Tracks
Augie March: "One Crowded Hour"
(2006)
By Aaron Newell | 24 January 2008
Augie March have had a strange go of it lately. First there was singer/songwriter Glenn Richards' "structured press day" wherein his "interview facilitator" transferred his conference calls every 15 minutes, jumping in at the 60-seconds-remaining mark to let Glenn and interviewer-of-the-
quarter know that they were to "wrap it up guys." Then there was the recent one-off show in St. Kilda, the Melbourne suburb that inspired the entirety of the entirely inspired Strange Bird (2002 in Australia, 2004 everywhere else, and we're still listening to it tomorrow). The gig was intended not to be a "gig," but rather a "Media Launch" (a symptom of having your steadfast indie label swallowed and regurgitated by Sony/BMG Australia) wherein Augie March was to "present" the new Augie March songs to a roomful of journalists and a barful of actual fans who paid to see the band after 75% of the bar's space was taken up by press (I was on the darkside of this one, but I was a spy so it's ok).
At that "Media Launch" the crowd's reaction to this song, the new (already a hit) single, was elemental rapture, causing sways and singalongs and impromptu bursts of random screams and applause at bewilderingly random intervals. And then, when "One Crowded Hour" was over, the strictly-plotted 45-minute set (Richards to room: "Um. We've been told to play new stuff for forty five minutes, but we're coming back on stage after that to do some favourites for another hour or so, so please stay for that") quickly changed that reaction to a mass-falling-solidly-
asleep, barely holding on for the promise of a better encore that would wake the dead and call each person in the crowd by name. And, as the band played through everything great that they've ever done except for "The Vineyard" (but especially "This Train" and "Song in the Key of Chance"), it did. So, in the end, everyone leaves happy (encore!) and sad (new stuff...) at the same time.
Things continued to get strange for Augie March at the Laneway Festival this Sunday past, with another forty-five minute set between Faker and Broken Social Scene. The band successfully tried the antsy audience's patience with slow, sad classics, and won them over repeatedly (of course, because that's what the band's old stuff does)... before losing them fully with the new gear. Shit. Moo, You Bloody Choir might be the band's bizarro Pinkerton: the album they'll not want anything to do with in the future, except it'll be because it's the lone bland thing in their catalogue.
Now for the hard part: I had this song totally and fully all wrong. And worse, I told Glenn about it, on the phone, during our scheduled 15 minute monitored interview last week. I said during my 15 minutes (Dear ____: How many journalists' 15 minutes does it take to make an artist's 15 minutes? Do you have the stats on that?) that "I don't think you've had a pure love song in your catalogue until now." He said: "The chorus means nothing to me… If it does give the song a romance in a fairly boy/girl kind of way and it seems to work, well, hey, I've written one like that whether I like it or not." Richards has succeeded in his goal to fuse Van Morrison and Bob Dylan in a swingy, sensitive pub-rock ballad with a gorgeous wave and wake, but that also necessarily means that he's played a little Dylanesque game with the listener. When he sings: "For one crowded hour / you were the only one in the room" he's singing in the fan's voice, from the floor, at a gig. Despite the song being structured like a grade-school dance-closer, the rapture is actually directed towards a band-apart. Richards laments the generic: "Far from these nonsense boys and their nowhere music / it's making me sick / and I know it's making you sick / there's nothing there / it's like eating air…and that doesn't hold me together." While Richards acknowledges that "they're not for the likes of you and me", he also capitulates to a "they" who "gave birth to it baby / they took it away / to a side in dismay / they raised it to be a lady / now she can't keep her vow." This isn't a love song. It's singing the blues about singing the blues.
