Band Of Horses

Set down in the middle of a vast concrete expanse like a desolate, disused circus, the Estragon swells, from a distance, with the awareness of hosting one of the few gigs of real significance to take place in our country, not just because of the latter's logistical and organizational shortcomings, but also due to the scarcity of bands with genuine "universal" clout — a category into which the Band Of Horses can't automatically be assumed to fall, at least not on this side of the Atlantic.

It's worth mentioning upfront the pleasant surprise of finding the Bologna venue almost packed, with the somewhat guilty awareness of no longer quite grasping, perhaps, what mechanisms drive a band like Horses who, until very recently, were certainly among the most prominent names in the indie world, but could hardly have imagined themselves as crowd-pullers on this scale (the same, perhaps, goes for The National). Looking around, as much as one can amid the crush of bodies, you find yourself wondering how much it still matters today to have a video of tanned bikers played on MTV, how much it counts to have a track featured on the "Twilight" soundtrack, or whether it's all down to Facebook, or some combination of all these factors.

What's certain is that Band Of Horses have on their side a fresh album, hugely catchy and utterly devoid of rough edges or flashes of expressive power, on which they've completely shed their youthful drive – the kind found in the sprawling fresco of "Everything All The Time" – but also their youthful anxiousness, as heard in the romantic unease of "Cease To Begin". "Infinite Arms" is a clean-cut country-rock record, made to crackle out of the saddlebags of a Harley, or from the vintage portable tape player of young surfers, held together on the surface of a somewhat pale musical identity by the considerable talent of frontman Ben Bridwell.

In the sweltering Estragon, we brace for our heroes' vocal and guitar pyrotechnics with the baffling opening set from Mike Noga, a gravel-voiced entertainer who had the brilliant idea of styling himself after Dylan too, in case anyone hadn't already grasped where he was going with this. Harmonica blasts on clearance sale, which we call "baffling" because plenty of far more deserving bands come to mind to open for Band Of Horses, from Deer Tick to Felice Brothers, or that Phosphorescent who already played Milan alongside The National.

It all ends, predictably, with guest Ryan Monroe's breathless hammond wheezing (thankfully he didn't also mistake Band Of Horses for CSN or The Band) stirring up the crowd, still in a thoroughly cartoonish way.

In an increasingly unbearable Estragon – it feels like a cozy Bologna July, so much so that you wonder what it must be like in "real" July, and indeed it's closing in May – Bridwell and Ramsey appear after a considerable wait. The former immediately radiates a defenseless innocence, a stoic gentleness, torn between withdrawing into himself and fully baring himself to the audience.

With a cinematic flourish they appear in the filtered sunlight projected behind them, to whisper their love ballad made of sighs and thoughts, of nature and silence: purely twilight-esque, in short. Ramsey, with the looks and hairstyle of Caviezel in Mel Gibson's Passion, immediately shows that nonexistent communicative ability already on display in his solo career, and which he'll show again later, culpably devouring – perhaps wrongly considering it a mere connector rather than one of the driving forces and meanings of the song – the wonderful riff of "Monsters", but also slowing down (technical limitations?) the theme of "Islands On The Coast". Sins that a non-fan might consider venial, but which testify to a presence lacking soul, not just on stage but in substance too. Probably not the musician best suited to a band like Band Of Horses.

Over the course of the show, though, it becomes clear how much Bridwell is the figure who gives the band meaning, despite a frightening initial awkwardness (in the second song, the first with the full band, namely "Bats", apparently a new track, heavy with dark omens since it closely recalls "NW Apt."), which nonetheless testifies to his emotional involvement, tightening his throat, preventing him from throwing himself into the dizzying breadth of his vocal excursions. As soon as he loosens up (fairly quickly), though – I won't hide behind false modesty – there's no one to touch him. It's hard not to answer his cry, which seems to expel itself like a painful gift.

An opening riding a wave of slightly sappy sentiment ("Factory" and "Blue Beard", the latter impossible not to sing along to, especially in its downright brazen coda) from a certain part of "Infinite Arms", delivered with a full-bodied, dense sound, a thick, dense hormone rush (introduced by the outburst of "Cigarettes & Wedding Bands"), which nonetheless has an endearing sincerity going for it.

