September 19, 2007

A show for old friends
Devendra Banhart plays UVM

Pat Smith | contributing columnist
psmith4@smcvt.edu

In a venue that immediately presented itself as far from ideal for a concert of any sort, folk-rock singer-songwriter Devendra Banhart and his band of five worked their two-hour show through to the other side - a side of life usually found in late-night house parties around a bonfire off a beaten path in the woods, or a cabin full of old friends and new, rapidly developing acquaintances.

With a low, low stage set up in what amounted to a banquet hall at the University of Vermont, Devendra took to the stage and sat down, invisible to anyone beyond the second row. When he told the crowd that the band would start slow and maybe lull the crowd to sleep before waking them up, most of the crowd wondered how they would fall asleep standing and unable to see anything. After two songs in the face of an anxious, awkward crowd, a distant voice shouted that everyone take a seat. After a few cheers of agreement, everyone settled onto the newly carpeted floor or the chairs at the back of the room.

As the crowd began to settle into the new seating arrangements, it was up to the band to remove the last remains of the uncomfortable beginning. With that, Devendra began “Heard Somebody Say” - off of Cripple Crow - a slow, peaceful song that brought the crowd to lounging relaxation. With band members adding their voices to his, never loudly, just friends singing along, an aura settled over the crowd.

The set list became only a vague suggestion; pauses in between songs became brief discussions, with Devendra deciding what to play next. The freedom only drew the crowd closer. His vocal drifted from deep lows to faltering highs and became more pleasant and natural than on an album, and brought up old memories of a classroom full of children bunched on the floor waiting for story time, whispering through the crowd. In this close, nostalgic atmosphere, the quirks of his albums - the ridiculous lyrics, the weaker songs - lost their contrived tendencies and became the known habits of friends you had heard play many times before. In between songs, the shouts of the crowd to Devendra were met with ease: agreeing to marry, dance discussions, banter that continuously dissolved separation.

When it seemed to strike Devendra as appropriate, he gave up the lead and reinforced the fact that the band is made up of individual musicians. Greg Rogove, the drummer, sang his own song, with a voice louder and deeper than Devandra’s, bringing in a refreshment that no one knew they needed. At later points, each of the guitarists would offer their songs to the crowd. Earlier, a blues track, momentarily out of place, but then immediately part of the free-wheeling evening. Later, a dark, brooding track that exploded into heavier guitar riffs all around.
    
After this, the band reached the point of waking up, with a song off the new album with yelping wails and energy. Except, the venue become an interfering entity again. The band had risen to its feet and was beginning to pulse with a new energy, but getting an entire crowd to simultaneously agree to stand was a difficult task. A song ending with unfortunate group falsetto did nothing more than get a few people to leave. Then, with playfulness, humorously laughing at his hippie image, Devendra discussed flying meditation as the solution. The next few songs became painful with crowd mutterers and shifts; people wondering why it was late and the party was still so restrained.

Finally, with a thick, reverberating drum, the crowd rose to its feet and both band and audience pushed the energy higher. With the old, Doors-style rock that is present on the new record, the band became loud and moved past the slow evening into the late, rambunctious and potentially drunk portion of the night. After this dam burst, Devendra expressed pleasure that the crowd had stood, like a friend smiling happily that he had made the night into the party everyone wanted.
   
Next, a love song that had couples moving closer, touching up, and dancing. Then, the band needed a break to share the night with others. Two people from the audience were brought up on stage to play. The others cheered their friends, calling their names, and the two men performed examples of the pro and con of such an experiment. The first played a short song, played it well and the crowd took to it. Afterwards his joy and gratitude was obvious and he departed, until Devendra sent him back out to advertise his gigs. Following that, was a performance that set the audience shifting and talking. A longer song, with a delayed beginning as he dragged more friends on board.

This time, Devendra rescued the situation with a key set choice, launching into one of his best and most raucous songs, “Long Haired Child.” The reward was instantaneous, and with Devendra shirtless and dancing with a slink and no guitar, the crowd again focused on the music and their own dancing. From there, they drove to the end, loud and furious, a piping rage of Dionysius. Even Devendra’s obscure mumblings about the “constant cosmic giggle” couldn’t keep the following song from being a rocker. Finally, the set was declared over, the show finished like a party busted by security, and people began to filter out.

Yet, like any good party, there was one last kick, one explosion like before a neighbor decides to call the cops. Returning for a single song encore, Devendra meandered shirtless through the crowd for another standout from Cripple Crow, “I Feel Just Like a Child.” The funkified version reinforced that any weakness on his albums is removed by the passion and joy that the band gets from playing live - by making the show into a flowing party of friends.