Everyone makes mistakes. Hours after people began filing out prematurely of Bowery Ballroom during Peter, Bjorn & John’s third show in as many days, the blogosphere got indigestion. Mud was slung and slang through the corridors of the Internet, fans dissatisfied with all that the Swedish threesome had failed to deliver. PB&J (apologies) came across the Atlantic buoyed by hype and hyperbole, in support of a sophomore album that does for contemporary pop music what color television did to
the 1960s. Those people that left? They made a mistake.

White Rabbits breathed tropic air into the room and Born Ruffians played a jittery brand of spazz-pop that just might fill rooms once they gather steam. Keep an eye out. As 11:00 rolled around, the room started to heave. Everyone had that bored look in their eye, as though they probably had three or four places they could be had they not dropped dosh for the tickets. Three men dressed conservatively, grinned widely, and filed out onto the stage and wave like fourth graders motioning to their parents in the
back. Peter Bjorn & John are really excited to be here and yes, they do love New York.

What follows is this: PB & J drafted a breathtaking, if not bulletproof pop document.

They jogged confidently through the lion’s share of Writer’s Block, smiling at us and one another between each glorious song. They sounded huge. They sounded the way Viking horns off the coast of western England must have sounded to the illiterate villagers that had settled there. And for some odd reason, only groans and crickets seemed to be emanating from the carpet of heads laid out before them. Curious creatures, these New Yorkers.

Peter brought friends and bongos out for “Young Folks”, a single so perfect, playing it live seems hazardous. People started moving. Peter and Victoria Bergsman (of Concretes fame) whistled to the backing track, serenading one another, eyeing one another. It was transcendent, but mostly it was just really, really good. Like cheap psychotherapy with bongos, you just couldn’t help but feel better about whatever might have been ailing you.

“The Chills” was a triumph, “Amsterdam” an endearing disaster. Bjorn is a bank safe of a man: beard, shoulders and bass guitar. It’s been said that he feigned forgetting his own lyrics to attract audience participation. No matter. He failed with vigor and I loved him all the more for it. But that’s the point, isn’t it? These are songs and this is a band so easy to love. Peter has the look of John Ritter in Bogdanovich’s “They All Laughed” and the energetic jounce of a golden retriever. He ran in place, he danced, he giggled, and it made every note that much more sublime.

“Up Against The Wall” was that rare type of closer that renders encores completely unnecessary. It simply killed. Peter and Bjorn played face to face, only centimeters between their lips. They took solos and threw themselves into every movement the song had to offer. It made you want to pick up guitar and start a band, maybe flirt with the idea of thrashing a bass or drumkit for a spell. It just made you wish you could be bigger, more epic than you really are. Few shows have that effect. Too few.

As they left, they hugged one another and waved to us. The room stared emptying itself, the crowd visibly thinner when the threesome returned to play an encore medley of songs handpicked from Falling Out. It might have been too much of good thing, but it’s hard to argue. They just didn’t want to stop playing. Who would?

The lesson learned?

Mick Jagger has mojo. Bono has many pairs of sunglasses. Peter Bjorn & John have fun. Viking boatloads of it.

Peter, Bjorn & John Official Site