Category Archives: LIVE REVIEWS

Live Review: Acid King, Paris, France, April 28, 2015


The longer a hiatus is extended, the more unreasonably high expectations will soar.

Ten long years have been pissed away while metal fans waited for Acid King to release a new album. Touring regularly during that period, the Bay Area trio has not been thoroughly inactive, but one can forgive a hesitancy to record. The previous album, 2005’s III, set the standard for stoner sludge and established the band as a slow-mo Sabbath. But following up a classic is a tall order.

A decade after its masterpiece, the group has just released Middle Of Nowhere, Center Of Everywhere, and it feels like the logical next album. A cynic would criticize the minimal artistic growth in 10 years. But if this LP had found the band widely diverging or considerably evolving, fans would have justifiably complained of not having witnessed the interesting intermediate steps.

Instead, the release continues a clear trend in the band’s sound. On earlier recordings, Lori S.’s singing is presented up front, strident and wailing and aggressive. Over time, she has toned down the verbal posturing, mellowed and integrated her voice more snugly into the music. Set well behind thick layers of sonic gauze, her vocals now float, hover really. In parallel, the band’s sound on Middle has become more psychedelic, dreamier, spacier.

Acid King has become more “mood” than “dude.”

But the thrum of a Harley still runs through the band’s songs. Tonight, the trio plays a selection of the new tracks (“Red River,” “Silent Pictures,” and “Coming Down From Outer Space”), but the crowd pops its biggest boner for the epic “2 Wheel Nation” from the previous disc. Lori’s guitar playing is primarily single notes, but notes so heavily distorted that they carry the weight of mammoth chords.

For the encore, the group performs III’s “War Of The Mind”: the quintessential Acid King song, plodding, powerful and poignant. Expressing a scornful fatalism, the tune drags, which is clearly the whole point. It draws out the pain until the pain hypnotizes. Doom drapes a burial shroud over the listener with the deliberation of descending fog.

But like Middle Of Nowhere, Center Of Everywhere, it’s well worth the wait.

—Eric Bensel

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Live Review: Metz, Paris, France, Mar. 5, 2015


Ever since Pete Townshend applied Gustav Metzger’s theory of auto-destructive art to the Who’s live shows, rock etiquette requires that a gig end with an explosion of sound—if not actual destruction of instruments then at least a ringing, feedback squawk that washes away everything that preceded it.

Tonight, Toronto trio Metz places this formula on its head.

While tuning his guitar before the set formally begins, Alex Edkins stomps on the looper pedal, wrenches out a tortured riff that heaves and ho’s under the weight of distortion, then places his instrument against the amp and walks off stage. For a full five minutes, the guitar, unaccompanied, wheezes out an aural palette cleansing.

Gentlemen, start your engines.

The band opens with the shrieking blitz of “Dirty Shirt.” The tone is immediately set: whatever restraint existed on record—performances tightly executed, with vocals relegated to the cheap seats—is thoroughly shot to shit in concert. Onstage, the group expands and explodes. “Wasted” elicits both euphoria and malevolence. “The Mule” is Unsane reimagining Sonic Youth.

At its best, the band burns with the light of a thousand suns. At its worst, a few hundred suns.

With 2012 self-titled debut, Metz drew favorable comparisons with late ’80s/early-’90s harDCore. The record is indeed Lungfish-ian in its arrow-straight riffing, and when it chooses to be “angular” (a key rock crit term of the period), it throws elbows like Bill Laimbeer playing in Fugazi. But the group’s sound is thicker than that of the Dischord legends: it revives the grating aggression of the Jesus Lizard, Big Black and AmRep’s finest noise-meisters.

Metz is the sound of two Transformers fucking: hard driving, unrelenting and as abrasive as metal scraping against metal.

To the delight of all, the group performs a number of songs from forthcoming sophomore album II (“Wait In Line,” “The Swimmer,” “Acetate,” “Spit You Out,” “Nervous System,” “Kicking A Can Of Worms”), all of which stack up admirably alongside those from the debut. Judging by tonight’s performance, the first record has a right to claim sincere flattery.

Despite the show’s hour-long assault on the ears, the trio is actually insufferably polite, even apologizing between songs for its poor mastery of French. When some joker yells out the lame witticism “Metz we can!” from the crowd, bassist Chris Slorach giggles, a little too generously. He then promises to adopt the quip as the title of the group’s next album.

