Fitz and the Tantrums at the Warfield

On Sunday night GG and I caught a triple bill of L.A.-based bands at the Warfield. The openers were The Colourist, a pop band whose enthusiastic singing drummer Maya Tuttle hit her kit with delightful force and rhythm. Their songs aren't especially original, but they're strikingly well-crafted and performed, especially the single "Little Games." They're certainly a band worth checking out and keeping an eye on, with an EP titled Lido coming out on August 20th.

L.A.'s The Colourist

Next up on the bill were Hunter Hunted, which is apparently the duo of Dan Chang and Michael Garner and three supporting musicians, including a highly versatile woman who plays multiple instruments. Sadly, these guys don't seem to see fit to list the band member's names anywhere, but the woman, drummer, and second guitarist (they were introduced onstage as twins) were good players. The band performed without a bassist, unless that second guitar was actually a six string bass. I couldn't really tell because Hunter Hunted played at a volume with Garner's vocals and keyboard mixed so painfully loud that I had to leave the hall in search of ear plugs, which I found in the basement. Going to and fro, I passed by the open rear door of the theater and was overcome by the stench of urine pouring in from out back. The entire rear quarter of the Warfield stinks like piss- it's disgusting. Now, I've been seeing concerts for a long time. I like it loud, but this wasn't loud- it was distorted and stupid. According to someone who works at the Warfield, the band had their own sound guy on the board and this is the way they wanted it. The ear plugs didn't even do the job, and I had to hold them pressed firmly into my ears in order to even remain seated. But even filtered, one can't deny these guys write hook-laden, catchy songs in a Coldplay vein. It would have been a pleasure to hear them mixed by someone who knew what they were doing.

Fitz and the Tantrums

Headliners Fitz and the Tantrums are a somewhat traditional Philly-influenced soul band. I say somewhat because the songs are performed mostly without a guitar, an instrument that lead singer/leader Michael Fitzpatrick supposedly doesn't care for. The band is tight- especially the rhythm section of bassist Joseph Karnes and drummer John Wickes. Sax and keyboard player James is an excellent sideman and singer Noelle Scaggs has the chops to front her own band. And maybe she should, because the weak link in the band, at least live, is Fitz. The tall, lanky man can't dance, he can't move, has no stage presence whatsoever, and peppers his trite, by-the-numbers stage banter with enough unnecessary "fuck"s that he seems to have a latent hostility toward the audience, which resembled a grown-up frat party (all white) who came to party and did so with abandon. That's not to say the man can't sing- he's got a voice like Daryl Hall, but with his pseudo-Flock of Seagulls hairdo, apathetic demeanor, and physical gawkiness, the hard-working band behind him expertly churning out the party music behind him falls curiously flat. They should take a cue from the much more exciting live act Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings and learn some choreography, or even better, hire a trio of back-up singers to take the attention off of Fitz. Their sound was horribly mixed as well, with the vocals being completely undecipherable.