After an obligatory "Compliments", accompanied, as throughout the show, by prismatic images of nature in still motion – with the sole exception, during "Islands On The Coast", of their huge Ray-Ban-ified faces rolling over crowds and smiles – comes one of the most anticipated moments (not just for me, I think): the first song from "Everything All The Time". Namely, "The Great Salt Lake". Missing certain details, naturally smoothed out live, particularly that monumental quality that distinguishes the record, but the sunburst that follows the chorus still has its usual cathartic effect, of natural power, of primal outpouring.

A trait that, in my view, comes from Mat Brooke's unmistakable guitar style, his "restrained force" never recovered since his departure, not even, for instance, in the following "Is There A Ghost", a genuine display of Bridwell's vocal power, an indiscriminate napalm strike, defeating an artistic loneliness that, in today's lineup, is plain to see. The ordinariness of the drum/bass section doesn't help either.

Merciless, indeed, is the summary of expressive decay completed in the following "NW Apt.", a nonexistent, spent churning of tangled noise, even more blurred and unrecognizable live.

A show nonetheless enlivened by tracks from "Cease To Begin": whether it's the engagingly emotional ballads ("Marry Song", "No One's Gonna Love You"), the folksy festivity of "The General Specific" or the wild spinning turns of "Islands On The Coast" (a wonderful song, somewhat marred by Ramsey), a decidedly different drive emerges compared to the colorless melodic feel of "Infinite Arms". Perhaps a work of enormous passion deserves a bit of rehabilitation, one that can be aggressive and cutting at times, and emotional without cheap sentimentality at others.

Just for one example, then comes the steroid-pumped snarl of "Laredo" to confirm the band's decline, further shown in the electric reworking of "Part One", taken with a hatchet and then pumped full of steroids: what would Mat Brooke say about that?!

Not content with that, they roll out one of the weakest tracks from "Infinite Arms" – only to leave the setlist untouched for a "Way Back Home", or a "Dilly" too: the country-CSN of "Older", in which they play at being measured traditionalists (is that Monroe behind it?), spreading harmonized icing over a parody in a major key.

Seeing Bridwell settle in behind the lap steel, though, stirs up feverish anticipation: once again, the moment for the great classics has arrived. I expect "Monsters", but first comes a very welcome "The First Song", in which Ramsey's ability to accent, to bring things into relief, again seems lacking, in a song where the wall of sound is present but played in counterpoint. Terrible feelings once more, though; a luminous swell takes hold of the vast interior of the Estragon's blazing hull, and all that's left is to give in to its eternal rolling.

And then indeed comes the sublime "Monsters", though somewhat marked by a "fallen nobility" effect, given Ramsey's very scant emotional range, though the spotlight is on Bridwell, who seems driven by a temporary infirmity on his stool: from there he unleashes his immense howls, growing in intensity up to the explosive climax of "If I am lost/ It's only for a/ Little while", which Ben carries beyond its own boundaries and hurls across cosmic distances, possessed by a flame that miraculously lights up with wonder every time it's played, despite Moore's limp keyboard routine and Ramsey's stiff, calligraphic restraint. It matters little that the song grows unruly in its finale, when Bridwell's cry still echoes over the noise, necessary (?) as a prelude to the encore.

They return, to great – and, in some way, well-deserved – acclaim, with the beautiful "Ode To LRC" and its visceral mood swings, blending the tempos and spirits of "Cease To Begin". It occurs to me that, perhaps to sneakily reclaim some of the "horsepower" of "Everything All The Time", Ben leaned heavily on odd time signatures (a somewhat simplified compositional trick), and that this explains the different character of the record compared to its predecessor.

Surprisingly, it's "Wicked Gil" that already hints at the sublime idea of the concert's final moment, in which Ramsey delivers yet another colorless performance (well...). No concessions, in the encore, to "Infinite Arms", and a setlist that, over an hour and forty minutes of concert, showed pretty much the whole history of the band, managing to largely smooth everything out, without managing (and perhaps without wanting) to hide the differing inspiration that has guided it over the years.

So many words, but the right ones are missing for the concert's obvious conclusion. Only one thing remains to be said: thank you, Ben.

Thanks to Francesca Baiocchi and Stefano Milziadi for the photographic contributions

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