Commonplace are compositions that invoke levity and happiness in their listeners; rarer are those so uplifting as to be considered analgesics — Architecture in Helsinki‘s “Contact High” comes to mind — and rarest of all is a consensus upon which songs should achieve such rarified airs, mainly due to the inherently personal and subjective nature of such an anointing. One man’s salve is another’s bane, after all, and sentimental value cannot be readily transferred, like a virus, between individuals.

Still, even if we cannot agree to a definitive list of them, we can readily admit that there exists songs so blissful as to lift us when are spirits have been cut down, and we can also assume that these inspirational pieces are considerably rarer than other, lesser works.

This scarcity owes itself to the mercurial nature of joy. Like love, pride, anxiety, depression, and mania, joy is multifaceted and complex, composed of various shades and textures, from edge-softening to laughter-inducing, creeping smile engendering to outright, floating-above-the-ground, moon-walking, unadulterated gaiety; how simpler, in comparison, the base, reptilian instincts, lust, rage, fear, and how appropriate, in that context, those lesser feelings’ greater preponderance.

It is telling, then, accepting what is outlined above, that Stepdad contains by my measure at least three such joyful cuts — “Pick and Choose;” “My Leather, My Fur, My Nails;” “Will I Ever Dance Again” — and understandable that, when presented in the flesh, some critical, unknown aspect that causes said joy may perhaps be lost in translation (which, it would stand to reason, would be a rather common problem facing songs/bands of this nature; if, however, the veracity of Suboxone is to be believed, Passion Pit, to whom Stepdad bears more than a passing resemblance, is quite good at maintaining this je ne sais quoi in the flesh).

Stepdad was a touch rawer at Bottom Lounge than on Wildlife Pop; the guitars more muscular, the synths more subdued. Perhaps the ever-so-slightly off feeling was due to the band breaking in a new drummer (who looked suspiciously like Jess Day’s ex-boyfriend), who performed admirably enough that one would not be inclined to guess that this was his first show if we were not told. Frontman ultramark, while pared down sartorially, carried the full might of his distinct falsetto from studio to stage; this live iteration of Stepdad was not bad, per se — merely different.

“Pick and Choose” served as a microcosm of the entire evening; a truly marvelous little slice of pink lacquered electropop, replete with intertwining vocal and synth lines, the “Pick and Choose” of Bottom Lounge, while enjoyable, seemed to be missing that gloss which makes it so irresistible on record. That candy coating was absent on “My Leather, My Fur, My Nails” as well, although its ludicrous hooks (“Take me out of water/Shrink me in the dryer/Strut around and let the world/Know what disaster means” is a highlight, but, in reality, the piece is full of macabre imagery; pursue the lyrics for a truly interesting, sort of Purity Ring-cum-molly vibe) demand the energy Stepdad infused it with.

As mentioned above, joy is a peculiarly subjective emotion, as evidenced by what appeared to be two-thirds of a Duke front court (read: a pair of tall, blocky white gentlemen with the sensibilities of Contractor Cream apartment walls) and a pre-shearing Alan White loosing themselves even as I was finding myself slightly let down; even more demonstrative where the plaintive pleas for an additional encore after the band freely admitted to “fucking up” the one they had just played.

“I’m sorry, we really can’t do any more,” ultramark told the crowd. “Our drummer doesn’t know any more songs.”

—

B. David Zarley is a freelance writer based in Chicago. You can find him on Twitter @BDavidZarley.