In a deserted, sterile bar, Invada starlet
Anika stands propped up against posters of Tivoli shows past. One of these advertises Nico on November 5th of some nondescript year, and with said imagery imprinted on memory, the obligatory comparison can be concluded, considered done and dusted. Her awkwardness is amplified by the omnipresence of HD cameras that peer at her svelte figure from every angle, by the intimacy of this attic-like setting, by the headlamp glare of dazzling lights and mirror balls. Clattering through Yang Yang, I Go To Sleep, and Sadness Licks The Sun, these dub-reliant covers sound not merely suitably aseptic in this soulless, luminous space but also extraordinarily Germanic here on the continent. Jokes about giving "the clap" ensue, exposing a sportive side to Anika and her Beak>-based backing lot while musically, even in this unbefitting environment, the glum disquiet gleams.
Equally intimate, if infinitely more appealing is Ekko, where
Pink Mountaintops run into precarious pre-show issues. Forget technical difficulties; the pair come face to face with a technical disaster as Motown deciphered and rendered in Dutch is dished out relentlessly by a caricature of a moustached DJ at the back of the room. Led by Stephen McBean, the swirling shoegaze that shadows the aforementioned calamities is more M83 atop sun-kissed, snow-capped pinnacle than Black Mountain. Slim-lined to a duo for the show, they make for a pretty incongruous pairing, looking as though they'd never be found in the same bar; let alone band. Reverb-sodden yowls of an ethanol-induced swing-door bar brawl balance drunkenly atop snowballing guitar lines and trippy synth arpeggios, McBean completing the look of authentic biker bruiser with a bandana in his back pocket in place to mop up any excessive prog and/or reverb.
Upon entering the Tivoli Oudegracht this evening, flyers requesting a great 'SSSHHHTTT' are thrust into every palm. Were you to conduct a survey enquiring as to how the body attached to every palm were feeling the response would most probably be something along the lines of bearded, bruised, and earnest. For if you find yourself wallowing in such a mindset, there's no better soundtrack than the gruff baritone and despondent Americana of
Bill Callahan. Opening with the sublime Riding For The Feeling, the pace of the show is practically stationary throughout yet at points Callahan provides the weekend's most moving instances as visuals lifted from The Godfather provide his backdrop, mirroring many a lyrical twist and turn. At times it feels as though he's attempting to re-score a film in no need of alteration (if something's nigh on perfect there's little need to tweak it, right?), the film distracting like the most luminous of subtitles. More disturbing still however is the sound of swirling fans imitating the irate few who persistently shush every utterance, unfortunately detracting a little from an arrestingly impeccable Too Many Birds and dawdling denouement Let Me See the Colts. Whatever name he may play under, Callahan's songwriting remains purposefully superb.
The closest Friday comes to singalong is an emotionally rousing show from Mormons
Low as the grinding 'slowcore' thrust of Violent Past is followed up with a typically glorious Try To Sleep. Frontman and Latter-Day Saint Alan Sparhawk insists on the relaxation of the 'SSSHHHTTT' ruling, declaring that there be "no shushing" as both the volume and intensity are raised exponentially. The repetitive Les Paul crunch of Nothing But Heart elevates this emotivity further as it tenses and relaxes, waxes, wanes and crescendoes over seven or eight quite striking minutes. A divine take on Nightingale meanwhile evokes the concept of a last dance devoid of prospective partners. Periodically things get excruciatingly 'slow' as on the gently apocalyptic $20 or the agonising rhyming of Especially Me although despite the inherent minimalism of Low, there's an overriding, uplifting majesty that mesmerises.