“That or Black Sabbath Volume 4,” counters Edkins.

Once again, impeccable taste in influences.

—Eric Bensel

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SXSW 2015: Bushy Beards, Girl Bands And A Russian Invasion


MAGNET’s Hobart Rowland

 files a round of notes from SXSW

See if you can guess the last time I was at South By Southwest. Guided By Voices had recently made its first of two big-rawk statements for pseudo-major TVT. To celebrate, GBV’s drummer felt up my wife at Stubb’s while I was playing pool. (To this day, she says she didn’t mind—a fan to the end.) 

Outside at Stubb’s on the same night, wheezy Philly Americana quartet Marah—hailed by Steve Earle and a few others (me included) as the second coming of Springsteen—presided over a chilly, rain-soaked bacchanalia. Elsewhere that week, Convoy, an unknown band from the San Diego hills, blew a handful of minds at a day party hosted by … someone. Postscript: After an underwhelming experience with the Hybrid imprint (remember Hybrid?), Convoy inexplicably donned mascara and morphed into oversexed neo-glam act Louis XIV, also now defunct.

This may have been the same SXSW where Ryan Adams stormed off the stage after a minute or so of sitting at the piano with a confused look on his face. Like that was anything new.

 If you guessed 2000, you’d be correct. Where this is leading, I have no idea. But it feels good to get it out there. And I’m sure my wife appreciates the shout-out.

 Perhaps the point is that, 16 years later, I’m still chasing after great music—except now, most of the artists are less than half my age. Here were my 10 favorite shows:

1) Honeyblood
Everything they say about Scottish girls is true. This female duo rocks harder than most bands twice its size. And the songwriting is so solid you don’t miss the bass.

2) Fight Like Apes
Dublin’s answer to Siouxsie And The Banshees, co-fronted by a surly drunk dude with impeccable taste in sleeveless Christmas sweaters.

3) Israel Nash
“Hey, man. You sure you’re not Neil Young And Crazy Horse?” Such was the general sentiment at this showcase among the pews at a downtown Episcopal church. Derivative in the best sense, Nash is a minister’s son with an old soul and backbone honed from scratchy ’70s vinyl.

4) Dorothy
Throbbing Los Angeles neo-metal-sludge outfit. Think early Soundgarden, but exchange Chris Cornell for a wailing brunette with overt porn-star sex appeal.

An 18-year-old lesbian from Northern Ireland with a hushed, almost otherworldly delivery, whose songs about alienation and sea life kept a Sixth Street spillover crowd silent for a solid half hour.

6) Anthony D’Amato
He’d been up 24 hours straight when he made his way to the stage at the New West day party, but D’Amato still delivered a taut performance with a bunch of Austin pickup guys he’d just met. He’s more than just a Dylan clone with an Ivy League degree. Seriously.

7) Sun Club
This just in: Madly energetic Baltimore quintet gets tribal on the floor toms and xylophone. Five people loved what they saw.

8) Young Buffalo
The pride of Oxford, Miss., combined multi-part harmonies with a command of melody and arrangements beyond its years.

9) Bob Schneider
The unofficial mayor of Austin didn’t need no stinkin’ badges when he headlined an unsanctioned string of barnburners at Threadgill’s, just south of town.

10) Mumiy Troll
He’s already conquered Russia, so why was Mumiy Troll’s Ilya Lagutenko sucking up to 35 shit-faced college students on a shabby outdoor stage in the rainy wee hours of the morning? Because this is America, baby.

More photos after the jump.

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Live Review: Harsh Toke, Paris, France, Jan. 9, 2015


Religion is a terrorism of the mind.

Fundamentalist or not, it inspires fear of the invisible and the impossible, it discourages critical thinking, and it banishes the sceptic to an eternity of torture.

Yet religion has become so interwoven into society and so—pardon the imagery here—“bulletproof” to criticism that we ignore its illogic and immorality (as Robert Heinlein once put it, albeit in a different context) “just as fish ignore water.”

Tonight, in a city where just two hours earlier, police ended a pair of stand-offs with Islamic terrorists who killed 17 police officers, cartoonists and Jewish shoppers, the most powerful weapon against this mental scourge could very well be … weed.

The attacks on French satirical newspaper Charlie Hebdo have been cast as a strike at the freedom of expression, a fundamental right in any civilized society. Among the art forms that are most unbridled in their expression—and appropriate “fuck you” antidotes to its suppression—is stoner rock.

