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concert review: The Mountain Goats, at the Crowbar Jan. 25

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BY MAX ASAYESH-BROWN, ST. PETERSBURG HIGH

A CD called The Sunset Tree whose digital counterpart already resided in my iTunes library: $15.

The Mountain Goats’ front man John Darnielle autographing it for me: as priceless as it gets.

In case you weren't certain, let it be touched upon that this man, a sort of modern-day Vonnegut and composer of more than 400 songs, is my hero. Only my admiration for him could prompt driving to Tampa on a school night to see him perform.

At the crowbar in Ybor shortly after 8 p.m., the doorman brands black Xs on the backs of both my hands, memorable Sharpie ink crosses I still bear on my mitts as I write this.

It’s about an hour before the opening act takes the stage — an indie band by the name of Nurses, whose performance is so mediocre and repetitive that they won’t be mentioned henceforth. Give it another hour, and the real show starts.

Darnielle parades onto the stage in jeans and a blazer studded with patches and pins proclaiming messages such as “TRUST WOMEN,” followed by a drummer and a bassist, both notably adept at their crafts. Despite the plural stage name, often times Darnielle stands alone in his music — indeed, for a brief stretch in the middle of the show his helpers desert him without a word.

The Mountain Goats also embrace simplicity. Darnielle’s voice isn’t unique; his sound is. It’s more of a reminder of normal people’s voices, collected but without the need for copious sound editing, rooted to his talent and smarts. In comparison with his CDs, what you hear is what you get. The let-down feeling of the CD sounding much neater than the live performance is not a variable at this show.

Darniells flip-flops between keyboard and guitar, dexterous in both. He sings songs about Tampa, his attachment being a personal liking of the word since adolescence. The concert peaks towards the end of the show (by this time, Darnielle is a little bit intoxicated), when the band goes on with two of its most popular jams — No Children and This Year, to which the audience sings every lyric of clever, fiery hatred or disgruntled determination.

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