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Ben Folds Five/Travis As usual, a British band must remind us how to strip a pop show down to its fundamentals: Make the boys bounce and holler and the girls giggle and coo. In their opening slot for Ben Folds Five, Travis -- cute, plucky, Scottish Travis -- won over an untried Richmond audience by sticking to the Beatle basics of guileless smiles, infectious laughter, and sing-song choruses. Few audience members seemed familiar with Oasis's new favorite band; the regal and methodical strumming and pounding of "All I Wanna Do Is Rock" elicited only scattered yips at the show's outset. But when, in the second song of the set, the lovesome, lovely lead singer, Fran Healey spat, "Look at me I'm so disgustin'/I will never find another girl like you/You make me blue/With the things you do," the crowd slowly became willing participants in this Theatre of Pop. The now-burgeoning number of fans affably suspended their disbelief and welcomed the unlikely self-doubt of this glowing, dimpled creature with matted black curls and eyes as blue as forget-me-nots. Crowded to the lip of the stage (especially with drummer and piano player half in shadows), an opening band rarely pulls off a coup. But in an unjustly-short 30 minutes, the Travis boys managed to garner fans glance by glance and giggle by giggle, ultimately working the reluctant crowd into a bounce with the set-closer's rousing chorus of "I'm so happy 'cause you're so happy." In a brogue as irresistible as his songs, Healey bid the converts a farewell ("You've been a brrrrriliant audience!") and added an endorsement for his tourmates: "Bain is fookin' tops!" Surprisingly, "Bain" Folds Five claimed never to have played Richmond either, despite hailing from only two hours south in Chapel Hill, NC. The unspoiled fans responded greedily from the emotionally-inspired opener, "Missing the War," to the encores, "One Angry Dwarf and Two Hundred Solemn Faces" and a lounged-up version of the Flaming Lips' "Vaseline" (available on this year's Lounge-a-palooza CD). And why shouldn't we? Folds consistently puts on the show of shows. Straddling his piano stool, he hunkers down like he's defending Jordan, punching and spanking the piano keys. A fuzzy, frothy beast on one song ("My Philosophy"), he's a frumpy, dumped Charlie Brown on the next, telling his tale of woe ("Selfless, Cold and Composed"). But a Ben Folds show is never just about the boy behind the keys. Darrin Jessee, poised behind a sparkly blue drum kit, and the newly aggressive bassist Robert Sledge round out the trio of "five" with their ever-entertaining touches. This night Robert spun a heartwarming yarn about his last visit to Richmond with a band called the Good Guys. (After playing with a bunch of metal bands, he supposedly wound up huddled on a stinky couch in a "crack house" surrounded by hoodlums and hookers.) In the grand Ben Folds Five tradition of improvisation, Ben spontaneously eased into a ballad inspired by the anecdote: "People from Richmond ... do you smoke crack? I bet there's a stripper or two in here …" 'Twas a brrrrriliant night of good clean fun. -- Mindy LaBernz
Bjork Considering her enormous amount of unbridled energy, I'd have to say Bjork's plunge into dance music was as wise a career move as John Travolta accepting the Vincent Vega role in "Pulp Fiction." She personifies clubland at it's most innocently goofy, her cheeky, violent happiness possessing her like some wide-eyed kid on a virgin hit of Ecstasy. But unlike perpetually smiling groovers like, say, Deee-Lite--whose new age, mushroom-capped, have-a-nice-day sentiments evoke something akin to Donovan-with-turntables--Bjork's got a few skeletons in her romper room. When "Hyper-ballad" swells to it's rhythmic crescendo and Bjork scuttles to the edge of the stage, the exhilarated throng flailing their arms in the air seem oblivious that Bjork is techno-fantasizing about standing on the edge of a cliff, imagining what her body might sound like slamming against the ground. Bjork is not the first crooner to embrace techno. U2, for example, mine clubland for the purpose of deconstructing their gods-of-'80s-rock image. But Bjork's transition from alternative rock to samplers and other neat gadgetry is more instinctual. Beginning her show on her knees in the dark, her voice immediately sent the