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Rating: Downtown Los Angeles is something that defies any definition. It is unique and peculiar, especially when the sun begins to set and workers exit their offices, leaving the few skyscrapers of the City of Angels empty and illuminated, with only the reflection of artificial lights, neon, and the last sun rays. It is a perfectly fitting backdrop for the event that will take place at the Regent Theater. Walking along the streets that flank the brand new The Broad, you immediately descend into the depths and absolute urban decay. The view of Pershing Square is pitiless, with police cars and a sense of metropolitan abandonment. All this heightens a surreal feeling when my friend and I approach this ancient theater that has been modernized and renovated into a concert hall for quite a few years. Back in the '50s, or '30s, she explains, it was one of the historic movie theaters of Los Angeles and was called "The National." After a period of neglect, it was refurbished while trying to maintain the original atmosphere. Thus, exposed bricks, art déco decorations, a stage surrounded by a structure that should encase the cinema screen but now hosts artists every night. There's no doubt the experience will be immersive, as the line along Main Street, as the minutes tick towards 9:00 PM, fades into the distance. The concert is sold out, but to call it a concert is an understatement. The two protagonists of the evening go far beyond that. We are talking about David Eugene Edwards, known as the deus ex machina of the project Wovenhand, and her, Chelsea Wolfe.
It is impossible not to be fascinated during the three hours of concert balanced between David and Chelsea. It is an event with a mystical flavor, and it's up to the shaman from Colorado to kick things off. It's a trip that begins with the tribal rhythms of Native Americans, with pounding drums forming energetic ritualistic patterns. I'm not joking, not at all. Watching Wovenhand live is a visual spectacle. You can only be enchanted by David Eugene's mood, who doesn't sing but declares the lyrics. A spokesperson that seems to come from other times, with lyricism steeped in spirituality and religion. It's an announced apocalypse amidst a Navajo tribe, with the Arizona or New Mexico desert and a starry sky as a backdrop. David is completely absorbed and possessed. He closes his eyes, giving in to shaman-like gestures. It's like watching a performance within a performance. Especially, Wovenhand likes to bring the audience into harmony with them and so the set is at very high volumes. The impact is enormous, thanks in part to having in the group two former Planes Mistaken for Stars (post-hardcore roots with a sleeveless denim jacket featuring Jane Doe patches docet) that elevate the depth of the compositions. The guitars reverberate and roar wrapping David's prophecies. It's wonderful to see how the corollary brought on stage to create the set is not merely scenic, but becomes integral to Wovenhand's offerings. I'm talking about Indian talismans, Sitting Bull photos, Indian tribes, medallions, and rugs with typical American Southwest cultural decorations, paintings à la Georgia O'Keeffe. It's this universe that dives into the hour-long performance and wholly captivates me. It's a journey through desert landscapes and roots influences painting a winding fresco between mystical shores of redemption and a damned electric blues. The set was not that of an opener, but of a unique artist who deserved every applause dedicated to him during the concert.
However, the trip is not over, far from it. It just started. Wovenhand was only the first part, not the opening, it would be wrong to consider it that. David was simply the first portion of what was about to be thrown for an hour and twenty onto the Regent stage. It's eleven o'clock when the lights completely go out and the incessant echoes of a drum begin to be heard in the complete darkness, gradually growing until it explodes into a distorted bass that plunges the atmosphere into a freezing winter. "Carrion Flowers" has the task of announcing Chelsea on stage. And folks, what a fucking beginning. The impact is earthquaking and sinister. A spectral aura materializes in Wolfe's ethereal chants, completely in control of her anxieties and the martial rhythms that act as a propellant to ensnare and trap the audience in her plunge towards the abyss. "Abyss," indeed, released this summer, will be performed almost in its entirety during the setlist and the impression one had on record not only gets confirmed but is further enhanced. Chelsea's secret is that even though she is a singer-songwriter through and through, she has an almost perfect synergy with the other band members: from Ben Chisholm (multi-instrumentalist on bass and synth/keyboard) to Aurielle Zeitler, known as Ghost Marrow, whose guitar provokes additional depth to Wolfe's already dark and melancholic strands, up to an implacable Dylan Fujioka (drummer) who is a perfect metronome in dramatically raising Chelsea's wall of sound. Yes, because in the end, it's her, albeit slightly physically bruised (she had to cancel the Albuquerque date due to the flu a few days prior), with her voice that seems to come from a dark place, so sweet yet unsettling. An oxymoron that constantly devours the cadenced rhythms that, in the blink of an eye, sway towards expanded and rarefied scenarios rather than into a maelstrom of distortions that make Wolfe's proposition truly heavy. The performance knows no letdowns: introverted, yet brim with transcendent pathos. Every single whispered word, every arrangement, seems to come directly from Chelsea's subconscious. The ability to create oneiric and cursed visions becomes even more seductive as she delves back into "Apokalypsis" with pieces like "Mer", not to mention the concluding march, repetitively mournful and obsessive, of "Pale on Pale" that breaks free from the lo-fi production, and in its seven minutes, is sinister and annihilating, with Chelsea finishing the concert screaming into her electric guitar's pickups, on her knees, staring hysterically at the stage. It's pure magnetism, with moments that even reach romantic decadence, as in "Simple Death", to others where you let yourself be lulled by a dark and nostalgic lullaby like in "House of Metal". It's more than a live performance, it seems like witnessing the materialization of the Wolfe's mind's most remote caves.
It's half-past midnight when the journey ends and Chelsea disappears behind a thick layer of dry ice. The resounding roars lasting over five minutes are more than deserved. They are necessary. The experience of Wovenhand and Chelsea Wolfe transported Los Angeles into another dimension, with specific artistic choices carried out perhaps in an uncompromising manner, but capable of making one forget where they are, in order to let themselves be carried along tumultuous musical paths. I'm still there spellbound under the stage, there's no doubt about that.
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