Best Fwends, WHATEVAWHATEVAWHATEVA, Loch Lomand
Luigi’s Fungarden “¢ Nov. 11-13, 2009
Words by Vincent Girimonte
Last week, I ended up at Luigi’s Slice three consecutive nights, and it has culminated into the following article which will hopefully explain why a grown man is still frequenting pizza parlors by himself.
Wednesday
Exactly one other person and I went to Luigi’s to see Texas electro-punks Best Fwends. Two people still don’t make a crowd, apparently, and the show was cancelled, officially ruining an otherwise great laundry day. The Fwends gave me their drink tickets, though, and Luigi’s gave me a free slice of pie, which incidentally explains why I was so confused about paying on Thursday.
Thursday
I sauntered over to the Press Club to watch the fighting Singletarys not lose to the Bears. Jay Cutler hit more 49ers than did Alex Smith, but for some reason the outcome was close enough to merit a few yelps—a terrible game, by any measure. There I met two acquaintances from high school and three hours later we were asking why our Luigi’s slices actually cost money—like physical money—and why so much of it. Upon leaving, a couple of 300-pound men gave us a shoulder-charge. Retaliation was postponed.
Friday
Loch Lomond is a folk group from Portland, Ore. and they look and sound like a folk group from Portland, despite songwriter/frontman Ritchie Young, a dainty firecracker of a folksinger who wore a cherry-red shirt and a slick haircut. Being the symbolism junkie that I am, this image more or less reflects how I feel about Loch Lomond: one bright spot.
At certain points, I was willing to describe the sextet as perfectly adequate folk/pop, which is usually about as far as I go into admitting boredom. Long-winded meandering tunes, most off their new Night Bats EP, left me craving either a larger venue or fewer musicians. Triple harmonies, melodies tickling all over, “tuning parties” in between songs—Loch Lomond is no doubt a band of seasoned musicians but perhaps it doesn’t need to be, at least for my taste. The catchier numbers, such as “Blue Lead Fences” and “Field Report” seemed to be more brass tacks, mariner songs, and the ones that ultimately kept me awake.
It was a splendid effort, though, all passive-aggression aside. And Young—a diminutive, Annie Lennox-type with all the chops and panache you might expect from such a creature—can sell the symphonic nature of his band even if his songs sometimes do not. Each number seemed to require a different tone; he was as capable in providing the tiniest falsetto, as he was the stormy, operatic boom. As he became anecdotal between tracks, nobody was surprised to learn he was a precocious little shit in his childhood, which made him all the more endearing and explained so much regarding Loch Lomond’s overly ambitious set.
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