We got there 5 minutes after the doors opened and quickly realized our mistake. For most shows at The Blind Pig, getting there 20 minutes after the doors opened is good enough to get in right away and find a nice place to stand, but we arrived to find a line–and not just any line, a line that stretched the rest of the way down the block and half way down the next. I knew the show had sold out two months ago, but even at the last sold-out show I had gone to, the line had been minimal and getting there after the doors opened had been no problem. Needless to say, people had been looking forward to this for months and they were ready.
We got inside 45 minutes later, shortly after William Tyler had begun his set. I had never listened to William Tyler before, and was surprised to see it was just him sitting on a stage playing his guitar, not even singing. Don’t get me wrong, it was some of the best guitar playing I’d ever heard, and more than enough to carry his set. His guitar-playing is wonderfully intricate and somehow descriptive, clever even. It’s the kind of music that paints a landscape around you, that tells a story without a word. It was interesting to hear something more acoustic at The Blind Pig and shocking to how good it sounded, so rich and delicate. The audience seemed to love it too, clapping and cheering in between songs. However, they did not move much, they were just standing there silently like the shadows of stiff skeletons, soaking in the sound. I thought that they were subdued because this was an opening act and the music was softer, sweeter, and once The Mountain Goats came on, they would really come alive. Unfortunately, this was not the case.
Not long after, The Mountain Goats did come on and the crowd cheered and cheered. All of them had, after all, been waiting for this for at least two months. They played music from all over their catalog, from some of their popular hits from The Sunset Tree to newer tracks from Beat the Champ. If it was a big enough song, the crowd sang along, to lyrics such as “I’ll get through this year if it kills me” and “I hope you die/I hope we both die.” It’s the kind of music that singing along to makes you feel like despite all the shit the world throws at you, you can take it and you can make it and you can break it. It’s empowering, to say the least. And the whole time, The Mountain Goats’ lead singer, John Darnielle has a sweet smile plastered on his face like he’s playing his first show and he just can’t believe how many people came out to see him play. They were jamming and clearly having a good time, it was a real pleasure to watch. I mean that–so don’t get me wrong, but other than the band, the concert just wasn’t that good. I know, I know, what do you mean, other than the band, isn’t that all it is? Unfortunately, a concert relies on the crowd just as much as the band, and despite this crowd obviously being in love with band, beyond singing along and some head nods and slight swaying here and there, they didn’t have the right kind of energy. The Mountain Goats aren’t a super danceable band, but if someone’s playing a song called “Dance Music,” you should probably be dancing. Instead, they stood there, immobile and watching like hawks, basking in the glow of the glorious as if they had to observe every second or face eternal torment. Also, and this might just be me, but it felt like a crowd that had never been to The Blind Pig before (it was the first time I saw flash photography, or people actually trying to record entire songs, and typically The Blind Pig’s audience is too caught up in the moment to bother with that), and to be honest, they were the kind of people who belong at The Ark. This isn’t Ann Arbor’s prime venue for passive listening and the dark, crowded standing area should have been your clue.
Long story short, The Mountain Goats are awesome to see live, and act like a bunch of giddy twenty-somethings playing their first show, not the pretty popular band they actually are, but their fans don’t know how to dance.
