Fischerspooner - New York Irving Plaza - 19/11/02
4/5
By: Nicole Spector
Show Remnants: A scrap of silver-mirror confetti and a Kylie table-coaster. Classy.
A continuum of hype has given birth to a pretty non-serious hunt for a description of Fischerspooner. The art-collective have impacted the underground electroclash scene for years. Their ultra-stylish, even fantastical shows, noted primarily for their costliness aren't without reputation in New York. The recent onslaught of commercial attention, however, has brought their music to a crucial point of speculation; many of the reviews read of their album, which has yet to be released in the States via Capitol, are a response to the propaganda exclaiming them. Additionally, it's a known-fact that one never really gets Fischerspooner, if they care to, until they've seen them live. And so, not really caring to get Fischerspooner, but rather caring to witness a potentially entertaining event, rockfeedback saw them live in New York and wound up, on one plane or another, getting Fischerspooner.
There are two in the group: Fischer and Spooner, implausibly enough - yet they are bursting with alter-ego. This is the second show tonight, starting at midnight. Yes, they have played two separate, back-to-back shows in the same venue with DJ Hell opening. Casey Spooner boards the stage with an entourage of women. Warren Fischer, meanwhile, remains ensconced in rumor. Either he is behind the curtain pulling the strings (pressing play?) as usual, or he is absent as some of the audience suggest. Cool wind, smoke and fog spread over the brimming crowd. The first number, and these are all numbers, is 'Invisible'. Spooner, striped and sparkling, eyes smudged in black eyeliner, puppets the stage as though straddling a tight-rope. 'There's a little bad performance art here,' he warns excitedly. The women with their hair slicked and their torn outfits slick against them, move like mimes along the beats, synchronized and erratic. The audience is still and wide-eyed, spellbound, all straining necks to catch the robotic, teasing jaunts of Spooner and his trashy ballet. I see it now. It's in true form here in the reflection of fun-house mirrors.
Fittingly, these are ringmasters in exhibitionism. Much of the hype adorning them is of their own manufacturing, part of their theatrical project. They are fueled as much by the bizarre as they are with a post-modern infatuation with celebrity archetype. It would be an understatement to say Fischerspooner never lose track of their audience or their performance. The former, never ignored between performances and hardly ignored during, are often doused in blinding, white spotlight and tents of confetti. For 'Turn On', Spooner even climbs up the left wall of the stage onto a rotating panel. He models, smoking a cigarette and grasping hands. At one point, he dives into the crowd and sprawled still like the chalk outline of a body, allows himself to be turned.
'That was an attempt to be sexy and minimal,' remarks Spooner after their cover of Wire's 'The 15th'. 'I'm telling you, doing this shit in your 40s... Just get a Cadillac and a leggy blonde!'
His entourage work as assistants throughout the show. One, large and done up fully in a Rapunzel/witch outfit latches onto outstretched hands. She selects an eager girl from the crowd, much like a magician's assistant selects a volunteer victim, and says to Casey, 'I think we have a problem here.'
'We like problems,' Casey replies. He pulls the girl up onto the stage and holds her close. 'Take your pants off,' he exclaims. 'Take your top off! Show us your tits!' She does neither and he dances slowly with her, complimenting her concealed breasts as if they were nude.
What you hear on the album is what you get at the concert... exactly. Spooner lip-synchs the entire time. Every synthetic sound, the clapping drums, the ballistic horn soundalikes, the ditonal waves, are recited digit by digit, off the album. A pair of stone-faced girls in bikinis and bulging sunglasses mouth the back-up parts. During an instrumental, Spooner orders that the track be stopped in the middle of the opening as it is 'a long-ass intro'. It is accordingly clicked off and Casey kicks off yet another playful conversation with the crowd. The song resumes. Did I mention the robot befits all songs?
'You guys ready for the sell-out?! Sell this bitch out!'
Unsurprisingly, 'Emerge' gets shouts and applause that last the whole airing. The climax is heightened with darts of bright light that slam on the audience with each leaden drumfall. On the final utterance of 'nothing', silver ribbon explodes over everyone. The first set eventually closes with 'Horizon', however, to a thunderous reception. Spooner and company, in white winter caps, return shortly after for an encore. In a guilty, saccharin voice, Spooner announces that they are going to have to play 'Emerge' just one more time. The second performance is a tandem repeat of the first only two songs prior. Eruptions of light and ribbon pour on cue.
So this is avant-garde. Avant-garde no longer exists? Well, it does here, precisely because it exists in some carnival-esque precinct of the past, where Warhol makes the jaded naïve and the underground comes rushing to the surface in exploitative glory. And yet it is new. It is new because of the music, which energetic and driven, is the revolving point. Fischerspooner, lip-synched, glammed, reveling in the mockery of electronics, create a red-light district of cynicism and irony. Impossible to take your eyes off, certainly, but at unfortunately at some points, impossible to see. Yet another reason why Irving Plaza, great for rock bands, bands with instruments, is not a choice venue for such a vision-centered act.
After the show, in a candlelit lounge bar, Spooner chats enthusiastically with fans and friends. He is effusive, gaudy, affectionate. He graciously turns to all approaching him. We tell him we're writing a review of his show but that we'd had some trouble seeing from our low stance in the crowd.
'Oh my god,' he gushes. 'Just make it all up honey!'
Well, anyway, the hype does not subtract from Fischerspooner's live presence, but rather coats it with sugar, fills it with show. There is a guiltless amusement in the pantomime of voyeurism and cliché. Tonight, Fischerspooner have discredited negative album reviews that denounce them as a poor echo of respected electro bands such as Kraftwerk and the Human League. Image is an essential link to their sound, and the Halloween-like universe they create, a necessary ambience in critically assessing them. There is a refreshing and unique zealousness with which they approach their aesthetics. They make a holiday here where music discovers intimacy with spectacle. In the end however, we'd all best not be too serious about Fischerspooner. But certain things must be admitted; 'non-serious' can still make for one hell of a good time.
Artists in this article: Fischerspooner
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