Cloud Cult- May 14, 2008: The Knitting Factory
The population of The Knitting Factory is noticeably swollen by the time Kid Dakota leaves the stage, yet as Craig Minowa and Shawn Neary meander through the crowd- eyes focused on the ground before them with hunched shoulders exuding a mid-country humbleness, not a single hipster bats an eye at their presence. After all, it’s hardly ironic to tell the band how great they are; I mean you bought a ticket, right? Yet as the first notes of the sound check are struck the pretention of the room drops significantly and the crowd takes tentative steps forward readying itself Cloud Cult.
The band takes the stage one-by-one, quietly and passively picking up their instruments and flexing their fingers before front man Craig Minowa appears looking disheveled in his well-worn rumpled shirt. Wearing jeans rolled mid-calf one foot is noticeably bare next to its sock and shoe laden partner. He’s pushed a sleeping mask with drawn eyes onto his forehead and a sheepish smile flickers as he addresses the audience with a sleepy Minnesotan twinge that makes us all feel bad for possibly having woken him up from his seeming backstage slumber.
“Hello,” he mumbles, his fingers form a chord on the neck of his guitar. “I’m Craig…and we are Cloud Cult,”
The crowd takes another step forward as digital cameras and iPhones appear and the band launches into their set.
A frantic, desperate energy drives each song as if the members of Cloud Cult thrive off of the stressful nature of performance treating the nerves and fear like a much needed breathe of fresh air. Each note is tempered with the vaguest suggestion of sadness and each chord hums with joy, a delightful juxtaposition of emotion that couples sweetly with the genuine whole-heartedness of the lyrics that betray an old soul disguised by childish charm. Evidence of the band’s history is scattered throughout the performance with a bittersweet adornment that only adds to the indisputable earnestness of their sound.
At the back of the stage stands Minowa’s wife, Connie, working feverishly on the trademark performance art set to be auctioned at the conclusion of the evening. Each brush stroke and hue compliments the music her husband has orchestrated as haunting eyes and wan smile begin to take shape across the previously blank canvas. As the set progresses the sad eyes are possessed by an awkward youth standing in the midst of windmills and skyscrapers, gazing towards the audience with a lost bewilderment and one cannot help but feel the presence of the Minowa family’s past history lingering on the stage. Bassist Shawn Neary turns to the painting to observe Connie’s work and as the exhilarated concentration fades from his bearded face his hands become the tools of an automaton and a part of his heart lingers in the air. A peaceful nature falls over his constantly moving lanky form and for a moment he and Connie lock eyes. She offers nothing but a sweetly sad smile before turning back to the canvas as he watches. There is something magical occurring in The Knitting Factory tonight, something personal and hidden from the audience, whispering the truth between band mates that we the observers will never be privy too. There is a love and determination in every member of the cult that endears them even more to those standing in awe at the foot of the stage.
The population of The Knitting Factory is noticeably swollen by the time Kid Dakota leaves the stage, yet as Craig Minowa and Shawn Neary meander through the crowd- eyes focused on the ground before them with hunched shoulders exuding a mid-country humbleness, not a single hipster bats an eye at their presence. After all, it’s hardly ironic to tell the band how great they are; I mean you bought a ticket, right? Yet as the first notes of the sound check are struck the pretention of the room drops significantly and the crowd takes tentative steps forward readying itself Cloud Cult.
The band takes the stage one-by-one, quietly and passively picking up their instruments and flexing their fingers before front man Craig Minowa appears looking disheveled in his well-worn rumpled shirt. Wearing jeans rolled mid-calf one foot is noticeably bare next to its sock and shoe laden partner. He’s pushed a sleeping mask with drawn eyes onto his forehead and a sheepish smile flickers as he addresses the audience with a sleepy Minnesotan twinge that makes us all feel bad for possibly having woken him up from his seeming backstage slumber.“Hello,” he mumbles, his fingers form a chord on the neck of his guitar. “I’m Craig…and we are Cloud Cult,”
The crowd takes another step forward as digital cameras and iPhones appear and the band launches into their set.
A frantic, desperate energy drives each song as if the members of Cloud Cult thrive off of the stressful nature of performance treating the nerves and fear like a much needed breathe of fresh air. Each note is tempered with the vaguest suggestion of sadness and each chord hums with joy, a delightful juxtaposition of emotion that couples sweetly with the genuine whole-heartedness of the lyrics that betray an old soul disguised by childish charm. Evidence of the band’s history is scattered throughout the performance with a bittersweet adornment that only adds to the indisputable earnestness of their sound.
At the back of the stage stands Minowa’s wife, Connie, working feverishly on the trademark performance art set to be auctioned at the conclusion of the evening. Each brush stroke and hue compliments the music her husband has orchestrated as haunting eyes and wan smile begin to take shape across the previously blank canvas. As the set progresses the sad eyes are possessed by an awkward youth standing in the midst of windmills and skyscrapers, gazing towards the audience with a lost bewilderment and one cannot help but feel the presence of the Minowa family’s past history lingering on the stage. Bassist Shawn Neary turns to the painting to observe Connie’s work and as the exhilarated concentration fades from his bearded face his hands become the tools of an automaton and a part of his heart lingers in the air. A peaceful nature falls over his constantly moving lanky form and for a moment he and Connie lock eyes. She offers nothing but a sweetly sad smile before turning back to the canvas as he watches. There is something magical occurring in The Knitting Factory tonight, something personal and hidden from the audience, whispering the truth between band mates that we the observers will never be privy too. There is a love and determination in every member of the cult that endears them even more to those standing in awe at the foot of the stage.As expected, Cloud Cult performs mostly from their newest release, Feel Good Ghosts (Teapartying Through Tornadoes), while much to the delight of the audience they pull tracks from The Meaning of 8 and Advice From The Happy Hippopotamus performing with a rabble-rousing clarity that urges us to bob our heads and shimmy to the beat, the band having found the perfect alternating balance of uplifting and heart-wrenching songs. “Hurricane and Fire Survival Guide” translates perfectly from the album to the stage, just as “The Story of the Grandson of Jesus” and “Happy Hippo” find the venue engorged with hand claps and hip sways. With our eyes closed and our hearts light, digital cameras on the rise, we lose ourselves in the moment, ravenously devouring the little pieces of soul Craig and his band of Minnesotan musicians spoon feed our eager ears. They close the night with a bittersweet performance of “Love You All,” and gratefully we believe every word.
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