Tiny Desk Concerts - Video

This year marks the tenth anniversary for The Polyphonic Spree's annual holiday music show - an extravaganza they've held in Dallas each December - and the band is celebrating it with a live tour and new CD called Holidaydream, a collection of reworked versions of classics such as "Do You Hear What I Hear" and "White Christmas." On a recent morning, The Polyphonic Spree rolled up to NPR in their packed-to-the-gills bus and unloaded a small army of horn players, singers, and assorted gear for the largest Tiny Desk performance we've ever had. The band members spent much of the day getting ready for the three-song set and puzzling out the logistics of getting that many people behind Bob Boilen's desk. But, they said, it's a "human Tetris game" they've played many times before, and by the early afternoon they were ready to go. While many of the larger bands we host at the Tiny Desk often opt for stripped-down performances, what you see here with The Polyphonic Spree is pretty close to the band's full-on production, with a horn section, cello player, guitars and drums, and of course the full group of singers, led by the wonderfully effusive Tim DeLaughter. For this special holiday Tiny Desk performance, The Polyphonic Spree treated the NPR Music office to two traditional Christmas carols – "The Christmas Song (Chestnuts Roasting On An Open Fire)," "Silver Bells," and the relatively newer John Lennon classic "Happy Xmas (War Is Over)."

There's mystery in the music of Alt-J: The band's songs are wrapped in enigmatic textures, with swift shifts in arrangements inside every song and an oddness to the drums. Mere glimpses of lyrics are discernible, even after listening over and over — and if you can decipher the words, the meanings don't necessarily follow immediately. Still, those words reside at the core of Alt-J, and they're cinematic and stunning and sometimes brutal. Seeing Alt-J live in concert — or here at the Tiny Desk — reveals a few of those mysteries, making a band that can be difficult on first listen a bit easier to digest. For one, seeing Joe Newman sing makes his words less oblique; for another, that curious rhythm at the foundation of the songs reveals not a hint of cymbals. And, though the drums are stripped down more than ever at the Tiny Desk, they still provide the essence of an original sound. Thom Green plays mostly with a mounted tambourine and cowbell for the sorts of things a hi-hat would accomplish — that tick tick sound, with the snap of the sound coming from a small-bodied 10" snare called a popcorn snare. The sparseness that happens in the absence of crashing cymbals leaves a lot of space in the music. Alt-J is from Leeds, England — home to another of my favorite art-rock bands, Gang of Four. Both play angular, poetic music that takes unexpected turns, shifting gears when you least expect it. Alt-J made my favorite album of 2012, An Awesome Wave, and if you're new to the group, the understated sound may get lost on you at first. But listen to the words and study how the songs evolve: No one else is making music like this. This is an original, innovative band with a brilliant present and a brighter future.

For all of Lyle Lovett's considerable artistic gifts — a distinctive voice, easygoing charisma, rare talent for wordplay — his greatest attribute may be the way he radiates infectious calm. He's a one-time tabloid fixture who writes wry, bittersweet songs of longing, but Lovett in person is like a vortex into which stress and drama disappear. That's especially true now that he's fulfilled his obligations to his longtime record label: Lovett not only showed up at NPR Music's offices without an entourage, but also booked his Tiny Desk Concert himself, emailing us out of the blue to express his interest. (Our reply: "We would only agree to have you perform a Tiny Desk Concert if it's under any conceivable circumstance.") So it's appropriate that Lovett would open this performance at the NPR Music offices by performing "Cowboy Man," the first track on his 1986 debut: He may be a music-industry veteran, but in many ways, he's starting over. With a fresh-faced accompanist in fiddler and backup singer Luke Bulla, Lovett gives a loose, engaging performance that feels like both an introduction and a victory lap. He follows "Cowboy Man" with two songs from 1989's Lyle Lovett and His Large Band, so this is no mere promotional appearance. With nothing in particular to promote — though he did put out an album of covers, Release Me, earlier in the year — Lovett seems motivated primarily by the sheer joy of playing his songs. His pleasure is infectious.

