Passion Pit! Phoenix! PASSION PIT AND PHOENIX!

I wish I were French.

Touring behind an album as effortlessly perfect as Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix can’t be easy. Trying to replicate the ideal pop and fillerless content of that CD on a night-to-night basis is, I imagine, draining. Somehow, Phoenix manages to do it. 3 Animal Show staffers saw 3 of the past 4 shows the band’s played, and 3 Animal Show staffers agreed: this band will melt your face, and make you appreciate it.

This past Saturday, I packed up my bindle and hitched my way down to Central Park, where I had the pleasure of having my senses double-bombed by Phoenix and Passion Pit. Passion Pit, while a powerful band in their own right, had the unfortunate position of opening, meaning that they were overshadowed in every possible way. While I could review their half of the show, I wouldn’t be able to say anything Marquis Meowmers IV hasn’t already said better; namely, “dude’s got pipes!” Instead, this review provides me the opportunity to wax rhapsodical about Phoenix, and, in part, laud their incredible records, too.

There are two extremes of terrible in the world of live shows: first, bands that play their songs as note-for-note, breath-for-breath replications of the recorded versions, which, barring those songs being exceptionally difficult or exciting, rarely end up being totally satisfactory; and, secondly, bands who bumble and futz their way through songs, showing that they really are in need of multiple takes, overdubs, and pitch-correction. Obviously, every band should aspire to the first. But the real key is to inject life into the songs. You know what I mean, dude? LIFE. FEEL THE MUSIC.

Phoenix obviously shit the Holy Spirit of Music on their worst days. In the opening strikes of “Lisztomania,” I could feel the guitar swells of Laurent Brancowitz in my chest, forming a womb deep within me with its musical prowess, and then leaving drummer Thomas Hedlund’s insanely rocking beats to penetrate and impregnate that musical womb with a virtuosic drumitar baby the likes of which have never been seen on Earth. The dual-guitar attack throughout proved so intoxicating that I was left literally stumbling out of the concert, striding torpidly through the perilously horse shit-filled streets of the park. And Thomas Mars is simply an incredibly versatile and talented vocalist, squealing, falsettoing, and cooing his way into the hearts of every man, woman, and androgynous ex-pat in the audience.

Every song had an extra little something. A riff that came out of nowhere. A bass rumble heard nowhere in the album. A false ending, an extended bridge, or extended solo. More often than not, however, the extra something came from the drumkit. Thomas Hedlund beat the shit out of those things, with impeccable timing and feeling for crescendo and decrescendo alike. Each time the stage lights dropped and one solitary beam was placed at the center, you could feel the collective skin of the audience freckle up in goosebumps. Never have I paid so much attention to the sweaty toil of the one guy on stage too antisocial to stand up. Now there’s a high standard set for anyone else I notice.

I’d go through it song-by-song, but I’m running out of adjectives. But you can look at the setlist, and get jealous.

Expect to hear more about how much I love Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix as the year draws to a close.

Until then, enjoy 4 of the finest non WAP songs the concert had to offer:

Long Distance Call – Phoenix (YSI)

Rally – Phoenix (YSI)

Everything is Everything – Phoenix (YSI)

Run Run Run – Phoenix (YSI)