All those hoping to crest on a wave of hype were disappointed by would be openers and SXSW darlings Fleet Foxes' cancellation with no explanation, and so the audience were treated to a last-minute set by East York’s Still Life Still. Looking like a crop of your younger brother’s mustiest friends (lame jeans, t-shirts dredged from the bottom of their closets, inexplicable dreads), with their disjointed timing and frazzled guitar parts, they wouldn’t exist without Pavement. Not that they cared to thank Stephen Malkmus for the opportunity, highlighting their upcoming gig at Clinton’s “at a much smaller venue.” Learn your etiquette, boys, and take a page from Malkmus' former band — cut your hair!
But then I closed my eyes, thought of “Post Paint Boy” and everything was okay. I had fought hard for my spot and I had won — soon I would literally stand underneath former Pavement front man and all around indie rock god, Stephen Malkmus, the closest thing to a personal Jesus this music geek’s got. To a wash of red and blue lights, the band entered onstage. First Janet Weiss, the soul-crushing drummer of Sleater-Kinney, now a full-fledged member of Stephen Malkmus and The Jicks, followed by keyboardist and guitarist Mike Clark, then Quasi bass player and Elliot Smith producer Joanna Bolme. And then — I couldn’t stand it! — Malkmus himself, a rake-thin apparition in a threadbare red t-shirt, blue jeans, shaggy brown hair and lineless tanned skin — must be all that Portland sunshine in lieu of California’s. We locked eyes intermittently, was that a brief smile that played upon his lips? Taking a cool, laconic stance, Malkmus blasted his first guitar lick off a tattered Fender Jazzmaster patched lovingly with duct tape. “Shot through, we knew and now, the thrill of loving someone that you shouldn’t love…”
To be honest, it’s all kind of a blur from there, though I remember Malkmus wielding his guitar like a semi-automatic, eyes screwed shut as he unraveled an icy cool guitar solo to “Dragonfly Pie.” A sunny take on “Gardenia” bloomed (also featured on the excellent Real Emotional Truth, the band's more Black Sabbath sounding disc) as Malkmus seesawed around the stage. And then this unfathomable exchange with the drunk guy who had been spilling beer on my sneakers all night happened:
Drunk Guy: “Hey Stephen — give me your guitar pick!”
(This is while Stephen Malkmus is tuning. And also kind of like asking Jesus to loan you his crown of thorns.)
Stephen Malkmus: “This is my only pick, I need it to play. How about I’ll give it to you after the show?”
Drunk Guy: “You better!”
Malkmus didn’t, but he did hand me his water bottle after taking a sip onstage, which just goes to prove our BFF status.
What’s striking about The Jicks, is both their musicianship and laissez-faire-ness. They’re a band best at unspooling, jammy confections — “We Can’t Help You” bends and breaks with each guitar solo, Weiss’ drumming adding efficient drama to the quartet. (She’s also a great backup singer, well employed to Meg White-ish effect.) While some Malkmus solo material hits upon Wowee Zowee psychedelia, I was in it mostly for the quirky rhythms, the way Malkmus acts out shark attacks with his palms and cracks jokes at the Canadian dollar’s expense. He’s a strange but comforting front man — playing most tracks with his eyes closed, transporting himself to some secret place, then arriving swiftly back to earth as the stage again becomes illuminated. He plays like a sweater with a loose thread — every song is an act of undoing. In the '90s, this kind of slackerdom was celebrated, revered as artistic genius with an anything-goes stamp of approval. Today, it just makes me nostalgic for something I never experienced.