Decemberists

Life is always full of coincidences. On the day of the huge demonstration against the expansion of the Vicenza military base, you find yourself in an Estragon packed with Americans. Because it's the only Italian date, and in America the Decemberists are as popular as, say, Zero Assoluto or Negramaro are here. Just to give an idea of the scale involved, and above all of the musical gap between us and them. But that's another matter which, at least for today, it's diplomatically best to set aside. Also because the evening kicks off, for me at least, with a decidedly less-than-international flavour. A character straight out of a Gialappa's sketch stops me at the bus stop to ask about the night's event.

A colleague of mine told me you catch the bus from here to Parco Nord, where there's a concert. What band is it?

An American band, the Decemberists

Is it worth seeing?

Not much to add. I talk him into it, and, naturally, "worth seeing" will end up being the buzzword of the evening.

Estragon is packed. But the six protagonists from the Beaver State (that's Oregon, land of the beaver) are slow to take the stage. A nerve-wracking Prokofiev-flavoured backing track, the nostalgic score of "Peter and the Wolf" alternating with cryptic recordings that sound like language-course cassette tapes, makes the wait feel endless. Our friends from across the pond can afford to kill time with several glasses of "vino rousso", while we, more prosaically, make do with a beer. Finally the lively notes of "The Crane Wife 3" — a track that also opens their latest album — break the silence. Colin Meloy, the band's quirky frontman, looks every bit like one of those nerds targeted by legendary pranks in American college movies. The bold combination of a cream-coloured jacket and semi-formal black trousers, topped off with the inevitable glasses — the apotheosis of nerd style — completes the picture. His distinctive voice is already warmed up, even though this isn't exactly the most obvious choice to open a show. And, following the tracklist of the new, ineffable album "The Crane Wife", which takes its title from a Japanese folk tale, we're straight into the long, near-quarter-hour tunnel of "The Island". An unusual three-act ride between folk and prog, opening with a noise improvisation that flows into one of the proggiest passages from one of the least prog bands of the new decade. The effect is disorienting, but overwhelmingly in a good way (coming from a prog detractor like myself...). Also because, amid the many shifts in mood, it's hard to get bored.

We move from tense, almost grunge-like syncopated passages, to flights between West Coast sounds and ancient medieval chants, all the way to the seismic explosion somewhere between Jethro Tull and Canterbury psychedelia, which sets Estragon ablaze. Colin himself lets loose, in moderation, carried along by the driving rhythm sparked by the deranged organ of the possessed Jennifer Conlee — backing vocals, pianola and organ. She's rivalled on the organ, incidentally, by the equally versatile drummer John Coen, elegant and measured despite looking like an Arizona truck driver.

Despite a few early rough patches, the sound finds its footing with a juicy pair from the previous album "Picaresque": the Decemberists' own "Losing My Religion" (to say the opening vaguely recalls it is an understatement, even if it then unfolds along lines dear to the Smiths), "We Both Go Down Together", and the touching "Engine Driver", chanted word for word by our star-spangled friends. And that's not the only gem from that album. There's also the crowd-pleaser, the Beatles-esque little march "16 Military Wives", which the exuberant Colin turns into a call-and-response contest of "da-di-da-di-da-di-da", splitting the crowd into two rival camps — literally divided by an empty gap in the middle of the floor. Unsurprisingly, the rowdy Yankee faction wins, despite my rather half-hearted contribution.

Aside from that, the setlist is certainly built around the new material — from the naive, bouncy Belle & Sebastian-esque pop of "O Valencia" to the stark, minimal "Shankill Butchers", via the fairy-tale duet between Colin and the excellent violinist Laura Veirs (herself never more versatile, switching between glockenspiel, electric guitar and various unidentified plucked instruments) on "Yankee Bayonet" — but it doesn't skimp on the old classics either. Colin, a chubby, outspoken and one-of-a-kind minstrel, never loses his smile, amused by the verbal harassment of a devoted fan who screams "I love you" into every available silence. To the delight of the Yankees, who spell out the lyrics of every song like it's karaoke night, two more highlights of the setlist arrive.

The playful "Billy Liar" and "Red Right Ankle", a melancholy melody in the style of Neil Young, the night's first encore — both taken from the second album "Her Majesty". Not before their exit from the stage on the notes of "Sons and Daughters", a rustic country-folk number complete with a pacifist choral finale (it is, one might say, exactly the right day for it). The extended chant unmistakably repeats "Here all the bombs fade away". Moving, despite the jarring falsettos of the less sober Yankees in the crowd.

But it's in the finale that the more vaudeville-inclined soul of the excellent Meloy really lets loose. First he anesthetizes his bandmates with a simple pat on the head, making them faint one after another, then, once the dazed Jennifer Conlee and the seasoned Chris Funk (guitar, theremin, banjo and marimba, of course) come to, he sarcastically improvises as a guitar hero, moving up to the barrier to unleash a couple of solos, before finally climbing back onstage and disappearing from sight for a few seconds. He'll pop up behind us, hopping around like a fired-up beaver and setting off an uncontainable pogo pit, mixed in among the most die-hard of his compatriots. It's the exhilarating reprise of the half Irish-folk, half country-western romp of "The Chimbley Sweep". Hilarious. Even though a shoulder-check from the massive Meloy puts my already precarious balance to the test. But it's not over yet. Never one to give up, he climbs back onstage and pulls one last prank on us, making us all sit down on the floor. And a new blistering reprise makes the atmosphere even more scorching, right up to the dizzying, accelerated finale. Everyone back on their feet again. Impossible to resist.

Tonight I understood why, on the poster for the phenomenal lineup of the "Coachella Festival", the star-studded Californian spring happening, the name Decemberists appears in a font as big as that of the likes of Air, Jesus & Mary Chain, Interpol, Arcade Fire and Happy Mondays. The Portland band is one of the most thrilling live acts currently active. Or, if you prefer, one of the most worth seeing.

Today would be the least fitting day for it, but, for once, let's wholeheartedly agree with the Americans.

Ride the wave of great music

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