crowd into a tizzy with the opening lines of "Headphones," a hushed, ambient ode to a DJ's mix tape. "My headphones they saved my life," she twistedly warbled. "Your tape it lulled me to sleep." Clutching one ear and squinting her eyes, absorbing the music inside her head into her body, Bjork turned sound into stimulus. A handful of songs later, during "Enjoy," she wailed about wishing there could be sex without touching and everyone succumbed to the big beats, immersing themselves in Bjork's fantasy. Throughout the likes of "Army Of Me" and "Human Nature," Bjork was as engrossingly silly as one of those sing-a-long dots that bounce on top of "Sesame Street" subtitles. I've seen many a show at the Academy, but I never felt it's floor shake; during "Violently Happy," I thought maybe someone might have snuck something into the coffee I had before the show. On the other hand, soothing journeys like "Isobel," "Possibly Maybe," and "Venus as a boy" provided some chilled-out tranquillity. Nothing quite prepared me for the huge grin of an encore that was "It's Oh So Quiet. " This Sinatra-like, big-band swinger gave her the chance to channel her quirkiness into one hell of a camped-up show stopper. The result was utterly euphoric and rather comforting: even if Bjork pulls a Linda Rondstadt down the line (working old standards with big band leader Nelson Riddle, etc.) you can bet her whacked-out sensibilities will make anything she handles something special. "It takes courage to enjoy it," she whispered, backed only by a church organ before walking offstage for good. Bjork's "it" is a big time sensuality, which is just another phrase for what happens when Bjork has her way with music and sound. --Smith Galtney
Chumbawamba When you get knocked down (and who doesn't from time to time?), a surefire remedy is to get right back up again and go see Chumbawamba. A performance from this band of eight semi-wacky anarchists (to paraphrase their hit single, "Tubthumping") won't keep you down long. Few seem to be able to resist the urgings of their above-mentioned, ubiquitous pub-power anthem, with its don't-dare-be-oppressed refrain: "I get knocked down/ But I get up again/Because you're never going to keep me down!" The kids love it -- though the meaning of a "tubthumper" as an orator expressing subversive ideas may be lost on them. Sure "Tubthumping" sounds like a drinking song (many of Chumbawamba's songs do), especially when Dunstan Bruce chants, "He drinks a lager drink," etc. But don't be fooled. Chumbawamba, with their nonsensical name that sounds borrowed from the pages of Lewis Carroll, are making a political point. Despite the band's radical overtones, a Home Alone 3 contingency of ten-years-old with parents in tow was represented at the show. The audience's eclecticism didn't stop there: club kids, East Village punks, retired punks, and middle-aged folks in from the Island seemed to be enjoying themselves as well. One couldn't help but wonder what portion was present just to hear that "Danny Boy/whisky" song they've been playing on the radio? Nevertheless, early on into the one-hour long set, the faithful core fans were transformed into human pogo sticks from the thrust and bob of the music. Music that is fun, loud, danceable, and sometimes storybook surreal. Chumbawamba have a healthy repertoire beyond their hit single, as well they should after fifteen years of making music. A sizable portion of the audience was familiar with the earlier songs, such as "Homophobia" and "Never Do," which amounted to approximately half of the set; the rest of the play list came from their current platinum-selling album, Tubthumper. Guitarist Boff, trumpeter Jude, and vocalist/keyboardist Lou Watts sang an older, a cappella song about the hopeful eradication of Nazis which, at first, sounded as if it could be an Irish schoolchildren's song. In addition, the twenty-minute encore was all earlier music, during which Boff and Bruce got the audience to sing along. The stage theatrics in the show were left mostly to vocalists/keyboardists Danbert Nobacon and Alice Nutter, the band's hams. Nobacon, with his shaved head, sang into his microphone at a sly angle, slinking around the stage like a post-punk serpent. Nutter, bouncy with sheared indigo-hair, donned several costumes: first, a basic black stage uniform with a mudflap female silhouette