When the word "dark" is used to describe music, my brain starts looking for the those branches of the emotional spectrum that can make life seem cold and unwelcome: things of sadness, times of pain, that feeling of inescapable helplessness. I think about lyrics and of Jim Morrison singing about the manifestation of perspective in "People Are Strange." Because for me, darkness is cerebral—a matter of perception. The folly in this train of logic is that it forgets about intuitive darkness, or the darkness of sensation. Where feeling comes first and then an emotion is attached. To me, that is where Matthew Dear and his Black City live: in this realm of innate feelings, where deep imagery is called forth from casual sounds and deep thoughts find the surface only after taking a trip through a finite sense of space. It's music that calls out for observation and journeys into things forgotten. And when Matthew and his band brought it to Holocene on Monday, they gave it a level of grand sophistication that made it seem timeless, rather than something simply of this age. If only the rest the bands were so good.
Young Prisms is a lo-fi quintet from San Francisco that specializes in low-impact shoegaze. The haze is strong and the sound is loud; what suffers because of these dominating drivers are the vocals. They were lost to us out in the audience, and although strong lyrics never have been an intrinsic part of the shoegaze motif, the fact that they were hiding behind the layers kind of annoyed me. The layers sounded good though, like resting your head against a washing machine as it churned along on a soft spin cycle, or that moment after a night of heavy drinking, right before you close your eyes, where the room has fractured in a million tiny pieces and you are losing the will required for constant reassembly. A clean lie detector test would show that I didn't find anything here that set them apart from the other Converse-sneakered psychedelics that roam these indie waters. That would require something off the beaten path. Theirs was well-worn.
Class Actress raised the ante on Young Prisms, but couldn't quite take the pot. Fronted by an '80s-adoring synth-popstress named Elizabeth Harper, this duo showed that they too must have missed soundcheck, as the vocals were frequently too far back to do any real damage. When they came forward a bit, Harper's controlled cooing and It's Blitz-era Karen O-isms seemed unpracticed and lacked any real depth. This was especially clear when framed against the contrast of a thriving 8-bit-meets-Tears for Fears snippet sound pouring out of her co-conspirator's instrument. He was worth the money and should consider a career as a hip hop producer, rather than one as another 80s revivalist. There, at least he could link up with people who practice riding great orbs of bass and syrupy synth lines on the daily. But maybe this feeling all comes down to a bad sound mix. It seemed fairly obvious that this group would soon find themselves on stage at fashion shows, playing as featherweight models gracefully walk up and down the runway. There was the beginning of a sheen here, especially with Elizabeth Harper—who lived on stage tonight in a three-quarter length baggy coat—but presents herself in fashionable threads and fabric combinations whenever it's time to take a press photo. My ear will point their way in the future, but I might steer clear of their shows until I hear someone else come back raving.
Small Black made me realize that I'm over seeing anything chillwave, anywhere live. Not because they put on a bad performance (they actually did a solid job), but because I'm tired of hearing vocals performed in a bubble. Bring those fuckers out! They must not have wanted to, or perhaps they too suffered under the tyranny of a bad sound mix like the rest of the openers, but what they did do was create an unexpectedly funky rhythm jungle that made people groove. It was like watching a version of Passion Pit that had decided to bring their pop urges down from 10 to 7, and adjusted their vocals from the mountaintop highs to a standard mid. If they brought the vocals out, worked them a bit harder and added a touch more melody, a breakthrough would be their reward. Also, if they enhance that driving-yet-echoey synth-sound and gear it towards the dance floor, it's on. I promise. Chillwave—a style they are already starting to venture out of—might miss you Small Black, as will the smaller venues that you are going to wave goodbye to, but there will be comfort in the swelling crowds. Let the Washed Out Remix of "Despicable Dogs" be your guide. If you use this path, I will be there waiting with lots of friends; if not, at least you already seem to be on your way to somewhere cool.
All sound problems ceased the minute Matthew Dear and crew (a trumpet player, a drummer, and a bassist) came out on stage. Dear, dressed in a black "suits and boots" combination and sporting a nest of curls at the ridge of his slicked up hair, was the type of guy that gets labeled as impossibly cool. His band looked like session players, the kind of people you need when you are about to take a dark record and add warmth to the bleakness. Around them, in carefully coordinated positions, were two fluorescent-white lights. What came out of them accentuated the shadows around the band members and illuminated the face of their leader. Black and white. Dark and light. Contrast. This is how you manipulate the sensory receptors of your audience and paint a picture of starkness in their minds. The mood was set and fittingly, we now found ourselves near the witching hour. Time to cast a spell.
We began with the sound of a tide coming in, except water was replaced by the low surge of a bass note. Out of that came a voice: deep and resonant. To its left, a trumpet beckoning us into the netherworld began take shape. This was the entrance to Black City. Half electronic, half organic musicians, the players created a land that was highly evocative: a place where you couldn't help but see the cracked walls of an abandoned warehouse, or a grim face staring longingly into a rippling puddle. At times, it almost made more sense to close your eyes and see what appeared. If Matthew Dear didn't have such a commanding stage presence, that might be a good call, but as it was it was hard to turn away from him. He and that voice were hypnotic.
We followed them as they took us from one street block to another. Sometimes the destinations had a sadness to them, a feeling that was made even more vivid by my favorite jazz lift, the lonely horn. Watch any film noir, or Spike Lee Joint for that matter, and you'll hear what I'm talking about. In this room, it called out like it was the night's best friend, like it was the only thing that really knew how to give it a voice. Other times, it felt like we were in the middle of a party only an arthouse geek would know how to throw. It was sophisticated and hip, driven by metallic guitar tones and the textural diversity that comes from life in a big city. It was cool—in the Miles Davis sense of the word—and also enigmatic, but always a little distant, as if there was a line you weren't allowed passed. You could come and submit before what was beyond, but it wouldn't cave to you for anything.
Once we got to the one-two punch of "You Put A Smell On Me" and "Little People (Black City)," I wanted to book a room in the Black City Hotel and stay for a few days. The Trent Reznor-esque glitch bubbles of the former—a sound that seemed to feast on itself as it danced around—and the synth-line catching lift on the latter, left me in a state of near shock. Mainly because I wasn't expecting it. I mean, this is the type of stuff that would soundtrack a David Lynch film or some other neo-noir that makes you fall for the dark side of life: an elusive blend of substance and accessibility. It was enthralling and when a sound like that is up on stage surrounded by a bunch of agile musicians, you've got yourself something worth writing home about. MD for mayor!
