"Like Godspeed You! Black Emperor put into perfect four minute pop songs".
I first heard the three words "borken" "social" "scene" in that order come from the mouth of Max Srasser whilst chilling, and it was January so chilling is utterly appropriate, in New York. It sounded like the most insane thing I ever heard. Mac bought the You Forget it in People album, and the beautiful journey began.
Arriving at the rather swanky Perth Concert Hall verandah (is it only Australia where Concert Halls have verandah's, more please) I was feeling generally a little monged and deflated having worked whilst cold-stricken, and not knowing quite what to expect, but gently optimsistic in this salubrious atmosphere. The place is full of nerds, but having singularly failed to find anyone I know here, I feel that I fit right in. I slide my way in near to the front, just slightly off to the side, and regret not having a pair of glasses I can nervously fondle.
I have no idea who's in the group and who's a roadie, as various Canadians saunter on and off stage, poking objects occassionally in a tres lasseiz faire soundcheck. Then a chap with dark curly hair takes to a drum kit, several other saunterers take places and the opening strains of recovery lounge instrumental Pacific Theme come to life. I'm feeling better already. There's a sublime Hendirx quote about his "Manic Depression" song, where he wishes his music would flow through body like rays, healing any sickness. BSS's dismantled songs are not so much songs a la verse chorus verse chorus, more transforing waves and variations.
And what unfolds is nothing short of atomic. Even the set itself is pretty much devoid of structure as there appears to be no end of confusion from the band as to how long they've got. With a lot of hand waving and running about at the back, they ultimately finsih about 45 minutes after they initially announce they're wrapping it up - you can't call it an encore as the band never leave the stage. Perhaps just as well, as they leave their best known song, 7/4 (Shoreline) close to the end.
Even the word "band" is deficient in defining this highly felxible ensemble who's numbers bulge and fade throughout. According to their last album's liner notes the full group now consists of seventeen. Hard to believe they started out as a duo. Tonight it seems there's a mere ten of them, although I can't be sure, they're rarely onstage all at once. Superconnected starts with a streamline four and ends with seven. In the same way that the taste of a strawberry is composed from two hundred and fifty gases, so all the components of many different instruments unite. There's the oblique textures of many different guitars, violin, two drum kits, a brass section ostensibly capable of forming at a minute's notice and one man able to replicate a theramin with only his voice. Moreover, at only $30 a ticket that's a mere $3 per group member. Excellent value for bargain-conscious experimental pop hunters everywhere.It's equally hard to convey how packed an event this is. From a gig which after twenty or so minutes features next to zero band to audiance communication, Kevin Drew, looking and singing not entirely dissimilar to Flaming Lips' Wayne Coyne, waxes exuberant. We get advice on how to live, moments of comedy and best of all he conducts an impromptu audiance primal scream session midway through the finale It's All Gonna Break, one guy being singled out for especial praise. He's ten rows by himself apparently. Kevin also dedicates Ibi Dreams of Pavement, to the birthday of his cousin Ibi, two weeks ago now but still celebrating, which blasts with its "you were THERE, you were THERE" chorus. He relates of his family in Perth and tells how they've come a long way and how this means more to them than to us (don't bet on it) and that nothing makes them happier than to see people dancing. There are guitar sounds ike seaguls screaming for help, a spontaneous thirty two bar jam between songs and underneath it all Bernard Canning on bass providing a beautiful raft to lay the manifold layers of instruentation on. Amidst this all, Anthem for a 17 year old Girl slowly dawns into fruition. I don't even recognize its arrival, I just marvel at how hollow and enticing the dom-de-de-dom drums sound. It's the closest I have come to openly weeping in public. And I don't mean some shadowy half-blubbing. I mean turning to the nearest stranger and flooding down the back of their t-shirt. It's a strange swell of music with a bubblegum mantra by a hair obliterated singer, merely the sliver of a face, cooing underneath a beehive, that cedes to a sonic rush, peaked by the near panic of a sweeping violin. It's a song, if you can call it a song, that I've attributed personal meaning to, perhaps more meaning than originally inseminated, but nonetheless means more to me than I can reasonably type.
Having arrived drained and generally cold-ridden, it feels like my atoms have been rearranged into a more positive structure. I don't believe I have ever been through so many different emotions at one gig. You ever hear that trashy line about 'letting the music wash over you'? Out hear you can ride waves, big ones - coming down fast. Taste that ocean spary.
As experienced by G.
I say I failed to find anyone I know; it turned out that Ian was there. I tottally missed him. Doh, and doh again. We caught up later online, where he delightedly informed that the annoying cunt who kept shouting out "you guys rock" and "tell us a joke" inbetween songs was later spuing his guts up in the toilet. He also informs of how he was "tempting me to fist him (no lube, two hands, with rings)". Tres graphique. Bizarrely at the time I was in no way wound up. Perhaps I just go with an expected idiot tolerance quota already pre-loaded so that when it happens it doesn't end up distracting me.
Somewhere in all this lavish arse-licking I should probably point out that You Forget it in People is one of the finest albums 00's. If you die without hearing it, you will die alone.
OK, that's a bit harsh. Just hear it.
outpatients.