Woods + Kurt Vile & The Violators @ The Fleece

 Equipped with a raincoat and camera I sought out a night of psych-folk sunshine from Bristol's sodden streets. I also wish I'd brought something else, but more of that later.
           I'd missed most of the opening act by the time I'd found the place- right by the station yet up an alley no-one would ever think existed, including, seemingly, the non-plussed newsagent I asked.
So on to openers- Woods. For those unfamiliar they are a fantastically unpolished and unpredictable NYC folk outfit. By unpredictable I mean kind of schizophrenic- one minute they sound like The Byrds or CSNY, and the next come over as bleary eyed proggers, unafraid of wigging out like a Neil Young on mescaline with a dark edged psycho blues. But they are startlingly adept at both styles.
         What is immediately striking is the unassuming way they take the stage, which is in stark contrast to the racket that they make. Singer, Jeremy Earl sports a rabbi beard with librarian specs and his diminutive size again seems at odds with the noise his frame is just about to unleash. He looks as if he spends a long time indoors, and he probably does, for not only is he founder of Woods, but he also runs Woodsist, their Brooklyn record label. 

Songs such as "Blood Dried Darker", opener of last year's At Echo Lake, pack a more visceral punch live with Earl playing his guitar as if on fire whilst soloing, stabbing away at it like a man possessed. The alluring, stately melodies of their LPs become something darker, as the acoustic parts are dropped in favour of electronic experimentation. And the laid back ambling demeanour of the personnel belies a tight musicianship which sees Earl adopt a variety of guitarist personae, sounding like an eastern sitar player during the improvisational 'Out Of The Eye', and like J Mascis of Dinosaur Junior elsewhere. Such histrionics are coupled with his shrill tenor, reminiscent of any number of the many venerable singers who sound a bit like Neil Young. However, Earl's voice is sweeter than Young's, less anguished, yet still a formidable instrument that held up well against the rigours of a live airing.

                Switching between blissed out hymnal folk of "Say Goodbye," and the krautrock of their more experimental numbers, everything is coated in a slacker sense of spontaneity. Each song, however accomplished, feels like a jam session. This suits a live performance well, though for all the intrigue of their lengthier, tie-dyed experimentalism it's the more conventional moments where Earl's subtly hooky songwriting shines that most please this writer's ear. Such as new album stand out, 'Pushing Onlys', where they truly fit the description of 'sunshine pop' which has been given them. Here, with their gorgeous, swelling guitar arpeggios they recal The Byrds at their least grandiose.
          So all in, a compelling performance from an accomplished set of musicians who, just as each member swaps instruments, cannot quite decide what musical style to use. Though each they choose seems beamed in from outer space- or the heady 70s at least- with a bug eyed psychedelia.
       This is the thread that links to the headline act Kurt Vile, though I see it more of a double A Side lineup, and also to what I forgot to bring. He takes the stage like a younger incarnation of  "the dude" from The Big Lebowski. "Everyone ok", he asks, which is greeted by a chorus of affirmative grunts, "Nice", he drawls in response, with a massive grin on his hair enveloped face. It's at this point, and during my interval ciggy break, that I realise what would aid my enjoyment of the night: weed. Not a lot- just a smidgen, enough to put me nearer the ambling, leisurely gait of Vile and his Violators, and the blissed out Woods.

about as close as possible to a mugshot of Mr Vile

Vile recently signed to indie major, Matador, after years with The War On Drugs (also awesome). His most recent album, Matador debut, Smoke Ring For My Halo, has all his trademark hesitant, somnambulant hooks, but with a deeper array of textures. Thus seeing him slowly emerge from his lo fi four track cabin, it seems. 
            Open tuned guitars and circular swirling riffs predominate on acoustic only opener, "Blackberry Song", creating a narcotic haze of sound. Then 'Baby's Arms' arms kicks in and his band The Violators emerge from the shadows, similarly hirsute and spacey looking. As oblique as Dylan and with a speak-sing vocal style not dissimilar to BRMC or Jesus and The Mary Chain, Vile also sounds  bizarrely like Richard Ashcroft. Yet his resolutely lo fi scuffed jeans slacker aesthetic differs to all the above. Womb-like synths and subtle textures accompany Vile's incantatory outpourings. I saw one fellow fledgling journo write into his iphone "off beat.hair. free verse", as some kind of reminder. As if his hair is forgettable (?!)- check it out above. I spent ninety minutes or so trying to see behind it. As to the free verse- I didn't realise blank verse was the norm for troubadours du jour. I think free association is more on the money, or maybe even stream of consciousness. But that is as far as the Dylan comparisons go - Vile is refreshingly devoid of pretension. He sings about the everyday not the eternal, "She was a Tom Boy, I was a peeping Tom, more than it seems, I was a peeping Tom, (you know what I mean)", exhibits a humour rarely seen in indie climes.

       This is also seen in his engagement with the crowd. "Can't remember that one- it's a decade old and sounds too much like the other one", he gently rebukes himself with. "I'm older than you think, you know." Audience: "How Old!?" Vile: "Old enough to be your mother!"
            He is incapable of sonority, treating the metaphysical with a keen awareness of our own inconsequence: "Christ was born, I was there, You know me I'm around, I got friends." A line that wouldn't sound out of place in the mouth of a Coen Brothers' narrator. So the new Dylan he is not, ditto Springsteen (I can't really understand that oft made comparison).
      There is no dark core of tortured truth underneath all that hair. No angst. The tempos are sloooow (dude), and beneath all the hazy atmospherics and lyrical obliquity, is a man alive to the ridiculousness of life with a peculiar ability to evoke a languorous state of mind through insidious hooks.
              So a fantastic night of music brought to life by the humour and warmth of Vile's stage presence. A night where, though only outside, the rainy streets of Bristol seemed light-years away, and the ether a lot nearer. A trip I won't forget.