Hearts of Palm frontman Nathan McGarvey (shown here playing the first of two shows, this one at the Hi-Dive) had a very busy weekend at this year’s UMS. Photo by
FRIDAY
On Friday evening, I tore down the side streets of southeast Denver on my bike, convinced that I had already missed my very first show. Even though the sun had retreated from its savage mid-sky post, I can tell you: It was still a mistake to wear a silk shirt for the ride.
After locking up to a street sign and rushing inside the , I realized that was not only just beginning – they hadn’t even finished setting up. Relieved, I made an effort to calm the singing blood in my ears by ordering a beer immediately.
My, did it take them a long time to set up. Despite there being only keyboards and accordion for the moment, there was quite a lot of cord-pulling and sound-guy-wrangling left. When they finally began, I only had time for one song before I had to rush over to the . Alejandro pulled and pushed his pearly instrument, making it breathe, while Brandon rested a few fingers on the keyboard. The two layers began to move over each other like crooked conveyor belts, building to an icy climax you might hear during a wintery murder scene.
Before another cycle of setup began anew, I downed my beer and wheeled down to the corner of Ellsworth and Broadway to see . Alas, they couldn’t quite fit seamlessly into their time slot either.
Once set up, the band got things got going fairly swiftly, and the sounds cantered forth in the flavor of 1990s-style psychedelic revival. A five-piece, Hawks of Paradise boasted drums, a bass, two guitars, and a tambourine as the lagniappe. James Yardley’s warm, nasal vocals tugged at the heartstrings with every line, while behind him, the band undulated in time. As deceptively simple pop, it was well rehearsed and fun, and could, at the very least, stand as an argument for the languid glory of reverb effects.
I eventually drifted over to the South Broadway Christian Church, which is reportedly haunted by a poltergeist that likes to play the organ. I was hoping with every ounce of my being that a blast from one of those massive pipes would accompany set. The sparse crowd could have used a bit of a rattle; the pews were a little too soft and warm. Green didn’t help much, tickling his guitar across gentle, pretty loops. Every few seconds he would fuss with something, be it one of the many pedals at his feet or the sheet music propped in front of him. He would lord over these distractions as one might a herd of tiny, unruly Lilliputians. When he eventually began to sing, his voice seemed strange and thin over the watery sounds of his guitar. It was a mixed bag, moving back and forth from the uneven to the chronically listenable.
SATURDAY
As sheepish as I feel (in retrospect) for giving all my Saturday attention to , I’m still confident that it was worth it. I kicked things off with the Young Coyotes, who eschewed a proper PA system to rely on the power of their own fingers and throats. One drummer sat (Adam Halferty) and one stood (Matt Wilcox), whacking away with an extra bass drum propped between them as they supplied singer Zach Tipton with oh-oh-ohs and oo-oo-oos. For having only a mic for both him and his guitar, Tipton had quite the voice on him – in a couple of instances, I saw his uvula as plain as day.
The trio played ticking, melodic indie-pop marbled with thick percussive streaks. It was marvelously polished and tight, and although the band kept apologizing for the makeshift sound setup, the audience didn’t notice a thing.
Afterwards, I stayed put and awaited . Brittany Gould knelt on the wooden floor, behind a jumbled arc of bells, bottles and electronic trinkets. Over the looped sound of a blown bottle, she began, emptying her mournful, girlish voice into the mic. From here, she wove a sonic quilt, coaxing and taming harsh noise while drawing from a gris-gris bag of collected sounds. There was only one way to take in this set; you simply had to kneel down with her.
Nipping spiritedly at Ms. Gould’s heels came , the pair-up of Hunter Dragon and Anna Dolan. The aural equivalent of Funfetti cake, Dragon and Dolan strummed, beeped and banged through their set with poppy, childlike lyrics and plenty of audience participation. Unfortunately, Ms. Dolan’s voice drowned instantly underneath Mr. Dragon’s wide-mouthed yowls, and the most we heard of her came from her Casio and toy piano. The set elicited lots of giggles, especially during one particularly giddy number about flipping off a cat.
When got to Indy Ink, they unpacked their suitcases – literally. The lifted lids revealed an unholy tangle of cords and flashing lights, which came alive at the command of Ryan and Nick Houde. Song structures ebbed and flowed. Some were unapologetically groovy; others curdled oddly into rhythmic mud. Bobbing in time, Houde fiddled, pulled, pushed and twisted, a mad farmer over a field of different gadgets. I marveled at his energy; eyes squeezed tight and mouth pulled open around a note, he embodied the zealous experimentation cutting wildly through the music.
“That’s it?” an audience member queried at the first sign of disassembly. Indeed, the set was at least two songs too short.
Last but not least came Travis Edgey (a.k.a. ). For this, the house lights came down and brined us instead beneath the neon glow of the Indy Ink logo. Skinny Travis, cap flipped up at the ceiling and pant crotch mysteriously spray-painted, took his place behind his electronic smorgasbord and immediately, everyone began to dance. The samples came sunny, fast and frothy, whirring into one another as a seamless beat. Sounds spiked and dotted the air; things popped, glittered and hissed. A fur shawl came off, a plastic bag came on. The crowd whipped their hair around and flung out their elbows. If I had to get uber-specific, I’d say Pictureplane played the soundtrack to a hyperspeed round of double-dutch.
It was my first year at the and, although I had to miss quite a few excellent bands, I enjoyed my two days and spent them awfully well.
Alex Edgeworth is a Denver-based writer and a regular contributor to Reverb.
