Atoms for Peace at Santa Barbara Bowl
April 17, 2010
Surrounding us: trees high up above and around, a cool sea breeze beckoning. It is an ordinary Saturday afternoon that would soon turn into an extraordinary evening at the Santa Barbara Bowl. Atoms for Peace were about to possess the stage and make us kneel in wonderment. Which begged the question: What on earth could Thom Yorke and friends do with quiet, bedroom-electronica? I wondered about this through the traffic-ridden tortuous-ass ride from LA. The Eraser, I admit, was not a direct hit to the heart. It had the soft, hypnotic beats I enjoy from electronic music, but not the soul-shattering melodies of say, Kid A. I suppose it was not meant to shatter, but soothe, and it would occupy a space in my ipod, but leave a small, distracting hole in my Radiohead-shaped heart. Perhaps my expectations were misplaced. For all my Yorke-obsessed rantings, I decided that the effort was, as a whole, all right. To be fair, I did enjoy a few tracks, namely “Harrowdown Hill” and “Analyse”. Usually it had been raining, and I had just arrived home from a long work day, ready to turn in.
Not tonight, though. Tonight, I would wake up startled at familiar yet remodeled architecture of sounds. Eyelids wide open then closed in euphoric disbelief. My body, too, engaged in various strings of unexpected behavior: Jumping and shaking to the hardcore drumbeats. I could hardly contain myself. Layers were laid and molded to sink itself perfectly into my ears. Each song that seeped through those speakers, seeped inside me--It shook my blood into a coagulated blob of bliss.
Thom introduced his teammates with sincere affection: “This Flea…This Joey…This Mauro…This Nigel…This (finger pointing down above his head) Thom!” You know you were in for a treat when Thom wears a smile. We spotted wild arm-flailing from Thom and ceaseless head-spasms from Flea. The blue-haired, red-hot bassist banging his brain until I swear it would turn to porridge. Flea seemed to have a genuine affinity to this music, and he was delving into its depths. Thom fed off of this energy and manically shifted his feet off the floor like two polar-charged magnets coming together. Swaying, swinging, soaring, swoon.
“The Clock” struck us all with tribal-like pulsating beats, enough to make the sky open up and weep. Nigel working magic on keyboards and a maze of other instruments--he remained stooped behind a curtain of sound--a wizard of gadgetry. Mauro and Joey on guitars and percussion from hell. Flea all the while, still fully engaged in fitful head-swirling, drawing imaginary blue lightening. The audience, denizens of a restless night, fall back appeased.
Another sweet surprise: “And it Rained all Night”. The dark, gritty bumps dumped us into a grooved-out underground tunnel rave. I could destroy floors dancing to this music. I wanted to stomp on everything, keel over and do somersaults, then assault the instruments that made those sounds. The blur of zigzag blue lights only added to my daze-ment. You almost forget Thom is even singing--while dancing he could be making incoherent proclamations in tongue and you couldn't care less. You'd still want to give him a bear hug when at last he sings: “I can never reach you."
Encore time. A pink brazier floated down landing just in front of Thom. He paused a bit, walked away chuckling and then picked it up: “I’m still puzzled how they can do that.” Enter: "Give Up the Ghost". A recorded falsetto vocal loop and light guitar strum following. This is wistful Thom. This one is for those and thems that never did you any good.
Thom may wish to do side projects and he may wish to create something apart from the over-analyzed entity that is Radiohead, but one thing is for certain: He cannot completely separate himself from it. If Radiohead is the body, then this project is its phantom limb, it’s familiar yet haunting member--it’s ghost. Thom sits down at his piano and plays a few instantly recognizable notes: “Videotape”. Let me just indulge myself further in saying that few other songs can reach out and grab the insides of you (heart, kidneys, lungs--all of it) and then returns them to you in the form of multicolored longing…in red blue green. It is just perfect on tape, a sweet eulogy for the mourning. But hearing the song live--it takes on an ethereal form that brings the newly departed down to hell and forces them to look back up at the still-living ashes of regret.
It is raining now as I write this and I’m reaching for my Eraser disc that spent too much time hibernating. This time, I am nowhere near the end of the day and I’m ready to dance again.
No comments:
Post a Comment