Cotton Candy Glow

I made the mistake of listening to one of Rhino’s Blues Masters compilations on Wednesday. It was preceded by Blind Pilot’s latest We Are the Tide, as I was getting ready to attend the Portland-based band’s performance at the Parish on Wednesday night.

My mistake was wondering what would musicians like Howlin’ Wolf and Jimmy Reed make of Blind Pilot’s music. The old bluesmen conjure up black-and-white photographs of gangland violence, while the Pacific NW sextet are all pastels and watercolors. Come to think about it, Muddy Waters probably never really paid much attention to the pop acts of his day. He just rocked the joint.

Blind Pilot is another one of those bands that I should love. Echoes of My Morning Jacket, Gillian Welch, and Ryan Adams ring throughout We Are the Tide. Instead I find myself questioning what they do: soft rock with the emphasis on soft.

The 90-minute set was heavy on songs from the new release, a bit more of an ensemble piece than the band's past work. But the sound is mighty round with vibraphone, organ, and banjo thrown into the mix. One of Blind Pilot’s strong points is their harmonies, multi-layered and blissful. But as a whole, it seems to be missing some blood or guts - something to grab onto so the listener doesn’t sink into the cotton candy pink glow.

Those around me didn’t seem to care, shouting at every trumpet bleat like they had never heard one before, and soaking up Blind Pilot’s dulcet vibe with glee.

It wasn’t until the final two songs of the set, the harmonium-augmented drone of “New York” and the new album’s bouncy title track, that the band got under my skin enough for me to appreciate what they do. Maybe they feather-whipped me into submission. I still left wishing there had been more stomp and a little less honey.