Music criticism is a highly subjective game, but I think critics should avoid reviewing acts that they feel too strongly about. Gush and bile are equally corrosive materials, harmful to both readers and writers. Those who choose to “champion” certain bands should do so with great care, lest what they write come off like something that should be sandwiched between pictures of teen idols in Tiger Beat.
That being said, OMG I cannot believe how amazing the Rilo Kiley show was last night. Or, in the least, how was amazing it was in my head. The band’s performance at Stubb’s marks the second time this year that I’ve seen a stellar set by one of my favorite musical artists that was — in objective reality — fairly average. First there was Stephen Malkmus shambling through Pavement songs with an acoustic guitar and Bob Nastonovich at the Pitchfork Music Festival (amazing, right?), and now this.
I could forget that Rilo’s latest release, Under the Blacklight, is listenable but ultimately disappointing. As the band kicked into “Smoke Detector,” I could shirk the uncomfortable churning in my stomach, caused by the knowledge that Jenny Lewis was about to sing “There is a girl in a tank top/She is not wearing a bra/She looks so hot out on the dance floor.” Jenny’s seeming inability to push the most emotional part of a song? When did that happen? Only during “A Better Son/Daughter,” “Spectacular Views,” “Does He Love You” …
All of this was negligible because I got to hear one of my favorite bands play the songs that matter to me.
Actually, I got to hear one of my favorite bands play the songs that matter to me because at one time they mattered to me more than any three minutes of pop music should matter. They mattered sincerely and earnestly, because they were songs that I loved and shared with friends and sang along with in cars.
But they were also songs in which I found solace during times of loneliness and deep snow. I don’t feel that way any more, and apparently neither does anyone in Rilo Kiley. Save for the soul-tinged “Silver Lining” and the Talking Heads-biting “Breakin’ Up,” Under the Blacklight lacks the heart-breaking specificity that powered the band’s past releases. Jenny Lewis and Blake Sennett aren’t singing about themselves anymore, and instead they’re slinging sub-Lou Reed sludge about porn stars, wannabe Lolitas and girls in tank tops not wearing bras who look so hot on the dance floor Good God that is such an awful lyric.
During the show, I could’ve sworn that the band had opted not to play much of Blacklight and chosen to compose the setlist of material from the far superior duo of More Adventurous and The Execution of All Things. After the show, I realized I was wrong: They played damn near all of Blacklight, but since it was a long and satisfying show, the songs from the new record had entered one ear and escaped through the other.
I don’t want to be a “go back to the old stuff” kind of fan. I don’t want to discourage experimenting with new sounds or influences or subject matter; to paraphrase one of Rilo’s best friends and ardent supporters, they are not singing for me.
Still, I’m happy that they played “With Arms Outstretched” for me.
