Thursday, March 09, 2006
Mogwai, Cat's Cradle, 3/8/2006
The only other time I saw them, I remember it like this:
Late on the second night of Coachella 2004, The Cure was readying its set (not that I cared all that much, but Beth and Cross hadn't already seen them, like, three times even before Robert Smith attained his current state of corpulescence, i.e., got really really pasty and tubby, so they were quite interested; I ended up moseying over to the 2nd stage and watching a much more satisfying Le Tigre set instead) on the main stage. Some band or another (it's hard to remember exactly, but I think it was Basement Jaxx) was making a racket on the smaller outdoor stage, but even that energetic performance was drowned out by the noise coming from the tent in which Mogwai was playing.
Lit from within by the bright lights, the Mogwai tent seemed to pulse -- even from hundreds of yards away. It called to us. Cross and I made the pilgrimage across the polo grounds (leaving a tired and pregnant Beth behind to rest) and entered the back of the tent to see what was happening in there.
We saw maybe ten minutes of Mogwai's set, but I distinctly remember one thing about it in particular: the wall of sound that was being dished forth from that motley assortment of Glaswegians made my eyelashes flutter. It was exhilaratingly loud, and somehow, at the same time, utterly gorgeous. It was also too short. I vowed then to see Mogwai again if they ever toured around the Triangle.
Lo and behold, they finally came.
Craig drove up from Charlotte to meet me at the sold out show. I was sort of late (listening to the Canes lose in a shootout in Philly), and walked into the venue while the opening band, Growing, was dishing forth a sonic assault of its own.
Growing never really let up for the next half hour; two guys with the reverb cranked way up and the amps cranked even higher, looping ambient (but loud, man, fucking loud) melodies created on guitar, bass, and laptop, over and over each other in a strangely intoxicating way. Seefeel meets Fennesz, perhaps. Or maybe Vapourspace (even though they were comparatively light on the electronics [most of their sound came from a guitar and a bass guitar], Growing's sound strongly evoked mid-90's ambient electronica to my ears). But louder.
Growing's final "cut" (it's a bit hard to differentiate between one song and another, because each one blended seamlessly into the next, without pause) was their loudest, skillfully aping Mogwai's loud-soft-loud aesthetic to such a shocking degree that it literally brought the skinny guy standing in front of me (who was too macho for earplugs) to his knees, his hands clutching his ears. Had a friend of his not rushed forth with a pair of earplugs, I'd have tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to the door. Or maybe dialed 911.
In between sets, I caught up with Craig, drank a couple beers, and marveled at how universally unattractive (but uncommonly polite) the crowd at Cat's Cradle shows is.
Mogwai finally took the stage. Earplugs secured firmly in my ear canals, I secured a place behind one guy who was six-foot seven, and another who was six-five. I figured they wouldn't be moving much, so I positioned myself right between them, thereby ensuring a decent view of the stage for the duration of the set: six guys with instruments, none of whom moved much. I figured even if one of the tall fellas drifted into my line of sight, I wouldn't be missing a whole lot anyway.
Mogwai was loud, but not as loud as I remembered, nor as loud as I expected. For one thing, my eyelashes never fluttered. Still, their set sounded impeccable (except on the two tracks that included vocals -- by now, Mogwai ought to know singing is not their strong suit). Several times, I just closed my eyes and let the sound wash over me. It felt nice.
The set itself was structured like one of their songs: slowly building from an almost languid beginning to nearly drowning in beautiful noise and chaos at the end. The encore was brief but loud. As soon as it was over, the band hustled off the stage and the house lights went up. It was an abrupt (but fitting) ending to my post-rock Wednesday.
Late on the second night of Coachella 2004, The Cure was readying its set (not that I cared all that much, but Beth and Cross hadn't already seen them, like, three times even before Robert Smith attained his current state of corpulescence, i.e., got really really pasty and tubby, so they were quite interested; I ended up moseying over to the 2nd stage and watching a much more satisfying Le Tigre set instead) on the main stage. Some band or another (it's hard to remember exactly, but I think it was Basement Jaxx) was making a racket on the smaller outdoor stage, but even that energetic performance was drowned out by the noise coming from the tent in which Mogwai was playing.
Lit from within by the bright lights, the Mogwai tent seemed to pulse -- even from hundreds of yards away. It called to us. Cross and I made the pilgrimage across the polo grounds (leaving a tired and pregnant Beth behind to rest) and entered the back of the tent to see what was happening in there.
We saw maybe ten minutes of Mogwai's set, but I distinctly remember one thing about it in particular: the wall of sound that was being dished forth from that motley assortment of Glaswegians made my eyelashes flutter. It was exhilaratingly loud, and somehow, at the same time, utterly gorgeous. It was also too short. I vowed then to see Mogwai again if they ever toured around the Triangle.
Lo and behold, they finally came.
Craig drove up from Charlotte to meet me at the sold out show. I was sort of late (listening to the Canes lose in a shootout in Philly), and walked into the venue while the opening band, Growing, was dishing forth a sonic assault of its own.
Growing never really let up for the next half hour; two guys with the reverb cranked way up and the amps cranked even higher, looping ambient (but loud, man, fucking loud) melodies created on guitar, bass, and laptop, over and over each other in a strangely intoxicating way. Seefeel meets Fennesz, perhaps. Or maybe Vapourspace (even though they were comparatively light on the electronics [most of their sound came from a guitar and a bass guitar], Growing's sound strongly evoked mid-90's ambient electronica to my ears). But louder.
Growing's final "cut" (it's a bit hard to differentiate between one song and another, because each one blended seamlessly into the next, without pause) was their loudest, skillfully aping Mogwai's loud-soft-loud aesthetic to such a shocking degree that it literally brought the skinny guy standing in front of me (who was too macho for earplugs) to his knees, his hands clutching his ears. Had a friend of his not rushed forth with a pair of earplugs, I'd have tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to the door. Or maybe dialed 911.
In between sets, I caught up with Craig, drank a couple beers, and marveled at how universally unattractive (but uncommonly polite) the crowd at Cat's Cradle shows is.
Mogwai finally took the stage. Earplugs secured firmly in my ear canals, I secured a place behind one guy who was six-foot seven, and another who was six-five. I figured they wouldn't be moving much, so I positioned myself right between them, thereby ensuring a decent view of the stage for the duration of the set: six guys with instruments, none of whom moved much. I figured even if one of the tall fellas drifted into my line of sight, I wouldn't be missing a whole lot anyway.
Mogwai was loud, but not as loud as I remembered, nor as loud as I expected. For one thing, my eyelashes never fluttered. Still, their set sounded impeccable (except on the two tracks that included vocals -- by now, Mogwai ought to know singing is not their strong suit). Several times, I just closed my eyes and let the sound wash over me. It felt nice.
The set itself was structured like one of their songs: slowly building from an almost languid beginning to nearly drowning in beautiful noise and chaos at the end. The encore was brief but loud. As soon as it was over, the band hustled off the stage and the house lights went up. It was an abrupt (but fitting) ending to my post-rock Wednesday.
posted by Bill Purdy, 10:41 AM
1 Buffaloes were bitter enough to post comments:
That was a little monotonous but not bad. Are there any other 20 minute songs you can upload to your blog?