You could tell by looking at the crowd on Friday that this was not your typical Segerstrom Concert Hall evening. There were tattoos. There were jeans. There was extreme youthfulness.
That’s because Postmodern Jukebox was in town. If you don’t know who they are, that means you don’t watch YouTube, ever. The frequently changing line-up of talented musicians playing under that name is one of the website’s most popular attractions, garnering tens of millions of page views for their retro-infused covers of recent pop standards.
Postmodern Jukebox is the brainchild of pianist Scott Bradlee, who until his sudden and unexpected success was just another talented but underemployed New York musician looking for a way to break through.
Bradlee indulged in a strange hobby: creating covers of current pop hits in older styles that seem wildly inappropriate at first listen, but quickly grow on you. He put his creations on YouTube and they went super-viral.
As Friday’s concert amply demonstrated, everything is fair game. Employing the stylistic conventions of a 1930s swing band, Dixieland, New Orleans marching band, doo-wop, Motown, classic R&B and many other genres, Postmodern Jukebox can turn seemingly any Top 40 standard into something your parents might have danced the watusi to (or your grandparents might have jitterbugged to) when they were young.
Sometimes, the results are jaw-dropping.
Flame-haired Dani Armstrong, the strongest of three female singers who fronted the band, turned Britney Spears’ “Toxic” into a sultry, bluesy torch song with a dynamite ending. It brought down the house.
Sam Smith’s “I’m Not the Only One” got an upbeat, classic New Orleans treatment, with wild-haired Casey Abrams fronting the band. Somehow it makes perfect sense as a lighthearted, up-tempo ditty.
Occasionally, the PMJ treatment greatly outshines the original. Justin Bieber’s “Sorry” sounds flat-out terrific as a soulful Motown ballad with a moaning chorus.
The results can be hilarious, too. Radiohead’s “Creep,” with its over-the-top self-loathing and profanity, gets thoroughly lampooned in PMJ’s lighthearted cover. Powerhouse singer/host Mario Jose delivered more than a hint of “wink wink” archness as he approached the F-bomb everyone knew was coming.
The reasons this silliness works so well is that it’s taken seriously (for the most part) on an interpretive level. These songs aren’t meant to be giggled over in the same way “Weird Al” Yankovich’s parodies are. They’re intelligent, well-crafted and often surprisingly respectful reinterpretations. And, without exception, this group is composed of first-rate musicians. If you do a little Googling, you realize they’re accomplished professionals who just happen to share Bradlee’s love of inspired, crazy covers.
Abrams did well on season 10 of “American Idol,” where his inspired bass playing, bluesy, powerful voice and frequent bouts of zaniness charmed the judges.
Among the band members, pianist Logan Evan Thomas knows all the old genres thoroughly, but if you investigate his career online you’ll find out he’s a sophisticated, risk-taking jazz pianist whose influences include Bill Evans and Brad Mehldau.
The trio of brass and reed players include tiny Chloe Feoranzo on clarinet and sax, who despite her youth has an impressive bio that includes appearances on David Letterman’s show and “A Prairie Home Companion.” Bonus: besides her dynamite reed playing, she can sing, too. And like most of the other band members, she’s got a wicked sense of humor.
Bradlee himself appeared only briefly and late in the program, which was a bit of a disappointment. He’s a great off-the-cuff MC, and his famous party trick – asking the audience to name a bunch of iconic musicians and groups, then creating a mash-up medley on the piano – has to be seen and heard to be believed (on Friday, it was Rihanna, Billy Joel, Elton John, Talking Heads, and a smidgen of the theme from “Family Guy”).
There’s room for improvement. The show, by its nature, is loose and chaotic, so there are some dead spots. Anissa Lee’s wonderful tap dancing could be better integrated into the evening. The sound wasn’t always well balanced. (The concert hall was built for unamplified concerts, so it’s a little unfair to expect it to perform like a champ in situations like this.) And not even the most clever PMJ treatment can improve bad lyrics (although they’re frequently made laughable).
But those are minor quibbles. You don’t go to a PMJ show expecting perfection. It’s wild and wooly, irreverent and fun-loving, and proud of it. It’s also a celebration of the powers of creativity and superb musicianship, which is easy to forget amid all the mayhem and merriment.
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