Tribulations of the Young (Man) & Restless or SHOW REVIEW: Young Man / YAWN 10.12.10

Four or seven HD cameras strategically placed throughout the room. Near the ceiling, near the floor. On dollies (maybe), on cranes (most definitely). Probably a couple of Columbia AV nerds pitching a tent, finally getting the chance to flex an overpriced tuition. And for what? To image capture the hasty house that buzz built.

Unfortunate for Young Man, the fitting moniker of popular YouTube indie-imitator Colin Caulfield, that house is made of cardboard. Not even the high-grade, sturdy shit either. And at least in this writer’s eyes, whatever structural solid once promised by online murmurs has sadly already begun its break down. Swinging and a swaying, weakened by reality. Like if reality was Calvin (minus Hobbes) and Young Man was the Chevy symbol the mischievous cartoon kid was eagerly pissing on.

See, for the past week my inbox has been getting vigorously fisted by various PR e-blasts informing me about Young Man’s record release. A good amount of press blurbs, cut and positively edited down, accompanied by a list of CMJ showcases. That, along with a few reminders urging me to attend Young Man’s forthcoming Boy EPrelease show at Chicago’s Schubas Tavern.

Well that show was Tuesday night. And I went. Not reluctantly either. A yellow sticky with ‘Schubas, October 12th’ had been on my desk for a minute. It was all about two birds, one stone; gauge Young Man’s previously untested product while catching a set byYAWN, the stellar Chicago outfit with a soft spot for tom toms and pop-laden tribal beats.

And I did my damnedest to keep my subjective-thong from riding high. I really did. Other than a few, admittedly high-quality clips I ran through of Caulfield (the most notable being a stellar cover of Deerhunter’s “Rainwater Cassette Exchange”), I kept a blank slate going in. Never streamed an original, never downloaded a track. I wanted Young Man’s performance to explain what all the fuss was about. Proof in the public pudding and all that crap.

So how was Young Man’s show? Well, it only took one song. One lousy, jerk of a song. Just a single damn number for thoughts to gather and opinion to form. It was a real doozy of an opener too. Not bad, but not good either. Just nothing to cream your pants about. Which is what I expect from groups and their assembled buzz. Out of the bedroom and up on stage, Caulfield’s got the ever-so timid singer/songwriter schtick down pat. Right down to the bashful bangs obstructing his shaky eye contact with the crowd. The reluctant performer, brushing hard up against the hesitant-to-speak nickel and dime act. It was a shit-ton of “gee-golly” and “ah, shucks” bookmarked by a dozen or so mild, reverb-soaked cuts.

Upon first contact, bands-of-the-moment should grab hold and give listener’s bones/boners a quick shake. Even if it’s just for a tiny buzz-band pinch and tickle, their sole job is to impress. That’s it. Solidify the forever shaky pedestal of hype before it’s inevitably bum rushed by the next P4K eager beaver. Because people have short attention spans. The internet? Even shorter. And positioned at Schubas, amongst the somewhat timid Tuesday night crowd, surrounded by a slew of video-capable DLSRs, the room swimming with undecided atmosphere (aided by the venues’ bulky candles burning bright), Young Man was just plain boring. Boring like a Nicole Kidman movie. Or boring like waiting for your girlfriend’s period to pass. Sure there’s 8th-grade shit to keep ya busy, but nothing’s as fun the real deal.

Before I withdrew from Young Man both mentally and musically, I listened to a few more competent minutes. Then exited the room and bellied up to the long bar located in Schubas’ front-house. Drank two IPAs and watched the Rangers toss the final shovel of AL dirt on the Rays’ hopes of snagging a pennant.

The easiest place to point the stink finger is at Young Man himself (Caulfield is the one performing after all), but fault or blame can just as easily be placed on the industry, the public, whatever you want to call it. In rushed attempts to capitalize on unrefined talent, a kid and his guitar are swiftly scooped up and forked over to wolves disguised as writers. And of course bedroom dream-pop kid Caulfield is more than willing, he’s the one who sat in front of his Macbook and played in the first place. Ready or otherwise, who wouldn’t get on their knees if Frenchkiss (the label in charge of Young Man’s debut) came a calling?

In the end, I arrived as a junkie looking to score a needle full of choice smack. But instead of buzz-band bliss, I got the classic bait ‘n switch. A quick hit of not-quite-street-ready junk passed off as high quality, Grade-A skag. Young Man needs to head back to the bedroom. Forget the cameras, forget the industry’s well-versed rimjob. Grow a bit more. You only get one first impression and unfortunately, Caulfield’s came with a bit of hype.

As for openers YAWN, the quartet of psychedelic wunderkids that generate some of the best tribal-pop around these days, well, they “effin killed it” per usual.