As Nada Surf grows up, Delta Spirit sings one for the children in Chicago

November 29, 2008, at the Metro

By Selena Fragassi
Published: December 2nd, 2008 | 1:40pm

By the looks of it, the New York trio Nada Surf has been on a growth spurt for the past decade. As the band unloaded the baggage of 13 career-forming years and five noteworthy album releases on Chicago’s Metro for the second time this year, it was hard not to notice that bassist Daniel Lorca’s blonde dreads have grown impossibly longer, and the faces of singer Matthew Caws and drummer Ira Elliot may be a little bit older. But obvious vanity set aside, it’s the maturation of the band’s songwriting ability and performing fervor that truly became the ruler mark of a seductively thrilling two-plus-hour set.

Touring behind this year’s Lucky (Barsuk), the fiercely independent mainstays whose biggest claim to fame is arguably the 1996 tongue-in-cheek anthem “Popular,” have proved they have moved beyond high school daydreaming with grown-up revelries that put them on a whole other playground of merry-go-rounds. Beginning the evening with a reunion of classics like “Treehouse” and a jackknife version of “Popular” that cuts the line of catchy chorus with aggressive spoken word, and moving into intermediate favorites like “Fruit Fly,” and culturally referential tracks like “Blonde on Blonde” and “Killian’s Red,” it was Nada Surf’s new territory that trekked the brightest horizon. Songs like “See These Bones,” about Caws’s archaeological discoveries in Rome, “Whose Authority,” and “Weightless,” proved the perfect song for a sing-a-long as the backdrop of glow-in-the-dark stars lit up the room in an atmospheric glow.

But even with the passage of time, Nada Surf can’t deny the innocent charm and contagious energy that radiates behind the youthful voices that thankfully haven’t been tainted by major label hiccups and homeland obscurity, even though Lorca singing backup vocals with a Marlboro hanging out of his mouth would lead you to think otherwise.

As Caws introduced the song “Inside of Love” as the dance portion of the night and led the compliant room into a two-step pedestrian version of the wave, there was a clear sense of happiness that belied the band’s coming of age in the haze of grunge angst. “The more you’re into it, the more we’re into it,” he said with a smile that could’ve been on the pages of a yearbook.

Openers Delta Spirit also had something to say, as singer Matthew Vasquez warned on the riotous single, “People C’mon” from the beloved debut Ode to Sunshine (Rounder). Hailing from the coastal region of San Diego, the quintet’s style proved more grounded in the deep roots of American soul, country, and even bordering on vaudeville with rowdy piano arrangements and mood-enhancing drum beats that competed with Vasquez for some soapbox time.

With the lyrical brawn of Bob Dylan and the vocal hysteria of Joe Cocker, Vasquez would all but growl his impassioned hymns about emancipation and broken social law as he wailed his guitar in dirty jam sessions with his bandmates dressed in flannels and beanies with Paul Bunyan mustaches looking like a harlequin group of street musicians begging for a dime.

From conventional arrangements on keys, guitar, percussion, and harmonica to the avant-garde trashcan lid beats that created a staccato thunder, it would have been just a talent show without soulful lyrics that were as much subtle as they were powerful, most of all on the song “Children.” “Children shut your eyes, we’ll tell you what to see. This world is burnin’ down and you’re the ones to lead,” Vasquez prophesized. “When you sitting second class and as long as you’re in control, speaking when you’re asked, you make your own stand.” As he took off his hat as if in salute, it was enough to realize that no matter if you’re “popular” or “second-class citizens,” it’s only through growing up that you can appreciate such beautiful music.

For more photos from this show, visit Venus Zine's Flickr page.

Nada Surf feature
Review of Nada Surf's Lucky
Delta Spirit feature