POP MUSIC

Thursday, November 1, 2007

Jimmy Eat World

When it comes to emo, there's a fine line that separates the men from the Fall Out Boys -- and it's not drawn in eyeliner. All emo bands, regardless of age and/or cosmetic preference, walk a tightrope between rousing and cloying, goose bumps and dry heaves.

For more than a decade, Jimmy Eat World has walked that line with confidence. The emo stalwarts may have delivered an uninspired set at the 9:30 club on Tuesday, but a humdrum performance couldn't mask the fact that these melodramatic rave-ups have ripened with age.

Most of them came from the band's 2001 eponymous album, a platinum-selling breakout that rendered a flurry of hit singles, paving the way for Yellowcard, the All-American Rejects and Fall Out Boy. Back in 2001, Jimmy Eat World's radio hits including "The Middle" and "A Praise Chorus" felt too spunky, too earnest. Onstage, six years later, they sounded sharp and durable -- especially compared with the histrionic crud they inspired.

The band dug even deeper into its catalogue with "Lucky Denver Mint," a tune whose airy melodies and choppy guitars evoke Cutting Crew jamming on a Fugazi riff. (That union might sound unholy on paper, but it's pretty sweet on the ears.) Singer-guitarist Jim Adkins's earnest vocals anchored the song, yet even as he whipped himself to and fro, the whole thing felt incredibly stiff.

That disconnect became glaring toward the end of the night with "Sweetness," one of the most anthemic rock tunes of the decade. The song's singalong hook instantly zapped the sold-out club to life -- a crowd surfer suddenly materializing where a cement-footed audience stood only moments before. How could these four men possibly coast through that soul-rattling chorus as if it were another day at the office?

-- Chris Richards

Ryan Adams

Ryan Adams is both a perfectionist and temperamental: He has ended concerts abruptly due to perceived poor sound quality, and he's known as much for his onstage meltdowns as for his melancholy alt-country ballads. But on Tuesday night at DAR Constitution Hall, Adams showed only the best aspects of both traits.

His perfectionism was apparent from the stunning arrangements and interplay with his four-piece band, the Cardinals -- from the squealing guitar riffs on "Cold Roses" to the long instrumental lead-in to "Off Broadway," the group sounded rehearsed and precise without sounding at all formulaic.

As for Adams's volatility, he broke from his focused performance only rarely: to play sidekick to pedal steel player Jon Graboff's Rodney Dangerfield joke, to shout nonsense into a bullhorn, and most amusingly, to launch into a speedy punk-rock birthday song for his bassist. Those gags might have seemed incongruous to Adams's otherwise serious stage persona, but they provided a good comic balance to the somberness of his songs.

The Cardinals' organic, jamming style was reminiscent of the Grateful Dead and worked particularly well for the over-two-hour show. The lengthy, moody "Blue Hotel" mirrored Adams's plaintive cries of "I give up" while the swirling instrumental layers and laid-back lyrics on "Easy Plateau" were riveting and could likely have gone on for hours were it not for the hall's strict curfew.

-- Catherine P. Lewis

The Go! Team

"The time has come for the Go! Team to find out what you Americans are all about!" declared a not-at-all-out-of-breath Ninja, the sinewy MC of the Go! Team, late in the (mostly) British hip-pop collective's 70-minute workout at the 9:30 club Tuesday night. She had already achieved the rare feat of inciting a 9:30 crowd to dance; what more could she want? Answer: More, faster, wilder dancing. Many in attendance seemed to have overflowed from the High Heel Race on 17th Street, contributing to the gig's carnivalesque atmosphere.

But the surreal vibe came mostly from the music, an ever-accelerating aural blur that piled sextuple-Dutch loops of playground chants atop '70s cop-movie horns (played on keyboards), which was layered over the traditional rock-combo instrumentation with the odd recorder or banjo thrown into the mix.

The Team's six-strong, multinational touring lineup must be exactly what founder Ian Parton was imagining as he Pro-Tooled together their debut album, "Thunder, Lightning, Strike," in his Brighton bedroom a few years ago: Two drummers, two guitarists, a bassist, all swapping instruments periodically just, you know, because. He couldn't have banked on finding a frontwoman like Ninja -- essentially Angela-Bassett-as-Tina-Turner-as-high-school-gym-coach. (Bassett because she can't sing like Tina, but she sure can shout.) Parton seems to relish his man-behind-the-curtain role: Onstage, he ceded the spotlight to Ninja and Japanese guitarist-vocalist Kaori Tsuchida, surely for the best.

As with the group's two albums, the show offered up the musical equivalent of Pixy Stix, sweet but insubstantial. By the closing one-two punch of "Doing It Right" and "Titantic Vandalism," Halloween had arrived, granting us all license to make a meal of the candy we'd been served.

-- Chris Klimek