A couple of days prior to My Bloody Valentine's performance last night at the Roseland Ballroom, I told a friend that I tended to prefer the band when they were in "destroy mode" as opposed to lilting dreampop mode. Well, I certainly got what I asked for in that respect. Some quick observations on last night's show and some unsolicited advice for those attending tonight's gig.
It's somewhat striking that a band renowned for making such a ferocious, brain-melting din looks so unassuming. Seriously, they could be bank tellers and kindergarten teachers. Bilinda Butcher has aged very gracefully, her formerly Rapunzelesque tresses cut to a smart new 'do. Kevin Shields hasn't matched her in that respect, but he wasn't really working with a great palette to begin with.
A quick aside to certain individuals in the crowd: Take a look at the stage and you'll see two guitarists, one bass player and one drummer. Alongside them are piles and piles of stacked amplifiers and a carefully choreographed series of projections and blinding light display. There are clearly lots of things going on behind the scenes to replicate the otherworldly aesthetic of the band's recordings. Given all that, it's a massive waste of time to shout out song requests. It's not like they're going to suddenly drop their well-rehearsed plan to accommodate your silly request. Moreover, they probably can't hear you. And, honestly, you're only shouting it to prove to everyone around you that you're a real fan. Knock it off.
This is not a show you should rush to the front barricades for. Trust me on this one. While, yes, My Bloody Valentine is technically a "shoegazer" band (so dubbed somewhat churlishly by one British rock critic or another to decry the band's abject lack of any semblance of stage presence), this does not mean you're not going to get roughed up in the front. No, no one's going to stage dive onto your head or mosh into you, but the band's relentless preponderance of seizure-inducing strobe lights witnessed up close will invariably make you wish your own parents had never met. Even from where I was standing (parallel to the soundboard, yet frustratingly far from the bar), I was forced to gaze at my own shoes in a vain attempt to stop my retinas from immolating. Being up front also won't do you any favors in terms of the band's penchant for…
BOWEL-WORRYING VOLUME. Listen, if a venue is giving out free earplugs as you walk in, this should be giant clue as to what awaits you. If you weren't bright enough to bring them along with you, seize the opportunity at the door. You WILL need them. You WILL regret it if you don't have them. As I've mentioned, I was lucky enough to catch My Bloody Valentine live back when they were touring Loveless (at the venue one block over from Roseland, the late, lamented New Ritz at Studio 54). Back then, I was a careless youth with little regard for ear protection. If I recall correctly, I withstood the band's now-legendary fifteen minute noise blitzkrieg during the climax of "You Made Me Realize" without any ear plugs, and I'm sure it had a great deal to do with the tinnitus I've been grappling with since 1999.
Had I known that MBV was shortly to vanish from the public eye for over a decade, I'd probably have paid closer attention to that show, but at the very least, the experience prepared me for last night. In the sixteen years since that evening, it seems like the band's sonic arsenal has bulked up. When they inevitably launched into "You Made Me…" last night, the intense heft of sound being generated from the stage felt much stronger than I remember. It wasn't so much the high-frequency racket, but rather the low-end rumble. It wasn't just my ears that were under siege. My rib cage, vital organs and skull all weathered the storm. Two minutes into it, and I started to worry if the heavy duty ear plugs I'd brought were up to the task. People on all sides of me were retreating. I saw tear-stained girlfriends carried out by their music-head boyfriends who'd promised their unsuspecting dates a fun night out of rock'n'roll. My friend Bruce summed it up best when he remarked that it sounded like a steady loop of thunderclaps that had been recorded and then magnified at a thousand times their normal volume. This had less to do with rock abandon and more to do with simple endurance, if not punishment. It was a truly disarming experience.
Accompanying the sonic storm came a visual onslaught of piercing strobes and hypnotic projections of interweaving lines. It gradually began to feel like the band were tapping into something bigger than just a massive spectacle. As the inescapable sound and mayhem enveloped the room, it felt a bit like what I imagine the center of a black hole is like. I've never read any interviews with Kevin Shields, but I've always wondered what his approach to this feat is. Is he doing it as a cocky display of power? Is he tapping into every human being's inherent fear of the unimaginably loud? Is his boundary-pushing intended as a thought-provoking work of art? Or is he simply an indie rock Nigel Tufnel pushing the knob up to eleven?
Either way, it is truly amazing.
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