The superlative “biggest indie band” seems oxymoronic, but it’s hard to say that Death Cab for Cutie is anything but. You could argue that their melodic and haunting sound, built in the drifts of the gray skies and hazy drizzle of the northern Puget Sound, is what pioneered the late 90s and early 2000s lo-fi indie movement.
Hailing from an era that predates the mass bifurcation of the alternative genre, Death Cab is on the road in support of their 11th studio album, “I Built You a Tower,” and first under outlaw label Anti-. They performed on Friday, July 31, at Arizona Financial Theatre.
This, in many ways, is a return to form for the Bellingham-born band, except now this once tiny indie band is effortlessly selling out shows in the middle of a heat wave in downtown Phoenix, drawing fans as far away as their home base in the Pacific Northwest to sweat it out with the locals.
Beth Morse and her daughter, Macy, flew in from Seattle just hours ago to catch the show. Their anticipation is palpable; this is Macy’s first concert. It seems counterintuitive to fly from the Northwest to see a band from the Northwest, but Morse explains that her daughter spends the school year in Florida with her father, and this was the one show they could make happen together. This endearing union is a poignant reminder of the emotional bond that Death Cab has held over listeners for almost 30 years.
Standing in the merch line, Morse contemplates aloud, “The generation gap that Death Cab has managed to span kind of blows my mind. These are the same songs I was listening to at Macy’s age. I hear ‘Passenger Seat’ and I’m immediately transported back to when I was 19, away from home, missing the smell of the Pacific Northwest. Macy has grown up in Florida, but I think she still considers herself a PNW girl and the music is such a strong connection to the place we both love. Even when we’re away from each other.”
“I Built You a Tower” is frighteningly apropos of the zeitgeist that is the daily news feed, a commentary on loss and grief and our inability as humans to lock those feelings away. The band opens with a balance of new songs from the album mixed in between familiar singles; “Riptides” feels both intimate and new, while “The New Year,” now well into its 20s, is a joyous reminder that frontman Ben Gibbard’s voice is like your favorite thrifted flannel, worn thin in the best way, traveled in places you’ve never heard of, and always there when you need some warmth.
The pop riffs and upbeat chord progressions of the second single of the album, “Punching the Flowers,” are presented as a paradox when paired against its closing lyrics: “All she heard was the sound of slamming doors.” The crowd happily accepts this disconnect; it is in these moments that Gibbard’s lyricism shines, a hand-in-glove match to his vocals that sit beside you while you sing along, sway, and maybe quietly tear up; it’s okay — half of the venue is having the same moment. We all meet in unison as the final chorus of “Black Sun” is sung a cappella, Gibbard pinned in a solo spotlight as the audience rises to meet in his voice.
The show continues with songs that are as at home on the radio as they are from a ripped track in a smoky dorm in 2003. From “Company Calls” to “Crooked Teeth,” these are the poems we wished we could write to that unrequited love in high school; the single lyric you wanted them to hear and turn around, and come running back; and probably the reason you and a thousand other 20-somethings learned to play the A-minor chord on your roommate’s guitar.
The second act opens with two of their biggest mainstream singles; where “I Will Follow You Into the Dark” is a eulogy, “I Will Possess Your Heart” is a love letter.
Gibbard empties the stage for the first half of this story arc, a purely acoustic solo with the backing vocals of five thousand strong. As we near the final chorus, he leans into the microphone and lets us know that “this is the part of the show where I ask you to do my job for me.” The audience happily obliges and for a moment, we are all Death Cab. Gibbard segues us back with a drawn-out final chorus to make sure “you feel like you got your money’s worth.”
Wiping away tears, the crowd picks up, clapping in unison with the opening instrumental section from “I Will Possess Your Heart” as drummer Jason McGerr accompanies the long intro to get our hearts in beat with the kick drum.
This two-song, 10-minute story arc reduces the audience to a puddle of tears and then triumphantly lifts us up in victory, deftly moving from lo-fi gloom to indie pop. It is more than a clever musical device; it is a perfect analogy for the sound and vibe that Death Cab have embodied for their nearly three decades of existence. They bring you up, they bring you down and they bring you in.
These savvy road veterans know how to move a crowd. As the setlist moves into its final act, they kindly pick our hearts off the ground with “Soul Meets Body,” piecing back spirits in verse-chorus-verse. This ubiquitous number-one radio hit hasn’t lost its charm 20 years later, urging the pit and seats to sing along at full throat until the beat drops and the crowd erupts in a moment of celebration.
And in these moments, we are all loved. The incessant chaos of the current timeline and its algorithms is left at security, and for a couple hours we are gently lifted from our everyday anxiety and depression and brought into a warmer version of sadness … a melancholy that we chose to embrace in being here.
With a not-so-final wave, Gibbard and company step off stage right, inviting riotous applause and untimely exits from the uninitiated; the encore awaits.
Their four-song curtain call is a crash course into their early work, pulling more obscure but no less vibrant songs from their first, third, and fifth albums, inevitably circling back to “Transatlanticism” from the album and song that put them on the map. It is a perfect ending to the emotional rollercoaster of a Death Cab show, a song that builds from a simple chord progression alongside an atmospheric gloom until it crescendos into a beautifully orchestrated zenith. And I am happily caught up in the moment.
I relent to the push and pull of the all-too-familiar guitar lick, put down my notepad, close my eyes and sing along: “I need you so much closer / I need you so much closer.”
As the lights kick on, all five band members meet at center stage, and with arms around one another, they bow out once more for a final farewell.
The cheers of the crowd fade into the murmur of instant retrospect under the crunching of discarded water bottles (don’t litter, people), and I am left wondering to myself: When Death Cab gives up the ghost, who will be left to make us cry?
Matt Lu
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