Neko Case / Eric Bachmann

I didn’t know quite how to go about making sure I was granted entrance into this free concert — I anticipated its well-deserved popularity, and was concerned by the idea of not making it in since I happen to be among the realm of the employed who have to stay stiffly in the office till five. Luckily, a buddy of mine was able to take the afternoon off and go stand in line, which he began at an astonishingly early 1:30 PM. I arrived ready to rudely reap the benefits of his Neko dedication, but was politely informed by a guard guy that I could not go up to the front of the line. I slumped my way to the back and was just preparing for a lengthy, possibly fruitless wait, when suddenly the line began to move and I was eventually on the premises of the glorious Summerstage. Turns out this massive area of Central Park has a capacity of 5,000. I laughed and laughed at my poor friend for a bit, but he was sure to point out that he had, after all, managed to drink an entire beer before I was even in. Touché my friend, touché.

We settled into a nice spot on the bleachers and I wondered just what that Eric Bachmann might have been up to since his time with 90’s rockers Archers of Loaf. I’ll admit to not having followed his career since the break-up of said band and his work with Crooked Fingers, but I certainly wasn’t excepting the mellow ditties that he presented. Sure, the passionate, naked guitar and folky sound may have explained the Neko Case coupling, but I was definitely surprised by what I was hearing. Gone was the crackling, as if Bachman since Archers had repaired his aching vocal chords that once warbled through their songs and replaced them with those of a straightforward rocker. This is not to say anything negative as to his previous singing efforts, because I happen to enjoy many singers with “interesting voices,” but rather it seemed he was just in a different place with that voice of his, and I was surprised. Bachmann and band put on a nice little set that was sparse in sound but rich with the ponderings of a talented, decades-spanning musician.

Excited fans continued to pour in all through the opening set, so that by the time Neko appeared the place was packed with souls ready to be vexed by the mesmerizingly amazing force that is her voice.  Dressed almost identically as she had been at her last NYC concert with The New Pornographers, she came onto the stage and immediately exuded that delightful presence of hers with its chipper and talkative tendencies. She began the set with “Things that Scare Me” and went on to glide through her set like some sort of magical singing wonder from another universe.  My heavens can that girl sing! Her remarkable voice, packed with intensity not only in musical quality but emotive power, was in ship-shape this evening, and as the sun slowly set a pleasurable experience was underway indeed. It’s unfortunate, then, that the sound quality at these Summerstage events doesn’t seem to be too awesome, at least in the bleacher area. The band was a bit uneven back there and I really should have made my way up front, but I still greatly enjoyed the sweet banjo work and slide guitar fun. The latter shone most intensely during its solo on one of my personal favorites “Deep Red Bells.” Other highlights included “Maybe Sparrow,” Dylan cover “Buckets of Rain,” and the wonderful “John Saw that Number,” which I’d like to note was used to excellent effect on the closing credits of a recent episode of Big Love (see Laura’s article). I think Neko Case might be some sort of angel, and to top it off, she also seems to be such a delight personality-wise.

Here’s something lame. While the masses were being herded through the entrance gates, a bunch of folks were standing around offering two dollar raffle tickets for some mystery prize. Seemed like a sweet deal, but luckily I declined this impulse purchase, because guess what the prize was: a fucking Snapple lawn chair! I tell you I would have shook my fist angrily at the Snapple crew had they handed me such a craptacular prize, sitting down defiantly onto something most likely more comfortable than those damn bleachers. Still, what a crock.