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Written by Mandy Jordan Tuesday, 06 December 2005 05:34

The Granada, Lawrence, Kansas
October 7, 2003

I don’t know a whole hell of a lot about Death Cab for Cutie. I’ve been told that I should know them. That I should own their albums. That I should whisper Ben Gibbard’s name in my sleep. But other than a few select songs placed inconspicuously on mix tapes, I honestly don’t know much of their music. I showed up in Lawrence without preconceived notions to see their show and figure out what all the fuss was about.

I was, on all accounts, blown away. I found myself somewhere between satisfaction and regret, because it felt so good to understand why hundreds of people were packed in the Granada Theater on a Tuesday night, and simultaneously embarrassing and shameful that it had taken me so long to figure it out.

Death Cab started things off with what I now know are older songs, “Title Track” and “Movie Script Ending”; during “We Laugh Indoors” Gibbard’s voice turned pulsing, echoing the line, “I loved you, Guenivere” repeatedly, but never tired. New songs from their just-released album Transatlanticism (Barsuk) came next, like “New Year” and “Title and Registration,” the latter composed of emotional and interesting thoughts on renaming the glove compartment.

What I found really interesting were the clear and casual changes from song to song, many so different, but all given to the crowd with equal but representative ardor. It was apparent that the band takes its music and performance very seriously. It is, after all, amazing music.

During “Photobooth,” things turned edgy and painful: the emotions were raw, Gibbard’s vocals clearly affected, in that way that lets you know the song is being performed truthfully. There was some technical difficulty at the onset of “Lightness,” another song off the new album, and while things were getting realigned, the band broke into an impromptu version of Tom Petty’s “American Girl.” It seemed so strange then, after interruptions and random hilarity, as Gibbard’s fluid vocals, so easy and unencumbered, seemed to filter out from the stage and soak into every skin and surface—all porous, all willing. Their compositions were interesting and unexpected, melodies engaging and memorable. Gibbard is an amazing storyteller, and I don’t think anything could have prepared me—neither mix tapes nor lofty opinions—for this remarkably talented band.