MDReturns! The last time Middle Distance Runner visited the Boston area, it was a gently-attended midweek affair at the suddenly estimable Great Scott in Allston. The favored few bearing witness, a crowd mostly bulked out by fans of the hometown heroes, the Dead Trees, saw openers MDR pick their way through a solid set of impeccably organized, arranged demonstrations of indie-rock sound design. Two guitars, one bass, one drummer, and a lead singer (toying with a keyboard- I mean this in a good way) presented themselves to all the world (the world meaning Boston) as a fivesome of five Ringos, who, having made a name for themselves in their native Washington D.C., were happy just to bust out beyond the Beltway; if only to try a lobster claw here, sample a Shoney’s buffet there, and call up their mothers somewhere around three in the morning, to swear, “Look Ma! I’m on tour!” Yes, there was a surprisingly lavish, gorgeous, self-released record, Plane in Flames, traveling along with them- but what right had we to expect anything more from MDR than honest, jumbly exuberance the next time around?
Expect more. Because Middle Distance Runner has grown up and you should take notice.
Yes, you. A band that was imitating a good version of itself has blossomed with new songs and a more refined production. It's one thing (1) for a band to have good musical ideas (a pothead humming to himself on the crapper has good musical ideas). It’s a different thing (2) to take those ideas and execute. Yet another thing is (3) to execute excellent musical ideas both in (a) the live show and (b) the self-produced album. 1 + 2 + 3 x (a+b) = fucking awesome.
Middle Distance Runner showed up late for the show, like any half-decent band, to hoorah their way through a loose, masterly set of Radiohead meets Ra Ra Riot meets Sebadoh. No tiptoeing through planned soundscapes this time: a seasoned MDR tackled their songs start to finish: squawk, squall and all. The midweek curse had struck again at T.T. the Bear’s in Cambridge and nobody gave a damn. Alcohol, brotherly love, and the screams of crushing college girls split the difference. Snares toppled, toms tumbled from the drummer. No matter, the rhythm guitarist took up a free drumstick and filled out the missing percussion while the madding crowd cheered madly on.
Syme, the sometime touring partner of MDR, opened with a fun, focused set of lively monowail rock (“monowail” referring to the tendency of a band to structure songs with all the melodic and rhythmic elements corralled into single, unified stream of rock to preemptively combat the uncertainties of woggy sound systems while on tours in strange countries, strange places. The monowail will always enervate in the face of the worst acoustics, the laziest sound guy, the most ancient sound board, etc., because if you fire all your guns at the same target at the same time, you’re going to hit something.) More importantly, Syme is Norwegian, blond, and toast like best men. The Plain Janes and the Gay Blades also appeared on the bill.
