitar work, weepish chorus and magnetic banter, these guys were well received. By not trying to venture to far into experimental territory, they took a sound that most people already knew and improved upon it. Splashes of humor – “I got a text from dad. He does cool things… he texts.” – and dry witticism decorated the band’s stage persona. “Ladyblade” had a catchy lightness in tune and flippant enough verse to hold my attention. Langor‘s sardonic lyricism and anachronistic instrumentals kept the audiences’ eyes up on stage – the lead singer’s brash pelvic thrusting and sparkling ruby guitar helped with that too.
Lyrics like, “If you descend into my cave, I’ll keep you there,” dripped bacchanalian absurdity in between each musical note, making it a fairly entertaining group to watch make a slow progression from one song to the next. What they lacked in originality, they made up with personality. And with an urgency to entertain, they spent more time entrenched on the stage than any of their counterparts that night.
The show header, Cheerleader, came out strong at first with “New Haze” and “Haunted Love”, but soon slipped into a formulaic pop static standard many have come to expect from cloned hits on the radio. Sex appeal and sound, wrapped in South Philly’s “home is where the home is” sentiment, didn’t give me a lot to look forward to. They had a strong sound filled with romantic lyricism that ran succinctly with the pop gyrations of the guitar, but I had trouble deciphering some songs from the next.
The women were enamored with the members of the band. They did have that sort of iconic look one grows accustomed to when staring up at stage; an unkempt, handsome with a beard and button-up flannel style about them. The cheesiest pop song competition they held with each other produced a piece that the singer, John, claimed he had wrote for the “girl at the grocery store” and that he would play it for us if he could “fuck with” the guitar solo. Naturally, we all wanted to hear it and were treated to a pleasingly over the top love ballad. They had a good rapport with the audience, especially the women. They were, after all, a cadre of handsome men holding musical instruments; universally recognized as male mystique – “We love you, John!” was uttered more than once, or twice during the Cheerleader’s set.
The crowd was at its thickest. A few of the couples swayed together and sporadically howled between the lulls in music. Clusters of fans stood near the stage in a rows that ran five, or six people deep. And while I wasn’t particularly blown away with their performance, I could tell that just about everyone else was, so maybe there was something to pop-rock radio hits, after all. With so many local bands stuck in elegiac reverb, Cheerleader does have one quality I can agree with, and that’s vibrancy.
Now, if I could just find one admirable quality to say about the People of Septa.
