By Ashley Zimmerman
By David Von Bader
By Sayre Berman
By Steve Brennan
By Ashley Zimmerman
By Michele Eve Sandberg
By Abel Folgar
By Ashley Zimmerman
It's a little after 11 on a recent Friday morning in downtown Philadelphia, and if it's not the coldest day of the year thus far, it damned sure feels like it. Luckily, the folks at World Café Live have taken pity on the hundreds of freezing fans who've turned up for a special midday set by Philly quintet Dr. Dog, opening the doors early. The tour-kickoff gig is a big deal in this town, being broadcast live on local radio and nationally on NPR.org.
As showtime approaches, access to the performance space is granted, and the room quickly fills up with eager faces — well beyond the stated capacity of 650, it appears. That so many would show up isn't really a surprise, however. Over the past few years, Dr. Dog has clawed its way to the top of Philly's rock scene, and the favorable buzz the band's been earning nationwide has generated levels of hometown pride usually reserved for Hall & Oates, Will Smith, and the Philadelphia Phillies.
Noon strikes, and the band takes the stage to huge applause, launching with "Hang On," a track from its recently released fifth full-length, Fate. Simple, bright piano melts into a tangle of jangly guitars and bassist/frontman Toby Leaman's impassioned, sandpapery tenor. There are some divine four-part harmonies and a fusion of rousing classic-rock and soul textures reminiscent, perhaps, of Mad Dogs and Englishmen-era Joe Cocker.
In fact, Band of Horses frontman Ben Bridwell described Dr. Dog to the New York Times a couple of years ago thusly: "It's fun, happy music, good for partying at barbecues or playing hackey sack." Indeed, despite the thick beards and knit hats onstage, the group's rollicking eight-song set feels like warm sun on your face and sand against your feet. It feels like summer, a feeling that lingers even a few seconds after stepping back out into the icy Philadelphia air.
And although Fate and its predecessor, We All Belong in 2007, were well-received critically and have moved respectable numbers, touring's been the key for Dr. Dog. "The live show is definitely where we've built our fan base, which is pretty funny since we started as a recording band," Leaman says by phone. "For years and years, that's all we did."
The band's history stretches back to the late 1990s, when co-founders Leaman and singer/guitarist Scott McMicken were sophomores at West Chester University, about 30 miles west of Philadelphia. The pair go further back than that, though. Friends since the eighth grade, they'd written songs together for several years, drifted apart for a while and played in separate bands, then reunited and formed Dr. Dog with an ever-changing lineup of college buddies.
They recorded tons of songs in basements and then began practicing regularly in a remote barn (owned by the parents of the band's original drummer) in the middle of Pennsylvania farm country. There, Dr. Dog eventually began throwing hootenannies for friends that Leaman still regards as the band's first gigs. "Nobody paid any money to come see us or anything, but there was beer there and we played music, so that definitely counts."
Eventually, Dr. Dog began to play sporadically on the Philadelphia club circuit and self-released two albums. The big break came in 2004, when McMicken and his then-girlfriend went to see My Morning Jacket and handed MMJ frontman Jim James a CD of the band's songs after the show. James loved the music so much that he wrote McMicken a letter a week later, offering to help Dr. Dog in any way he could. Soon, the virtually unknown Dr. Dog was touring regularly with My Morning Jacket just as that band was breaking big.
And its profile steadily began to rise. There were multiple tours with phenoms Clap Your Hands Say Yeah (Dr. Dog even played at CYHSY frontman Alec Ounsworth's 2007 wedding). There were fawning write-ups in major magazines, overseas tours, and two more albums, released on a proper label (Park the Van). There were even appearances on Letterman and Conan.
Jeff Tweedy of Wilco also gushed to the New York Times: "They're very irreverent, but they've really studied their stuff... They sing out, they sing with gusto, which isn't something that I hear a lot these days, especially in younger bands."
And then came Fate, issued this past summer. One might discern a more melancholy feel to the melodies and lyrics. The album's title provides the motif for all 11 tracks, and sometimes things turn cloudy as Leaman and McMicken alternate lead vocals. (In contrast to Leaman's grittier delivery, McMicken's high, dramatic warble sometimes recalls Mercury Rev's Jonathan Donahue). But there are enough buoyant melodies, jubilant guitar hooks, and delicious harmonies to cast aside most of the grays.
One might also spy a few sonic references to the past, if you're really looking for them. Some of the band's detractors (including Pitchfork) insist Dr. Dog swipes too much from its influences, aping the Beatles, Beach Boys, and the Band. Naturally, that rubs Leaman the wrong way, as does this excerpt from Rolling Stone's generally positive review of Fate that I read to him: "The Philadelphia band's albums have always sounded like they should be filed alongside 'old ones' like the Band, the Beach Boys, the Beatles and the Bonzo Dog Band, but Fate feels less like a straight tribute to Dr. Dog's elders and more like a finely tuned collage."