Last night, somewhere in the vicinity of 3,000 people gathered in Brooklyn, NY’s McCarren Park Pool (what, you think I’m at the door counting tickets or something?) to set the Guiness Book Of World Records’ mark for largest collective indie rock head bob. And incidentally, the Shins also happened to be playing.

Now, it’s kind of hard to fuck up an evening of music under the stars on a gorgeous summer night in a converted Olympic-plus-sized swimming pool. But somehow, the Shins managed to literally fuck up one of their biggest hits––not once, but twice (and just when I thought such duplicate failure was reserved for the likes of my driver’s license road test), eventually saving a restored version for the encore and at one point musing that that’s what happens when you “play something five million times.” Now, first of all, if that number is accurate, the band has set another world record. Someone alert Alec Guinness, or whomever runs that silly tome. Secondly, there’s no better way to let the crowd know you’re really happy to be there than admitting that performing certain songs is equivalent to an eye-gouging at the hands of Wolverine.

What hit did they botch, you ask? Who knows? To their credit and detriment, the Shins are like a modern-day Pixies in that every song seems to be “a hit.” Not in the convential Billboard smash, platinum-selling fashion, but in the way each cut elicits an “I looove this soooong!” from audience members as giant sing-alongs ensue. Of course, the Pixies are the Pixies, and while the Shins are a fine band––one of the best indie rock has scrounged up from its dusty coffers in recent years––they’re no Pixies, and all those shimmering pop nuggets kind of blend into each other after a while. That, and since this is a blog, I have no journalistic responsibility whatsoever to do my research about their set list… Wow, I can really get into this whole 21^st century music criticism thing. It’s like being a real journalist, but without all the diligence that always made writing such pesky business.

Oh, but back to that whole blending thing. It didn’t help that the sound, courtesy of both the system and the band’s own miscues, was on the muddy side most of the set. Or when not muddied, it came off rather thin, since one guitarist was constantly relinquishing his instrument to man the keys while his comrade tried to pick up the sonic slack. Apparently they’ve never heard of a touring bassist.

All that said, the overall experience was a blast, by virtue of the inherent infectiousness of what the Shins’ do, and the fantastic atmosphere provided by the venue. (Room to roam, easily accessible beer and more Port-A-Potties than a midtown Manhattan construction site? Pinch me.) And for certain, there were a number of inspiring moments where they really let things rip or one of their Brian Wilson-aping, harmonized choruses carried over the crowd with melodious magic. But the bottom line is they are not an incredibly moving live act, which is a shame, because around the release of Oh, Inverted World, they were passionate, explosive and tight on stage––which is only further proof that half a decade, countless worldwide shows, and several soundtracks and commercials in, they’re probably a bit tired. Guess that becomes quite a catch-22 when you’re faced with an enormous crowd who are restless to see you.––KENNY HERZOG

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