Friday 07/10/05 Fiery Furnaces, Pit Er Pat @ Logan Square Auditorium, Chicago

Logan Square Auditorium is far and away the most inconspicuous venue in the city of Chicago. We stepped right past its entrance, twice. Once detected, we do a doubletake.  This is it? Two standard glass doors open up into a stairwell bathed in light.  High above the entrance, bricks in the building spell out a name—Gilbert. This looks like a place where your father as a child used to go to get his teeth cleaned. Sure enough, at the top of the stairs, look to your left.  Peek through the locked gate:  Logan Square Dental Care – words in frosted window on a door, evoking a mood of a crime noir private detective agency.

 

Congenial hirsute ticket takers have set up shop behind a table, setting a tone of church service bake sale.  A police officer in full regalia checks our ID – how often do you see a cop at a show?  This should provide for a tense atmosphere, one ripe for insurrection. On the contrary, it feels like an overdue reunion with estranged bandmates. Everyone is so benign, the will call lackeys, the bakesale hipsters, even the cop. This must be what gigs are like in Canada.

 

Up another set of stairs and here’s the main floor – an odd mélange of high school prom and the haunted ballroom in The Shining. Blood red curtains cover windows. Bas reliefs of eagles splayed on platters and adorned in gold leaf line the walls. Gin and tonic costs as much as a bottle of domestic beer – we’ll be having the Beefeater, thanks.  Dapper in our sweater and thrift shop suit jacket – “nice outfit!” croaked the gentle telepathic baglady on the train before informing us of the outcome of the big game, White Sox victorious – we decide to investigate that balcony. 

 

Well, if it isn’t Matthew Furnace.  He’s talking with some speccy gent who’s there to film the show. That lithe and wiry figure, hidden in the shadows, leaning on the rail, standing all alone…could it be her?  We restrain ourselves from staring but, yes, that’s her, it’s Eleanor.  Grabbing a seat on a spare folding chair, we suffer the soporific meandering atonal dalliances of local opener, Pit er Pat. Despite the preposterous breaking of a string by the bassist, the trio does nothing to dispel their recent crucifixion by the music press. During the interminable string change, the dithering drummer tries to tell a joke – "Why did Jesus get laid so much?" – but he never makes it to the punchline. Dreadful. Crap. The kids are filing in now. Better grab a good spot close to the stage.  A bientot, balcony.

 

Turning to take a step toward the stair when who should appear from behind an unnoticed door but the mesmerizing Eleanor.  We are too cowed to speak so we slink down the stairwell in cowardice only to encounter none other than brother Matthew, who is guiding his radiant 83 year old grandmother up the stairs.  All of a sudden this has morphed into The Partridge Family spliced with Alice in Wonderland.  Hurry now, back to the bar. Let’s keep these visions going.

 

Alas, we now have a nightmare in our midst.  This shaggy unkempt lunatic spaz, he looks like a Nickelback guitar tech.  And he’s dancing like a refugee from Woodstock version 1.0. In hopes of offsetting his blatant Nickelbackisms, our nutter is sporting a Salvadore Dali mustache – all the rage on this year’s hipsters. Sorry, no hope for you, son. Since we always draw the mental ones, of course, Nickelback, for the duration of the show, performs his graceless hippie jig nary two steps from our toes.  The true disquietude arrives when this man decides to start shouting suggestions.  “Rock & Roll, baby!”  Suggestions better suited for a monster truck rally or an Aerosmith show.  Ace deduction, mate, but must you get so vulgar?  “Come on, mother****ers…DANCE!”  Dance?  Who’s dancing?  Sorry, but were you under the impression that Franz Ferdinand was performing tonight?  Wrong, pal. This is the Fiery Furnaces.  Same initials, yes. And doubtless you’ve heard that the singer is shagging fair Eleanor, aye? Oh, please don’t say it. Restrain yourself, son. Too late. He points to the stage, to the singer, to Eleanor.  “Hey guys, guess what?  Franz ****in Ferdinand is banging this chick.  THIS chick.”

 

Pindrop silence in the auditorium.  All eyes on Nickelback.  Any minute now there’s gonna be a mass retaliation like the villagers on Frankenstein’s monster, torches, brutal. Of course, none of his happened. Not even Nickelback’s utterance.  But, hell, if that’s not a damn arduous task, keeping one’s eyes from studying the splendor of Eleanor’s royal rump.  Oh drat, her brother just caught you looking, didn’t he? Quick now, look at the bassist.  Yeah, ace riff, man.

 

Yes, Franz fanatics, Eleanor does have her boots on. They are brown, and of a leathery texture. She is also wearing pale yellow jeans and a turquoise top. She is singing 'Straight Street' when something miraculous happens. During her first run-through of the titular refrain, she snaps out of her patented mental patient stare into the middle distance to lock eyes with Gigwise for three and a half seconds. And in half that time she summarily supplants every other indie rock fox in the galaxy from our heart’s infatuation ventricle.  Charlotte Hatherly, Hilary from JJ72…farewell, fair sirens. Our father sees a press kit photo of the Fiery Furnaces and says of Eleanor Friedberger:  “I hope that’s not a boy.”  Well, photographs don’t do this woman justice, pops.  Alex Kapranos, you are one lucky bastard.

 

Yeah, it’s easy to see who is here because they only heard of the Furnaces through the Franz filter. These would be the gormless dorks in grey hoodies, the ones possessing all the locomotion of an Ionic column, the morons wearing sandals.  Sandals!  It’s ten Celsius out, you nonce.   

 

The songs, right. The bulk of the set is devoted to forthcoming release, 'Rehearsing My Choir', which the siblings dedicate to gran. She responds from her chair in the balcony with a heartfelt wave. This causes all in attendance to swoon. Nickelback dabs a tear from his eye. “Damn, wish my grandma was that cool.”  Sheet music rests on music stands for this portion of the set.  Eleanor and the bassist turn pages in synchronicity, adding ever more credence to the high school talent show vibe of the night.  The music stands are ditched for the remainder, including a spot on, sped-up punk reworking of 'Evergreen'. Redwood, more like it. There’s an encore before the Fiery Furnaces retreat into the brisk October night, bottles of Staropramen tucked under their arms. Gigwise strives to corner some Friedberger (guess which one, heh-heh…just kidding, Mr. Kapranos), where he will extol the virtues of Gambrinus, hands down, the best Czech beer of them all. Not this time, code red, socorro.  Call the cop and drop your weapons. Nickelback is putting the moves on grandma.