M83 Live: Floating Above Stubb's

All of the video footage that I have ever seen of M83 indicated that their live performances matched their epic recordings, earning them a place on my bucket list of “bands to see.” M83 has come to town three times since Hurry Up, We’re Dreaming came out last year, though, and each time, tickets were snatched up within hours. Since I have a profound issue with supporting the ticket scalping industry, I missed them. As this pattern repeated, I was becoming increasingly concerned that I would miss out on this tour. Fortunately, my wife’s principles are not nearly so limiting, so I was pleasantly surprised when she told me that she had gotten us some tickets. I was ecstatic.  Let the date night commence!

Stubb’s outdoor amphitheater was packed, and with all the people in the street asking about tickets, it seemed that M83 might consider booking a larger venue. I get that the club and amphitheater setting is more personal, but at some point an artist kind of owes it to their fans to play at an appropriately sized space. M83’s music would certainly translate well into an arena, but that type of venue is far too unhip, aloof, and 1985 for today’s indie-conscious music consumer to accept.

Regardless, as I looked out onto the crowd, I noticed the anticipation brewing among the groups of young people who had obviously come to the show together. M83 has the same potential, I think, to appeal to both intellect and aesthetic that Rush had in the 80s. I bonded with many of my friends through our common musical interests, and despite the inherent isolation of IPod culture, these young people seemed to share a similar bond. I wondered what they might be doing when they reach my age, and what they might be listening to as they look back on this evening at Stubb’s.

After the opening band I Break Horses, the lights finally dimmed and the inexplicable purple-furred alien that graces the liner notes of Hurry Up, We're Dreaming appeared out of the darkness, raising his hand to bless the crowd. M83 launched into their now-iconic opening track Intro. The guest vocals of Zola Jesus are integral in the original, so I would not have been surprised if they were reproduced in playback. I appreciated seeing regular band member Morgan Kibby take the vocals and make them her own.



In fact, since the production of Hurry Up, We’re Dreaming is so profoundly epic in scope, I would not have been surprised if M83 had significant “play-along” component in their live show, where the sequencing bears the burden of performance and the band just follows along. I was pleasantly impressed to find that they were much more live than I expected. Although there is certainly a component of automation it doesn’t hold the band back in any way. In fact, these often simple ostinato riffs that lead man Anthony Gonzalez manipulates from his mysteriously wired black and neon box seem to act as a tether during the performance, keeping the band from being swept off the stage by their own impassioned delivery.



I thought that their set would focus primarily on Hurry Up, We’re Dreaming, but they played a wide variety of songs from their entire catalog. Although they have had some changes towards more direct songwriting on their more recent works, listening to them jump around in their catalog made me notice just how cohesive Gonzalez’s oeuvre actually is. 



My wife asked me if anyone else had made music like M83 before, and I said that what makes M83 so compelling is that they recombine familiar things in a new way. I pondered this question for awhile as their expansive sound indescribably floated, up, out, and over above the crowd before I realized: although M83 has a wall of sound that is similar in structure to the one erected by My Bloody Valentine in 1990, this wall is constructed by the explorations of French synthesist Jean-Michel Jarre – a palpable connection that I felt dumb for overlooking. Neither of these obvious influences emphasized songcraft too strongly, however, so with M83’s increasing interest in composition and songwriting, they are emerging as a unique entity.

M83 has, in the last three years, clawed their way up in my personal ranks.  Saturdays=Youth has become a latter-day classic, and the further artistic success of Hurry Up, We’re Dreaming last year was pushing M83 into the ranks of my all-time favorites.  Their transcendental performance at Stubb's last night has clinched the deal: with Gonzalez’s strength of vision, I consider them to be the best musical find that I have encountered since Mew in 2005, as well as a show worth attending if you have the interest and opportunity. Just don’t wait, though, because the tickets will sell out – I guarantee it.

Willis Earl Beal and the Frying Tenor Sax

Although the crowded gallery was buzzing with anticipation, I was standing with my arms resolutely folded in defiant objection. The visiting artist was going to deep-fry a saxophone, arguably to reveal to the crowd the unique beauty of the sounds it made as it met a distinctively Texan demise. It was a bust. The like-new tenor sizzled in pretty much the same way that anything does when coated in batter and lamb casings and immersed in boiling oil.  Sticking a microphone in the pot didn’t really make the experience any more interesting. The general tone of the crowd was one of confused disappointment.  I am not above destructive musical practices, but I was offended.  I couldn't tell if we had been suckered or if we had witnessed an overintellectualized delusion, but in any case I felt that the whole event was vacuous as an aesthetic experience.