Indeed, San Diego’s Harsh Toke embodies, above all else, freedom … specifically, the freedom to light up a doobie and fucking jam.

Released last year, the group’s debut album is a bracing sprint through psychedelia and metal, with just a soupçon of Southern rock. Less riff-reliant than Earthless, less doom-heavy than Sleep, the Tokers give free rein to their inner pothead. Like all hard-rock stoner bands, it owes an enormous debt of gratitude to Black Sabbath, but Harsh Toke focuses on the life-affirming ecstasy of the high rather than the snarling malice of the dark.

It is fitting that, on this night, in this town, the vicious guitar leads don’t express anger or despair or doom … but rather joy and exhilaration, the white-water thrill ride that life can be at its most wonderful, most invigorating moments. On several occasions throughout the show, guitarists Justin Figueroa and Gabe Messner look at each other, mid-jam, and smile. The munchies have clearly not made them grumpy.

The quartet ends its set with the album’s title track, “Light Up And Live.” The song builds from a slow, deliberate groove into an exuberant gangbang of notes awash in wah. Tonight, the band reminds us of the taste of freedom in one’s lungs. Sure, sometimes when you take a big gulp, it burns going down. A harsh toke, indeed. But you’re still the better for it.

No mention of the terrorist attacks is made from the stage or the crowd. The audience is grateful for the respite, relieved simply to ride the good vibes.

The death cult of religion devalues this life and tries to sell you on the unknown and unknowable prize “behind door number two.” So yeah, Light up and live. But most importantly: live.


—Eric Bensel

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Live Review: Winter Jazzfest NYC


It’s the 2015 Winter Jazzfest NYC. MAGNET’s Mitch Myers reports from the festival.

Now in its 11th year, the Winter Jazzfest in New York City has become an established fulcrum of offbeat musical activity, ideal for the consumer as well as industry insiders. It’s an impressive series of showcases—much akin to CMJ— crammed into 10 Greenwich Village venues and featuring more than 100 acts. With affordable day passes allowing attendees to wander from one club to another, the WJF encourages adventurous listening and discovery, highlighting avant-garde improvisation, amazing new compositions and high-concept projects.

Both the audience and the musicians ranged from younger neophytes to grizzled veterans, and Thursday night’s formal kickoff epitomized the generational diversity with just two shows. The Le Poisson Rouge venue highlighted a current crop of hipsters with Blue Note recording artists Robert Glasper, Kendrick Scott, Jose James and Derrick Hodge, while the nearby Disability Pride benefit concert showcased esteemed jazz elders including Benny Golson, Ron Carter, Jimmy Cobb and George Coleman.

Friday night’s schedule was an embarrassment of riches, but I stuck to the action at the Minetta Lane Theater with established artists including reedist/composer David Murray. Murray has recorded more than 150 albums under his own name, and had three different showcase slots including a Clarinet Summit with Don Byron, David Krakauer and Hammiet Bluiett, and a trio gig featuring Geri Allen on piano and Terri Lynne Carrington on drums. Following Murray, there was Trio 3 with Oliver Lake, Reggie Workman and Andrew Cyrille along with special-guest pianist Vijay Iyer. Even without Iyer, Trio 3’s collective experience was well over 150 years, and they did not disappoint.

Longtime “Downtown” musicians were also on hand, with Mark Ribot & The Young Philadelphians With Strings playing instrumental versions of classic Philly soul. Ribot’s band killed it, especially with the amazing rhythm section of bassist Jamaaladeen Tacuma and drummer Calvin Weston. Other downtown legends included Strange And Beautiful, which is a Lounge Lizards tribute ensemble featuring Lizard alumni Ribot, pianist Evan Lurie, trumpeter Steven Bernstein, saxophonists Michael Blake and Erik Lawrence and many more.

Saturday night’s schedule was more of the same—both in quantity and quality—including Rudresh Mahanthappa interpreting Charlie Parker, the Campbell Brothers performing a sacred steel version of John Coltrane’s A Love Supreme and the SFJAZZ Collective playing the music of Michael Jackson. Overall, there was just too much for any one person to see, but that was a good thing.

—photo by Steve Sussman

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Live Review: Motörhead, The Damned, Paris, France, Nov. 18, 2014


Creature Double Feature!

