Wexner’s black box, the area behind Mershon’s thick curtain, was filled once again by indie music devotees of all ages on Sunday night. The masses were drawn this time by the lanky and amiable presence of Bradford Cox, the frontman of four-piece group Deerhunter. However, Cox is currently touring as his solo act, Atlas Sound, which recently released its second LP, Logos.
At our show, Cox was not dressed like this...too bad.
The Selmanaires opened with a less than inspiring and almost less than listenable set. Their whiny electronic (i.e., they had a keyboard) rock and the singer’s spontaneous arm flailing failed to please anyone in the audience; the Atlanta based band probably hopped the train that was carrying Cox out of Georgia and used the time to lazily write one song they could repeat for half an hour when “performing.”
No sitting for us!
Electronic, pseudo-psychedelic pop duo Broadcast came next. I must give them credit for persistence; there was time on stage to fill, and dagnabit, they were going to make noise the entire time! They never stopped playing, and Trish’s eerie monotone vocals were evenly matched by the video projected over and behind her. Although a disgustingly artsy video, a mixture of black & white tree limbs competing with neon color patterns, I believe that no concept is more acceptable than a bad, pretentious concept.
Broadcast's spooky Trish Keenan and compliant James Cargill.
Unfortunately for the eager audience and for Bradford, The Selmanaires were his backing band. Their paltry talent prevented Bradford from completely bringing his pieces to life. I can’t say I ever completely lost myself in the music. Regardless, it was pacifying to hear Logo’s more upbeat pieces, like Sheila and Walkabout, played hesitantly with a reassuring serenity. Bradford himself was utterly charming, the kind of guy you’d want at your parties or with you at the laundromat, and the show was redeemed by his enchanting solo encore. With a harmonica resting around his neck, and an acoustic guitar comfortable under his elongated fingers, he played a haunting but warm version of Quarantined, showcasing the fantastic voice he buries under production on records.
Though it wasn’t a mind-blowing show, I walked away from the Wexner as I almost always do: contented.
Bradford, you're a card.
No comments:
Post a Comment