It was a sleepy Saturday night. Summer had jumped out of the pool and was shivering In a towel while Fall rolled the pool cover over the blue waves. Old friends rang me up. Khruangbin was playing the Stadium again, and their third dropped out. I thought about it for a bit. I had been boycotting Forest Hills shows for years after they cruelly made the entire crowd wait excessively long for on the security line for a beloved Tears For Fears double bill with Hall and Oates. Thousands of us were caught on the wrong side of the fence, listening to echoes Of Roland and Curt while cursing the stadium. It remains a shit memory. But a ticket is a ticket, and friends old are friends gold. Besides, Khruangbin isn’t going to play anywhere else in town.
Up in the nosebleeds, vibes were high. Men I Trust put on a relaxed set. Their sound is like a cloud had a vague dream about James Brown. Like they’re picking up some breadcrumbs Kevin Parker dropped and using them to knit a faint yellow sweater. The vox are breathy birdsong over a psychedelic guitar wail. At one point, the guitar man to be trusted lets loose a feedback loop sonic cry to the gods and I feel it in gut. Men I Trust has this dejavu familiarity that is really popular right now (and a perfect match for Khruangbin as an opener.) It’s like this is the waiting room music they used to play when mom took you to the dentist, but now you like it because you’re 40.
Survival Tip 1: It’s important to watch the crowd around you. If people are calling for aid, help calling and spread the word so everyone can enjoy the show safely.
-MSG
Khruangbin emerged, bewigged and beautiful, to great fanfare. A set on the stage was made to look like three cozy arched windows on a staired peer, too minimalist to be pinpointed in terms of culture but reminiscent of the kind of place you’d read a scroll and sip some mead in ancient Constantinople or Marrakesh, which is a really apt visualization of the laidback Khruangbin funk that drew 13k people to this tennis arena. Guitarist Mark Speer and Bassist Laura Lee sat on the first two window sills while DJ Johnson installed his robotic rhythmizer into the drum kit by the third arch. And thus began a parade of vibes on vibes on vibes.
The first minutes of excitement can be too much for some. From the cheap seats, the concertgoers look like ants, and suddenly an ovular group of the crowd have their smartphone flashlights on waving and calling for attention. Someone went down. I watched staff carve their way into the crowd to administer aid. It’s important to watch the crowd around you. If people are calling for aid, help calling and spread the word so everyone can enjoy the show safely.
Finally the band begin to play. Lee glimmered in wide-leg (pajama?) pants covered in shiny sequins. She appeared (from half a mile away) to be wearing socks without shoes, and the front of stage was tan carpets, which matches the chillaxing motif of their latest LP A La Sala. I mean the rolling waves of rhythm rhythm rhythm were just on and on. And then Speer, who plays a guitar like vocals as if the strings are Lauryn Hills’ vocal cords, went pluckety plick with such perfect little plucks. At one point it felt like his guitar was whispering mystic secrets to Lee’s bass while her and DJ remained unrelenting on the movement. It’s wild how a simple combination of three skill sets can paint a whole balloon of air with sound and make it feel quiet and intimate at the same time, even up in the nosebleeds. It’s like auditory chamomile with a honeyed hip swing, just enough to dance to.
My opinion of Forest Hills Stadium? It has improved. I’d be willing to go back again. And as for Khruangbin? Bring your favorite chalice, a bit of smoke, and enjoy a might of low-key virtuosity.
Music-Survival-Guide 