White

June 02, 2007 (Boston, MA) - With the capacity to hold over four hundred rock-hungry fans, Harpers Ferry is a daunting room for the average indie band. Listen to the Boston old-timers talk and it sounds like packing a venue with four hundred “back in the day” was a breeze. Maybe before cable TV and the Internet. These days, the show has to really kick some major ass to sell out, at least in Boston. So I’m happy to see that on this night, Harpers can barely contain the party. Outside on the sidewalk I have to squeeze through an intently smoking throng before I can reach the snarly door dude (does it suck to work here, because they never smile at this place) who’ll take my ten bucks and ink my hand. I indulge a moment to internally carp about the ten dollar cover, and to wonder what kind of damage I’m sustaining from all these years of ink stamps, but there’s no time to ponder — White is the band I came to see tonight and they’re about to play.

Having been knocked flat on my rosy ass by White’s CD last month, it’s time to see if this five-piece powerhouse can deliver the goods in a live show.

They get into it right away with a few songs from The Size of Our Souls, the aforementioned CD. But from where I’m standing, right in front of the stage, I can’t hear one damn vocal. By facial expression and physical stance I can see that wild-eyed Jonny P (lead singer) and earnest Ed (keys, back up vocals) are singing their stalwart hearts out, but all I hear are guitars and cymbals. I’m trying to sing along with “Nobody Loves You,” but I find I’m pretty much lip-reading to keep up. “Nobody Loves You” is a real rocker with hooks to kill or die for, but it’s only going to kick your ass if you can actually hear it. Going under the assumption that no self-respecting soundman would let the mix go like that, I eventually head way back to the sound board and stand there. Yep, it’s the sweet spot — from right in front of the soundman I can hear all of the fiery vocals White offers in the form of Jonny P, but I can’t see the form of Jonny P. Which is unfortunate –this rock star is too good looking to be walking around on the planet with the rest of us, and his pants (brown corduroy, I think, but this remains safely unconfirmed) are in league with him to make every chick in the room frothy with desire. Alas, Jonny and his pants have to carry on without me because really, I just want to hear the band. So back at the soundboard I remain.

One of the key experiences gained from seeing a band live, and I’m reminded of this from my tween years when I saw Duran Duran with fifty thousand other scrunchied, moussed-up fourteen year olds, is getting a whole new sense of band dynamics. I seem to remember one of my girlfriends pogo’ing whilst squeezing my neck and screaming “Andy’s SINGING!” during “New Religion.” We didn’t know, see, that it was Andy Taylor doing back-up vocals during the refrain.

On the record, White’s Led Zep-inspired, Floyd-tinged tunes are packed with awesome psychedelic moments that sound studio-produced but actually are performed live, such as “The Story,” which I didn’t expect to hear in the live show for some reason. There are aural details on the CD that I thought were studio effects or distorted guitars courtesy of guitar god/producer Jim Foster, but turn out to be some serious sonic soup sent up by Ed, the definitive Emerson of this band. It’s cool how certain musical elements, assumed to be mere footnotes, are actually a hefty part of the musical storyline. Simply put, White’s material is performing its own stunts. These guys are the real deal.

Stage presence gets a big thumbs up, too. Every night in this town the people come out to see a rock show, yet ask me how sick I am of seeing that slackjawed, vacant expression that so many indie musicians seem to think is cool. Fucking hell, rockers, give us a show! White picks up that ball and runs with it. On keys, Ed plays with his whole body, arching and swiveling in some sort of wild keyboard gymnastics. And drummer Delaney, I had no idea the dude was so fiercely watchable. His moves, his groove, fills and hits and his showmanship rival that of my favorite drummer in town, Brian Viglione (Dresden Dolls). This is totally unexpected for a rock band like White. I’m humbly reminded that an aggressive, hard-hitting drummer can still exude artful finesse without giving up any sneering rockitude. Melodic drums are almost undefinable, but I know it when I hear it. It sounds like the opposite of banging pots and pans with wooden spoons. Whatever it is, this kid Delaney (first name? last name? Hello, where did he come from?) knows how to bring it.
 
Jonny P’s soaring vocals earn White a lot of their their buzz, and indeed his talents are buzzworthy. When Jonny P gets his sweaty grip on a melody, he seems dead set on using it to prove that rock will never die. It works, to great effect, most of the time. But there are moments when I find I’ve zoned out for a minute. I think what’s going on is that Jonny’s using some stage time to experiment with how far he can push it before his head pops off. It may serve the set better if he’d sing the songs with less of the histrionics; we all know you can sing, kid, let’s not sacrifice the melody line for the sake of the ultimate rock ‘n’ roll battle cry. (Put another way, think of the R&B pop stars who trot out every note in the western scale, and even some other scales, to sing the national anthem at ball games and take five minutes to get through “Oh say can you see.” That’s irritainment. Who wants to be that guy? Once you’re that guy, you might as well start wearing a T-shirt with your own face on it. Jonny P doesn’t need to be that guy, right? Right. Jonny P gots chops. Just sing the damn songs.)

Lyrically Jonny aims to captivate, invigorate and charm, embracing the snarling grit of the born rock rebel while incorporating just the right amount of what I’ll hereby dub “casual sleaze.” I mean that in the best possible way. I mean it, this guy is a rock star.

Taken as a whole, the White live experience is a fine product, totally worth paying Harpers too much money to go see. Rock on, boys, I’ll be at the next one.