"I've been a big fan of Stars of the Lid for fifteen years now," Sean Horton, the founding director of Seattle's electronic Decible Festival, explained during his introduction of the band. "Two life goals of mine were to meet the Dalai Lama and see SOTL live. So yeah, it's been a good week!" I would imagine it's been been a good week for opening acts Lusine and Christopher Willits as well, since the renowned ambiant duo SOTL hardly ever appear live. In fact, in 15 years, they've never played in Seattle. There was an excited buzz in the air inside the packed Triple Door, which boasted full tables and standing room only in the back.
In case you haven't heard them, Texas and Belgium based Stars of the Lid create, paridoxically, extremely ethereal, yet psyically sensual music. In an interview with German magazine Maelstrom, the band described their name as relating to “your own personal cinema, located between your eye and eyeLid.” The soft, droning tones they create on albums like Avec Laudenum, Tired Sounds, or the epic And Their Refinement of the Decline, beckon listeners to give up their worries and focus on inner thoughts, while lulling their bodies to sleep. This translated seamlessly to the live experience as well. Seeing SOTL last Friday seemed to transcend context, time and space, and somehow rendered my notes unintelligible. The show started off like this...
A large projector showed scenes of rippling water, played in slow motion, with occasional frames cut out, making a peaceful, yet jerky, accompaniment to the strings that started to slowly rise, in an epic, droning chorus. Both members of the opening Seattle-based band Lusine were bathed in a pale, blue light as they stood at opposite ends on the stage, deeply intent on their laptops. Some bird calls became audible, along with a soft, rhythmic static. The water disolved into some grainy, vintage film of two women walking side by side. Then blurred images of kids playing in the snow, learning to sled and ride bikes. As the music built up, my mind began to wander and I began to tune in to the sounds of clinking silverware and hushed conversations around me, which seemed to go along with the music perfectly. I was suddenly reminded of the liner notes to Coil's epic drone album Time Machines, which went something like "Artifacts generated by your listening environment are an intrinsic part of the experience." Still sounds a lot better than John Cage's 4':33". All of a sudden the music faded off to nothingness, both men stood, waved, and walked off the stage. Looks like half an hour had passed . . . .
Next up was Christopher Willits, a musician and multimedia artist from San Francisco, who took the stage and immediately began setting up his guitar, foot pedals, MacBook, and various other effects pedals. Curly haired, tan, and smiling, he seemed extremely at odds with the snow and sleet we'd been having all day in Seattle. His set started off with a shot of a bright sun flare, which took up the whole projection screen. The swell of his first garbled chords seemed to grow almost too loud. While I listened to him make his guitar create strange tweeting sounds, more drones and swelling choruses, and, in short, to do anything but sound like a guitar, I remembered reading a quote from writer-musician Julian Cope, "When people jump through time, they give themselves up to the rhyme and reason of the heavens." As the visuals gave way to lush shots of leaves and flowers, and an upbeat layer of chords and notes built on each other towards infinity, I felt like time itself was slowing down. I had no idea how long this had gone on for. Every now and then a little wah-wah pedal was introduced, giving the sound layers a subtle, psychedelic feel. The sun shots melted through the trees and through the film itself, and created an almost blinding light. The mood was shattered when Willits couldn't resist chuckling, "Woah! This is so cool!" He then moved on to some high pitched noodling and soloing, compete with gritted teeth, and the "in pain" rocker look, before excitedly telling the audience, "Up next is Stars of the Lid. Stars of the MOTHER FUCKING Lid! I am SO PLEASED to be playing on this tour!"
After Sean Horton's lavish introduction to SOTL, the band quietly came on stage to much applause. Adam Wiltzie and Brain McBride, both with guitars, were joined on stage by an all-girl string section, which included a cellist, violinist, and viola player, who took their places center stage. After they wished a happy seventeenth anniversary to a Canadian couple, the band started in with a slow, repetitive string arrangement. Occasionally, either Wiltzie or McBride would reach over to casually touch a key on a keyboard and fill the air with a deep drone. This was music without time or beat. People around me were either intently staring at the band, or leaning back, totally relaxed. A few were asleep. As I watched falling snow begin to cover the projection screen, my mind started made a strange leap to marine snow, the fleshy dandruff at the deepest parts of the sea. This music certainly fit the image of deep sea digestion. Or maybe stars being born, burning for a million years and then dying out? A documentary on atoms linking together? I found myself lost in a reflection of shitty metaphors. Backs to the crowd, facing the string section, Wiltzie and McBride seemed unaware of everything. As their music continued to stretch towards forever, a humming bird filled the screen, slowed down to almost four seconds a flap, hovering there as the music faded away.
"Here's another top 40 hit," Wiltzie deadpanned after the applause faded. Gorgeous renditions of “Another Ballad for Heavy Lids” and “Daughters of Quiet Minds” caused even a few more heads to drop. SOTL closed their set with the twenty-minute “December Hunting for Vegetarian Fuckface,” complete with lovely opening piano notes that reminded me of "Lick My Love Pump" from This Is Spinaltap, although perhaps in concept only. Goergous strings swelled almost painfully loud. Dim people floated across the screen. Everything became red. An image of a person reaching towards the screen was blurred into nothingness and then was repeated over and over again. Suddenly the music seemed to stop. The band waved and walked off the stage. As we walked to our cab, I thought back on the last two hours. It seemed as if no time had passed.
