The Books

Friday, April 29

Settling into her seat last Friday night in the Museum of Fine Arts’ sterile auditorium, a young woman sighed.

“This is not normal for a concert,” she muttered to her companion.

A look around the white-walled, gray-carpeted room confirmed her consternation. On a polished-hardwood platform sat two sleek silver laptops, an array of wires, a variety of indeterminate stringed instruments, a single cymbal, and a jar of mayonnaise. It was a science lecture gone gonzo, a scene that seemed to cry out for several dusty volumes—or, for that matter, the electro-acoustic duo the Books, who were scheduled to headline the MFA’s latest indie rock concert.

“Normal” is just about the last thing you’d expect a Books show to be. It took them five years and three well-received albums to make it to this, the second date on their first-ever U.S. tour—for good reason. Their releases are meticulous, alien, and almost impossible to imagine taking form on stage: spare collisions of folk and studio where left-field vocal samples interrupt twilight plucks and crescendos are spliced and diced.

Is it any wonder that, before last week, guitarist Nick Zammuto and violinist Paul de Jong largely preferred to hide behind cryptically punning song titles and austere album artwork?

In the first surprise of a night that held many, most of the impressive apparatus on stage turned out to belong to openers Keith Fullerton Whitman and Greg Davis, who hunched over looping decks to produce artfully droning, clicking, shearing, squealing ambient suites. As the genial, bearded gents accreted countless sound fragments—seemingly random shards that synched perfectly with the epileptic video collages projected above them—they accomplished the estimable feat of getting the audience genuinely excited for the comparatively familiar pop craft of the Books.

And when the main act made it onstage, they revealed the surprisingly simple equation behind their recordings: a chilled-out folkie and a Dutch chamber musician, jamming like nobody’s business. There was Zammuto, a Williams College alum, half-closing his eyes to commune with an acoustic guitar. To his right sat de Jong, accented and eccentric, tearing mean riffs with his bow. At far left, frequent Book collaborator Ann Doerner offered tense keys and ethereal vocal harmonies (including a haunting Creole folk solo).

With nary a laptop in sight (though a sequencer perched front and center), the trio of third wheels began playing off each other, competing and cohering for soulful, precise versions of their most defiantly choppy material. A mid-set video projection invited the audience to surrender to jokey anagrams of the word “meditation,” emphasizing the Books’ Dada Zen aesthetic.

The acoustic instruments grooved seamlessly, somersaulting over blaring samples of found pronouncements in “That Right Ain’t Shit” and “A True Story of True Love,” while “An Animated Description of Mr. Maps” transformed the polite instruments into a percussive gale.

The live lineup shone brightest on material from the Books’ April album, “Lost and Safe,” where they flirt with a more song-oriented approach. Zammuto let loose his inner Paul Simon on “Smells Like Content” and “It Never Changes to Stop”; his soft, unassuming croon, free from the disembodied echoes and effects of the album, was pure mellow gold.

For a project whose studio recordings often sound so divorced from any physical presence, the Books’ humble humanity was charming. Unused to applause, the band members grinned shyly as every song earned hearty appreciation. Towards the end of the set, Zammuto’s younger brother Mikey joined them on stage wearing a backwards baseball cap and shouting “Go Sox!” before a nimble tumble through “Classy Penguin,” a Mikey’s original composition. As Zammuto home videos were projected and the Books continued to play as a foursome, they made a warmly off-beat and decidedly twenty-first century musical family.

—Staff writer Simon W. Vozick-Levinson can be reached at vozick@fas.harvard.edu.

Magnolia Electric Co.

Thursday, April 14

I have to confess to being a bit obsessed with both Songs: Ohia and Magnolia Electric Co.

When I first listened to Songs: Ohia’s final album, entitled “Magnolia Electric Co.” (yes, it’s both the album’s title and the moniker for ex-Songs: Ohia lead singer Jason Molina’s new band), I listened to the opening track, “Farewell Transmission” for hours on repeat. By the time I was done, my roommates were no longer speaking to me, but at least I had the altogether satisfying company of Molina’s voice.

Though the Museum of Fine Arts setting for their recent concert demanded a mostly seated and consequently sedate audience, the Co. delivered a terrific set lasting nearly two hours. They played tunes from Songs’ “Magnolia Electric Co.” as well as from “Trials and Errors,” their own sloppy, excessively-jam-oriented-but-lovable debut live album. Finally, they introduced a few “brand spankin’ new ones” as Molina declared, some of which were culled from their just-released studio album, “What Comes After the Blues.”

Molina’s songs aren’t technical masterpieces; they often consist of only three or four chords. Their beauty is simple, residing in the ethereal swoop of the slide guitar and the relentless emotional onslaught of the rhythm section. Listening to them is like riding a freight train with no brakes: there is a sense of unimpeachable momentum and force. When their songs demand it, each and every musician in Molina’s circle is more than able to play eloquent phrases.

Yet onstage, the Co. has a reserved presence. Guitarist Jason Groth—who supported Molina’s more vertical soloing with a chicken-pickin’ country feel and an insistent rhythmic sensibility—was the most animated as he pogo-danced around the stage. Keyboardist Michael Kapinus was an undeniably brilliant sonic colorist, his warm organ tones augmenting the guitars and lap steel.

Drummer Mark Rice was consistent and tasteful, occasionally punctuating a particularly heartfelt vocal embellishment or solo break with a concise, tight drum fill. Pete Schreiner’s bass complements Rice’s drum kit and his big, round bass tones help keep the band from floating into the jam netherworld.

Mike Brenner’s spiraling, squealing lap steel lines are entrancing; the sheer volume of emotion that he can coax from a simple wooden plank with six strings, a raised bridge, and a steel tone bar is amazing. Most importantly, he also found the perfect timbres to complement Molina’s voice.

And what a voice it is. It’s a tenor of sorts, less sweet than early Neil Young, but equally capable of expressing the whole spectrum of emotion. Molina has a boundless reservoir of feeling which he taps into on each of his songs.

A perfect example is in the song “The Farewell Transmission,” when Molina closes with the lyrics, “Through the static and distance, a farewell transmission: listen.” In this passage, you can hear his voice nearly break with seemingly genuine exhaustion and desperation. It’s this sheer channeling of raw emotion that makes singers great: Dylan, Jim Morrison, Jeff Tweedy.

I defy anyone to listen to Molina’s voice, tremulous with effort and feeling as it soars: “See I nailed my guilt to the back of my eyes so I see it now before the sun / Now who was I, now who am I, lord, what have I done?”

For unfettered expression, no one can beat these guys. In every guitar solo, chord change, lap steel fill, drum break, bass riff or vocal line, you’ll find something captivating, some kind of enchanting musical moment.

And when you find it, I guarantee you’ll rewind and listen to it again, and again. Just try not to forget your roommates.

—Staff writer Nathaniel Naddaff-Hafrey can be reached at nhafrey@fas.harvard.edu