•
Rating:
"Not to much more, too much more".
It is with an infamous ringing in my left ear that I am about to tell you about one of the best live shows I have ever attended. Not too much more, definitely. There's never too much great music. The risk of breaking an eardrum is never too high when people like Curt Kirkwood and his enthusiastic brother are on stage. We are talking, after all, about one of the most beautiful things ever done in decades of rock, the perfect synthesis of everything that is exciting and captivating in this fabulous musical genre: noise and longing, timeless melodies buried under decibels, passion and empathy, strings that twist beyond the threshold of pain, fire blood tears... the Meat Puppets in short, straight from Arizona. To these three seasoned cow-punkers, to their visionary insights, to their devastating ballads, to that sweet edgy quirky coexistence of euphoria and catalepsy, torment and contemplation, we owe practically three decades of indie-rock and related genres.
Arriving at the Bloom, I happily reunite with Spaccamascella, a veteran of DeB, and his companion: we chat about music, the differences between the United States of America and Canada, the pros and cons of the city of Louisville, city outskirts, Hitchcock's Birds, etc... We charge up with a couple of beers, go to the bathroom (in case nature calls right during the Puppets' show), happily listen to the opening act, Love In Elevator, as distant as you can imagine from the headliners’ sound: the Venetian band kicks off with a slippery riff in the style of the Melvins, and then offers a sort of very emotional post-sludge with many nice tempo changes, structured songs, and a very talented singer.
Then They enter, to a decent roar. There aren't many people watching, and for this reason, we manage to position ourselves in the front rows, two steps from the speaker (unfortunately). "Split Myself In Two" starts, and it's immediately delirium. The brothers are in great form, Cris in particular is wild, the drummer hits like mad... but the most enjoyable thing is seeing that Curt hasn't lost his typical expressive fragile falsetto, nor his unique heretic cacophonic finger-picking. As scripted, they perform their entire second album (MP II - 1983) from beginning to end, increasing the electricity, hitting harder, and transforming even twilight ballads like "Plateau," impressionist instrumentals like "Aurora Borealis," western bivouac scenes like "Climbing," and even offering a "Lost" at double speed into stunning hells. For at least three-quarters of the concert, I had a grin as dumb as it was satisfied plastered on my face.
After the album, there's no talk of leaving the stage. Fans start requesting songs from their other albums. "Up On The Suuuuuuun" I shout. Curt hears me, turns in my direction, and says "Ok. Up On The Sun." And an overwhelming version of that splendid song begins. On cloud nine, I turn to Spaccamascella who tells me: "Oh! See how he heard you?!" Then a long encore follows full of their inimitable psycho-country-core, where there is room for everything: vocal duets to the rhythm of irresistible quadrilles, tributes to classics ("Sloop John B"), old-style slow songs... in short, these ex-kids of the hardcore nation of the early 80s haven't lost their touch, but clearly at 50, I think it's natural to be a bit caught by nostalgia, and thus country music (the nostalgic genre par excellence) ends up taking over in this second part of the concert. But don't think that the Kirkwood brothers can be labeled as "dinosaurs," since right at the end they deliver an ultra-dissonant version of "Two Rivers," dispelling any threat of a pathetic revival.
And now, after this generous dose of beauty and imagination disguised in sheets of feedback, let's hope this white noise in my ear passes (it's practically Lou Reed's MMM, on loop): if it remains, oh well... I'll have to cover it with some music. By the Meat Puppets, of course, likely permanent guests in my CD player in the coming scorching months.
Loading comments slowly
