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Rating: Part One: "My First Time with Tony..."
March 30, 2007, Siddharta: Sol Invictus in concert. The wait was long and yearned for, but in the end, adequately rewarded. And when the curtain opens, it's amidst awe and excitement that the colossal Wakeford materializes in all his grandeur, vest and guitar in hand, precariously perched on a small package that seems inexplicably able to support him. The impression is akin to having an extinct cetacean, arisen from ancestral seas, just a meter and a half away.
Equally impressive are his adventure companions, a series of characters with indeterminate sexuality and age who, when placed side by side, compose a tableau reminiscent of Star Wars in front of Jabba and his harem. Matt Hodwen, Eric Roger, and Karl Blake are absent, and their absence is felt: the violin hasn't even been brought, and conceiving today's Sol Invictus without a violin is a bit like trying to imagine Rocco Siffredi without his manhood. Instead of the immense Roger, we find a shy flutist who will spend the time playing discretely, talented, no doubt, but somewhat anonymous: certainly, his instrument tonight will not be the cause of memorable emotions for us. As for the bass, it seems they forgot to connect the plug to the amplifier: accustomed to the rough strumming of the charismatic Blake, the mute fingering of Caroline Jago (from 7th Harmonic) appears to propagate through frequencies our ears cannot perceive. On the left wing, instead, we find Lesley Malone on percussion and sound effects (some drones here and there, but nothing special) and Andrew King on vocals and percussion, whom we will discuss later.
Returning to us, well: the whole starts off strong with two ultra-classics, "Abattoirs of Love" and "Media": with tears in my eyes, I tell myself "tonight they’re doing it all, they’re doing it all!" In reality, the setlist will be primarily focused on the upcoming album, presented in preview, of which frankly I know nothing. Demonstrating that Tony is (or at least considers himself) still a living and breathing artist, refusing to finally sit on the immortal classics (which, incidentally, would have made my day). However, the performance flows beautifully, between the enchanting and the soporific. In both cases, the alcohol content in our veins helps, amplifying the key moments and aiding in better digesting the more monotonous passages. The sounds are clean, crystalline, and well-equalized, while the execution is impeccable: the pieces are elegantly arranged, while the positively surprising voice of Wakeford doesn't have a moment of falter, revealing itself, incredibly, more solid and expressive than on record.
It turns out to be a concert out of time, fantastic in its advance and with alienating atmospheres, between the dreamy and the decadent. Zero room for the noise incursions we might have expected, but great epic surges occasionally awaken us from the serene and intimate settings that dominate this dreary spring evening. It’s impossible for me to faithfully reconstruct the setlist (partly due to psychophysical conditions, partly because many songs are almost unknown to me): notable mentions certainly go to the excerpts from "The Devil's Steed" (the excellent "We Are the Dead Men", now rightfully a classic, with its chorus to belt out at the top of your lungs!, and the evocative "Old London Weeps", unfortunately deprived of the sublime interweaving of violin and trumpet that animated it on the record), while to testify the glories of the past we find the inevitable "Sheath & Knife", the legendary "Angels Fall" (for me the highlight of the evening!), and "Black Easter" (in a version different from the one present in "Lex Talionis" but very, very beautiful). From "In the Rains", the poignant "Believe Me" (another great moment!) and "An English Garden" are performed. I venture the hypothesis that at a certain point, the epic "Sawney Bean" (from "Trees in Winter") was also performed, but I wouldn’t swear to it since live, the pieces tend to disturbingly blend into one another.
As for the new material, what can be said: the sound of Sol Invictus is evidently increasingly oriented towards a more canonical, more traditional folk we might say, and less tied to the clichés of apocalyptic folk, which Wakeford helped to forge in his time. Notable is the evocative central section where the charismatic Andrew King, a sort of possessed Eddie Vedder, took the helm, significantly raising the epic tone of the evening with his epic baritone declamations, inspiring hope for the future of Sol Invictus. As for Tony, it’s surprising to find him so shy and defenseless before a delighted audience: his barely whispered "thank yous" constitute his only words directed at a crowd hungry for emotions and a direct connection with their idol, and it’s almost endearing to see him faintly smile in response to the ovations of the ecstatic audience.
Bravo Tony!, still touring the globe to play for the few fools who come to see you: as long as there are people who play with heart like you, music will have meaning!
Part Two: "Sol Invictus VS Current 93 VS Death in June"
Well, now that I have had the honor of seeing the historical triad of apocalyptic folk live in its entirety, I want to allow myself a brief but challenging comparison of the live impact of these three musical entities.
In third place in my personal ranking certainly stands Tony Wakeford, the most canonical of the three: the judgment is weighed down by the fact that I caught him with a line-up not exactly at its best. And a setlist focused on an unreleased album certainly doesn’t help. In any case, Tony remains an honest, sincere bearer of emotions and suggestions, someone who believes in what he plays, today as he did twenty years ago: increasingly solitary and out of time, he is perfectly capable of surviving with his sole charisma the perpetual and unfortunate turnover of countless line-ups! Faithful to the line.
