Two valued team members from Principal Financial Group were delivered here to the LiFT — by the divine means of Court Ave, or maybe, Fong’s — and found themselves next to me. There was nowhere else to go. The place was packed on Aug. 1 to welcome Mr. Softheart (the band, not man) into the home stretch of their summer tour. This would be the first of four final shows in Iowa, following a dozen others that covered more of the continental United States than Culver’s franchise locations.
I watched the future of the insurance industry watch Mr. Softheart. The pair of apple-cheeked co-workers, still reeking of post-grad posi vibes, went for their phones as soon as the four valued members of the night’s new-wavey, home-townie headliners hit the stage. Their first focal point was, naturally, Nick Fisher, the frontman right in front of them. But as the set opener, “Million Dollar Question,” boogied into the room, a barfly’s wobble took Nick in and out of what would’ve been the money shot.
A few doors down 4th Street from the disfigured remains of Vaudeville Mews, the de facto stage at the LiFT couldn’t have been as big as the living rooms the Softhearts stopped by in between venues on their way through St. Louis, Detroit, Brooklyn and a show just outside Pittsburgh at the Jean Bonnet Tavern. But the square footage of the LiFT was beside the point — the borderline-unbranded martini bar became a load-bearing safety pin in the Des Moines DIY scene, thanks to its all-are-welcome concerts and anything-goes art exhibits.
Something Nick sang-said streaked across the PA and grabbed hold of me: “College girl smoking credit carddsss.” I considered the empty bowl and empty bank account that would bring about such a decision. In the background, with his back turned to the audience, John Fisher (yes, related, brothers) stood before two double-decker stacks of abbreviated keyboards and blinking lights. There, he produced synth lines that one moment might sound like the thud of the Escape From New York theme, and another, like a clubby little interlude on the American Gigolo soundtrack.
Stage left, the other side of Mr. Softheart’s mouth, Halen Becker, added her own halo-adorned two cents. The poise with which she held a martini glass between songs could be heard in the almost digital precision of her harmonies, vocals melting into synth, like ice cubes into cocktail. Stage right, ripping into yet another song, Charlie Patterson pummeled the silver grill of his Supro Black Magick amp with the rollicking good guitar lick for “Purgatory: A Dream Sequence.” It was a murky number, and a crowd favorite from city to city.
Nick, John and Charlie assembled and animated Mr. Softheart in 2022. The first time I saw them was at Gas Lamp (R.I.P.), mere minutes after Charli XCX finished her set at 80/35. Between the three of them, they had one vocalist, two part-time guitarists, three part-time synth players and zero drummers. Seeing this three-piece lineup meant seeing each song’s creation, without so much as a sneeze guard in the way. They were a Chipotle crew portioning out Frankenstein’s monster — hot, fast, now.
In late 2023, Halen guested on their debut album, Magdalene In Crisis. (Shout-out to “Carnage of the Rose,” such a perfectly anachronistic needle drop that you could surely sneak it over the credits of a Jerry Bruckheimer production from the 1980s.) By early 2024, Halen had become a full-time member for the sessions that turned out to be Songs for Subdued Spaces. Seeing this four-piece lineup meant seeing a leaner, meaner, less-is-more-ier monster. I hadn’t seen them so tight, their tone so toned.
The last song on the EP’s tracklist, “It Happened Like This,” rippled across the amassed surface of faces. I, a beautiful little fool, assumed this would be the last song on the setlist. Nick even poked and prodded the audience with a certain fuck-it finality. Compared to the empty togetherness that artists default to these days, each poke and prod seemed to delight the Principal Groupies, like a couple of Pillsbury Doughboys. Then there was the pearl of an opening line: “You never thought that it would happen like this / Well, it happened to be a bitch.”
The seven-minute, more-is-more misfit in the Mr. Softheart songbook is about a filmmaker and the Hollywood machine that threatened to consume her until all she could see was its insides. In my official capacity as rock ‘n’ roll journalist, exactly two or three Modelos deep, I was ready to report that this was the best song on the EP. And that this was the best song of the night. Until the Softhearts got to what was actually the last one.
This new, unreleased song, tentatively titled “Drowning in the River of You,” started with a drum loop sampled from “What’s That You’re Doing?” by Paul McCartney (and featuring Stevie Wonder). The band jammed from there, letting us once again see the song’s creation. Every part and piece on stage, whether body or instrument, slinked out from the sample, suddenly unrecognizable, still gorgeous. Tonight’s take would end up somewhere other than the night before; tomorrow night’s take would end up somewhere other than tonight’s.
On one of Mr. Softheart’s tour stops, in Cleveland, Ohio, the crowd was evidently so into this jam sesh they couldn’t help but start a reverse conga line. I looked for one last update on the perfectly nice, perfectly normal guys who were closer than ever to never seeing me again. They were into it. I was into it. But I didn’t reach for their waists, nor did they reach for mine. I’d like to believe it was only because there wasn’t enough square footage at the LiFT.
This article was originally published in Little Village’s September 2024 issue.