Rarely are audiences treated to two bands of such legendary stature on the same bill. And interestingly, the Damned and Motörhead are not merely pioneers in punk and metal, respectively; they also have close historical ties.

Motörhead’s Lemmy played bass on the Damned’s cover of the Sweet’s “Ballroom Blitz,” and the two bands once merged for a live version of “Over The Top” under the contracted moniker Motördamn. But their joint immortality was ensured when they both made unforgettable cameos on the ’80s U.K. sitcom The Young Ones. YouTube that shit up, kiddies.

First up: the punks.

“We’ve come from 1977 to save you from The X Factor!”

Captain Sensible is an incorrigible yukster. He has been playing the clown before audiences for more than 35 years as bassist, then guitarist, for the Damned. The first time I saw him perform—at the original 9:30 club in D.C. back in the early 90s—he improvised poetry about Sylvester Stallone sucking his cock.

“We’re the Damned,” he yells tonight. “And we sound something like this … ”

The “this” should have been the most bracing, razor-sharp punk from the original wave of revolutionary yobbos. In a genre that, at the time, eschewed technical skill, the Damned was rebellious in its virtuosity. Drummer Rat Scabies was a Keith Moon who could actually keep time. Sensible was every bit the guitar god that Page and Clapton were. And unlike Johnny Rotten, Dave Vanian could not only carry a tune but also apply a range of “treatments” to his vocals, appropriate to the song’s mood.

Unfortunately, tonight, with only Sensible and Vanian remaining from the band’s classic era, the boys only sound “something like” the Damned.

The punk tunes (“Ignite,” “Second Time Around,” “Love Song,” “Neat Neat Neat” and signature hit “New Rose”) lack the bite they had so long ago. But the more pop-inflected songs (“Wait For The Blackout,” “History Of The World (Part I),” “Eloise,” “Street Of Dreams”) all really buzz. Vanian may dress like an undertaker emceeing a three-ring circus, but his pipes are as clean and rich as ever. Furthermore, with closer “Smash It Up,” the group is subtle, powerful and anarchic: everything that made it the most accomplished, versatile, exciting, and—don’t challenge me on this one—best punk band from the class of ’77.

As he exits the stage, Vanian warms up the audience for the headliners by suggesting we may all be “killed by death.” Only at a metal concert would that be greeted with cheers.

When Motörhead takes to the stage, one senses that the set of an ’80s metal video has come to life: a drum riser towers, the garish Snaggletooth banner seethes malevolence from the rafters, the powerful search lights cast their tendrils outward, and the ubiquitous devil hand symbols reach, ironically, to Heaven.

Lemmy and Co. play a punishing set of their trademark one-two-three  sweaty metal. The band hammers through a series of crowd pleasers: “Shoot You In The Back,” “Stay Clean,” and “No Class.” “Iron Fist” is conspicuous in its absence, but there is plenty gristle elsewhere on which to chew. And if the numbers all sound similar, no one is complaining. Motörhead fans don’t come to the shows for diversity in the songs: They come because—I’m quoting several bleary-eyed fans here—“no one rocks harder.” Indeed, Motörhead is utterly uncompromising. Over nearly 40 years, the group has never sold out, let alone sung a duet with Miss Fucking Piggy. (I’m looking at you, Ozzy.)

Just before the encore, the trio delivers metal’s crowning achievement: the all-time greatest metal tune—I’ll brook no opposition on this point either—the incomparable “Ace Of Spades.” The song that should be engraved on every time capsule we jizz into space.

As preface to the night’s closer, the pummelling “Overkill,” Lemmy addresses the crowd one final time, paraphrasing a lyric from another one of his songs and repeating his intro at the start of the show. “Don’t forget us,” he implores. “We are Motörhead, and we play rock ‘n’ roll.”

Got it.

—Eric Bensel

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Live Review: Blonde Redhead, Paris, France, Sept. 22, 2014


Lower your expectations and you will rarely be disappointed. Scientists refer to this as the “Tom Arnold Principle.” It applies particularly well to tonight’s Blonde Redhead concert.

In the 1990s, Blonde Redhead was breathtakingly original. Its bracing, no-wave indie punk inspired (fitting) comparisons with alternative legend Sonic Youth. Its jagged rhythms and jarring, boy/girl vocals created a dynamic that was the envy of all bands who courted the avant-garde yet still wanted to sound catchy.