Now, before I continue, let me be clear - Willis Earl Beal was not the artist who fried the saxophone, and I do not in any way think that his debut is as artistically vapid as that spectacle. Not even close - Acousmatic Sorcery is impressively creative in a multitude of ways, but I also think it is flawed.  Beal talks a big game, however, and his indie rags-to-riches tale of isolation, catharsis, and perseverance has set expectations around the album incredibly high.  After quite a bit of simmering, I can attest that Acousmatic Sorcery is good, but also I feel a little confused - perhaps even a little disappointed.  So now I wonder: is Beal an undiscovered genius in the rough, as his tale might suggest, or have I been bamboozled by a clever performance artist who has created more interest through his social context than his musical content?  Methinks it is the former.



On disc, Beal is a passable songwriter. There are moments of fine storytelling on Acousmatic Sorcery, and some strong melodies. Several tracks, however, seem like the spontaneous inventions of a clever wordsmith, and recordings unfortunately favor the craftsman over the performer. Beal's true creativity, at least on record, lies in his ability to create mood and texture. His Tom Waits – inspired “junkyard techno” approach to found percussion and guitar technique is so lo-fi that it borders on the industrial, and it casts a shroud of pallor isolation across his surreal and sometimes haunting narratives.



Live footage of Beal reveals an entirely different artist. He seems to thrive in the spontaneous nuance of live audience/artist interaction. Additionally, he explicitly understands that people will forgive a lot if you have style, so, using sharpie markers, white t-shirts, and the power of nothingness, he has constructed an identity that teeters on a fine line between charisma and eccentricity.



Despite its flaws, the tension between genius and insanity that Beal cultivates makes Acousmatic Sorcery more compelling than it might initially seem. If he is to be believed, his intent with this album was catharsis over accessibility.  When he recorded it in his lonely apartment on home equipment a couple of years ago, it was never intended for the masses. Strategically, this is a strong position for his blossoming career, because it deflects criticism while focusing on the potential brilliance of his future work. Potential is only worth something if it is realized, but considering the depth of his influences and the intensity of his beliefs, in my gut I sense that following Beal as he develops his artistic path will have a pay off.

Burning the Rulebook: The Who's "Live at Leeds"

In 1986 or so, the very first CD I ever bought was It's Hard by The Who. For quite awhile, it was the only album by The Who I owned, which astounded the more devoted fans I met. In retrospect, it is probably not the strongest entry in The Who's overall canon, but the incredible Eminence Front buoyed the rest of the album and kept it regular rotation on my high school playlist.  In truth, the song is little more than a groovy jam with some lyrics and a minimal bridge.  Considering the incredible songwriting talents that Townshend had developed by this point in his career, close scrutiny makes it seem a little vapid.  As is often the case, however, The Who as a group sell it through impassioned performances and incredible musicianship.

A decade or so later, I was playing in a band called Fletcher. My bandmates were fans of The Who and had a much deeper understanding of their back catalog than I. Under their influence, I backed into the albums that defined The Who in their prime. The drummer suggested that I check out Live at Leeds,  but back then, with the exception of Zappa's releases, I considered live rock albums as ancillary entries to a band’s studio output.  The Who’s approach to staying relevant at the 60s drew to a close, however, revolved around their live persona. The Beatles may have defined themselves by burrowing deeper into the studio, but The Who is remembered as being a top live rock act – perhaps the best there ever was.



Because it’s such a compelling document of them in 1970, Live at Leeds an essential recording for understanding what The Who was really about. Classic tunes like Substitute and I’m a Boy are injected with a kinetic energy that is nothing short of transcendental, which renders the studio versions of these songs comparatively sterile and limp. The version of My Generation featured on Live at Leeds effectively ends after about two minutes, after which Townshend navigates the band through a thunderous fifteen minute exploration of material from throughout their catalog. Although this performance seems very spontaneous, under Townshend’s intuitive leadership the band remains tight and focused, avoiding the loose noodling that epitomizes most jams.



Every member of the band is at the top of their game on Live at Leeds, but I think paying respect to Keith Moon’s drumming is in order.  He’s another example of a musician whose style could not be learned in an academic setting, but must have been cultivated in experience.  Its amazing that with such an impulsive approach, he doesn't rush more than he does.  Of course, my immature prejudice against 60s music embarrassingly constrained my view of the band's important history to the short period with Kenney Jones as drummer, so Moon really blew my mind when I started to understand his idiosyncratic technique.  In he end, Live at Leeds ended up being more than an exception to my weird rulebook - it demolished several chapters and provided a whole new perspective on what is now one of my favorite bands.