For an early-twentysomething, Daniel Bachman has roots buried deep. His approach to the American Primitive style of acoustic guitar — a sonically vivid fingerpicking technique developed by John Fahey and expanded by the likes of Robbie Basho and, later, Jack Rose and Glenn Jones — is conversational and uplifting, much like the man himself. After a rousing performance of "Honeysuckle Reel" from a forthcoming seven-inch single, however, Bachman turned beet-red in the NPR Music office and said, "I'm not going to lie. I'm pretty nervous." Endearing as his admission is, once Bachman zeroes in on the center of a song, it's easy to get lost in it yourself. Strap on a pair of heavy boots and "Honeysuckle Reel" becomes an ecstatic dance tune or, at the very least, a foot-stomping good time. He closes with the reflective title track from one of two great albums he put out in 2012, Seven Pines, whose simple melody dives in and out of low-string chord crashes and tumultuous swirls of dizzying fingerpicking.

Her voice is soft and sweet, her guitar work deft and evocative, but Anaïs Mitchell is a songwriting storyteller first and foremost. Robbed of a gift for melody and poetry, Mitchell would probably (and may yet) write some tremendous novels. Her ambitious recent discography bears out that notion: The 2010 album version of her star-packed folk opera Hadestown recasts Greek legend in America, while this year's Young Man in America turns her thoughts to the pitfalls of modern life, inspired in part by the works of Mitchell's writer father. Thankfully, as this Tiny Desk Concert in the NPR Music offices demonstrates, Mitchell possesses a warm and ingratiating style to go with her evocative, impeccably crafted lyrics. Singing and playing alongside guitarist and longtime collaborator Michael Chorney, she performs three of Young Man in America's most bracingly beautiful songs with clear-eyed directness that requires no adornment.

Tears and laughter in the span of about 15 minutes — that's what's so astonishing about these Macklemore & Ryan Lewis songs. The first time I heard "Same Love," it brought tears to the eyes of a roomful of people, myself included. The song is about equality, specifically gay rights, with an unambiguous message: "It's human rights for everybody / There is no difference." Then, in a flip of a backing-track beat, Macklemore (a.k.a. Ben Haggerty) sings about wearing a velour jumpsuit and some house slippers, "grandpa style." The contrast in these songs, "Same Love" and "Thrift Shop," makes the levity all that much memorable; as producer, Ryan Lewis is a master at the hook and clever with the melody. But this Tiny Desk Concert didn't end there: The live, sweet, soulful sounds of singer Ray Dalton belting, "Like the ceiling can't hold us" had Macklemore standing on my desk and shaking the dust off the ceiling tiles. Watching this video fills me with that inspirational feeling we shared watching it happen: I'm still cleaning dust around my desk, but it only makes me smile. 

The power of Taken by Trees lies in understatement. Victoria Bergsman sings almost as if she doesn't care — but that contrast to almost every other singer I know is what makes me hear her words, and grants me space to think about her emotions. It's almost as if she etches the lines of a song and leaves listeners to fill in the rest. In 2009, Taken by Trees put out one of my favorite records of that decade, East of Eden. The album explored and was inspired by a visit to Pakistan, while her new Other Worlds was inspired by a journey to Hawaii. These songs seem to come from a place somewhere between a dream state and waking life: There's restraint to the way the players approach this music, almost as if they're trying not to wake the baby in the other room. There's charm to that. And, though Bergsman was under the weather when Taken by Trees performed at the Tiny Desk, it all works wonderfully. 

Martha Wainwright's songs examine uncomfortable moments and life experiences gone wrong, but as she acknowledges in between songs at this Tiny Desk Concert, she often has to fudge her own life story to make the details more unsettling. ("Take everything with a grain of salt," she says, "except the good stuff.") What she does is the opposite of sugarcoating: She roughs up life's smooth spots, then digs her fingertips into the cracks that form. Wainwright's new album, Come Home to Mama, addresses her place on the continuum between her late mother (singer Kate McGarrigle) and her young son — particularly in the wrenching and insightful "Everything Wrong," a ballad Wainwright calls "my first song about motherhood." That song closes both Come Home to Mama and this concert in the NPR Music offices, and it's tremendous: raw and almost painfully intimate, wonderfully humane and ultimately hopeful. Martha Wainwright is the second member of her family to play the Tiny Desk in the last few months, following in the footsteps of her brother Rufus. Their father, Loudon Wainwright III, released a marvelous record near the beginning of this year, so is completing the family trifecta too much to ask? Consider this an invitation.

