I never wanna be lukewarm again

Seeing a treasured band for the first time is always an exciting prospect. A few days ago I went to see the latest incarnation of Chicago's Joan of Arc at my fair city's finest new venue The Kazimier. It's a delightful building, which rather feels like a cross between a disused Victorian theatre and the beautiful kids from The OC's sheeny shiney gigspot. Both previous shows i'd seen there were made all the more enjoyable by these pleasant surroundings, so I was pretty stoked to be there to take in an act i've been enjoying for a fair few years now. Even if it's a band with ten albums to their name, of which i only own the first two.

JoA is essentially the brainchild of one Tim Kinsella, to whose work i was initially exposed in my first year of university. A friend from Glasgow, responsible a decade ago for introducing me to a good deal of second generation emo, made me a tape which featured Kinsella's high school punk troupe Cap'n Jazz. This song, in particular:



Personally, i love Little League. It's a great little burst of hyper-energetic indie spaz, with a cute lyrical theme (when you can make it out amidst the yelping), a gloriously absurd breakdown section and a fucking good tune to boot. But i can understand why it might not be everyone's cup of tea. I can understand equally why folk might not like their late-90s reformation under the name Owls (with JoA temporarily defunct at the time). Again, i think they're ace, albeit for different reasons. No longer trying to hurtle through abstract song structures at breakneck speed, they'd managed to slow down and acquire a certain textural grace. With Tim Kinsella's deliciously surreal wordplay much more audible, and guitarist Victor Villareal creating brain-stretching sonic shimmer underneath, Owls' solitary album wanders through abstractions both melodic and rhythmic to stunning effect. Here's a snapshot from a live show:



But anyway! Joan of Arc. And more pertinently, the show. Things began well with a blast of inventively exhilarating noise from London's Shield Your Eyes, before The Love Of Everything brought their indie subtlety to proceedings. Local mainstays Hot Club de Paris showcased their post-punk wares before JoA finally hit the stage at 11.30pm.

Kinsella has admitted in recent years that music is no longer the main priority in his life, and it certainly showed as he yawned and complained his way through a two-hour set of downbeat guitar-led fumblings. And yet it was still great, for some reason. Admittedly, the quality of his backing band (and if we're honest, that's exactly what JoA has been since their inception in 1995) helped matters somewhat, as did the rather large amount of Red Stripe quaffed by yours truly at this point. Indeed, WHTB's main source of irritation was the realisation that the sound has changed drastically since those early records i picked up a long time ago. No longer split between experimental folk, electronic drone and fractured emocore, it looked and felt as though a band who attract as many accusations of pretentiousness as plaudits have taken significant steps towards a more conventional, sombre approach. And whilst it was still great, it just wasn't the Joan of Arc i wanted to see. i'm trying to temper this sense of disappointment with reassurance that i still had a great night, but somehow it wasn't what i really wanted. Perhaps if Kinsella had interspersed his lunatic poetry with a sense of enjoyment, thigns might have been different.

I'll sign off with a clip from the Joan of Arc i wish i had seen. Peace out, y'all.