“Folk balladry and hazy chamber pop” was the description of Atlas Sound given on the Hawthorne Theater’s website. True enough, those words reflect Atlas Sound’s recorded material accurately. For the live performance of said material, they could not be further from the truth. Wearing his sunglasses at night like some modern-day Corey Hart, he tells us he wants to start with a book of erotic poetry he purchased at the Powell’s Books store across the street. Atlas Sound (real name Bradford Cox) dives into a dramatic reading of the anthology’s more graphic selections, which are then sampled and looped into a backing track that overshadows the notes he begins strumming on his guitar. Reverb grows and pulses at near-seizure-inducing levels, then stops abruptly. People cheer politely, although finger snapping is probably a more appropriate sign of appreciation where there’s poetry present.
Joined by a bassist of many names – Cox alternates between identifying him as Rob Walmart, frequent collaborator Panda Bear, and a host of other monikers – music finally begins to supersede the poetry, at least for the moment. With a nasal voice and melancholy style, he and the bassist produce a few sounds resembling actual songs. Too quickly, though, the lurid book makes its return. He exaggerates the selections, as if trying to shock or scar the all-ages audience that fills the front of the house. His eccentricity seems forced, or at least artificially magnified. Atlas Sound is weird for the sake of weird – a folk singer trapped in an art student’s gawky body. The third song is heavy on the yips and other vocal trickery, and even more loops of anatomically-descriptive verse.
People in the crowd mostly stand still, with their heads turned slightly sideways, trying to figure out what exactly they’re doing here. Cox himself pauses, mouth agape, as if he’s asking the same question. Once again, he talks to the audience. He introduces his backing band (which now includes a percussionist) as something to the effect of “Space Men Two-and-a-Half Men Three Men and a Baby Look Who’s Talking Now,” then flubs the original made-up name while trying to repeat it a half-dozen times. Much like the pornographic poetry, this too is sampled and looped back over his songs. While subjected to this auditory misery, I can’t help thinking I went to college with this guy. Not literally, of course. He’s just interchangeable with any of the burnouts and drug connoisseurs who populate the dorm buildings at liberal arts schools nationwide. Trying desperately to reject their humdrum suburban origins, they create increasingly bizarre projects designed to freak out squares and make well-meaning parents wonder where they went wrong.
Toward the end of this torturous bipolar mess, the band decides to treat us to an "old favorite," “Modern Aquatic Night Songs,” for which Cox sends his backing musicians out for a cigarette break. Once the rest of the band returns, they seem to agree there has been enough experimentation for one night. They play the lovely “Mona Lisa,” which mercifully does resemble a cross between hazy chamber pop and folk balladry and contains no spoken-word about genitals. Approaching the band’s strict 11:00 end time, Cox asks the audience if we’d like to hear another poem or just wrap things up. He then scolds the bassist for playing a jazz riff he deems “too ironic,” before reading one last goddamn poem and strumming out a final song.
Carnivores precede Atlas Sound, and begin by testing the hell out of their instruments. Not to be confused with the three-decades-old metal band of a similar name, the five musicians play with the ease and grace of a seasoned touring band. Each member has focused precision and produces booming sounds, strong beats, and danceable melodies that downright command your feet to move. Slowly, the audience stops fighting hipper-than-thou decorum and goes with it. This band is, without a doubt, the highlight of the night. They’re engaging to watch, alluring to listen to, and seem to have endless stores of energy. It’s a shame they don’t have much material to work with. Swaying in unison and making moon-eyes at the crowd below, Carnivores close out their handful of songs and depart.
Little can be said about the first opener, Frankie Broyles, beyond oppressive noise, circling distortion, and the occasional kick of a drum machine. He’s not much of a lyricist, and mumbles words into his chest instead of the microphone. What’s more, the beats and guitar don’t quite sync up with the vocals. The result is less a stage-ready musician and more the sounds of a fourteen-year-old boy experimenting with the guitar his parents bought him for Christmas. He oohs and ahs in different places, while strumming a single chord with the fervor of Sammy Hagar. For a moment, he coaxes more confident sounds out of the drum machine before cutting through them with a throbbing loop of electronic nothingness. It seems like he might have a nice voice under all this experimentation, but he’s not letting it show. Fortunately the Hawthorne Theater runs its show schedule like a German train, and he’s off the stage after exactly 30 minutes.