on her belt buckle. Later, she facetiously swilled Jim Beam, dragged on fags, and had a momentary rant about Jesus' sex life while wearing a red nun's habit. Nutter also shadowboxed buoyantly and slagged on the Spice Girls by interjecting lyrics like, "I'll tell you what I want/What I really really want" into one song. It's apparent that Nutter will be a lively punk 'till the end. The other members -- Boff, Jude, bassist Paul Greco, drummer Harry Hamer, and Watts, (who sings the "Danny Boy" vocal part of "Tubthumping") -- tended to hang back, feet fixed to the floor. Bruce alternated between percussion and vocal duties, going from the front to the back of the stage. Several of the bandmates took turns at center stage (perhaps because it's the only fair way). They have no leader -- not a Gavin Rossdale in sight. This band is a functional, self-governing unit of ideology and art. Their lyrical intent may be serious, but they have a refreshing lack of over-earnestness. It's like Chumbawamba are saying, "Being anti-government or anti-whatever can be fun." But ultimately, people came to hear the music, and Chumbawamba delivered. Though their current LP is jam-packed with audio and music samples, most were excluded from the show, and it did not suffer. The one weak link in the performance was the set's final and most anticipated song, "Tubthumping," which Bruce introduced as a "Ye Olde English Rebel Song." But the band played and sang it at a clipped pace, which depleted some of its recorded nuances. Are they growing a little weary of their big hit? Perhaps, though it is doubtful that they will tire soon of the act and the art of tubthumping. -- Alexandra Flood
DiFranco, Ani Ani DiFranco's own personal revolution hit town in support of "NOT A PRETTY GIRL," the Buffalo, New York singer's seventh and most-talked-about release to date. For her impassioned battalion of fans, the wait could not have been any longer. Members of the predominantly teen, female audience clung to favorite lines in songs and to every brash comment and giddy observation the singer made in-between. Even the simple gesture of letting her hair down prompted near-exaltation. But if DiFranco's fans are nearly cult-like in their intensity, there is good reason. This 25-year-old DiY folk-punk is the real deal, combining a New York-tough attitude, a socio-political mission, and the Gen-X piercings and tattoos required to be a spokesperson for the post-Nirvana generation. Oh yeah, she's got some pretty good songs, too--which seemed almost beside the point at times during her two-set gig. With longtime drummer Andy Stochansky as the only accompaniment, DiFranco worked through a mix of old and new, moving easily from the tender, neo-folk of "32 Flavors" to "Cradle and All" and other songs that displayed her unique brand of staccato-punk riffing. Frequently, the singer stepped away from the mike to roam the stage and hammer away at her acoustic guitar in ways its manufacturers surely had not intended. Subtleties that might have been lost in the live setting were more than compensated for by this strong, visceral presence. DiFranco set a combative, anthemic tone often and early, by the first chorus of the first song, in fact, in which she sang, "Fuck you and your untouchable face, fuck you for existing in the first place." Themes of self-reliance and of own-body politics ran rampant, although lyrics were often lost in the cavernous old theater, at least to those who did not already know every word. Unlike such recent "Women In Rock" big guns like Liz Phair (too highbrow?), Alanis Morissette (her authenticity still in question?) and Courtney Love (too messed up for empathy?), DiFranco offers unglamorous, blue-collar portrayal of the human condition to which teenage girls might truly identify. It's no wonder they were all there to hear her testify. --Neal Weiss
