Concert Review: Yo La Tengo - Showbox SODO, Seattle, Washington

Yo La Tengo is that rare band that's still touring today with 25 years of shared inventiveness under their belts. Music geeks love them inordinately, even if they tend to parse every little thing Yo La Tengo does down to the sub-atomic level. I'm not going play that game by trying to put on a dork clinic about the history of Yo La Tengo (fun fact - the band's name is a Spanish colloquialism for "I've got it!"). They're just plain ol' one of my faves. The sort of band that I will always see. And even when the evening contains a bundle of less than stellar elements, I'm always be glad that I did so.

My wife and I saw Yo La Tengo perform last Thursday night at one of Seattle's least likable venues - the Showbox SODO. This newer Showbox is a warehouse space with a concrete floor, horrible acoustics and an otherwise likable staff that seems equally amazed that anyone comes there for shows. With the lights up, it looks like the a cleaned-up, empty tire dealership. Seeing small groupings of hipsters standing around drinking PBR tallboys in this space is so dull, so repetitious, so un-buzz-worthy. Before the opener broke the static, it looked like a photocopied venue teleported from a very long, rather uninteresting list of mid-sized Midwestern towns - let's say Eau Claire or Kalamazoo or Topeka - where everyone affects a pose like they'd prefer to be somewhere else. Maybe that sounds judgmental and pretentious. Sue me. But I'm just saying that it didn't feel like the epicenter of articulate, classic cred. Yet amidst the sea of earth-toned hoodies and ironic t-shirts was Ira Kaplan (lead guitar and vocals, one of the two original members with his wife, Georgia Hubley). Sitting behind a tour merch table - signing CDs and taking pics with fans. When Ira, Georgia and James McNew eventually took the stage, they were filled with good-humor. If they are filled with cynicism or angst about still doing what they do so well, you won't see it in the club. Or at least not on this particular night.

Their opener was Jackie-O Motherfucker, an absurd, freeform psychedelic, post-rock quartet of meat from Portland that jammed like the revolving door, acid-dropping band of goofballs they've been for years and years. We tolerated them the way older music geeks do when they're just happy to be out, without wanting to fully attribute it to having a trustworthy babysitter home with your kid so that you can act nearly half your age.

Article Author: E. Magnuson

E. is a writer, a master griller and a silence filler. E. is currently editing a novel that features cyberstalking, sexual obsession and a string of homicides that may be connected. E’s first novel centered upon a homeless picklock and an ex-dot-commer struggling to survive as a petty thief. …

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