Vinyl Diaries VI: Blonde Redhead

photo by *surfer rosa*/deniz tavmen


Metro Theatre: July 24

I know a ghost, will walk through the wall
Yet I am just a man, still learning how to fall

Blonde Redhead walk a fine tightrope, mostly of their own making. On closer inspection it's not really just the one - often they'll leap from one rope to another, with nary a net in sight. For the most part, they pull this off adroitly and entertainingly, yet one wonders whether it might not be an idea to allow themselves to slip a little more - to follow their own admissions and learn how to fall.

Their well-honed command and polished self-control seems the only thing keeping them from truly soaring - what's flying other than falling without landing?

Recent albums have been drifting from the early, angular, art-rock stammerings that drew endless Sonic Youth comparisons towards the dense, swirling wash that seems to have brought them further into indie-consciousness. The driven, spiraling title track to recently released album 23 is the poster-child of this internal movement, and dropped into the third song slot tonight it set the tone for the pedal-driven, looping noise towers they were to build all set.

Kazu Makino dropped her guitar and only the microphone stood between her and the audience, her borderline screech weaving through Amedeo Pace's open chord attack. It thrummed quite gleefully and kicked them into their next gear quite enticingly.

This was followed by Amedeo's plaintive 'Falling Man', which, without the surety and sonic wash to hide behind, reminded of the jagged experimentalism that used to be their signature. The first few arpeggiated bars were deliciously warped and sounded almost as though they were being played inside out and back to front, while a noisy tumble in the middle section was a moment of raw honesty that was its own reward, a dropping of the guard and New York-cool facade that revealed something with which we mortals could relate.

If you start doubting me, Then I start to doubt myself
And never look through me, Cause I’ll keep close to myself

This fleeting glimpse of needle-sharp heart-on-the-sleevery was a reminder that Blonde Redhead still have the ability to penetrate the skin - a unique form of prickly rockupuncture.

For a three-piece they have a remarkably large sound, underpinned by the crisp, metronomic though never rigid drumwork of Simone Pace. It was always going to be interesting to see how such densely layered recordings would translate to the stage, and those looking to see the records brought to life would not have been disappointed.

One wonders, though, whether they could afford to leave some of the veracity behind in exchange for something a little more immediate, more dangerous. They have the musicality and intuition to pull it off, but seem to have traded a little of that surprise and edginess for a grander overall affect.

For the most part this works and the jittery, art-school baton is perhaps best passed on to younger upstarts like Art Brut. But the main issue with such a looping build-up and careful layering is that the three-piece line-up is ill-equipped for the crunch, the topple, the denouement of a Mogwai or a Godspeed.

So instead we're lifted to a certain point and left there awhile - enjoying the view no doubt - then gently lowered into the next song, and so on. There's no catharsis, no overwhelming of the senses to leave us deliciously drained. While these aren't expectations we should necessarily bring, Blonde Redhead kind of set them up by building such glorious castles in the sky - but who would dispute the most satisfying part of building such a castle is when it is reclaimed by the sea, tumbling under its own excess?

If we tilt our head a tad and look slightly askance, leave a little of this baggage to one side, then we can enjoy their studied command of the ropes that they do walk; a very New York highwire that joins the new wave/no wave dots between Blondie and Sonic Youth, with the odd hints of upstate Mercury Rev and across the Hudson River Yo La Tengo.

When they left the stage after a three-song encore, Amedeo's guitar was still ringing out, a four-chord echo as though a 'Love Will Tear Us Apart' 45 was being played at 33/1/3 - a delicate and timely reminder that such grand rock illusions are built upon such simple stones.

What tonight did reinforce, with its precision performances and clear song-cobbling craft, was the thought that as long as they keep challenging themselves there are some great moments still to look forward to in the Blonde Redhead story.