Photo:
Funny thing, sitting down at concerts. On the one hand you traditionally enjoy comparatively unrestricted views and access to bars/toilets/nearest fire escape, which can, if the band are lethargic enough, lend a certain sleepy pleasure to a gig. On the other hand, you’re still miles removed from the action, and unless a band is lively enough to raise the huddled masses of the cheap seats to their feet, it can seem, well, pretty lifeless. And, as Gigwise stares down from the unfamiliar surroundings of the gilded balcony of the Shepherd’s Bush Empire, two of the best, if most disparate, acts to cross the Atlantic this year are busy trying to tease a reluctant crowd into a fervour.
Annie Clark, better known as ethereal-folk-come-experimental-blues-rawk chick St Vincent, cannot do enough to goad the stifling atmosphere in the top deck into action. Standing alone in a blistering spotlight, the former Sufjan Stevens and the Polyphonic Spree guitarist looks lost, and as soon as she begins her set it becomes obvious that, even from here, the Empire isn’t the right venue for her. Attempting – and very nearly succeeding – to recreate the esoteric beauty of her debut album ‘Marry Me’ with just an electric guitar, a reverb mike and a small robotic box of tricks, her miraculous songs are lost here, swallowed by a cavernous theatre. Perhaps it’s just that she’s further away than we’re used to, but her dark, sassy songs seem distant and often nondescript tonight.
This is not to say the waif-like Clark, who could pass for PJ Harvey’s younger sister, both vocally and physically, does not enthral at points. ‘Jesus Saves, I Spend’ is as joyous on record and here displays a hitherto unknown talent for full-on Jack White baiting blues guitar riffage. However, Jack always has the bombast of Meg behind him, and Annie’s attempts to go it alone are often undermined by a lack of depth, like on single ‘Paris Is Burning’, which menaces and waltzes on record, but only stutters here. Closer ‘Now Now’ is the best song she plays all night – finally managing to marry the difficult task of teasing a full bands-worth of musical inspiration out of her robot companion. For better results, a gig later this month at Bush Hall with a full band should show her in a better light.
The National, on the other hand, hold the Empire’s audience in the palm of their hands almost from the start. The six-piece from Brooklyn have been critical darlings since their 2005 album ‘Alligator’ – which drew favourable comparisons to Tindersticks, and Bruce Springsteen - and this year’s magnum opus ‘Boxer’, alongside some glowing gig reviews, only reinforced their reputation as a band to be reckoned with.
Opening with the delicate, finger-picked ‘Start a War’, however, Gigwise’s view from the Gods is troubled. Singer Matt Berninger’s bourbon-soaked baritone was there, but the rest of the band don’t appear to have caught up. The feeling only grows with second song ‘Mistaken For Strangers’, one of ‘Boxer’s most vicious rockers. Even the marvelously bile-ridden lyric “Oh you wouldn’t want an angel watching over/ surprise, surprise they wouldn’t wannna watch” comes across a little flat. We’re about to renounce our seats and head into the night, but suddenly everything just… kicks in.
Soaring single ‘Slow Show’ is the most romantic thing you’ll ever hear about acting like a drunken prick (sample lyric: “My leg is sparkles, my leg is pins / I better get my shit together, better gather my shit in”) and washes over a suddenly beaming, dancing crowd. ‘Secret Meeting’ and ‘Abel’ from the ‘Alligator’ record dance and growl – channeling the spirits of REM, the Hold Steady and the Pixies all in one fell glorious swoop. Even ‘lesser’ album tracks like ‘Squalor Victoria’ and the slight ‘Daughters of the Soho Riots’ are given beefy, rocky edges, and the group’s touring violinist Padma Newsome whirls around the stage as the group thrash through all the highlights of both their critically-acclaimed albums.
They even get the opportunity to show how good St Vincent really can be – bringing her on to lend an ethereal edge to slowy ‘Green Gloves’ which proves that yes, with backing, she can fill a venue like this. As they tear through the encore fan favourite ‘Mr November,’ Berninger leans into the audience. “I’m not that athletic,” he mumbles, one of the first times he engages the audience all night. Perhaps not, Matt, but you’ve certainly managed to get the balcony on its feet for the first time this evening.
