Slowcore Pioneers Low Born Again

Low’s music, which bears similarities to Elliott Smith, the Red House Painters and Radiohead, is a perfect mirror to the sheltered angst and icy beauty of the town from which they emerged. Duluth is a small city in northern Minnesota, packed on a hill overlooking the western tip of Lake Superior. Its population has dwindled as the iron mines have dried up, and young people move on in search of the metropolitan lifestyle Duluth fights to insulate itself from. Buried in the snows of long winters, residents hole up in the bitter cold with wool and addiction, the pace of life slowing to a crawl. Last Saturday the band’s frigid notes resonated just as well with the thawing tundra setting of the Somerville Theater.

Formed in 1994, partly in response to the noise-driven, retaliatory grunge music that dominated airwaves at the time, Low stripped its sound down to barely a whisper, producing fragile songs for a series of independent labels. Comprised of husband-wife team Alan Sparhawk and Mimi Parker, along with bassist Zak Sally, the band continues to produce songs that tell of a secret turmoil. Probably the most recognizable pioneer of “slowcore” (a sonically lethargic genre that also includes acts like Bedhead and Codeine), Low’s sad songs have long served as an emotional outlet for fans; only recently have they flirted with the poppier sounds that permeate the indie-rock scene today.

Although no departure from their core sound, and certainly not a disappointment to old fans, The Great Destroyer, which Low released in January, has a different feel to it than many of their past albums. Coming after a whirlwind near-breakup followed by a breakthrough opening for Radiohead, Destroyer presents some novel sounds for the band, making equal use of melody, silence and reverb-driven dissonance. Still, it is very much a Low album, and the brief moments of near-convention fit perfectly with the extended silences and moping harmonies that make up the rest. There seems to be a pop sensibility peeking out from behind their austere sound, as something resembling a more conventional melodic structure rears its head in the middle of some of these new songs. As their eighth album, it represents a major shift for the band: it is their first album for new label Sub-Pop (which, ironically, was Nirvana’s first label, and the current home of Garden State favorites The Shins and the Postal Service), and was co-produced by David Friedman, famous for his work for more exuberant acts like the Flaming Lips. The pretty pop work of Friedman shines through on a number of songs, including the beautiful “California” and the closer, “Walk into the Sea,” which sounds more like fellow indie icon Sebadoh than any of Low’s previous work.

At last week’s Somerville Theatre show, the band showcased many of the tracks from the new record, delivering them with their famously hypnotic flow. Guitarist and singer Sparhawk held notes for as long as he could, breathing out words of love, parenthood, and religion to an all-ages audience, with his wife (Parker) providing beautiful harmonizing tones and compellingly simple percussion beneath. Bassist Sally adopted an acoustic guitar for a few of the songs in a Destroyer-heavy set.

The band opened with perhaps the best-known single off their new album, “Death of a Salesman,” a delicate song reminiscent of slow They Might Be Giants tunes, as Sparhawk sighed out haunting lyrics like, “The future is prisons and math.” After two more Destroyer songs, Low delved languidly into a song from their previous release, the dark Trust, called “(That’s How You Sing) Amazing Grace,” a delicate song that bares the gritty spirituality of the group. It was in the encore, however, that a request was finally acknowledged, as cries for “Sunflower” were satiated by a beautiful version of this classic from 2001's Things We Lost in the Fire. They followed this with an unnamed cover of a song by “the Belgian Metallica,” Channel Zero, but ended the set with a beautiful version of their own “Cue the Strings.” The audience remained seated throughout both Low and opening act Pedro the Lion, taking in the music in sort of a moping stupor, with neither band’s sound demanding dancing or even movement.

Pedro’s heartfelt, quasi-religious songs poignantly offset the delicate tones of the headliner. Lead singer, guitarist, and songwriter David Bazan—the indie-rock manifestation of the Protestant work ethic—mixed his earnest singer-songwriter-esque songs with good-humored crowd banter. Pedro’s fans seemed much more devout than Low’s, as Bazan responded to their loud song requests with wry comments and polite refusals. Perhaps a bit more overtly religious than Low’s, Bazan’s lyrics seemed to take a backseat to the instrumental quality of his voice, one that added layers to the band’s fuzzy guitars and simple drum and bass lines.

One of the most exciting moments of Bazan’s set came when he announced a cover of a Neil Young song (“Revolution Blues,” from his classic album On the Beach). As the band began to play, Sparhawk surreptitiously emerged from behind the curtain to join the band in this cover, showcasing his louder, wilder side on some tremolo-tastic guitar accompaniment. Seeing the normally subdued Sparhawk thrashing briefly on his guitar evoked his side-project the Black-Eyed Snakes, for which Sparhawk rattles out aggressive blues guitar and wails through an old harmonica microphone. In the end, the hauntingly beautiful lyrics of the Young song are an interesting counterpoint to the comparatively simple, yearning lyrics of Bazan’s own catalog. Although not as eclectic as their marquee-mates, Pedro the Lion did exactly what they were supposed to: deliver warm, comfortable songs laden with dryly emotional lyrics.

As a live act, Low are a breath of fresh air. Alan and Mimi, as practicing Mormons, lead a quiet lifestyle worlds removed from most of their groupies-n-gin peers. Shining through in their lyrics and in their relationship, this faith that sets them apart also brings their sound to a new level. Although less minimalist than their first release (every song title on I Could Live In Hope is one word), The Great Destroyer is just as bare and beautiful as the rest of their albums. The music, although not conducive even to foot-tapping, rewards patience and silence with a beautifully austere, wintry texture reminiscent of Duluth, even in a scene saturated with New York swagger and California ennui. The perfect complement to a cold, listless winter day, Low’s music becomes more beautiful as it becomes more familiar, their maudlin, Mormon message piercing to the bone of even the most jaded big city hipster.