With the turn of the millennium, BR shifted gears, toning down its rock elements to create dreamy pop gems fashioned in a Fabergé workshop. The group had transitioned from gorgeous art rock to gorgeous art pop.

And now this.

The trio’s latest release, Barragán, is suitable for an elevator in Stockholm—fittingly, come to think of it, since the band seems sympathetic to its captors: it has fallen hostage to Euro-wusscore and seems content to seal the cocoon permanently shut. The album lacks the elegance and exquisite beauty of its previous releases: the tracks—cottony and threadbare—float through one’s ears like tumbleweeds through a dusty ghost town. To cite but one clunker, “Defeatist Anthem (Harry and I)” sounds as if the High Llamas dropped acid and performed on Hee Haw.

So expectations were running low for this gig. However, in Paris’ regal Trianon club, Blonde Redhead offers a polished, and at times inspired, performance. Kazu Makino and twin brothers Amedeo and Simone Pace play a deliciously languorous version of “Hated Because Of Great Qualities.” Even Barragán’s “No More Honey”—a bit limp on record—is haunting, hypnotizing in this live setting. It oozes voluptuous ’60s French pop à la Ivy. The song’s pendulum-like guitar line hangs suggestively in the air, tantalizing one’s libido.

Late in the set, the focus of the show narrows sharply onto Kazu. She abandons her guitar and bass and takes center stage with mic in hand. Previously, she had lurched about with the grace of a paraplegic spider, but with the euphoric, dancehall shoegaze of “23” she sways and shimmers and thrashes with physical poetry, energy and—fuck yeah—sexiness.

Even while belting out the staccato chorus to “Equus,” she exudes fragility and shyness. The audience is thoroughly entranced.

The band closes with “Seven Two” from the current album. The Pace brothers quickly exit the stage, knowing that all eyes are on a different set of twins. Kazu stands alone in a slinky white dress, absorbing lavish applause. She blows charmingly awkward kisses.

The public gushes. Kazu blushes.

Tonight, Blonde Redhead finds a new way to exceed expectations. Such is the art of seduction.

—Eric Bensel

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Images From The Chicago Riot Fest


MAGNET contributor Michael Jackson attended this year’s Riot Fest in Chicago and sent us these great photos. More after the jump.

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Live Review: Kate Bush, London, England, Aug. 27, 2014


Long before there was Björk, Cocteau Twins, Tori Amos or Bat For Lashes, there was Kate Bush. For the uninitiated, Bush has fashioned a four-decade career as a true musical original—a bloody-minded British eccentric right out of the Syd Barrett/Monty Python/Julian Cope handbook, hell-bent on pursuing her own muse to the exclusion of nearly everything else going on around her, pop or otherwise. Back in the day, Bush objected to being objectified (criticizing her record label for marketing her as “a female body … rather than an artist in a female body”) and was the first woman to pen her own U.K. number-one hit (“Wuthering Heights”), winning her a fanbase that came to include artists as diverse as Johnny Rotten, Tricky, Outkast’s Big Boi and Rufus Wainwright. To put it in modern terms: Kate Bush is a pop/rock OG, equal parts King Crimson (prog) and David Bowie (glam/wave), with a back catalog to rival that of anyone making music over the past 50 years.

Somehow, along the way, Bush had managed to stay mostly out of the live performance business since 1979 before announcing a spate of shows in London entitled “Before The Dawn.” This news encouraged an enthused (mostly) British public to promptly purchase more than 77,000 tickets in a mere 15 minutes to a series of 22 consecutive gigs at the Eventim Apollo (the Artist Formerly Known as Hammersmith Odeon), with ticket prices on the black market fetching nearly 2000 GBP. The fact that Bush’s last proper tour took place in spring of 1979—and that rumors had since made the rounds of a crippling fear of flying, the almost manic need for Bush to control every aspect of her career, or that the death of her lighting engineer at one of her gigs had severely affected her ability or desire to play live again (with the benefit for the family subsequently scheduled for the very same venue she was playing this evening)—has only generated the sort of anticipation that one associates with An Event, A Moment, a Bucketlist Item.