The second place, however, rightfully belongs to Current 93, seen last year in Ravenna during the "Black Ships Ate the Sky" promotional tour: Tibet, barefoot and lectern, brings along the complete caravan (Joolie Wood, Maya Elliott, John Contreras, Simon Finn, Baby Dee, William Breeze, Matt Sweeney, Ben Chasny) and the spectacle he is able to set up is truly remarkable. Silence in the hall, a climate of religious attention (if not devotion), and wandering as if in another world, he roams the stage poetizing, shouting with his shrill voice, and, when necessary, making uncoordinated gestures to increase the pathos of certain passages. Obviously full of emotion, his interpretation is impressive and the pieces come to life live, expand, and finally seem to breathe.
"Unfortunately", like Wakeford, Tibet is someone who believes in what he does, and thus he won’t hesitate to present us with much of "Black Ships Ate the Sky" (obviously, at the time, I hadn’t yet listened to it, excellent even on a first impact), robbing precious time from the classics that have made the band’s fortune. If we then consider that the repertoire prior to "Thunder Perfect Mind" has been practically renounced by the artist, we understand that the event is certainly not one of nostalgia. For the evening, we must then be content with brief snippets from "Soft Black Stars" and "Sleep Has His House". A bolt from the blue, however, is the unexpected reprise of the fantastic "Bloodbells Chime" (from "All the Pretty Little Horses"), while to testify to the more remote past, we have only the opening of "Black Flowers, Please" and "The Blue Gates of Death", placed in closure. Now, I am not certainly asking for tracks like "Maldoror is Dead" or "Falling Back in Fields of Rape", but with all the superb compositions that Current has managed to gift us over the years, a bit more would have been expected, especially for those who churn miles and make a fuss for weeks to procure tickets that are not found just around the corner. In any case, in religious silence, we conform to Lord Tibet’s wishes. The emotions are many, so many, and the consolation is that when talking about Current 93, we are talking about art beyond any commercial logic, so the live event does not end up as a mechanical reiteration of what the audience expects (as if the musician were honoring a contract with his client), but becomes a magical moment of intimate communion between spectator and artist. And so it was. Indescribable.
In the first place, strange but true, we find Death in June and that "finished" Douglas P. Many claim that the "All Pigs Must Die" tour, in 2002, eventually turned out to be incredibly boring, especially when compared to previous and much more picturesque appearances with the skillful Albin Julius at his side. As for me, I must say I was extremely satisfied. First and foremost, it's a real joy to witness the entrance of Douglas P., complete with camouflage and mask, solemnly waving the black flag featuring the Totenkopf.
Bare stage, James Murphy in a corner behind a nursery rhyme drum kit taking care of the percussion, and our man also hitting drums and various gadgets: it's the pinnacle of minimalism, almost skirting theater of the absurd. And yet they effectively deliver the tracks representing the band’s early period, and I’m talking about "Till the Living Flesh is Burned", "Death of a Man", and "C'est un Rêve".
End of the first part: Douglas exits the stage and reappears amid applause, clutching his guitar and wearing the proverbial cap with its strips hanging from the visor concealing his face. The setlist is an extensive run-through of Death in June’s most famous tracks, from "Death of the West" and "Behind the Rose (Fields of Rape)" to excerpts from "All Pigs Must Die". Naturally passing through "She Said Destroy", "Runes and Men", "Fall Apart", "Little Black Angel", "Ku Ku Ku", "Rose Clouds of Holocaust", "Kameradschaft", and whoever has more can add them. The songs follow each other brief, austere, and perfectly identical to each other, driven solely by Murphy’s sharp blows, and stripped even of those few frills (trumpets, flutes, little pianos, etc.) that enriched them on record. From time to time, they will be introduced by the dark words of Boyd Rice (whose NoN had opened the evening), oscillating indifferently between stage and CD stand.
Douglas is as communicative as a hologram, but that’s fine, we are not surprised, it’s part of the character, indeed of the person. And after a while, the situation begins to become surreal (essential, of course, the contribution of alcohol): the usual arpeggio starts, the usual voice starts, the usual drum rhythm starts, it feels like being trapped in those nightmares where the same situation continuously repeats. Yet, that grotesque, solitary figure, immensely distant, on stage, is there, magnetizing everyone’s attention, powered by his charisma, his intrinsic magnetism. As on record, Pearce seems to communicate with us from another world, and here lies his allure.
Another exit, then a final appearance for the encores. Awkward, bespectacled, with his face finally uncovered, as if after an hour and a half he has built the right rapport with the audience, he thanks us with two words and closes with "Heaven Street". Despite everything, the best.
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