Smoke and Mirrors: Deerhoof, Ratatat, and Live Persona

Not too long ago, the sound of a person’s voice was never far removed from his or her mouth.  With telephones, computers, and speakers lurking in virtually every corner of our existence, that idea seems almost laughably quaint.  Today, it hardly seems miraculous that I can talk to my wife across town without actually physically being there.  That we take this for granted has significant ramifications on our musical consumption.  In the midst of all of the smoke-and-mirrors that follow the recording process, it is particularly easy to forget that music is generated by human hands.  The studio version of a song is a fixed ideal, and is often not reproducible in a live performance.

For me, however, a band's live persona is an important component of the overall listening experience.  It does more than just put a face on the musicians – it also allows me to see the musician’s conception of their own music.  When I went to see Deerhoof in January at the “coldest show ever,” I hoped I would be able to better appreciate their recorded output, an investment which is just now starting to pay off.

For the musically curious, which is who this blog is supposed to be for, I would suggest "Deerhoof vs. Evil" as a good entry point for the band.  It has been in regular rotation ever since that show, and something is starting to happen with me and that recording that is hard to describe.  Yesterday I woke up with this little ditty firmly planted in my internal radio.  The video showcases Satomi's quirky "Laurie Anderson meets the grunge scene" persona.

Studio versions of songs are often unrealistic in a live setting, though.  Some bands hire extra musicians who were not part of the creative process to recreate the studio on stage.  Deerhoof takes a different approach, stripping the song down to its barest persisting essence so that it can be performed by the group’s core members.  I attribute my new perception of "Deerhoof vs. Evil" to a conceptual framework provided by seeing them perform live.

For comparison, here's a pretty good amateur clip of "Super Duper Rescue Heads!" from that January show.  Check out the similarities and differences between this live version and the version from the "official" video, particularly in the drums and guitars. 

On the flip side, some styles of music are created entirely in the studio, and live performances are complicated by the expectations of the original.  For example, if it seems like I am sort of on an electronic music kick, I squarely place the blame on the duo Ratatat.  Back in the day, if I liked a group, I would avidly collect all of their albums.  I am less inclined to do that these days, but Ratatat is the first “band” (if a duo can even be a band) in awhile that has me eyeballing their entire catalog.  I got “LP4” last Fall, and that is as good a place as any to start if you are curious. Be prepared, though: within months, I got “LP3” (which has a surprise on it for Horror Remix fans) and I just put “Classics” in rotation.  Ratatat’s sliding guitars, swirling melodies, and hallucinogenic beats keep me coming back for more.

Beyond this rather superficial description, however, it is difficult to stylistically pin Ratatat down.  Late 80’s electronic pioneers The Art of Noise come to mind, although Ratatat is definitely more West Coast and less British.  Mike Stroud’s guitar work suggests the epic walls of guitar that Brian May built with Queen, but within an electronic context reminiscent of Daft Punk (yeah, THOSE guys again).

Now granted, I might not be the best authority on Ratatat’s performance practice.  I was looking forward to seeing them live, but the show was sold out by the time I got around to getting a ticket.  That’s the price I pay for procrastinating. As a duo with pretty complicated music that is known for a good live show, though, it does beg the question: how do they render their music in a performance setting?  From what I have gathered, Ratatat employs sequencing to fill out parts that cannot be covered or that are impossible to acoustically recreate.  To draw attention away from this aspect of their performances, they meet the smoke-and-mirrors head-on by putting on an audio-visual lightshow spectacle.

There was a time in my life when I would have been critical of this "play-along" approach, but as sequencers become ever more reactive, I have come to appreciate the emergent specialized musicianship that accommodates them.  On the one hand, Ratatat showcases guitar in a way that humanizes their performances.  Beyond that, for Ratatat (and for Rush, too, for that matter), virtual instruments allow the musicians who are primarily involved in the creative process to perform at a level that compares favorably to the expectations set by the studio recording.  Ratatat's music is essentially larger-than-life, and to strip this away for a live performance would fundamentally change what the band is about.

This final clip is a Deerhoof encore, of sorts. It catches Greg's monologue on the weather, Satomi's attempt to get feeling back in her hands, plumes of steam coming from the band's mouths...and of course, an energetic performance that would be difficult to capture in the studio.

  

Finally, in other news, I am considering offering prizes for musical suggestions that contribute to the blog.  Keep your ears open.

