Pink Mountaintops
At the Rickshaw Theatre on Sunday, September 27

At the risk of making a totally out-there, entirely off-base observation, Stephen McBean seems like the kind of guy who might smoke a lot of pot. How else do you explain his behaviour at Pink Mountaintops’ sold-out homecoming stand at the Rickshaw Theatre on Sunday night?

McBean had plenty of reasons to become riotously enraged over the course of the set. On the minor-inconvenience front, there were little things like strings breaking midsong and monitors feeding back viciously enough to make him wince. At least one number was stopped dead and started over. And right off the top, he appeared to get a 220-volt jolt from his mike, the PA doing everything but smoking in the wake of the painful-sounding electrical zap.

McBean’s response to all of this? Well, let’s just say that the man who would be king of Main Street didn’t appear even remotely fazed by any of it. Mellow to the max, he seemed too busy basking in the moment. And who could blame him? Back on its home turf after a West Coast tour, Pink Mountaintops was getting so much unadulterated love from the faithful that there was no need to sweat the small stuff.

If McBean was hopelessly blazed, he didn’t seem to have a lot of company; the air in the Rickshaw was surprisingly—indeed, remarkably—cheeba-free. The crowd—a strange mix of unabashed beardos, North Van preps, suburban normaloids, and the odd straight-from-the-Sandbar cougar—was obviously content to get high on the music. And luckily for them, they didn’t have to wait long for the good stuff.

Pink Mountaintops kicked things off with a gorgeously blissed-out “Axis: Thrones of Love”, which made spine-chilling use of the five musicians backing up McBean on this night. The violin and keyboard work of Sophie Trudeau and Sar Friedman was subtle but beautiful, the gang-choir vocals of the hired guns verging on heavenly.

Whether giving “Vampire” the chamber-pop treatment or spiking “Plastic Man, You’re the Devil” with a lethal dose of jangle-fuzz, McBean and his backing crew kept things loose and languid. Coming a half-dozen songs into the set, the latter caused the audience to officially give itself over to Pink Mountaintops. By the time the band crashed into the psych-freakout follow-up, “Slaves”, the dance floor looked like a sweat-soaked, indie-nation version of the Rapture, the crowd hypnotically feeding off McBean and vice versa.

And so, from the bong-addled Bo Diddley stomper “Sweet ’69” right through to the golden-sunset Americana of “And I Thank You”, the love-in continued. At one point, McBean stepped up to the mike and, looking out at the Rickshaw, serenely mumbled, “This is a good place. Look at it—it’s awesome.” There’s no disputing that. With its high stage and unbeatable sightlines, the Rickshaw is indeed destined to become Vancouver’s new favourite venue.

As for Pink Mountaintops, the most brilliant thing about it all was that you didn’t have to be baked to feel the magic. For this occasionally glitchy but ultimately triumphant homecoming, the vibe in the air was more than enough.

Almost as impressive as the headliners was Vancouver bombast-blues duo the Pack A.D., which, judging by the considerable buzz in the crowd afterward, pretty much blew the minds of everyone. As hard-walloping drummer Maya Miller noted, the group doesn’t play its hometown much. If there is a God—and the addition of the Rickshaw to the Vancouver music scene is enough to make one think there might just be—that’s going to change. Led by the scarily soulful dynamo known as Becky Black, the Pack A.D. was a two-woman demolition squad. If you didn’t arrive a fan, you definitely left a true-blue convert.