Ben Gibbard has spent so much time at the head of various bands —Death Cab for Cutie, The Postal Service, All-Time Quarterback — that it's easy to forget how well his sweetly brainy songs work in a solo acoustic setting. His melodies are sturdy enough to withstand skeletal arrangements, and though his persona is unassuming by nature, he remains a charismatic and charming live performer. Gibbard just released a solo album, Former Lives, which he's said is a repository for material that didn't work as Death Cab for Cutie songs; from that record, only "Teardrop Windows" pops up in his Tiny Desk Concert. For the rest, he draws from Death Cab's most recent album ("St. Peter's Cathedral," from Codes and Keys) and, of all places, last year's Arthur soundtrack ("When the Sun Goes Down on Your Street"). In all, Gibbard's set makes a fine choice as the 250th Tiny Desk Concert we've published since the series was born nearly five years ago: For all the big, elaborate set-ups we've entertained in the NPR Music offices, it's always nice to return to the series' origins as a place for quiet singer-songwriters to do their thing unadorned, without getting drowned out by other sounds. Even minus a band at his back, Gibbard warrants the undivided attention.

Watching Flaco Jimenez play his button accordion is like looking back in time. His grandfather started playing an accordion in cantinas and family parties along the Texas/Mexican border around the late 1800s. Then Flaco's dad, Santiago Jimenez Sr., carried on the family tradition when he released his first record in 1936. Two of the songs you hear Flaco Jimenez play in this Tiny Desk Concert are traditional German polkas; they were popular in the mid-1800s as German immigrants settled in Texas before it became part of the U.S. almost 20 years later. Over time, the two-step stayed the same, but the German lyrics were replaced by the Mexican storytelling song form known as corridos. But Jimenez is no dusty relic; he's very much of the here and now. For almost six decades, he's carried on those traditions and taken them to places neither his grandfather nor his father could ever imagine. He's played with The Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, Dr. John, Los Lobos, Willie Nelson and Ry Cooder; he's toured the world and won Grammys. He's become a symbol of ethnic pride among Mexican-Americans for not only preserving the conjunto sound, but also moving it forward. Listen closely to this recording: I think the secret to Jimenez's longevity lies in the short bursts of improvisation in between verses he shares with bajo sexto player Max Baca, of the Grammy-winning band Los Texmaniacs. (The two have an album due out in the spring.) The notes seem to spin and strut just as the dancers do in the serious conjunto dance halls. There's a stutter here, a jazz-like riff there, and when he extends the notes and holds them playfully, I recall my own mother teaching me to spin her in a tight pirouette at family weddings and quinceñeras. Jimenez was able to perform a Tiny Desk Concert because he had traveled to Washington, D.C., from his home in San Antonio to receive a Heritage Fellowship awarded by the National Endowment of the Arts. He was being honored for carrying on what his grandfather and so many other conjunto musicians have been doing for more than a century: getting people on the dance floor with an accordion and a song.

Sometimes, it's hard to know what constitutes a band. Billy Corgan wrote and sang all the songs for The Smashing Pumkpins and still records under the name, even though the other original members are long gone. Same deal with James Mercer and The Shins. Jason Lytle, on the other hand, spent nearly 15 years leading Grandaddy, dissolved the group in 2006 and decided to continue as a solo artist, even though he wrote, sang and recorded Grandaddy's songs almost entirely on his own. You've got to give the guy credit. Lytle could have slapped the higher-profile Grandaddy name on his beautiful, deeply moving 2009 album Yours Truly, The Commuter, and on his equally impressive record from this fall, Dept. of Disappearance, and few could have discerned the difference. But whatever. Lytle still makes some of the best music of his life. So it's only fitting, and a rare treat, to see Jason Lytle go it alone in this Tiny Desk set, performing bare-essentials versions of songs he created and recorded at his home studio. He treated the NPR Music offices to two tracks from his current record, "Willow Wand Willow Wand" and "Get Up and Go," as well as a super-cool (and tear-jerking) acoustic-guitar version of "Jed the Humanoid," one of the most memorable songs he ever released as Grandaddy.

