With much of their critical following cemented by such innovative works as Gallowsbird's Bark (Rough Trade, 2003) and Blueberry Boat (Rough Trade, 2004), fans (such as me) have come to view the Furnaces as ambitiously conceptual sonic collage artists with a penchant for pop deconstruction.
Traveling through the collective history of folk, blues, rock, pop and American noir with a deliberate capriciousness and unbridled virtuosity, Eleanor and Matthew Friedberger have woven medleys that verge on fragmented epics of the unconscious. Who wouldn't love a band that starts their second album with a sprawling Beefheart-esque foray?
However, reading the palm of their last two albums, Bitter Tea and Rehearsing My Choir, would seem to indicate that their erratic life line has sold them a bit short. I will not be the first to say that their pseudo-archival collaboration with their grandmother broke the delicate balance of lore and self-indulgence.
Now touring as the blue chip band on the small indie label, Fat Possum, the Furnaces seem content to run their songs, new and old alike, into the ground. With an unintelligible smear of guitar and drums over the vocals, the crowd at the Metro would have been hard pressed to cite any word that left Eleanor's mouth. Where was the piano, the organ, and the wolf notes?
The virtue of a band like the Furnaces lies in their combined agility and lucid charm. The call and response dialectic between Matt and Eleanor that lent so much endearing complexity to their earlier albums has been traded in for a dull wash of clatter. A tremendous epic like Quay Cur was delivered with the hurried objectivity of a punk song. The Furnaces rang about as true as warm and flat soda.
After growing up just west of the city in Oak Park, you would think that a return to Chicago would imbue their stage presence with some sort of passion. Think again. The only people who seemed engaged in the performance were either die-hard fans who were just enjoying the music in their minds or boyfriends trying to convince their disgruntled dates that it was worth the twenty bucks they just paid.
Like me, the overwhelming majority stood stupefied and still.
Moving out to the periphery and watching the end of the show from the floor, I couldn't help thinking that the Furnaces weren't fazed at all by the general air of alienation. About the only gesture they made towards the audience was a mumbled compliment by Eleanor about some girl's shirt in the audience.
Since no one could understand her, Matt had to translate by pointing at the girl and yelling, "yeah you, she likes your shirt." A fitting analogy for the fruitless struggle that was the night.
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