The Mars Volta - London Astoria - 23/11/03
3/5
By: Toby L
The sound of sex, that Mars Volta. After all, if there wasn't something going on - a form of unrefined, saucy, coital tension - then how else would snake-hipped, mini-Afro decked frontman Cedric Bixler surge and tussle amid the stage as if wrestling a partially naked, toga-torn Ancient Greek temptress?
He dives and gallops. Rolls and gyrates. And the crowd roars. In between the motions, he wails and howls and shimmies and shakes like an overly camp wolf that's been starved of its sheep-allocation for a month or so. To his right, guitarist Omar Rodriguez: the cool-ass, left-handed guitarist, who whacks and stomps on pedals with perilous precision, whilst providing the cascading, avalanching wall-of-noize that forms the fabric of The Mars Volta's experimental-punk shudder. Songs aren't mere songs in these quarters - they're gigantic epics, launched into tonight's heaving Astoria like a meteor crashing against an undiscovered planet in a distant, very trippy galaxy.
But, really, did we expect anything less from such seasoned alt-pro's? The hyperbole surrounding Bixler and Rodriguez' mighty sidestep from cult-status in prior combo At The Drive-In was a manic, sorry state of affairs; a band leaping recklessly from a freshly instated platform and stature that took them years to finally obtain.
Yet, now, as The Mars Volta, Omar and Cedric - complete with a stellar, fervent backing-cast of keyboardist, percussion and bass - have returned defiant as ever, a new major-label debut ('De-Loused In The Comatorium'; a five-star rockfeedback release, no less) established as one of the finest adventures in prog-pomp in years.
Live, however, The MV face a challenge - to convert a largely mechanical, seething array of hooks, ideas, vision and trickery into an engaging, interactive experience. Curiously, their latest sell-out UK tour sees none of the wild abandon that their studio-exploits quite presumably entailed; lights remain a stagnant wash of blues throughout the entire hour and a half, not changing once, whilst there is no sign of a warm-up support to introduce proceedings. As such, you'd be suspect of crowd-reactions.
Though as soon as we're greeted with the pulsating growl of 'Roulette Dares...', it's clear where the majority of this audience's collective, brooding heart lies - and that's with the dextrous endeavours of the performers. So serious and impassioned are this lot, then when someone attempts to talk mid-set in a nearby radius, the culprit is immediately provided a hasty scowl and a waving finger from a complete stranger, the latter desperate to keep the sounds and sights of this evening's events shrouded in purity instead of idle, drunken banter.
Bloomin' heck, though; at times, it don't have go on... Save for the racing rhythm-section and intricate guitar-lines and Bixler's enigmatic stares to band-mates, there is an undeniable sense of muso-introspection that leaves the audience oft segregated from the onstage reverberations and movements, and come the time the band say goodbye, the venue lights instantly return and a confusing, select chorus of boo's from the front lets up.
For the rest of us, it was a predominantly rapt affair; a forbidden, slowing then quickening beastly grisliness and frantic, instrumental beauty, one as dissonant as it proved engrossing. Yet, unless TMV are able to push beyond this to provoke a performance with added heart, then all The Mars Volta will remain for the meantime, is a largely competent, if occasionally robotic, one-night stand.
Artists in this article: The Mars Volta
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