Yeah, I hate being wrong. He said: "We've now gotta do this, and we've gotta do that… and now more than ever it's a fairly necessary thing. I've never done so much of that kind of thing before (structured press, "Media Launches"), and have even resisted it. We usually just play to fans - it's a nice way to treat the hardcore group of fans that we can rely on to come along." He also sings: "One crowded hour would lead to my wreck and ruin." If it's the hour that gets him, and not the forty five minutes, then things should, eventually, turn out ok.
quarter know that they were to "wrap it up guys." Then there was the recent one-off show in St. Kilda, the Melbourne suburb that inspired the entirety of the entirely inspired Strange Bird (2002 in Australia, 2004 everywhere else, and we're still listening to it tomorrow). The gig was intended not to be a "gig," but rather a "Media Launch" (a symptom of having your steadfast indie label swallowed and regurgitated by Sony/BMG Australia) wherein Augie March was to "present" the new Augie March songs to a roomful of journalists and a barful of actual fans who paid to see the band after 75% of the bar's space was taken up by press (I was on the darkside of this one, but I was a spy so it's ok).
At that "Media Launch" the crowd's reaction to this song, the new (already a hit) single, was elemental rapture, causing sways and singalongs and impromptu bursts of random screams and applause at bewilderingly random intervals. And then, when "One Crowded Hour" was over, the strictly-plotted 45-minute set (Richards to room: "Um. We've been told to play new stuff for forty five minutes, but we're coming back on stage after that to do some favourites for another hour or so, so please stay for that") quickly changed that reaction to a mass-falling-solidly-
asleep, barely holding on for the promise of a better encore that would wake the dead and call each person in the crowd by name. And, as the band played through everything great that they've ever done except for "The Vineyard" (but especially "This Train" and "Song in the Key of Chance"), it did. So, in the end, everyone leaves happy (encore!) and sad (new stuff...) at the same time.
Things continued to get strange for Augie March at the Laneway Festival this Sunday past, with another forty-five minute set between Faker and Broken Social Scene. The band successfully tried the antsy audience's patience with slow, sad classics, and won them over repeatedly (of course, because that's what the band's old stuff does)... before losing them fully with the new gear. Shit. Moo, You Bloody Choir might be the band's bizarro Pinkerton: the album they'll not want anything to do with in the future, except it'll be because it's the lone bland thing in their catalogue.
Now for the hard part: I had this song totally and fully all wrong. And worse, I told Glenn about it, on the phone, during our scheduled 15 minute monitored interview last week. I said during my 15 minutes (Dear ____: How many journalists' 15 minutes does it take to make an artist's 15 minutes? Do you have the stats on that?) that "I don't think you've had a pure love song in your catalogue until now." He said: "The chorus means nothing to me… If it does give the song a romance in a fairly boy/girl kind of way and it seems to work, well, hey, I've written one like that whether I like it or not." Richards has succeeded in his goal to fuse Van Morrison and Bob Dylan in a swingy, sensitive pub-rock ballad with a gorgeous wave and wake, but that also necessarily means that he's played a little Dylanesque game with the listener. When he sings: "For one crowded hour / you were the only one in the room" he's singing in the fan's voice, from the floor, at a gig. Despite the song being structured like a grade-school dance-closer, the rapture is actually directed towards a band-apart. Richards laments the generic: "Far from these nonsense boys and their nowhere music / it's making me sick / and I know it's making you sick / there's nothing there / it's like eating air…and that doesn't hold me together." While Richards acknowledges that "they're not for the likes of you and me", he also capitulates to a "they" who "gave birth to it baby / they took it away / to a side in dismay / they raised it to be a lady / now she can't keep her vow." This isn't a love song. It's singing the blues about singing the blues.
Yeah, I hate being wrong. He said: "We've now gotta do this, and we've gotta do that… and now more than ever it's a fairly necessary thing. I've never done so much of that kind of thing before (structured press, "Media Launches"), and have even resisted it. We usually just play to fans - it's a nice way to treat the hardcore group of fans that we can rely on to come along." He also sings: "One crowded hour would lead to my wreck and ruin." If it's the hour that gets him, and not the forty five minutes, then things should, eventually, turn out ok.