Tulip Frenzy

The Brian Jonestown Massacre played Washington’s 930 Club last night, and they were smokin’.  Literally, which was weird to see after these past 16 months of D.C.’s smoke-free ordinances.  But they were smokin’ in other ways, too, the sound perfect for Anton’s guitar to chime above all others, his vocals strong, Daniel Allaire threatening to thunder the tom-toms through the floor and down to the Metro below.

Matt Hollywood’s return adds a calm, Lennon-esque presence to the procedures, and early on, listening to him sing “BSA” was like hearing the voice of a long-time friend returning from the wars.  The band didn’t let loose the “whoo-hoos” on this T.Rex-like time capsule, but they sure did a few songs later on a marvelous version of “Who?”

It was a pretty similar set list to the one they played at Terminal 5 last summer, beginning, as always, with “Whoever You Are,” only then going straight into “Vacuum Boots.”  Anton’s guitar was first among equals, though Frankie Teardrop had the really cool-looking guitars to play — the Brian Jones’ vintage twelve-string among them.  At the 930 Club, the band was crowded on the stage, but the sound was expansive, and the sold-0ut audience of 900 behaved like they were on the set of “Crawdaddy” or “Hullabaloo” — rapt, into it, maybe a little amazed.

The BJM play in a bubble outside of time, not ’60s revivalists, not like the Flamin’ Groovies trying to capture the exact sound of the ’67 Byrds, so much as a band that is still enveloped in that era’s aura but with their own wholly original magpies’ garden of sound.

“That Girl Suicide” soared, the four, or was it six, guitars all finding their own textural adherence to melody.  There were moments when the sound was so crowded it was like one of this epic jam sessions, like the finale at The Concert for Bangladesh or something, where it was impossible to discern which guitar was Clapton’s and which George Harrison’s.  But always rising above was Anton Newcombe, his methodical, paint-by-number solos hitting the right note at approximately the right time.

Later, I overheard a discussion about Joel Gion’s tambourine “playing” that went something like this:

“Why do you think they push him out there as a front man?”

“I dunno.  Maybe before Anton’s parents let him form a rock band, they instructed him, ‘You can do what you want, just make sure there’s always a job for cousin Joel.'”

Gion adds comic relief, a visual foil to this excellent batch of Beatle-boot wearing, tight jeans rockers with their cigarettes dangling from their lips while they play the most gorgeous set of multi-layered guitar rock this side of the Stones ’66 tour.

It went late.  Sometime after a great version of “Anemone” and, finally, a really strong version of “Nailing Honey To The Bee,” those of us with day jobs began to slip away.   To hear the Brian Jonestown Massacre circa 2009 — given how much fun has been had viewing them in Dig! as the ultimate rock’n’roll ne’er-do-wells, and given how strong and excellent their performances these days are — is actually pretty uplifting. Anton’s mere survival may seem a triumph; that his band performs at this level is something even more.