by STEPHEN THOMPSON Passion Pit's Michael Angelakos is a fussy sonic craftsman: A keyboardist and singer who started out working solo on his laptop, he now makes fizzily catchy electro-pop that orbits around monster hooks. He's not, in other words, the first musician you'd associate with a stripped-down performance behind NPR Music's Tiny Desk, where Technicolor production tends to give way to unfiltered voices and bare instrumental essentials. But Angelakos, a gifted songwriter who's been publicly forthcoming and articulate about his battles with bipolar disorder and substance abuse, is no intellectual or musical lightweight. Angelakos clearly saw an opportunity in bare-bones arrangements of his best-known songs — his 2008 breakthrough single "Sleepyhead" and two hits from this year's Gossamer, "Take a Walk" and "Carried Away" — that he couldn't explore with a full band. With only his own falsetto, an electric piano, and simple guitar lines from Passion Pit's Ian Hultquist, Angelakos gets to direct listeners toward his words, which blossom under scrutiny. "Take a Walk," for example, turns up in a zillion commercials thanks to that monster hook, but it's also a rich, thoughtful sketch of an immigrant family's experiences, expectations, dreams and disappointments. In this performance, the hooks do persist, but words rule the day. Set List "Take A Walk" "Sleepyhead" "Carried Away" Credits Producer: Bob Boilen; Editor: Denise DeBelius; Audio Engineer: Kevin Wait; Videographers: Denise DeBelius, Christopher Parks; photo by Ryan Smith/NPR

by BOB BOILEN Lord Huron is a band for just about anyone: The rich harmonies are welcoming, the lyrics relatable and the live performances thrilling. The group started out as a solo project for singer Ben Schneider, but is now a full assortment of terrific musicians, all based in Los Angeles. The band's first album, Lonesome Dreams, just came out — you might have seen the Western-style film that accompanied the first single, "Time to Run," which Scheider describes as, "A tragic tale of the foolish things a man might find himself doing for a woman, and the consequences that foolishness may bring upon him and those around him." Dig into this Tiny Desk Concert, and pay no mind to the fact that, like me, Schneider showed up in the office wearing a hat and bolo tie — and, like me, plays the same black Martin guitar. We aren't in any way related, just kindred spirits.

by Stephen Thompson Bringing blues music to the Top 40 isn't easy: Only a handful of musicians have done it in the 30 years Robert Cray has spent winning awards, selling millions of records and otherwise kicking around on the national stage. But Cray has, crossing over from blues-club stages to arenas with the double-platinum 1986 album Strong Persuader and its single "Smoking Gun," and has continued to stick around as one of the most reliably gifted and accessible guitarists around. For all the attention Cray receives as an instrumentalist, it's his smooth, smoky voice that really sells his music. Equal parts soul man and blues belter, he presides over a crack band — bassist Richard Cousins, keyboardist Jim Pugh and drummer Tony Braunagel, who performs here by tapping a wooden box — at this Tiny Desk Concert in the NPR Music offices. Like any great blues singer, Cray makes heartache and other romantic dysfunction sound engaging and relatable: Ironically, if not surprisingly, his saddest song here (yes, sadder than "Sadder Days") is the one called "I'm Done Crying." But all three of these tracks, culled from Cray's new album Nothin But Love, execute the deftest possible blend of emotional misery and instrumental majesty — just the way the blues ought to be.

by Bob Boilen Spirit Family Reunion was my favorite find at this year's Newport Folk Festival. The group makes music I'd call "new old-timey," but which its members call "open-door gospel" — gospel music that's not tied to any particular religious denomination.  You'll hear fiddle, banjo, guitar and washboard, all gathered around a single microphone in an old-style tradition. An unsigned band living in Brooklyn, Spirit Family Reunion makes music filled with joy, perfect for a Tiny Desk Concert. Its members told Weekend Edition Sunday's David Greene that they've been traveling the country in a beat-up Chevy conversion van, sleeping on floors and wherever else they can lay their heads. The band recently self-released a new album, No Separation, and its songs translate perfectly into foot-stomping singalongs in the NPR Music offices.