Hype can be a dangerous thing.  On one hand, you have the benefits of additional publicity and exposure; but on the other hand, you are monitored and criticized with the grueling expectations of demanding fans and cynical press alike.  Having been hailed as one of the best live acts to ever grace the stage (Spin magazine ranked them 8th – one below Green Day and one above Prince – on their Top 25 Current Live Bands list a couple of years ago), I went into this show cautiously optimistic, trying not to let my hopes get the best of me.  Overall The Hives met, and at times exceeded these hopes – albeit with some minor compromise. 

If you've seen The Hives live before, or even if you've read about their performances, you already know the formula to follow in this paragraph: flamboyant The Hives frontman Pelle Almqvist struts his stuff up and down the stage (and surrounding areas), exchanging humorous banter with the crowd, all the while doing his best peacock impression; meanwhile, Almqvist's sidekick, guitarist Nicholaus Arson brings a more visceral presentation to the stage, sweat dripping from his curly blond shag and a much harder look on his face.  The antics begin with Almqvist and end with Arson, which leads me to my only real criticism: the other three members become nearly invisible (with the occasional exception of drummer Christian Grahn).  In saying that, not everyone can be as over the top and outwardly entertaining as Almqvist – in fact I'd have a hard time naming even a few people that are in the same league as the energetic, eccentric Swede (Iggy, perhaps?), so this is really less a slight on the band and more an acknowledgement of just how crazy Almqvist is.  If he wasn't at the front of a stage he'd probably be in a padded room.

The evening for this concert began on a strange note – my girlfriend was in town for the week visiting and we spent the day at Niagara Falls, so by the time we got home I had to choose between freshening up and seeing the opening act.  Feeling gross and my hair frizzy from the mist, I opted for the former as I was supposed to meet up with my friend at a salsa club once the show was over.   

The strangeness is this: I love opening bands.  They were often all I would hear when I previously worked at a concert hall – few people buy drinks or snacks when music is playing, so there was minimal distraction as these bands performed.   Once the main act started their set we would often get the green light to shut everything down and clean up, so the first couple songs were all I ever really heard unless I stuck around afterwards.  Sometimes openers suck; sometimes they are better entertainment than the headliners; 95% of the time I have no idea who they are and just want to hear their musical offerings. 

I get to the back of the line at the Triple Rock shortly before the doors are supposed to open and immediately notice something: I’m easily the youngest person there. Ah well, at least I look really sophisticated and mature for my age now, right? (Riiight…) When I envisioned myself seeing Vampire Weekend, I pictured myself surrounded by 21 year old hipster girls with bug-eyed, non-prescription glasses and American Apparel neon colored tights; much like every night of mine (surrounded by girls). However, that crowd is surprisingly absent, and in its place is a mix of people in their mid-twenties to early-thirties wearing pant-suits and top hats (ok, so maybe I’m exaggerating a bit lot).

The back room of the Rivoli was not at all what I expected, but it was exactly the right atmosphere for the show Adele was about to put on. A small, low-lit room in the back of the restaurant contained minimal seating, a bar about the size of a hot dog stand, and a stage barely big enough for the piano, chairs and microphone it elevated. The merch table was two square tables put together in front of the sound booth, covered by a plain white tablecloth with her music on display. By the time I arrived, there was no seating left so I grabbed a drink and found some wall space to lean upon.

On a cold, Thursday night in Winnipeg the last thing you want to be doing is leaving your house. But the temptation of my new favorite band is too much to resist, so the lady-friend and I head to the Pyramid Cabaret for a night filled with the most fun I’ve had at a rock show in about a year.

Bumping into friends, well wishers and random characters from the Winnipeg music and film community, we anxiously await Kelowna, BC’s Ladyhawk who’ve revived the rock lifestyle of old with stories of beer soaked parties, awe-inspiring high kicks and the bass player’s mammoth head of hair. Eventually, the band takes the stage to what seems like disappointment. Ladyhawk, you see, is a buzz band; but not the buzz band that the art/bar star crowd is here to see tonight. They are touring with alt-prog darlings Black Mountain. Ladyhawk actually gets heckled at some points (much to my embarrassment) but the band play it off like it’s another day at the office. Starting with the opener from their new record Shots, “I Don’t Always Know What You’re Saying” gets the heads bobbing and the hips swaying. The band blows through songs from their two and a half disc catalogue like they’re jamming in their basement, totally confident and improvisational. They make banter with each other and the audience. They seem to be enjoying themselves. They play “S.T.H.D.” (a personal favorite) and “Fear” (a sing-along delight) and prove that the record is, as they have put it “fucking dark.”