Bright Eyes / Modest Mouse - London Shepherd's Bush Empire - 22/6/04
4/5
By: Tim Dellow
A joint headline bill light-years apart. Literally. Modest Mouse are the group. Bright Eyes is the man.
Modest Mouse. Sixty minutes. Open with a song about the end of the world as a collective experience. Close with a 'Never Ending Math Equation' that slides organically as the individual members allow the track to mutate from pop single to Pixies rock to open-mouthed bliss. We work together building something out of nothing. Smiles from band and audience together, singing along. Joyous. Unpretentious. For us all and from us all. Glorious. I cuddle my loved ones and look out for old friends united.
(We then pause for a second to assess the audience. Two types. Type one: indie dweeb. Long ginger hair. Here to see Modest Mouse. Beer in hand, torn Mudhoney T-shirt. Charming long-term girlfriend. Smile.
Type two: Sixth Form poet. Misunderstood. Here to see Bright Eyes. Unaware of the older (uglier) band's existence. Thinks they sound a bit like the Pixies or REM. Nonplussed. Ugly girl(friend) who looks exactly the same as them. Munches crisps (today's meal) through support slot. Demands silent respect for the headlining 24-year-old auteur. No smile.)
An hour after the mice scuttle off-stage and the lights dim. A harpist comes on. Then goes off. Five minutes later returns and plucks opening strains of 'Sunrise Sunset'. Sound is vastly improved since last time. Band features Nick Zinner/Yeah Yeah Yeah. (But still no smile). Sings about himself. For himself. Strops at the wings.
'Hey, it's my birthday,' foolish audience member (type B) yells, waiting for her idol to dedicate a poem to her. 'Hey, I'm playing a show,' he yells back.
Precise. Clinical. No encore. Ploughs through renditions of some of his more obscure songs, attempting to cement his position as a Cohen-worthy songwriter. Pre-meditated. Actor.
Yet the performance of something this personal could never be any less than contrived. The last song, his 'I can be political like Dylan, too' ten-minute epic is a bleak close, undoing the euphoria of the mice in a Sonic Youth impression, jumping onto the drum-riser before making a swift exit. Heartbreaking. In the wrong sense of the term. Glad to be back on the tour bus. Now I can get some sleep.
Why, as the owner of your label do you feel the need to tour when you clearly hate it so much? Why not just make albums and release them into the hearts of your devotees? Treat your words and yourself with some respect. Things might feel a bit more natural.
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