Dewars / Surfer Blood / The Drums

From the dreamy, customizable, baked mac ‘n cheese to the screensaver that plays in sync with the overhead music while you wait—showing track info for what’s playing and when the band is playing live—Lincoln Hall is a wincingly well-executed venue. It is run so well, it just happens to attract equal parts fans of the lineup and fans of the venue itself.

To wit: there are just as many t-shirts for sale illustrating the venue’s name as the bands’. And, unfortunately, I’m more than occasionally stuck in the thick of people who are debating which band is on stage—even debating the names of the bands themselves. For instance, this girl at the Plants and Animals show last year (who already incurred my ire by hitting me repeatedly with the glowstick she brought and arduously danced with) kept telling her friends who trickled in to see the show that “Animals and Planets are playing tonight.” She “heard they were cool.”

Those people are everywhere, sure, but they seem drawn en masse to Lincoln Hall—and with just cause. The space is copious, the sound is always aces, and the ability to ascend to the upper level for real decent seats, real decent food, and beers—while still enjoying decent-quality visuals (courtesy of the overzealous fog machine) and sound—it’s a tough deal to beat. Besides being a short jog from my apartment, I have to admit it’s one of the nicest mid-sized venues I can think of not riddled with hair-petting ravers waiting for the dance bar downstairs to open. (Sorry, Metro…)

As the show sold out early, the event was split in twain and the headliners were given two showtimes—with an added opening band (Dewars) buying the bands extra time to catch their breath, smooth out their hair, check their suspenders, etc., before heading back into the action. In addition to having this extra opener, Surfer Blood had swapped positions in the lineup with the Drums suddenly finishing off the night. Basically the door guy’s print-out of set times was covered with more strike-throughs and revisions than my in-brain recipe of the venue’s mac ‘n cheese.

The Dewars are comprised of portly, angel-voiced, juvenile versions of Newman (Seinfeld) with grotesquely catchy, easy-going songs about the likes of neighborhood sex offenders. Each song deploys crystal-clear Beach Boys harmonies that all too easily make up for the sketch-o content and the grim foreshadowing that hovers over them ever losing their virginity. To ladies. Who aren’t robots. That they probably made in their basement. They honestly rock out with a gut-driven legit-white-boy verve that I can only compare to Steve Zahn’s character in Treme.

In addition to the bedazzling spin of Lincoln Hall’s well-timed disco ball and epic plumes of fog, Surfer Blood had erected bubble machines on either end of the stage—go figure the one on my side broke halfway through and just began spluttering soapy water in my face. Despite having to guard my red, swollen eyeballs through the whole thing (shit seriously stings), it was easily one of the nicest shows I’ve seen at the venue. Statuesque, well-postured, John Paul Pitts belted it out and for the first time reminded me a twinge of Tim Kasher in a way I’d never expected. The drummer, the least well-groomed man on stage by leaps and bounds, had several interesting idiosyncrasies not limited to his forest-man hair and beard and innovative use of percussion—for example, when he began beating on the drums with a maraca the size of a housecat.

Prior to the Drums’ set, a surly fellow came out from the stage recesses and began meticulously taping everything down to the floor with long, multi-layered strips of black tape. I figured there were two scenarios possible: either this dude is a super OCD stage hand, or the Drums were about to dish out a more cyclonic act than I’d have imagined, given the bleary, borderline sarcasm-rock sound they fork up on their albums. As it happened, it was the latter: Jonathan Pierce immediately came out and the first thing he did was take the mic, knock the stand over, and kick it so it rolled off to the side. Pierce was all about standing on Michael Jackson tip-toe, bowing back in arcs so intense his bellybutton popped out a good half foot under his shirt line, climbing on the speakers, and curiously, touching fingers with an audience member like E.T. and Elliott or Renaissance God and Adam. As often happens in these instances (with Sleigh Bells, with the Fiery Furnaces) the lyrics took back-burner to the show itself—but it was one hell of a show with a well-managed, thoroughly blended setlist, hitting up everything from “Let’s Go Surfing” with an expanded guitar solo rock-out, to “My Best Friend,” to whatever else the audience shouted out.

What’s most amusing is how the Drums bore a striking resemblance to a waifish, Brooklyn-hipster version of the cast of Star Trek. “Spock” (Jacob Graham), for instance, only seemed to derive wry outsiderly amusement from the antics of his (very/overtly/at-times-excessively/very-often-superfluously?) charismatic, blonde, lead-singer cohort (Jonathan Pierce). He’d toss Pierce the occasional inside-joke grin but otherwise keep his chin down, retreating into calculated guitar playing. Graham even brought a second guitar—a backup—that was completely identical in every way to the one he was playing. Which, I think, is something we all can agree Spock would do if he were a guitarist on tour in a surf-inspired indie pop band. Tell me I’m wrong. With a text-book Scottie giving them upwards momentum on the drums. (I mean the actual drums.)

For a second round, none of the bands were showing fatigue—they encored the shit out of things. Even for the band I was expecting to be a downer, “Kirk” could not have offered a more vivacious, back-bend-heavy show. For a venue that’s making a real name on giving good show, this was exactly in line with expectations. I have several issues resigning myself to the “good show” venues, the “good show” bands, and, god knows, to all the lights and broken bubble machines—but it was a face-breaking show. And at least part of this is due to the fact I found potentially the one decent Chicago show photographer: Time Out‘s affable Daniela Montelongo. Who actually even used her big-ass pro-camera as a means to keep other more rude-elbow-y photographers away. Just occasionally, when the girls with glowsticks got overwhelming.