Death Throes for Indie Cuties

When I arrived at the Orpheum at 9 o’clock last Tuesday I was met by a surging mass of humanity 2000 strong. The groans that echoed over the heads of the Death Cab for Cutie fans while they waited in line for the tickets to be gathered carried over to the inside experience. Sadly, grief was matched only by sedation when the band finally made their way onto monochrome stage.

The press and the pulpit gave their piece to the fluttering of gossip about the group as early as 1998. Within just a few months of the release of “Something About Airplanes,” the band’s second well-praised album, one reviewer from Pitchfork.com wrote: “Death Cab for Cutie is something different… Life was good again.”

In contrast, the weblog Onetwothreego wrote about their latest full-length “Plans,” released just six weeks ago with fiery contempt: “Damn, I’m disappointed by this one. Too bad I already bought tickets to their show on Friday, otherwise I’d have passed. I love this band, too, but the album blows. Too much whining, not enough rocking. Come on, guys!” Some criticized that the band had lost their credibility with uber-placement on “The O.C.” Cultural reference or not, the most agreement has been that the album is just not very good.

Abhorring Pop Torture

The immense throng chattered, some smiling glumly, and they waddled into the Orpheum sorted by loyalty. The heppest of the masses were the ones hungry for “Airplane” days and thirsty for “Songs with Chords.” They numbered few compared to the mass, dressed in baggier clothes and decorated with baseball caps and logos. That faction walked more hurriedly and talked more loudly. When the music would start, they would sing the lyrics whiny with their eyes closed.

Throughout the venue, people crowded around balconies and box seats anxious to see the most fashionable of the periphery and the show that was sure to grace the pages of the college newspapers from Waltham to Cambridge. The spectacle was lit by hue-changing lights and blinders (reminiscent of a Kiss concert) behind the bandstand. Death Cab took the stage with no memorable flair; their hope for humility was almost respectable.

Words to describe the show and the music that followed hardly offer a fair portrait of the evening. The band only struck off-key chords a half-dozen times. But they were choreographed with kaleidoscopic lighting. The songs were splayed out well and encores were accordingly well-placed; a good mix of old and new kept the crowd awake, heads bobbing, colors flashing. But it is difficult to describe the epic songs, reasonably well-played, of a band too well-loved. A more nuanced impression of Tuesday night’s events could be seen in the dust-covered curtains and the ornate molding’s flaking paint.

The Orpheum is a beautiful theatre almost trapped in the throes of modern downtown Boston. The faded, threadbare tapestries on the walls resonate with the hall’s hallowed history. One website recalls the tradition with nostalgic grace. About the Orpheum, the site reports: “It began as the Music Hall in 1852 and served as the original home of the New England Conservatory (Tchaikovsky’s first piano concerto debuted here, as did the BSO). Now, fans come to see modern acts that have grown too popular for the city’s small clubs… [D]espite its tattered appearance (and so-so acoustics), all seats are filled for most shows.”

The account could not speak more clearly or tragically. Where the air tastes like age and the band sounds like conceit framed by a stage and respectable album sales, Death Cab played on Tuesday for thousands. The carpets bore the stains of too many feet and the paint weighed heavy on the walls. And by the aisles, burly security guards wearing orange vests, arms crossed like shields over their chests made sure that no one stood in the walkways and that fervent fans didn’t overstep their ticket assignments. Behind my seat, a shaggy haired all-American knew every word to every song and sang every syllable into my ear.

—Staff Writer Adam C. Estes can be reached at estes@fas.harvard.edu.