Live: The Decemberists @ Gypsy Tea Room, 10.25.06.

Read anything at all about Portland, Oregon's The Decemberists and you'll invariably come across the same statement repeatedly--that they are indie rock's greatest success story. Now, the real rule of thumb is that that which is popular is, by its very nature, suspect to people of discerning taste. The Decemberists, however, are the real deal; they've got the goods where it counts: they're smart, ecclectic, progressive, and they rock. Not only that, but Colin Meloy is really up there among rock's great frontmen: he's got the vocals, he's got the vision, he's got the lyrics, and he's a true showman.

Funny. Freudian slip--I almost typed "shaman" there.

Let me go ahead and get the negative elements out of the way:

• obnoxious Dallas hipsters: Shut the fuck up, n00bs. I'm there to hear the music, not your bullshit talk. If you're not there for what I'm there for, go. the fuck. home.
• emo douchebag to my right: there were signs all over the place reading, "at the request of the artist, please do not smoke inside during tonight's performance." You think you're the only one who wanted a smoke? No. You're just the only one with no self-control, or else no sense of the world beyond your carefully coiffed, in-your-face bangs. That's why I told the bouncer who was looking for the smoker where you were, shit-for-brains. Oh, and tip #2: no one thought you were making an interesting fashion statement by wearing a wool blazer and muffler inside a packed club on a night when it was 65 degrees outside and over 90 inside. We all thought you're a poseur.

Now where was I?

OK. Having gotten the bad stuff out of my system, I'll get down to what was really important, which was the band's performance. It was outstanding. Absolutely first-rate. The one and only downside was when they performed "The Crane Wife" in its entirety, which provided the crowd an opportunity to socialize. Songs like "We Both Go Down Together," "Shankhill Butchers," "Sixteen Military Wives," and "Los Angeles, I'm Yours," however, were sing-along greats. Meloy really knew how to work the crowd, too, and not in that artificial ("when I say 'hey,' you say 'ho'") way, but in a very organic way that sprang from everyone communally getting on board with his energy, his passion, his performance.

I confess that I was dying to hear "The Mariner's Revenge Song," but they never played it. Come on. If you're reading this, you would've wanted to hear it, too. Actually, I think someone even requested it, since at one point, Meloy replied to someone up front, "no, we can't play that one. After you start writing 10-minute songs, you realize you can only play so many songs at a show."

Nevertheless, the musical joy continued: "O, Valencia!" and "Sons and Daughters," with that wonderful, hope-filled coda: "hear all the bombs fade away." It's no great wonder, English major that I am, that I love a band that named an album Picaresque and understands the structural formula of the frame narrative, as in "The Mariner's Revenge Song," modeled as it is after "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner," with shades of Moby-Dick. What is a little surprising for me is how much I love The Crane Wife, which is a little more...real, I guess. It's political, without being pointed or mean-spirited. It's got the same dark love songs of suicide, murder, and loss, but they can pull it off with such joy and exuberance. Like They Might Be Giants before them, The Decemberists can take your pain, whatever it is, and turn it into laughter with a joy that's heart-breaking.

What can I say? Get their albums. Go see them. They will absolutely set you free.

Just try to avoid seeing them with a Dallas crowd.