I’ve been lucky to see this band live twice, and both times were amazing. The first time, I saw them in a small, intimate theater called Caramoor in Katonah, NY, which is a stunning venue in its own right. The performance was gorgeous, but they also have a charming comedic routine between songs that lightened what might have been a gloomy evening, considering how somber much of their music is. But mostly I was struck by the power of their live performance. Their recordings are great, but being in the room and hearing these two musicians play so simply and purely was a singular experience. They had a way of creating an atmosphere unlike anything I’ve ever encountered at a concert.
Of course, this is largely dependent on the audience, and some crowds simply don’t respect the artists or the other audience members when they go to a concert like this. Ray LaMontagne famously swore at some rude audience members and got shit for it, but I can’t say I blamed him. I felt like he was standing up for himself and concertgoers like myself who aren’t under the impression their $50 ticket means they hired the band to perform at their private get-together but actually want to hear them play.
I went to see Iron and Wine at the Capitol Theater some years ago and Sam Beam asked the audience for complete silence to perform a particular song completely unplugged. He was trying to create the kind of atmosphere I’m describing above. And most of the audience was on board, because this was what we came to hear—the artist making his art his way. But some stupid bitch whose father didn’t love her enough, I guess, waited until the entire auditorium was completely silent, and he had just begun to sing, to scream “Whooo!” The entire auditorium shushed her, but it only fed her pathetic attention-seeking. (I guess her date didn’t have the balls to tell her to stfu.) Beam tried again and again, but she just kept interrupting him with her jeers and howls, and eventually he abandoned the song, which was a shame because from the hints of it we got it sounded unforgettable.
But at the Caramoor concert, the audience was very different. The atmosphere in the room was indescribable. Reverent, almost. Listeners faded into the background, let the artists take the stage, and allowed themselves to be moved by the music. Listeners all around the auditorium literally wept. It sounds strange to say, but it is the closest thing I’ve ever experienced to a shared spiritual experience. I’m not a churchgoer because I don’t believe in any of the teachings of the various religions, so whatever happens in those places is interesting, but leaves me indifferent. And any band of musicians can rile up an audience’s passions and create a communal catharsis. But what I saw and felt in that room was something completely different.
I saw an interview with Bruce Springsteen a while back (I wish I could find it) and though his music never really struck a chord with me, he said something that did. He spoke in almost spiritual terms about creating something sacred with the audience, and how sometimes it was hit or miss, but that there was something that took place between the artist and the audience under the right conditions that made magic possible. That night at Caramoor I felt it.
I saw the band again a few years later at The Bearsville Theater near Woodstock, NY, which is a slightly larger venue in a converted barn with a less intimate, more casual feel. My expectations were lower, but the show was still outstanding.
Wherever they happen to be, if you have a chance to hear the Milk Carton Kids play live, definitely check them out. For a bonus, listen to “Michigan.”