Cate LeBon sunk forward over her guitar like a ragdoll whenever she stepped away from the microphone, her thick bangs and long hair dramatically framing her motions. She started the night with pretty crooning and gritty electric guitar, early on expressing appreciation for the city she found herself in for the first time. “Portland is my favorite city so far. Well done! A fantastic city.” Her accent suggested a Scandinavian descent, but her name seemed French. Turns out she's Welsh; I was way off. Cultural heritage aside, her singing voice was powerful enough to make us feel like singing along even though we didn't know the words. The vocals alone made her guitar seem extraneous. In fact, the distortion monstrously stifled the pure beauty of her voice and poetry. If she played with country instruments–a pedal steel, a banjo, or even a simple acoustic guitar, her dynamic vocal range might have been enhanced rather than marred. A mature, smartly dressed crowd (sweater vests, fedoras, ties, dark-rimmed glasses, scarves) scattered throughout the room listened and applauded loudly when LeBon asked, “Maybe if you could all pretend that this is your favorite song… that would be really awesome.” Favorite or not, the request made a good point about the power of praise, even if it’s not heartfelt.
The obligatory intermission came and went and St. Vincent sprang on stage beneath and above a gale of colored lights and smoke. Without a word, Annie Clark launched into “Surgeon,” parading her spindly fingers around the neck of her guitar like Nosfaratu creeping across a moonlit bedroom. Without hesitation, they swam from one stream of melody to the next. “Chloe in the Afternoon” featured St. Vincent’s face painted in flashlight-yellow light from below, rendering her suddenly from songstress into ghost-story teller. Her eyes were so expressive that her almost desperate need to communicate was detectable even from several rows back. During “Cheerleader,” the white spotlights flashed like synchronized lighting bolts as she cued them with, “I, I, I, I, I (don’t want to be a cheerleader no more).” The breakdown in this song revealed St. Vincent’s refined ability to transition from unassuming singer-songwriter to total badass at a moment’s notice. It was as if Johnny Rotten and Joan Baez’ musical spirits coagulated to form this strange woman who is perpetually torn between jagged rock jams and sweet love ballads. St. Vincent's live performance highlights the sinister quality of her songs--a feature less evident in her recordings. Her spastic, grinding cover of The Pop Group's "She is Beyond Good and Evil" brings this out most vividly, and I wouldn't doubt the song's title being self-referencing.
