Veteran concert-goers are familiar with the old critique about audiences standing around with arms crossed or hands in pockets, nodding composedly to whatever band is conversely ripping it up on stage. It’s time the myth about how wrong this is be dispelled once and for all because everyone does it, and the assumption that non-movement means non-enjoyment couldn’t be more incorrect. So in its defense, I’ll clarify that the ubiquitous ‘arms-crossed-stance’ typically indicates cognitive engagement and, dare I say, tranquil enjoyment. In many cases, live music does not necessitate impassioned dancing and unchecked flailing about. The general understanding of this etiquette at Thursday’s Mogwai show (I have experienced no others for comparison) made it one of the most pleasant rock shows I’ve ever been to. There were even (gasp!) smart, lively conversations going on as the bands played.
Errors, Mogwai’s fellow Scotsmen adoptees (signed to Rock Action records after Mogwai took notice of them playing small shows around Glasgow), started the show with some “post-electro” that untangled a few arms with its lyric-sparse analog/electronic trance rock.
Mogwai slipped through their set effortlessly, bridging between ambient pings, ten-strums-per-second ascending guitar notes, and thick, revelatory eruptions of noise, delivering just what we had hoped for. They largely avoided their signature extended periods of near silence (i.e. “Cody”) and drove the show with their rockier numbers (i.e. “Batcat”) and a few in between (“I’m Jim Morrisson, I’m Dead”). We were mesmerized regardless, latching on to every muffled melody, allowing ourselves to get absorbed by the calculated din without getting too introspective. We were in public, after all, and Mogwai isn’t a band we’re used to hearing at a party or a bar or in a grocery store or, really, any setting less intimate than a dark movie theater. So, we kept our composure and respectfully enjoyed the orchestral brain-rock magic passing through our ears; arms crossed, face relaxed, a slight sway maybe. But our minds were working and wide open. I had trouble deciding whether Mogwai was more akin to sensory deprivation – slouching us down to pure, emotionless introspection, or sensory extraction– tugging at the web of memories and ideas and feelings until our brains are appropriately exercised.
Either way, the visual projections behind the band encouraged total spacing-out, varying from floating geometric debris to octagonal patterns sweeping across the screen to uniform lines of white dots bending and rearranging. The point was not to watch the band, but to be completely insulated by music that didn’t tell a story or illustrate anything. It was just sound, like water, changing forms and temperatures to create different environments. It could crash down on you like a waterfall, or wind like a whirlpool, come in waves, or simply ripple at the surface. In this sense, there is some level of courage and intelligence in listening to and really loving Mogwai.
Though, there was one song they played that drifted into very discernible rock-n-roll territory, dashing my impression of them as a meditative (albeit loud and always at least tinged with rock elements) band. The guys seemed to enjoy themselves the most during this one, revealing something more aligned with their prankster nature that is nowhere near apparent through their music alone (e.g. nonsensical background recordings of football commentary, the fact that their song titles have nothing to do with the songs they refer to). And hey, if Mogwai likes to thrash around and do some unchecked flailing about just like anyone else, that’s cool, too.