• Charmed, we're sure: Jens Lekman

Jens Lekman
Cat’s Cradle, Carrboro
Monday, Oct. 15

“How are you doing, Norf Carolina?” Jens Lekman asked at the Cat’s Cradle Monday night, half-sincere and half-droll, in that unmistakable Swedish accent that turns father into “fodder” and you into “chew.” Lekman is the epitome of love-it-or-hate it, singing elaborately written and arranged vignettes in a voice like buttered velvet. His lean, dynamic indie-pop songs are pumped up with all kinds of glorious schmaltz, pilfered from the furthest reaches of taste—smooth saxes, beatnik interludes, magical flutes, cozy strings, patrician reggae, saucy calypso. His lyrics mix extravagant sentiment and hilarious banality in true stories of stalking Kirsten Dunst through Gothenberg or posing as the paramour of a German friend at an awkward Meet the Parents-style family dinner. The net effect is as if Belle and Sebastian hired a team of comedy writers and were arranged by Henry Mancini. It’s safe to say that we ticketholders at the Cradle were firmly in the love camp, though a few grizzled rock-veteran employees surely had a rough night of it.

Rather than focusing on his soft-toned new record, I Know What Love Isn’t, Lekman pulled songs from all three of his albums and the superb An Argument With Myself EP, as befits a showman of his caliber and winking self-regard. Before playing the title track from the new record, Lekman told us it was written for a friend in his temporary home of Melbourne whom he considered marrying so he could stay there. The issue was “not being able to tell the story because it would be illegal, which is a big problem when you’re Jens Lekman.” It was a delight to hear a consummate storyteller expand on his songs, especially “Waiting for Kirsten.” He talked about growing up beside a potato chip factory, clarifying a previously mysterious lyric, and how he had read in a magazine that Kirsten Dunst liked his music. When she was filming with Von Trier in Lekman’s hometown, “What was a potato chip boy like me to do but stalk her maniacally through the night?”

Playing a pint-sized acoustic guitar with aplomb, Lekman came backed by a drummer, a bassist, a keyboardist—who provided many of the exotic timbres in digital form, from steel drums to harp—and a violinist. Samples, both prerecorded and triggered live by Lekman, fleshed out the rhythm section. The set was tightly formed, beginning as a dreamy and eclectic showcase before pivoting, on the touching ballad “I Want a Pair of Cowboy Boots,” into a dance gig complete with heavy sampler riffs and DJ-style transitions. The music was opulent but also speedy and kinetic, and the strong support gave Lekman plenty of room to do his thing. He doesn’t mind dropping a chord here and there to wave at the audience like Eva Peron receiving adulation, or leaving the microphone to fly around the stage like an airplane. He likes to finish songs with a quick strum, and a bow. During “The Opposite of Hallelujah,” he threw a handful of confetti and “played” the final theme on an invisible toy piano in front of him—in stereo, no less. During an encore of “A Postcard to Nina,” he signed his name—“Yours truly, Jens Lekman”—on the same space, the flowing cursive almost visible in the air.

The most exciting part of the night was a new song that didn’t make I Know What Love Isn’t but should make the next album, “which hopefully,” Lekman said to applause, “won’t take me five years to finish.” Dealing metaphorically with his “brief time in the jewelry business,” it began in typical fashion with a prolix vocal melting over acoustic chords. When a harsh half-time electronic drum dropped, I thought, “Can it be? No!” But it was true—a monstrous synthesizer drop at the end of the song confirmed that, just when we thought Lekman had done it all, he was now working his indie-pop alchemy on freaking dubstep.

It was my moment of the year. I’m used to leaving concerts with ears sore from noise, but a face sore from grinning is rarer thing.

If Night 1 featured Yep Roc’s biggest names, and Night 2 emphasized the label’s power-pop predilections, Night 3 was all about roots: Triangle-area roots and roots music in general. As such, it featured the showcase’s folksiest between-song patter (discounting Robyn Hitchcock’s trademark parallel-universe digressions on Night 1, which comprise their own own category).

Early on, Jim White introduced “If Jesus Drove a Motorhome,” about being stuck behind Jesus in a traffic jam, with a laconic but brilliantly observed yarn about life in his heavily Pentecostal homeland, Pensacola, Fla. His rendition of “My Brother’s Keeper,” the tale of an old friend who became a shut-in, was a poignant standout of this stalwart player’s set.

The rest of the evening was punctuated by words spoken in earnest tribute to the label and the sharing of telling details. After opening with a stirring take on the title track of her latest, Traveling Alone, Tift Merritt told the tale of the battered looking acoustic guitar she played (it was a gift from Chris Stamey, the Zelig figure of Yep Roc Records, who attended all three shows but did not perform).

