image//erina digby words//ashley opheim
It is a cool spring eve in Montreal. In front of Club Lambi on Boulevard St. Laurent there are the flashing lights of four fire trucks with no apparent fire in sight. An invisible fire? How appropriate.
Inside the venue, a jam-packed Club Lambi is aflutter with eager fans pushing to get closer to the ground level stage. I find an elevated perch and am luckily positioned above it all.
Real Estate appear on stage via a tiny door. Two of the members are wearing plaid shirts, two of the members are sporting long hair, and two are wearing thick black framed glassed. It seems a coincidence, but the coupling of their appearances automatically create a symmetry to their equally unified set of spacey, lo-fi songs.
Real Estate offer a generous and dreamy set. The songs sound as vibrant as ever. The set consists of all things a Real Estate fan would expect of a live show from the New Jersey band; lulling, beachy, guitar rifts (rendering up love infested, warm summer nights) and endearing vocals from lead singer and guitarist Martin Courtney.
Their live set occasionally hits ‘grungey’ notes and is remindful of early Built to Spill songs. Part of Real Estate’s charm comes from their genuine enthusiasm towards their music. Their stage energy and characteristic stage mannerisms are hypnotic and one can’t help but draw their eyes to the stage; all members grooving about in their own secret galaxy.
Highlights from the set include a sped-up rendition of “Pool Swimmers.” When Courtney’s mic begins to malfunction and swing away from him, a fan in the front row steps in and holds the mic in place for him for the rest of the songs duration. “Green River” emerges as the rock anthem of the evening; its lyrical warmth heightened by the stuffy heat nest of the venue. “Back Home” is a heavy-hearted addition to the set but the real crowd pleaser of the evening is (obviously) “Fake Blues.”
A little interjection from the band preludes their last song: “Do you know how to say Real Estate in Canadian?” The crowd, unsure of how to respond, are quickly interrupted and enveloped by Real Estate’s final song “Snow Days.”
Incense is lit on stage between sets (patchouli? amber?) adding to the psychedelic atmosphere that Woods is about to paint with their electric set. It’s dark. Dark magic? It’s country gothic at times. It’s distorted and spooky and freaking good. In front of me a girl wearing dream catcher earrings smokes ‘love grass’ out of a glass pipe and passes it to her boyfriend. They are sipping cheap depaneur beer that they have snuck in. It is all so suiting to Woods set, which provides an out of body experience even for someone who isn’t under the influence.
Slipping outside of the venue and back into the heart of Montreal, St. Laurent Boulevard is bursting with life. I feel slightly but happily out of touch with reality.