A literal week before I was supposed to see one of the most important concerts of my life, the global pandemic known as COVID-19 pulled on the carpet strings of the world and left us all lying flat on our backs. Needless to say, the concert was cancelled, never to be rescheduled. At least I got my money back. But as we surpassed the denial phase of our collective grief, I kept hearing advice to cling to what made me happy. To do anything I could to regain some semblance of control over my life when everything around me was crumbling. But how could I cling to what I loved most, when that was the one thing being taken away?
Growing up in Springfield, Missouri, live music was hard to come by. And I didn’t run in the circles I so desperately wanted to, seeing Someone Still Loves You Boris Yeltsin in basements, hanging out at the Outland Ballroom on the weekends. Instead, I bought $12 British music magazines, spent all my time listening to 30 second clips of new artists on iTunes, and using my extra cash (mostly my parent’s) to buy copious amounts of CD’s, desperately hoping that one day I would be welcomed into the concert scene too.
Newsflash, it didn’t happen in Springfield. But when I moved to St. Louis, it was like the flood gates opened and concerts were my air. Instead of spending all of my extra, and not so extra, money on CD’s (my own money now, I promise), I had graduated to vinyl records and live performances. St. Louis isn’t the most obvious stop on a national tour, but we got enough acts to keep me living paycheck to paycheck. And I would do anything for that barrier. I would rush to the venue right after work, standing in line for hours before the show. Once, I went to four shows in one week, and almost fainted from skipping too many dinners. But the music kept me fed, and it kept me excited and brave enough to embark on making my own.
I have always been shy about performing, which makes complete sense because it’s what I want to do most in my life. But when I was inches from these artists that I looked up to, literally so high that I had to crane my neck, it always made me feel like I could do it too.
When the pandemic hit and everyone panic posted, it was so hard for me to buy into the live concert streams that inundated my social media pages. And as shameful as it is for me to admit, I opted out of most of them. I tried to support artists in other ways, buying merch and vinyl, participating in Bandcamp Day; a day where Bandcamp.com gives all of the proceeds it makes directly to the artist. But I couldn’t talk myself into paying money to tune into watching an artist play through the screen. Not when I could watch their Tiny Desk Concert on YouTube anytime I wanted. Not when they had nothing else to do and were already playing on their social media pages all the time. Not when I had felt their kick drum reverberate through my chest, enveloping my own heartbeat, chanting, “home, home, home”. But I didn’t blame them. And I cursed myself for being aware of how disheartening it must be to be an artist in this time. To know that if it was me, I would make the exact same choice, to do the livestream, to charge the 12 bucks, to very reasonably want to be paid for my art. *Adds guilt record to cart.*
Enter Lord Huron. I had always been a fan of his macabre tales from the outback underworld, his albums doing such a good job setting a specific mood. So, when he announced that he was going to do four live concert episodes, entitled, “Live From Whispering Pines,” my corporeal form wiggled a rigor mortised finger. (I’m always a sucker for anything to do with pines.) I had seen Lord Huron in the flesh twice and fallen in love more each time, so I decided to give it a go.
The program was advertised as a distorted radio show, hosted by Mr. Tubbs Tarbell, a whiskey drinking, reminiscent cowboy who runs a studio deep in the Whispering Pines. A lonely old bear, he is joined by Lord Huron, who soundtracks our journey into the great void and beyond. Once I saw the trailer, I knew this was going to be no ordinary live stream.
On January 7th, I lit some candles and poured myself a glass of wine, ready to dive headfirst into the mysterious Twin Peaks world of this little radio station deep in the woods. And what transpired was an hour of great live music, infomercial ads for compilation discs of the other long-lost artists on the Whispering Pines label, and haunting visuals that would make any Lynchian tip their caps.
As many millennials probably are, I am drawn to the nostalgia of film. And most of the broadcast looked like it was made with a home video recorder to perfect effect. Ben Schneider led the band through new songs and old, all while his image cast rainbows and light leaks that inlayed members Miguel Briseño, Tom Renaud, and Mark Barry over one another, a musical kaleidoscope. It ended with a promise that the mystery was only beginning.
Jump forward a month to episode 424, and I couldn’t wait to be back in the world of Whispering Pines with Tubbs, in this new version of a live show. This was more than just watching the band through a screen. This was a whole universe, a new way to experience music than a live concert, or even a visual album. Here was a format you couldn’t experience anywhere else, tailormade for these pandemic times, and much more creative than a live stream with a great mix, and fancy camera work. It takes a lot for me to be surprised these days, or to have the optimism that new things can still be invented. And while I’m not saying Lord Huron has invented a new media wheel here, they have combined live music and filmmaking in a way that I have never seen done before.
In the second episode, the void expands, and we get callers from the outside world requesting songs for the show, promptly performed by Lord Huron in exceptional and sometimes brand-new ways, bespoke for the howling snow that Tubbs has to trek through to get to the radio station. A call from a mournful voice halfway through the program proves that there may be more to Tubbs than meets the eye, especially as his eyes and the rest of his face, seem to be blurring at odd moments.
I relished one of these moments when a caller asked to hear a song by Roy Casey, one of Whispering Pines legacy artists. The reel starts out with a faceless figure singing a western lament that cascades into a new Lord Huron song, the visuals a masterclass in the nebulous aesthetic that hovers over the entire project like a UFO.
There are two more episodes left of “Alive From Whispering Pines,” on March 18th and April 15th respectively. And if the easter egg at the very end of episode two is any indication, things are going to get more mystifying.
Is Tubbs an alien? Will Lord Huron announce a new, and much anticipated album? Should everyone be watching this masterpiece? Tune in next time and beyond.
May you live until you die.
The new single, “Not Dead Yet,” is out today (February 19th, 2021).
Buy tickets to, “Alive From Whispering Pines,” at https://www.lordhuron.com/
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