Bug bites, bruised shins, hair sticking to the back of your neck and wishing for a cool dip in any body of water that’s available but you’ll settle for a cold drink until then; that was my memories of summer break as a kid, and it’s funny that I get to relive those same experiences in small doses as a grown adult. Summer is for music festivals. Music festivals are for memories. Summer, music and memories is a delicious combination for the young at heart or adventurous in spirit. The summer in Denver is typically mild compared to the hot, humid weather you might get in the Midwest and Southwestern regions neighboring Colorado. The rains are short and sparse and the nights cool down by 10,  sometimes 20 degrees. And so, while every music festival can boast about what makes theirs so special, the magic that comes with a cool Denver night is not to be missed. And neither is UMS, which is Denver’s best kept secret. But why? Why don’t people come out to South Broadway and listen to the dozens upon dozens of excellent local and non-local acts that the Denver Post brings into town (twelve years running now), and come see the excellent comedy shows, and check out the niche dive bars and . . . be alive. The cost is a pittance for what you receive in return: Memories.



Shovels & Rope is a good time condensed into two small people with two big voices. Sincerely: wow. I mean they attracted a small mob within minutes of their set beginning and were in step with representing their upcoming album titled O, Be Joyful; the pair were all smiles and warmly engaged the crowd in between songs.  Cary Ann Hearst has an amazing voice, as does Michael Trent, but the pair do not audibly duke it out on stage in battle to win the hearts of the crowd like you might expect from two people who used to be their own lead singers in separate bands.  Hearst would mosey on over to the drum kit while Trent belted out a tune, and then they effortlessly switched places as Trent strapped on his harmonica while Hearst's voice rang loudly throughout Gary Lee's Motor Club.  My favorite part of the act was when I went outside the glass garage door to take a picture of the two with the audience in the background, and a photographer asked if he could take a picture of me taking a picture.  So meta!




Next up that evening was the 3 Kings Tavern and Mrs. Magician, whom I had seen a few months back with the Cults.  Flying in from San Diego, CA, this relatively new group attracted quite a following in the roomy interior of 3 Kings and their loud, surf-rock inspired songs about the absence of God ("There is No God"), the metaphorical existence of Heaven ("Heaven") and the space in between.  Singer Jacob Turnbloom's Hawaiian shirt was an excellent pairing to the band's tunes, and has inspired me to reconsider the "cool" Hawaiian shirt idea (they could be cool!).  The misters of Mrs. Magician played a forty-five minute set even got the burly, bearded man beside me dancing.  It's hard not to dance along to songs with pop-py refrains of "Fuck the world / fuck the kids" and Dick Dale-esque guitar riffs.




There was a stellar lineup at 3 Kings so I stayed put for three hours, and after Mrs. Magician was the great local treasure known as Bad Weather California.  I've seen these dudes play a few times, and they never disappoint.  The used every last minute of time available to them, and as the audience grew in size the Bad Weather guys responded with equal enthusiasm and energy.


It was very interesting to see the change in climate as Chris Adolf's chants of "Bad Weather California is street level music" at the end of their set segued into Dylan Baldi's refrain of "I need time to stay useless" with the Cloud Nothing's first song.  The audience went from almost ballroom dancing to mosh dancing in zero to sixty.  I was left holding my bruised shins and guarding my camera against flying beer as the Cloud Nothings proceeded to make all of us bleed from our ears and melt into puddles in the sweatbox that was 3 Kings.  So far, that has been my favorite experience of the UMS; but it has been only the first night of four.

A cool spring evening in Denver welcomed Manhattan-based Cults as their tour made a stop at the Bluebird Theater. The Bluebird is a great venue on East Colfax close to City Park; my only complaint ever has been the utility closet size of the restrooms. As the weather has turned to the warmer side, back to the colder side, warmed up again, but then cooling down again with winds and light rain, it typified the current period of transition for both the city and the attendees of the night’s event. As Denver was trying to decide whether it should be Spring or Summer, many of the ticket-holders seemed to be in flux as well.

Mrs. Magician

The night kicked off a little after 8 p.m. with Mrs. Magician. This San Diego outfit came out and needed no introduction as they let their wave of surf rock do the talking, going through most of their first and recently released album, Strange Heaven from Swami Records. In fact, there was little to no small talk from this band. Lead singer Jacob Turnbloom had a masterful pop voice, and certainly warrants a comparison to the Beach Boys when coupled with the “Wipe Out” –esque riffs provided by guitarist Thomas Garcia. The band had a spiffy, So-Cal punk look about them, and Turnbloom provided the attitude to match with repeated choruses like ,“There is no God . . .” and “Fuck the world . . .,” backed up with ample ooh-ooh’s and woah-oh-ohh’s. This music spoke to that delayed sense of maturity that lends itself to fun, carefree days; Mrs. Magician brought “the summer” and their performance was a great way to begin the evening.

