Bimbo’s 365 Club, San Francisco, Calif.

Bimbo’s was borne from cool. Built during the Depression and frequented by movie stars, its walls have seen The Stooges and they have seen Rita Hayworth. A great sea of parquet, scuffed by years of boogie, lays prostrate to a stage enveloped in velvet of crimson and twine of gold. In the back sit constellations of
tables, tuxedos buzzing about carrying silver buckets and beer bottles. On a balmy winter evening, a small earthquake shakes Columbus Avenue. An unassuming star named Stephen takes the stage with a nuclear warhead named Janet just behind him. It is their first night under the lights together and as a mustachioed Malkmus appears, the crowd begins to shuffle and shout. Hair in his eyes, Malkmus leans into his mic and grins, “I just need to adjust this to my manly height.” Seconds later, Stephen and his Jicks rip through “Baby C’mon” like wolves through wet paper bags. Janet Weiss’ prowess behind the kit adds a palpable layer of fresh muscle to a live set limited by the wiry guitar melodies and mountainous solos penned by its leader. As the smoke clears and a handful of onlookers in the front are left looking like Doc Brown, bassist Joanna Bolme declares, “Welcome to Janet.” Screaming but not crying, a rock and roll show has just been born. Malkmus ran swiftly and never clumsily through savory nuggets of all three of his most recent efforts, stacking ham-fisted guitar solo on top of ham-fisted guitar solo. “Pencil Rot” is dedicated to Golden State sharpshooter Matt Barnes and “Mama” beautiful, both demonstrating particularly well the varying degrees of brilliance in Malkmus’ most recent release. Synthesizers don’t feature prominently but the holy union of crescendoing guitar
and locomotive pummeling of the ex-Sleater Kinney drummer. “The Hook” echoed The Stones and after botching repeatedly the opening riffs to “Jenny and the Ess-Dog”, Malkmus stumbled through the an impromptu rendition of The Screaming Tree’s “Nearly Lost You” that drew as much laughter as it did applause. It was in a room decorated for star power, that hundreds came to see gods of their own. Few can say they came without hopes of hearing how some of Pavement’s songs have aged and what they might sound like with Janet Weiss slapping the skins. But there were more shouts of ‘Mustache!” than “Range Life”, the vast majority of the audience chatter centered around the middle-aged master’s facial hair, rather than his extensive back-catalogue. One fan even went so far as to ask the man for the trash and lint which fell from his pockets during a speedy encore. Malkmus has become (to some) more iconic than entertaining and there’s something unusually worrisome about that. Everyone hopes and wishes for a taste of old magic to take home with them and essentially, that’s what Malkmus represents: an era of indie-rock that the iPod generation missed out on. He’s seen by many as a god, the same listeners willing to struggle with listless guitar improv to stand feet away from greatness or to hear just one lick of “Gold Soundz”.

Stephen Malkmus knows how to massage the masses, but his own rhythmic meanderings require, at times, a focus or direction he’s unable to apply. Enter Ms. Janet Weiss. Together they melted face and prompted all those intent on snapping their fingers to stomp their feet. In response to the many barks directed at the thin stripe of hair just under his sharp nose, Malkmus replied, “Looks aren’t everything.” And then he rocked out.

Stephen Malkmus
Matador Records