Newman Owns Indie Pop at the Mercy Lounge

Despite my gripes with the pillars that ruin sightlines at the Mercy Lounge and Cannery Ballroom, the smaller room has grown on me.

Whether packed or almost empty, you can’t beat its intimacy. Plus, the stage hasn’t been shoved into the corner as with the ballroom.

A.C Newman played downstairs in April 2008 with his main outfit, indie rock collective New Pornographers, but he barely drew 100 people for his solo set Saturday night.

The tiny crowd did not diminish Newman’s performance. Without Neko Case as part of the band, Newman’s following thins rapidly, but the strength of the music never wavers.

On his own, Newman just released Get Guilty. Along with its predecessor, The Slow Wonder, Newman’s albums teach vivid lessons in catchy pop songwriting. His songwriting might come off as too simple for some tastes, but Newman finds those hooky riffs then runs with them.

The Broken West opened, failing to till new ground with their mainline indie rock. Only the vocalist’s husky tones kept them from qualifying as emo. Songs built on power chords submerged the keyboards which might have let Broken West branch out. One song would not have sounded out of place on Joe Jackson’s Look Sharp! During the second half of their set, vocalist Ross Flournoy came close to channeling Jeff Tweedy. At best, they were exuberantbut nondescript.

Newman and company began with the anthemic There Are 10 Or Maybe 12, Its wry lyrics about only being able to teach so much return to its touchstone line, “Make of that what you will” to finish every verse. Keys and violin fleshed out these songs, breaking Newman from the indie rock pack.

Punchy, distorted guitar chords propelled Miracle Drug, a pepped-up track from Slow Wonder. It contrasted well with the steady build-up of Like a Hitman, Like a Dancer, in which the instruments attacked in short bursts.

In the banter department, Newman threw some Toby Keith jokes at the crowd and echoes the barbs locals fling at Lower Broadway. Newman’s solo material does not veer drastically away from the New Pornographers. A few songs, notably All of My Days and All of My Days Off, could have been plucked directly from the other band’s oeuvre.

I don’t know where the Palace At 4 a.m. lies but based on Newman’s lyrics, I want to hang out there. His strength lies in taking seemingly nonsensical titles like Submarines of Stockholm then spinning indie pop gold from them. The gentle-natured Prophets took up the same mantle.

If Newman and his band lacked anything, it was spontaneity; the songs were indistinguishable from the studio version.

Still, Newman’s skill at songcraft translates easily to the stage. Not many can claim the prowess with blue-collar rock he radiated toward the Mercy’s small crowd.