and then a scholarship to Berklee School of Music, in Boston. I just want this feeling to be gone.” Her parents divorced, and her father started acting as her manager: she recorded two pop albums in her early teens, and then, at sixteen, distanced herself from her father. It was about sadness and pressure: “The pile of things I got to do stacks up to the sun. In an interview with Pitchfork, she recalled the lyrics to the first song she ever wrote, at the age of eight. When she was six, Lenker started playing the guitar. The family drove around the Midwest in a blue van, searching and recovering. Her parents met there but left when Lenker was four, having realized that the group they’d joined was a cult. She was born in Indiana, on a Christian commune.
Lenker has a buzz cut her voice is plaintive and nervy. The crowd swayed in the dark, with hardly any cell phones held up to record. At Brooklyn Steel, Lenker marvelled at the novel experience of having someone help tune her guitars. In October, Big Thief played a sold-out show at Brooklyn Steel, which has a capacity of about eighteen hundred people, and then two nights at Webster Hall, which holds about a thousand three hundred and fifty. But, after releasing four albums in three years-including two of them, “U.F.O.F.” and “Two Hands,” in the past seven months-the band has come into startling focus. When they were putting their first album together, around four years ago, the lead singer, Adrianne Lenker, waited tables, and the guitarist, Buck Meek, worked as a bike messenger. They wear T-shirts and worn denim, and they give off a day-three-of-a-camping-trip vibe, playing folkish indie rock that sounds like something you’d chance upon while you had no cell service.īig Thief still has a small following, relatively speaking. Onstage, they move like an organism without a center, as if they’ve got in-ear microphones that allow them to hear one another thinking. They live mostly on the road, touring for up to ten months at a time. And I think about it almost every time I listen to the band Big Thief.īig Thief was formed in Brooklyn, but none of its members lives there. That long afternoon-and a few other handfuls of time like it, all of them moments of chance existential intimacy-is filed in the back of my mind as proof of something that I can’t put my finger on. Some spell came over us as we drove, even though everything was so ordinary that we hardly had anything to say. We left Charlottesville in his car, on an oppressively lush summer day, and the back roads were strange and dappled sunlight knifed through the trees in shards. Thinking of some secondhand advice I’d heard about men and vehicular transactions, I asked my friend Walt, a Ph.D. I was supposed to pick up the Jeep in an apple orchard in the Shenandoah Valley.
Who sings thief in the night plus#
It cost eight hundred dollars, which was less than the price of a plane ticket plus the fee for shipping my things home, to Texas, from Virginia. Ten years ago, a week after I graduated from college, I bought a white Jeep off Craigslist that was older than I was.
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