Spectrals

The night progressed as Spectrals took the stage. Spectrals is commonly known as a one-man act consisting of Louis Jones from across the pond; for his first U.S. tour, he came accompanied with three supporting bandmates. And what a colourful group they were (note my spelling – it’s a sign of respect). What better way is there to describe the songs on Bad Penny, Spectrals’ debut, than “sweet”. A somewhat welcome contrast to the jaded, love-done-me-wrong perspective of Mrs. Magician, the Spectrals sound was a buzzy, doo-wop string of sweet sounds and sweet words. Most of the band looked like they were college-bound (or university-bound for you anglophiles), with the great exception of their “bouncy” bass player who reminded me of the cool uncle I always wish I had.

Jones stopped to say a few words to the audience, which was nice. It’s nice to be addressed every once in a while. And it was sweet (he’s a sweet boy). Jones had a catchy pop voice just like Mrs. Magician’s Turnbloom, with the added velvety non-native tongue that made all of his songs sound like aimless, drifting rivers of sound even through their very simple and structured format. The set had a sentimental tinge, and a lounge-y sound that wasn’t quite holding up to the growing anticipation of the crowd as more people filed into the Bluebird’s lower level.

As the audience grew, it was interesting to note the (slight) diversity of ages in the crowd. There were pockets of 18-ish kiddos, a smattering of young twenty-somethings, but mostly I noticed a lot of polished younger people of ambiguous age. By “polished” I mean that they had a conservative appearance, but were still youthful and socially represented by a subtle immaturity. The best way I can think to describe it is the feeling your parents must have when compelled to say, “Aww, look at you – all grown up!” These people, I imagine, are the types who have a serious job but still hit the “Snooze” button fifteen times and leave for work with mismatching socks.

Cults

A full house softened to the dimming lights as the video tech put on a projection of T.V. static and Cults came ambling out on stage. It was a great entrance I must say – with their eye-catching video for “Go Outside,” I was happy to see they were tying in a few visual nods. Madeline Follin’s sultry vocals awakened the audience to “Abducted.” The band members were dressed in shades of black and white, letting Follin stand out in a casual-turned-classy golden frock paired with a jean jacket. True to their eponymously-titled album cover, at first sight one could not help but notice the abundance of hair; I loved it.

Comprised of three supporting members to the core duo of Follin and Brian Oblivion, who played guitar but also a little of everything, everyone on stage was ready – you could just tell that they were taking this seriously. Much like the audience members I am trying to describe, the band’s youthful sound (and faces) was bolstered by the care taken in appearance and posture. Follin frequently tugged the edges of her dress in a mock curtsy during her performance; Oblivion was in a collared shirt and tie; all band members rarely interacted with each other unless it was to make a subtle motion to adjust a sound effect, or start a song.

Cults

It is the small things that can really make a good show a great show. For instance, it’s nice when you are going to a show where the headliner has only one album to play from – that means no matter what, you are going to hear your favorite song(s). But, it also means you are extra surprised when the Cults play something you have never heard before; in this night’s case, it was a cover of the Leonard Cohen song, “Everybody Knows.” The one song of the night that wasn’t from the singular album they were performing from, “Everybody Knows” had a constant and infectious beat and instantly got the crowd singing along.

Speaking of singing along, it was incredibly endearing when later in the set as Oblivion introduced “Go Outside,” he mentioned that he heard everyone singing and he thought it sounded great. He was voicing his approval of our collective non-performance and (gasp) encouraging it; I rarely hear a musician that is so pleased and secure in his or her own masterful work as to not be concerned that they are being upstaged by the crowd.

The set ended with “Oh My God” and at last, someone broke out the ubiquitous peace pipe (never attend a Denver show without it!). As puffs of smoke surrounded the main stage, the band’s focused stage presence cracked just a little. Thank god – I mean, how perfect do you need to be, Cults? The bassist, Nathan Aguilar (who in my opinion bears a striking resemblance to Michael Cera in a long black wig), broke his concentration and somber demeanor to momentarily boast a grin. From my viewpoint, I know it must have been completely reactionary to the carefree haze. Cults, your music sounded great; I left the Bluebird and almost felt compelled to say out loud, “Aww, look at you – all grown up!”

Erin Yepis is a new contributor to Concerted Effort. Look for her to share more concert experiences through writing and photography in the near future! Check out the Concerted Effort Facebook page to stay updated!