Deerhoof, Ben Butler & Mousepad - and Let's Not Forget the Cold

In the summer of 2007, I saw Rush on the “Snakes and Arrows” tour at an outdoor venue, the Smirnoff Center in Dallas (or whatever they are calling it this year).  It was an outdoor show in the middle of a particularly bad Texas heatwave – heat index 108 degrees after sundown.  Last night, I experienced its counterpart when I was Deerhoof at the Mohawk here in Austin.  When I left the venue, my phone said that it was 27 degrees.  I had on some serious layers on my torso, but of course, no thermal underwear.  Its hard to find that kind of thing when you only wear them once every two years.  I can’t imagine what it must have been like to play in that environment.  I had wool socks on my hands, which were planted firmly in my pockets, and they still were numb.  When the wind chill hit, I started looking for a Tauntaun (nerdboy reference). 

Deerhoof is an interesting band.  While they are probably not bombastic enough to earn the “prog” label, they are certainly quirky enough to be considered “art rock.”  Something about them that reminds me of the Talking Heads - perhaps Satomi Matsuzaki’s awkward Japaneseness reminds me of the ways in which David Byrne used to capitalize on his own whiteboy gawkiness.  Unarguably, Deerhoof has better technical chops than the Talking Heads.  Drummer Greg Saunier takes a page from the Keith Moon playbook, rifling out seat-of-the-pants fills just to see what he can pull off.

Last summer I picked up “Milkman,” and it was definitely a slow cooker, but I came to like it after many, many listens.  There is something that is missing, though, that keeps Deerhoof from being a favorite, rather than just an interest.  Trying to find out what that thing is might be what keeps me listening to them.  The point of going to see them live was to perhaps gain a better understanding of the band, and although I walked away satisfied, I can’t say that I am any more or less a Deerhoof fan than when I started.  I still just like them.  To be fair, I got their new release “Deerhoof vs. Evil” last week, and it comprised the majority of their set.  That recording is still simmering for me, and admittedly, it does sound a little different after the show.  Additionally, I was not familiar with a lot of the work that they played.  I have one other album, while they have an extensive catalog that spans around fifteen years.  Being kind of a weird band on an oppressively cold night, the whole thing may not have invigorated my interest in the group like I thought it might, but it might not have been a fair sample.

On the other hand, maybe it is fair.  When I walked in the door, the opening band, who I had never heard of before, immediately caught and held my attention.  Comprised of a keyboard player and a drummer, this group, calling themselves “Ben Butler & Mousepad,” totally blew me out of the water.  I have tried to find a clip that represents this group well, but unfortunately they all seem to be like the one I personally tried to capture – OK video, but totally blown-out sound.  This one kind of gives you an idea....

Keep in mind the drummer probably can't feel his hands here.  For a better live tidbit, check out my later post.

The thing that really disturbed me about the overall experience, however, was that after Ben Butler and Mousepad, Deerhoof seemed a little….archaic.  Despite the Deerhoof’s killer chops and impressive energy in a hostile environment, their guitar-centric approach left me a little cold (pun intended).  Conversely, the keyboard and drum approach of Ben Butler and Mousepad fascinated me. 

One of the things I enjoy about music is unraveling the tapestry of its performance.  Figuring out who plays what part at what time is very satisfying to me, and kept me listening to some songs for years.  When you add this new wave of “soft” sequencing, where laptops can be made to react more like instruments, I find myself really curious as to how it is being done.

Keyboard and laptops present another problem, however – that of stage presence.  It is difficult to make keyboard playing and computer-controlled accompaniment look cool.  Ben Butler and Mousepad deftly circumvented this problem by employing hyperactive drumming and charismatic crowd interaction, allowing their music to bridge the gap between Keith Emerson and Thomas Dolby.  Although they were danceable, they were also virtuosic, adventurous, and above all, fun.  Any group who tries to get the audience to clap and dance to a song in 9/4 has the kind of Zappa-esque humor that I appreciate.    

I bought their CD "Formed for Fantasy" and, predictably, it does not quite capture the live performance, although it does have its moments.  Once I get some distance from last night, I might be able to be a little more objective.

Finally, a portion of Deerhoof’s performance was also marred by some drunk guy with an accent and a microphone whose enthusiastic thrashing about was encroaching on my space.  Of course, I became annoyed, and when he turned to speak to his girlfriend I took great joy in barking into his microphone like a junkyard dog.  I’m pretty sure he never actually caught me doing it.  Regardless things improved when I made the miraculous realization that I could pretty much stand wherever I wanted to.  After I moved about five feet back, he became someone else’s problem and I got back to enjoying the show.  Lesson learned.