Looking back at my Friday night spent at the Fiery Furnaces show, I don’t so much rely on my memory for what happened, but rather a familiar rattle that is running up and down my bones.

The Attucks.

I walked through the doors of the Attucks Theater more or less expecting a similar experience to their opening gig for Wilco at the NorVA some six years ago, a loud but restrained brother-sister mix of folk garage rock that left me glad I actually showed up on time for the opening act. What I got on Friday was a bare bones classic rock concert that had all the comfort and warmth of a late winter concert, with the blood and energy usually reserved for an outside spring day.

The theater was smaller than I imagined, the stage itself small and adorned with the bare minimum; a few amps, drum set, bass, guitar and microphone. At one point I leaned over to my friend Ryan and commented how the entire event resembled a high school talent show, only “with a lot less suck.” This was a stark contrast to the Of Montreal show I had seen a week before. The crowd was thin from the start, not really filling out any more as Matthew and Eleanor Friedberger took to the stage and blew through their hour and a half set.

Part of the Discovery Series (eight concerts, three months, your chance to fall in love with music again), I had not personally heard about the show until a day or two before, quite unusual for a band I have such fond memories for. In fact, the only sour note of the night was the sparse attendance of a cardboard crowd, too afraid to show the band any enthusiasm or gratitude for an otherwise pulse pounding performance. From the moment Eleanor swept out from behind stage, the rest of the band already in place, instruments at the ready, her first beautiful note set off a motion of attack I did not expect from the band, foregoing the folk sound they usual incorporated for a more garage heavy evening.

Fiery.

Their energy and sound seemed to come out of the air itself, electrifying the crowd so much that they must have been completely locked in their seats, too afraid to react, lest they burst away in a cloud of sweaters and shawls. Like the music found throughout their albums, the Fiery Furnaces exuded a subtle confidence that infused every note they let loose. It was almost like they had just stepped on the stage for the first time, the band never meeting before, and just decided to wing it the rest of the evening. This is an amazing thing to witness, and few can pull it off with such success and ease.

I had met Eleanor earlier, on my way into the theater, meekly manning the merch table to the left of the door. She was quiet and unassuming, much like you would expect from listening to any of their albums. But on stage, under the simple yellow spotlight, she seemed to command absolute attention without sacrificing any of her timid appeal. It was almost like a siren, lulling you in comfortably, before baring her sonic fangs like daggers through your ears. Her voice boomed, powering the microphone itself, rattling and wailing through the small auditorium with a life of its own.

Matthew, the brother and co-furnace, wielded his guitar casually and masterfully, seasoned and at ease by his sisters side. His playing complimented her amazing voice with gentle care, but he wasn’t afraid to step forward and really squash out some amazing licks.

The FF at SXSW. (Photo: Nika Vee)

But the clear backbone of the evening would have to go to drummer Bob D’Amico, whose absolute destruction behind his set seemed to push every song to a completely new level. The man effortlessly rang in each note like thunder, stepping up the energy that, I assumed, drove people outside so they could dance freely in the streets.

Seated the entire run of the show (seated, that’s right) I couldn’t help but feel exhausted by the end, more so than any dance concert in recent memory. The Fiery Furnaces aren’t satisfied with simply attacking your auditory senses, they want the whole kit and caboodle; a throwback to generous, honest rock and roll that forgoes any sense of theatrics and storytelling. These were my blue collar street ravers, somehow granted a behind the scenes pass that lead them onstage.

But there wasn’t screaming from the audience. There was no encouragement, cheering, laughter, anything to let the band know we were alive and breathing. It’s a two way street, and the stiff carcasses that I sat among for two hours looked as if they were being held hostage. I’m not quite sure if it was the vaudeville atmosphere itself; ushers in nice pressed white button up shirts instead of large, burly bouncers in tight black t-shirts, a cash bar (who has cash, ever?!), and the reserved seating that might have sucked the life out of the audience. But we have a responsibility, as concert goers, lovers of music, to show this band that we appreciate their time. Norfolk is a city on verge of becoming so much more, and we must rely not only on developing grass roots activities that we can be proud of, but also to show outside, established acts that we are an important hub worth exploring on long tours.