AUSTIN, TX – More so than most, My Bloody Valentine is able to draw a crowd on a shared sonic memory, that touchless tremolo riffing, coming from Creation, spawning fewer imitators than fever-dreams. While bands have dipped in the trembling wash so carefully assembled nearly two decades ago by Kevin Shields, it is his band’s last full-length that remains the standard for sonic sweetness, burning at the edges.
One Texas torchbearer for the MBV aesthetic (call them bootgaze!) was the erstwhile Lift to Experience; lead singer Josh T. Pearson was the initial opening act. Accompanied by Experience drummer Andy Young and The Paper Chase’s Bobby Weaver on bass, Pearson is still working out his salvation. Pearson debuted a handful of psalmic laments, filled with the angels, raptures and temptations that populated Lift to Experience’s terrifying album The Texas-Jerusalem Crossroads. Pearson copped to being a bit rusty onstage; I’m uncertain if more practice will fill out his monochromatic sound. Where Lift to Experience once howled guitars into Leslie cabinets, last night Pearson was content to alternate riffs with strummed filigrees. Where he once would have sang – or at least sighed – he now mewls (and sometimes sobs). Weaver provided mostly percussive accompaniment. No matter. Pearson has earned more than enough goodwill to overcome an uneven set. At one point, a lone stagelight flickered on the bearded, lean singer, turning him into a sepia hologram. Here’s hoping he stays flesh for a while longer.
Adding to the trend of “acts that were once influenced by My Bloody Valentine, but I’ll be damned if I can hear it now,” the second opener was Kurt Heasley, the rock of Lilys. “It’s Fatboard Confessional!” someone shouted, which was beyond unfair, but clearly, the crowd was not on Heasley’s side. Alone with a 12-string and a wicked sense of place, the clean-cut Heasley walked out a set of sunshine pop with the inside-out structural sense of the biggest paisley acts. His collar was drawn several inches behind his neck, awaiting a hook that never came. If the audience had its way… In any event, he clearly relished being the gatekeeper, tossing off tributes to “indigenous Austin” and baiting the crowd with reference to the “delicious, exquisite bubblegrunge” of the headliners. He liked the word “bubblegrunge” so much, he said it again. We kept talking.
Finally, My Bloody Valentine. All indications pointed to the O’Ciosoig/Googe/Butcher/Shields lineup, uniformly clothed in black – a slightly glammier Crass, if you will. From the commencement of “I Only Said,” the plan was evident: reproduce the recordings, but at 12X magnitude. The earworms and hooklines were largely sampled; use of drum machines was fairly limited (Loveless was built around pre-recorded samples of Colm’s). As MBV’s sound became more and more Shield’s vision, the recordings ceased to have Butcher and Googe’s input, so it was quite a thrill to see them play a part in the re-establishment. Googe and O’Ciosoig were in fierce concert all night, with Googe practically strumming her bass to maintain a presence in the trebly din. Feedback cropped up throughout, but never for long, and never louder than Shields’ and Butcher’s endless soothe and decay.
The bulk of the show was given to Loveless, with the biggest response given to the hooky, cod-baggy “Soon”. “Come in Alone” and “Only Shallow” came back-to-back, with Shields’ baritone line on the former sounding punchdrunk in a live setting. MBV tragically shed the tersely epic intro for “Only Shallow”, preferring to dispense with the muted snares in favor of the klaxon eee-ooos. Vocally, here and elsewhere, he was a carnival barker on lean.
Remarkably, the show hadn’t even sold out when the doors opened – whether the concert was a casualty of the American economy or a surfeit of quality touring acts in Austin, I can’t say. And for an act that’s been dormant 17 years, the demo skewed mighty young. The crowd was extremely well-behaved – for MBV, anyway – if a little starstruck, and certainly appreciative of the free earplugs distributed at the door. If the band had any difficulties wrangling the sound in a concert setting – really, if they had any feelings at all – they kept them well-hidden, rooted as they were to their stations throughout the set. Two technicians kept Shields and Butcher on a guitar-exchange program – swapping axes between each song, even initiating the correct effects configurations on the pedalboard. In kind, the guitarists worked with an offhandedness usually reserved for lecture notes and making sammiches.
Of course, this may be due to practice: with “You Made Me Realise” came the standard 15-minute tectonic break: everyone calmly whaled on his or her respective instrument until the building seemingly broke its foundation. My forehead grew heated, my throat closed, I waited for puke that never came. I had a realization that the hissing I’d been noticing off and on all night was not my saccule deflating; rather, it was the crash cymbal. A series of Rorschach tests appeared onscreen: perhaps this was the band’s way of forcing us to choose between ecstacy, punishment, release, terror… it was noise without musicality, the harshness of powerviolence. There might’ve been blast beats for all I knew. And yet everyone remained in their place, audience and band alike. And then BAM – the band dropped into two final verses, a small wave was issued, along with a “thank you, g’night”. And I wonder why MBV couldn’t have just done that for the last 17 years.