Elastica Justine Frischmann wasn't just pouting for the camera last Thursday at New York's Tramps: her pursed frown was an unmistakable commentary on the sound glitches her band was encountering in the very first minute of their set. Groaning in proper London drawl--"Awwww, mah mahcrophone's focked"--Frischmann flipped her now-notorious flare of hair out of her now-infamous face and switched gears, lifting her guitar and leading Elastica into the choppy, chimey ring of "Line Up." Like the madly enamored audience, the offending microphone was seduced into singing along. Problem solved. Not surprisingly for a band bred on British new wave punks like Wire and the Stranglers, Elastica begins and ends with the razor power of their two guitars--which resemble, alternately, static explosions, squalling babes, and Casiotone synthesizers. Live, Donna Matthews--her red hair in spiky disarray--pushed tubular twists of melody and atonal fuzz into the mix, while Frischmann chugged along with spunky, solid rhythm. Elastica are as pop as they are punk; their three-minute wonders are delicious and catchy, and the pogo-ing they consistently provoked in their New York audience had as much to do with the bunny hop as with safety pinned cheeks. Songs like "Car Lover" ("It's about unspeakable things happening between four doors," Frischmann cooed) and the single "Connection" were packed full of boogie by bassist Annie Holland and drummer Justin Welch, but never sacrificed their excitedly rough undertaste. The fly in Elastica's ointment was no fly at all: their one-hour set varied little from the self-titled debut album they just released. As the foursome played under a baby-blue neon sign of their name in delicate script (with a giggly star dotting the 'i'), it seemed the message was "You came for Elastica? Well, here's Elastica, note for note." The one variable was Frischmann herself, whose femme fatale vocals were ten times more rawly sexual in person, elevating her to neopunk Marlene Dietrich status. But if the surprises were few, the pleasure was real; even Elastica note-for-note is worthy of a pogo, or a bunny hop. --Natasha Stovall
Fatboy Slim No one stage-dived at the Fatboy Slim show. What's more, there wasn't a single thread of flannel in the entire, past-capacity audience. When the "one-man Chemical Brothers" hit the turntables, a crowd of clean-cut Seattle-ites loomed before him. Not the stinky, disheveled lot the famed British DJ-cum-producer was probably expecting. What he hadn't realized -- and what most of the world hasn't realized -- is that Seattle, Grungetown is dead. It's arguable whether the Emerald City even ever was the screeching garage-rock Mecca the music media believed it to be. One visit to the Showbox's gathering of the glitterati, Electrolush, is all you'll need to see that dance music can draw quite the crowd -- even in a town known mainly for rock. And Fatboy Slim's appearance last Saturday, March 14 was no exception. Norman Cook, who is Fatboy Slim, has spent the last ten years racking up a list of music-producing pseudonyms that would make your head spin. If you've never heard of Mighty Dub Katz, Pizzaman, Freakpower, or Beats International, perhaps you'll remember a seminal Brit-rock band called The Housemartins. Cook played bass guitar for them until they disbanded in 1988. How's that for prolific? Upon arriving at the usual club-going hour of half-past 11, we were greeted with a handmade sign that read "sold out." Getting into the club required a little sweet talkin' to the door girl, but that was the easy part. Entering the main showroom provided yet another hurdle. A firm push and an adamant "excuse me" was your only ticket past the blockade of slack-jawed fans. Once inside, the stuttering pulse of big beat was unmistakable. One of electronica's many sub-genres, big beat is dance music's answer to rock'n'roll. Like traditional rock, big beat is hard, but not painfully so; it's accessible, but not chintzy. Most often, big beat is the term used to describe the music of The Chemical Brothers, Death in Vegas, and yes, Fatboy Slim. On-stage, Mr. Slim was less like his fellow DJs and more like his pals in the rock biz. His playlist relied heavily on his own work; his stage presence was nothing short of captivating. When he brought in his radio hit, "Going Out of My Head," he gestured at the record with one hand while beckoning the crowd to show some appreciation with the other. Everyone complied in a virtual orgasm of shouts and hands in the air. Electronica artists typically suffer from an inability to play to the crowd. Not Norman Cook. Armed with the big-beat weapon of choice -- the build-and-break song structure -- this man was able to get the audience jumping and screaming with the best of 'em. Who says a DJ isn't a performer? -- Courtney Reimer
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