NME Premier Shows 2 and 5
London Astoria
Add N to X are a scary collection of people. Noise like that doesn’t emerge from safe minds. Given a bank of Moogs and a pair of drum-kits, those minds can create some pretty tangential and sporadically startling tunes. They had their moments, but tended to put you straight back down whenever they had picked you up. Shack, on the other hand, take a much more studied approach to their music. At times they threatened to do something noticeable or even special. Sadly, the closest they came was in their far from straight cover of Love - which succeeded only in demonstrating a lack of finesse in playing a tune of superior quality.
So we come to Mercury Rev. Following five or six years of spawning their own special and enlightening brand of sprawling musical chaos, they’ve only gone and metamorphosed into pop stars. In their slight translation of musical vocabulary, they have moved into a different space - more certain, but somehow just a little bit sterile at times. The new tunes keep on opening out - ‘Holes’ as fragile as it could be, ‘Opus 40’ with that triumphant edge a little more poignant in the shining faces of a full house at the Astoria - but when we lean back to the past it all feels a little bit schizophrenic. They lick right through ‘Carwash Hair’ and tread down just too much of the fragility that has always made it such a wonder. ‘Frittering’ is better, retaining three full guitar workouts, and the rendition of Nick Cave’s ‘Into My Arms’ quite spectral. The final two songs are the reassurance though - ‘Chasing A Bee’ retains every ounce of the delirium of old, and their reading of ‘Cortez The Killer’ sounds huge. Neil Young probably never dreamed it would sound quite like this, spiked through and through with guitars, piano and who knows what else building into a tumult of sound that leaves no molecule of air unmoved. Mercury Rev are alive and well - we wait with interest to see where tomorrow takes them.
The next quality act to play at the Astoria is Bob Tilton on the Saturday. As fractious and determined to deafen as ever, they give a good account of their perpendicular hardcore talents. Clinic follow shortly after with some doggedly interesting tunes. It’s all somehow mindful of the Butthole Surfers (minus the insanity) playing Space songs. Not bad then, but soon eclipsed by the rather unique persona of Will Oldham. Playing here as Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy, he soon has most of the audience either switched on or off. For those in the on position, we get to see a slightly less morbid and distinctly half way to being animated incarnation of the Oldham muse. Thrilling then, but somewhat unsettling. However, we are not afraid because Mogwai soon have us soothed.
In fact, soothed is not a good enough word. What Mogwai do is to somehow use sound and light to reach into your body and stroke your soul into torpor. Finding yourself at once sad yet relieved, your feet become welded to the spot and you submit. Not a word is uttered over the music, and not a single one is needed when the music is this evocative. ÔIthicaÕ twists through the body to leave the stomach numb and ‘Helicon 1’ transmits emotion pure enough to induce tears. The decidedly final and monumental ‘Like Herod’ was a lesson in musical construction. The expectation that builds is incredible when you know that this gentle melodic lull is leading to something very loud indeed. When that refrain hits, the sense of power - compounded by the blinding white lights from the back of the stage - is almost claustrophobic. The song burns on, slowly draining the power from the legs, as we move inexorably towards a wall of sound finale. Sheet upon sheet of white noise is already ripping through the building when a hooded figure emerged onto stage to torture a fourth guitar in unison with the three wielded by the band. As the last of these six leave the stage seven minutes later, the guitars continue to howl unattended and the journey is complete. There is nothing more to be said.