Tonight’s show was only the second of these gigs, so the wide-eyed wonder of seeing an artist both remarkably ahead of her time and so famously reclusive hadn’t yet worn off, with news crews wandering around in front of the venue interviewing fans, hangers-on and those who (like me) had traveled long distances to catch one of these shows while Bush was still in the mood to perform. And perform, she did—a three-hour set in which an energized Bush recreated the second side of her 1985 classic LP Hounds Of Love (the so-called “Ninth Wave” suite) and the second side of her 1993 album Aerial (the “Sky Of Honey” cycle) as separately imagined stage productions, with sets, costumes and lighting effects more akin to a West End play than a rock ‘n’ roll show. Bush’s vocal gift is an instrument neither ravaged by time nor age; her airy soprano soared as high tonight as it ever has, sure in pitch and rich in power. A devastating weapon perfectly deployed against a wide-ranging arsenal of material.

(Bush, via her website, had made an explicit request for tonight’s audience to “please refrain from taking photos or filming during the shows; I want very much to have contact with you as an audience not with iPhone or iPads or cameras” … Hence, the lousy picture accompanying this review. Normally, I would do better. But as it happens, when a British audience is asked to do something, and they love the person who asks them to do it, they comply fully and passionately—I wasn’t about to be the one person in the theater tonight kicked out or made a social pariah for abusing the rules … sorry, ya’ll).

Her performance kicked off with the voice of Miranda Richardson, from Bush’s 1993 album The Red Shoes, reading from the Sanskrit hymn Gayatri Mantra: “O Thou who gives sustenance to the universe, from Whom all things proceed, to whom all things return, unveil to us the face of the true spiritual sun hidden by a disc of golden light, that we may know the Truth and do our whole duty as we journey to thy sacred feet … ” And from the darkness of the stage marched Bush with her backup chorus in a line behind her, working her way through a series of old favorites (“Hounds Of Love” and “Running Up That Hill,” which to my ears remains one of the best songs ever written by anyone in any era) before closing out the final line to “King Of The Mountain” in a shower of confetti before segueing into a stage set approximating the watery shipwreck of “The Ninth Wave,” a harrowing, emotional journey populated by a psychedelic cast including dancers dressed as fish skeletons, seafarers in orange life jackets and Bush flipping between live appearance and filmed screen sequences (having spent three days in a flotation tank capturing these bits in partnership with Adrian Noble, the former artistic director of the Royal Shakespeare Company, whose last night with the troupe was evidently this evening and was therefore given a warm sendoff by Bush at the break). The overall effect was somewhat akin to an acid trip—not unpleasant at all, but disorienting and jarring in parts, such as one scene in which an overhead lighting apparatus was made to stand in for a search-and-rescue helicopter, frantically seeking Bush’s drowning female character beneath the waves as her family is rescued in the meantime. At one point, the ghost of Bush repeatedly sang “I’m not here” to her family (Bush’s real-life son, Bertie McIntosh, featured heavily throughout the evening) and to the audience, seemingly taunting all concerned by pointedly stepping out of the narrative to remind us of her lengthy absence.

Following a raucous standing ovation and subsequent 20-minute intermission, the altogether different “Sky Of Honey” suite began, connecting birds and their seeming symmetry to light (up at dawn, asleep at dusk) to a 19th-century painter whose work goes maddeningly unfinished over the course of its 10 “movements” but nonetheless ends on an altogether more uplifting, life-affirming note—with Bush and McIntosh lifting off in flight as the suite closed, to dazzling effect. Between the costuming, imaginative use of puppetry and special effects, the suite far exceeded the limits it had been assigned on record, and Bush seemed genuinely moved by the rowdy, passionate reception given to her performance. So much so, that by the time she had returned for the encores—accompanying herself on piano for the remarkable “Among Angels” before bringing the band back for the crowd-favorite “Cloudbusting”—she was dancing barefoot in twirling circles with the audience doing its level best to imitate this step, in place, in their seats.

By any rational measure, 35 years seems entirely too long to wait to see live music performed by an artist who is so obviously among the most influential and important of the past two generations. I mean, entire lives can be altered and worlds can be rocked off their rotational axes over the course of that period of time. And yet—as I sit here attempting to describe for you the sheer joy I experienced watching Bush bring her music to life for an audience who, equally as clearly, could imagine doing nothing else but take it in, in rapt attention, for 180 straight minutes—it seems an entirely rational turn of events. Dearest Kate—let’s try not to wait so long, next time. We missed you too much. There is simply too much “there,” there.

—Corey duBrowa

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Images From The Pitchfork Music Festival


MAGNET contributor Michael Jackson attended this year’s Pitchfork Music Festival and sent us these great photos. St. Vincent is above. More after the jump.

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