Did the Kissing Party change music forever on Friday at the Hi-Dive? Nope, and that was just fine. Photos and text by .
It’s time we got over ourselves, music fans. Going to a rock or pop concert usually isn’t a religious experience. It’s probably not going to be culturally significant night out. It’s almost certainly not going to be a milestone in pop history. It’s a night of music, and that ought to be good enough for us.
For hardcore fans, music is, of course, more than mere entertainment, but it’s not the cultural be-all, end-all that we’re all guilty of pretending it is from time to time. The world didn’t change Friday night as took the stage to celebrate the release of “The Hate Album.”
It’s doubtful that anyone went home with a new way of dealing with their personal crises because of Deidre Sage’s cooing vocals or the band’s sparkly jangle-pop. It’s certain that worlds didn’t collide, or even shift during the band’s set, but they were brightened. That’s all we can reasonably ask from a pop band.
Pumping the stage full of fog, killing the stage lights and illuminating the scene with tiny, multicolored spotlights, the glitter thrown off a novelty-store bought pair of disco balls and, occasionally, the epileptic flickering of a strobe, the Kissing Party took the stage in a shadowy dream-world that was stark contrast to the band’s aural sunshine.
The smoky silhouettes were the band’s only concession to dressing up its otherwise humble and modest set: Here was pop music played only for one aim, spreading the love of pop music.
The band did a good job of evangelizing its old-school indie pop tunes. Starting the set more than a few glasses to sobriety from the last time we saw them — at a boozed-out, shamble-rock sloppy set at last month — the band was all business this time around. While Sage’s voice inexorably links the Party to twee champions of yesteryear (think Heavenly on a five-drink buzz), the band’s starting to shake off most of the trappings of cutesy pop on stage.
Drummer Shane Reid’s almost ridiculously minimal kit — merely a kick, snare and high-hat — didn’t help with that, but the act’s songs congealed with depth and body you usually don’t see from born-in-the-basement bands.
Songs from “The Hate Album,” predictably, commanded most of the set, with the likes of “King Graves Rd” and “The Homecoming” showcasing the band’s simple-but-solid approach to its music best of all: Sage’s vocals ride over singer/guitarist Gregg Dolan’s understated backing vocals, while Dolan and Joe Hanson’s guitars revel in their fascination with the tried-and-true approach of everyone from the Smiths to Brighter.
With the band passing out its trademark toy tambourines to the audience before the set, the evening wasn’t merely a celebration of a new album on the merch table. It was a celebration of the wonderfully modest, delicately beautiful and pretense-free pop music contained on it. The Kissing Party didn’t set out to change your life, but merely make it a little more enjoyable. They succeeded in spades.
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Matt Schild is co-founder and editor of , which has been grumpily chronicling the underground since 1999. He’s also written for most all of Denver’s weeklies at one point or another, as well as wracking up bylines in an ominous number of failed glossy music rags.
