Caribou w/ Junior Boys
May 22 nd - Casbah
By Michael Parme

II've always enjoyed going to shows on Sunday. It gives the work week a little momentum, or at least some fodder for the inevitable Monday morning coffee break gauntlet of probing inquisitions as to how I spent my weekend. However, when I arrived at work the Monday morning after the Junior Boys and Caribou show, I had already resolved that there was no point in discussing the show. It was just one of those things that is better left undiscussed, especially, if your only alternative is to belittle the experience by not talking about it at length.

In my own experiences, high expectations typically gravitate towards disappointment. This is especially true in two cases. First, I have frequently been disappointed in repeat performances of bands that I have seen perform excellently in the past. Secondly, I am often disappointed when I see bands that employ complex electronic elements that cannot successfully reproduce their music in a live venue. So, naturally, this combination of having seen the Junior Boys perform well in the past and baring in mind the intricate nature of Caribou's intriguing brand of electronic psychedelia, I was braced for disappointment.

However, the meteoric crash of the Junior Boys' first beat, the pulsing shudders of which I could feel in my $2 can of Pabst, shattered any pre-conceived notions I had about the band's ability. The Boys delivered like they were playing a prom for the class of 1989. Their emotionally powerful slow-groove electro-pop felt as much like a subtle tribute to bands like New Order, Psychedelic Furs and the Cure, as it did a unique artifact of modern performance art.

Moving through their set of long-winded yet well developed pop songs, the Junior Boys paced themselves through the set. And, just when it seemed they had begun to tread water, they delivered the emotionally charged "Birthday" with impeccable timing. Exchanging his guitar, for a firm grasp on the microphone, Jeremy Greenspan's wavering falsetto voice quivered with the song's forlorn opening lyric "You called and then you missed my birthday."

Ending their set with a final song that left a bounce in the step of an otherwise somber crowd, it was up to Caribou to fill the large shoes left on stage by their hometown ( Hamilton , Canada ) counterparts. Caribou took the stage, and immediately captured the audience with two crisp percussion hits that paralyzed the crowd. Calling their audience to attention, they wasted no time tearing into their first song "Yeti." Immediately, it seemed apparent that Caribou had found their stride early. The sound was clean, and there was a beautiful combination of live instrumentation placed neatly over prerecorded arrangements. However, about halfway through the opener, an impending disaster reared its head.

An equipment malfunction threw the band into disorder. After clearly ending the song prematurely, apologizing for the malfunction and orchestrating a quick survey of the multiple synthesizers, samplers, etc., Dan Snaith (the creative force behind Caribou), ordered a second try at "Yeti." The trio faired no better. The Junior Boys had left to get food and there was nobody available to bail them out. Snaith admitted to the crowd, "We are fucked."

Caribou was in the depths of a performance nightmare, and I feared the worse. The way they looked around confusedly, I wondered whether they would even bother continuing. They shrugged at each other and finally looked as if they would try another song. With support from the audience and sympathetic cheers, Caribou decided to dig in. This time it was perfect. Subsequent songs followed suit. The set would continue to gain momentum for the rest of the night. Watching Caribou play was something like watching a boxer win fight after fight. They grew stronger and more confident with every song. "Luck is on our side," Snaith declared again and again.

Frustration became inspiration, and this was especially evident when Snaith would periodically sit down to accompany his drummer with a second set of drums he arranged across the stage. Beating the hell out of his skins like an anorexic ape gone mad, Snaith's performance conveyed an intensity only hinted at in his records. The band was something else, and the infectious rhythms never relented. Snaith and company bounded between genres from krautrock inspired newer material, to the smoother pop songs of the Manitoba-era, and even garnished the set with a handful of impromptu noise jams.

Each and every song seemed to be a near-perfect recreation of the album version (if not better). In addition, a projector synced to the audio track provided excellent visual accompaniment, employing crude animation and psychedelic backdrops to enhance the live experience. It was a remarkable set that went beyond my expectations, and will no doubt be remembered for a long-time by all those of us skeptics and know-it-alls who were turned on our heads by the evening's excellent performances.