Beirut @ The Avalon

A quick note: Sorry for the lack of posts recently. Work has been hectic. It's weird though, I've been listening to a ton of new music and if we've talked on the phone, I'm sure I've mentioned my obsession with Neutral Milk Hotel's "In The Aeroplane Over The Sea." I guess after listening to that album compulsively for the past month or so, and being so blown away, it's been hard for me to find words to properly do the album justice. I spent so much time thinking about the album and yet I couldn't find anything to write. So I've moved on. Not from the album, but from trying to write about it.

Oh, I should also mention that I'll be posting from time to time on 52 Shows. I think this post will appear there.


I never know what to do with my body at indie rock shows. Usually I just stand around and kind of nod my head along to the music. My arms desperately wish they could find shelter in my pockets, along with my hands. I tap out the beat with my right foot, but half-way through a set my legs start to cramp up. It’s a constant problem. Turn your noses up at “jam bands” (and their concert-goers) if you wish, but all that crazy drug-induced spinning and grooving seems much more natural than the stiff swaying you’ll find at a typical indie rock show.

Fortunately, Beirut is not your typical indie rock band. Think Neutral Milk Hotel with Rufus Wainwright on vocals, playing Balkan gypsy music. Currently, an eight piece band consisting of several horns, ukuleles, a few mandolins, a cello, drums, an accordion, piano, viola, guitar, violin, clarinet, upright bass, and a glockenspiel, all switching hands from song to song—Beirut could easily be cacophonous. With twenty-one-year-old Zach Condon at the helm, they’re nothing short of harmonious.

I was fortunate to catch them on the last night of their North American Tour, at The Avalon in Hollywood. It was the perfect venue. Despite seating close to 1,500 people, the two floored room with a variety of risers, couches, balconies, bars, overhangs, and interesting little nooks and crannies, seemed to have the intimacy of a room a third of its size. Before Colleen, the second opening band played, one of the members of Beirut came on stage and requested the entire audience sit down in order to hear her (Andrew Bird-like effect sampling of the viola and clarinet) better, and sure enough, everyone in the house took a seat. That sort of thing just doesn’t happen at general admission shows with a thousand or so people in attendance.

So it was fitting that the show started with Condon walking on stage by himself with nothing but a ukulele. After some raucous cheers, Condon began strumming some happy little chords on his uke. It was the kind of personal touch that made connecting with him so easy. A minute or so later, he was joined on stage by the remainder of his band and they got down to business. Condon’s sweet crooning instantly meshed perfectly with the strings and horns that dominated his band, but it wasn’t until he unleashed the first few blaring notes from his flugelhorn that the band and crowd really settled in.

I began slowly nodding my head and tapping my feet, as is my custom. After a song or two, and much to my surprise, I noticed my hands had snuck out of my pockets and my arms were moving a bit to the music. Glancing around the crowd, everyone seemed to be in tune with the band, particularly one exuberant group near the front, dancing, jumping, swinging, and bouncing along to the music in obvious delight. In front of me, my girlfriend, as rhythmically challenged as I, was also getting down.

The sound was simply infectious. So many pieces all working together: Condon’s voice, soaring, far too mature for his age and physical appearance, horns blaring, drums pounding, strings wailing, and everyone in the house soaking it in. On songs like “Bandenburg” and “Mount Wroclai” the band’s chemistry and comfort were readily on display. Condon waving his arms, directing the band, everyone on stage and in the crowd seemingly following his commands.

The girls behind me, perhaps as impressed with Condon’s boyish good-looks as his musical abilities, kept discussing how badly they wanted to marry him and how powerful the Vicodin they took was. One of them tapped me on the back and pointed out that the tag on my shirt was sticking out. Suddenly, I became self-conscious. What the fuck were my arms doing? Was I dancing or having a seizure? Unsure what to do, I put my arms around my girlfriend and allowed her to dictate my movements. She, usually self-conscious about dancing anywhere besides the passenger seat in my car, was so enthralled with the music, she managed to lead majestically. I never thought I’d get turned on during an indie concert, but somehow the gypsy music managed to be sexy.

The show wasn’t perfect. The band tripped over one another during “Postcards From Italy” and apparently exhausted their repertoire, so they were unable to play a second encore, which the crowd was just begging for. But the combination of Condon’s voice paired with a such an impressive accompaniment of musicians rarely failed to impress. And anytime you see near a thousand people dancing at an indie rock show, you know you witnessed something special.