John Wesley Harding extrapolated on the Minus 5’s impromptu backstage discussion that led to the choice of the band’s covering Neil Young’s “Revolution Blues,” along with recounting the elusive lyric that they consulted Google to resolve (the line was, oddly enough, “I’ve got the Revolution Blues”). That cover, it should be said, provided the evening’s most incendiary single performance. Young wrote the song about Charles Manson, and Scott McCaughey delivered the lyrics—like the strangely ominous vision of “ten million dune buggies comin’ down the mountains”—with passion and precision. And this is no easy song to sing: Yo La Tengo opened with it last month at Hopscotch, and I was struck by the bright new galaxy to which The Minus 5 took it.

After the good-times rock of The Minus 5, the country-and-western tone of the evening returned with an impressive set by Chatham County Line, who were joined for one song by the headliner, John Doe, who was clearly having the time of his life. As someone who was pretty unfamiliar with CCL, I was completely taken by their spine-tinglingly gorgeous harmonies, which called to mind the Everly Brothers, and the palpable spirit of togetherness their presence imparts. They returned to provide backing for Tift Merritt, with whom they have much shared history. That sense continued when she was joined by John Howie Jr., an event that was greeted with rapture by knowing audience members.

Somewhere around midnight, a dapper John Doe, looking every bit the distinguished country gentleman, came on to perform a solo acoustic set. I must confess that I only caught the first part of his set. (It’s the playoffs, and I’m from New York, OK?) However, area music aficionado Jonathan Lee provided me with the essential details of the rest of the show: Doe went electric with help from the Sadies, along with Merritt, who joined him for a cover of Waylon Jennings’ “Stop the World and Let Me Off.” The Sadies’ closing set featured Scott McCaughey and included a cover of Love’s “A House is Not a Motel” (a request by label co-founder Glenn Dicker).

As the set built to a final cover of Spinal Tap’s timeless “Gimme Some Money,” Dicker was right up front and rocking out, just like any other extreme fan who was reluctant for the evening to end. Seems apt for a label that makes no bones about being, first and foremost, fans.

Night 2 of Yep Roc 15 was power pop time. Following an opening-day bill packed with heavy hitters that resulted in the Cat’s Cradle being crammed almost to capacity, the mood on Friday was more subdued, the vibe less celebratory and more perfunctory as the show rumbled to life at its appointed 8 p.m. time. Nevertheless, loquacious host John Wesley Harding sounded excited as he introduced the Mayflies USA, a revered local act that has broken up but occasionally reunites.

Before getting started, principal vocalist Matt McMichaels declared, “We want you to know that we’re still the same.” The crowd received this news warmly. The band then launched into a 30-minute set that would have made Big Star and Teenage Fanclub proud. The Big Apple tribute “NYC” took on added meaning, being that the Yankees had advanced to the second round of the baseball playoffs a half-hour earlier, but it’s doubtful that the band intended it as such.

Between bands, Mr. Wesley Harding once again bantered with the comedian Eugene Mirman, including an inspired bit about their backstage rider, which included stipulations like “I need there to be an elderly woman backstage who needs help setting up her Netflix account.”

Next up was Cheyenne Marie Mize, a multi-instrumentalist singer-songwriter from Louisville who is one of the label’s recent signees. Performing with a bass player and drummer, Mize alternated between keyboards and a beautiful hollow-body Epiphone guitar. Her songs vacillated from perky indie rock to lugubrious mediations that best described as “Sundays-esque.” But she proved capable of rocking as well, especially toward the end of her set, which built to a finish that sounded something like a junior PJ Harvey blues rave-up.

Indie folk troubadour Josh Rouse, a Nebraskan who has relocated to Valencia, Spain, confessed to profound jet lag following his 20-hour flight to the Triangle. Rouse played an intimate set, perched on a stool, wearing a fedora and accompanied only by his lively acoustic guitar. Revisiting songs from his deep catalog, including a lilting take on “Islands,” from his Yep Roc debut, Turista, Rouse conveyed the literate folk of Paul Simon, while the fedora recalled the erstwhile Garfunkel collaborator as well. Seeing Rouse offstage later in the evening, I couldn’t help noticing that the singer even resembled Simon in his diminutiveness.

Sloan, the 21-year-old Canadian quartet, provided the evening’s best set. What they brought was the volume, the energy, and the snarl that truly seizes a room of hundreds on a Friday night. Fronted by Chris Murphy, who resembled a cross between Paul Kantner and army-jacket-era John Lennon, the band blasted through a set that found each of its members, all of whom write their own songs, taking at least one lead vocal. The band played with precision and passion, hooks and harmonies, along with well deployed blasts of feedback and un-ironic demonstrations of hands-in-the-air clapping. Set closer “Money City Maniacs” was especially incendiary.

After Sloan left the stage, the crowd thinned out noticeably. Still, penultimate performer Liam Finn, son of Crowded House’s Neil Finn, took the lead, accompanied by singer and occasional percussionist Eliza Jane. A frenetic, athletic performer with a Shakespearean beard, Finn opened with a crazed number that found him howling, bashing away at the drums (which he would do throughout his set) and playing over knotty guitar loops. An indefatigable performer, Finn ended by breaking out what looked like a portable theremin for a feedback-filled climax, providing the evening’s loudest moments.

