So what happens when a band of 10 ragged, past-blasted musical gypsies play Florida for the first time? [All photos by Mike Wilson.]
Well, scanning the crowd at the Ritz Ybor on Saturday night, dreadlocks and body hair (male and female) get profligate, the B.O. funk of weed smoke hangs ever so subtly in the air, and we all get a bit more loose once Sharpe and his Zeroes hit the stage.
A live band makes a hefty impression on the internal environments of its onlookers, advertently or not. When a band like, say, The National or Interpol hit the stage, theyre unruffled, dapper, seemingly above the giddiness, the holy shit 1,000 people are just staring at me, cheering me on right now factor. Theres nothing wrong with that, its just an attitude that lends itself to a more focused, entranced feel throughout the show both audience and band-wise. The band appears intensely concentrated on the intricacies of what theyre playing while the collective audience effort seems to burrow itself into the band’s focus, all arms folded, eyes affixed.
Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes are, like, the antithesis of this. Theyre kids dressed in their parents’ clothes; if their parents were of the Wizard of Oz scarecrow variety, or John Steinbeck-ian dustbowl farmer variety. The simpleton phrase would be hippies, which was a common sentiment throughout the observable evening.
As Sharpe and his Zeroes banged out the first notes of the opener 40 Day Dream, it hits that self-consciousness and intense focus on musical deftness are low on the list of live priority for the Zeroes. Theyd rather play with, and acknowledge the crowd, the entire atmosphere, than just focus on themselves, which was refreshing. I believe Revival-like was the word I typed out on my phone-notes.
Leadman Alex Ebert, looking like a bun-haired Jesus with his upper half donned in Maxs digs from Where the Wild Things Are, sauntered and strutted like a giant hand above him pulled strings attached to his joints. His cohort and harmonizer Jade Castrino was a dead ringer for Amelie with the seasoned vocal pipes of a woman much, shall we say, beefier than her; not to say she couldnt hit the highs, either.
This article appears in Oct 14-20, 2010.