Fountains of Wayne, Grammy-winning makers of postgraduate suburban power pop, closed the evening with an energetic set that ranged from the punky “Denise” to the gentle “Valley Winter Song.” Inevitably, “Stacy’s Mom” served as an encore. As the set-closing “Radiation Vibe” stretched out into a medley of loveable yet cheesy ‘70s radio fodder, the crowd’s response grew rapturous. Special praise goes to lead guitarist Jody Porter, who added subtle whammy-bar-abetted sound puffs and stinging leads on his gorgeous sea-green Gretsch Country Gentleman, while augmenting the band’s modest sartorial aspirations with his classic rock-star look.

• Photo by Jeremy M. Lange
• Yep Roc founders, from left, Glenn Dicker and Tor Hansen

After Night 1 of the Yep Roc 15th anniversary festival at Cat’s Cradle, my husband and I were walking to the car, exchanging notes on the five-hour show, when he compared the scrappy indie label to the Oakland Raiders. In the 1970s and ’80s, the Raiders scooped up players no other NFL team understood—the outliers and outcasts—then proceeded to become one of the most formidable and dominant outfits in the league.

This is an apt metaphor for a label with a diverse roster with a pedigree that is impossible to peg. The eight acts that performed last night—counting a few songs by emcee John Wesley Harding—wound not only through Yep Roc’s 15 years but also traced a longer arc of indie-rock history.

I must acknowledge that the relative newcomers—singer-songwriter Eleni Mandell, whose schtick is to pen tunes about ex-boyfriends, and Jukebox the Ghost’s sunny prog pop—did not set me ablaze.

But before we judge them too harshly, we should give them time to accumulate the highway miles and lifetimes of record-listening their Yep Roc forebears have logged. Nick Lowe, Dave Alvin, Chuck Prophet, Robyn Hitchcock: Many of them are as white-haired as a snowy owl but no less youthful and energetic than I remember all of them from the wayback machine. They have been on the planet (or in the case of Hitchcock, various states of inner and outer space), and making records for longer than 30 years. Emcee/ songwriter/ novelist John Wesley Harding and instrumental surf band Los Straitjackets have endured for more than two decades.

Last night’s concert was a clinic in how talent, experience and endurance produce great work by artists who have mastered their craft: “I am the sum of the books I have read. I am the sum of the records I have heard,” sang Harding between acts.

It can take 15 years. And it can take a lifetime.

• Give it up: Miguel

Miguel
Lincoln Theatre, Raleigh
Wednesday, Oct. 10

It's never fun to be a concertgoer among stuffy rookies who don't see a live show as an opportunity for a party: They complain if you bump into them, step on their shoes or express any amount of excitement that threatens their personal space. You'd expect that level of conservatism at an orchestra appearance, not an R&B show—especially not one headlined by pop music's newest sensation, Miguel.

The release of his most recent album—Kaleidoscope Dream, an 11-song, deluxe love masterpiece—has placed the 25-year-old singer among R&B's elite. In a somewhat stuffy room, though, his Wednesday night performance at Lincoln Theatre couldn't have been any more impressive. Miguel is a superstar and an embodiment of Hollywood, a place not far from his California hometown.

But, as he acknowledged on stage, he was in Raleighwood Wednesday and energized by a room full of screaming females. Miguel baited with almost 10 minutes of silence from the stage before he strolled out in a single-breasted suit, thick sunglasses and a tight-fluff hairdo, like a modern Jackie Wilson. Couples showed up hand-in-hand, but for men and women alike, Miguel provided enough of a sweet, machismo-filled distraction for them to lose each other and aim their adoration toward pop music's new wonderkid.

These small-room shows certainly work better for Miguel's showmanship than in a huge place like Greensboro Coliseum, where he opened for Jay-Z back in 2010. "Pussy Is Mine," for instance, couldn't have had the same effect in an arena as it did on Wednesday night. And, yes, Miguel, pussy was yours: It belonged to Miguel even if it already had an owner. It belonged to Miguel even if the Gynecology God was its guardian. Hell, my pussy belonged to Miguel, and I don't even have one. The guy standing next to me yelled in my ear "Don't look him in the eyes," a reference to Dave Chapelle's joke about how any straight man's sexual preference could be compromised by staring into Prince's eyes. Touché.

Miguel's lust affair continued with "Quickie" and "Use Me." Still, even in less sensual spots like the rock jam "The Thrill," Miguel shimmied and shook on stage, exhibiting more of what it takes to be the lead man in a band, not just a primetime seducer. When he does both, like he did with "Gravity" from the Art Dealer Chic Vol.1 EP, Miguel was unstoppable. Before he closed with his latest single, "Adorn," he tried to play down all of the loud, worshiping screams: "I'm not that interesting … I need y'all to shut the fuck up," he said, so that he could sneak in the think-piece number from the end of Kaleidoscope Dream, "Candles in the Sun."

Miguel is that interesting. He knows it. He also knows that, right now, he's carrying a soul genre on his back with every stealth glare, every spin move, every smile and every mic-stand trick. It will be interesting to see how many hearts he can pocket along the way.