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The Concretes, Martyr’s 5.13.06

Monday, May 15, 2006

Victoria Bergsman wants to eat your soul.
With the release of In Colour, the Concretes have revealed themselves to be, essentially, a second-rate Belle and Sebastian (which sounds like a shitty way to start a concert review but which in reality is really not all that bad when you think about it). They both started with a big, critically acclaimed record (minus a low circulation debut) with delightfully narrow dynamic range and immense songwriting promise followed by more ambitious, curious records dipping into a variety of styles to a variety of degrees of a variety of successes. The central difference, of course, being that an immensely talented songwriter like Stuart Murdoch can filter his skills through a number of generic filters, while the Concretes are, for the moment at least, spinning their wheels. There are a few gems on Colour (the lovely Fleetwood Mac-ish “Grey Days” [mp3], for instance), but the whole thing feels like either a big practice session or the first step into stylistic quicksand.

I saw the Concretes perform at some place called Martyr’s in Chicago Saturday night, and the show offered enough evidence to allow me to assume that the band, or, at least lead singer Victoria Bergsman, is undergoing a performative identity crisis similar to that heard on the new record (and experienced by B&S live, too). They started the show promisingly enough—opening with my favorite track from the new record, “Fiction,” which is sort of how I’d imagine a collaboration between Steely Dan and Electrelane to sound, but Bergsman, the focal point of the band’s eight members, stood nearly motionless, her hands clasped in front of her, holding closed a thick black coat draped over her shoulders (see the crummy, re-touched, blurry picture above). It was affect, pure and simple, but completely ineffective. She drained energy from the band, which didn’t exactly take energy pills before the set. Maybe it’s a Swedish thing, but even on the Nico Goes to Motown narcosis of “You Can’t Hurry Love,” I like to see more than a little bit of toe tapping and gentle swaying. Even the Madness pastiche “On the Radio,” and the extended freakout at the end of set-closer “Lonely As Can Be,” which saw the ever-so-cute rhythm guitarist drop to her knees and just wail, were dulled by the fact that the band seemed to be under the influence of some passion-draining medication.

The central aspect of the show that drew my attention though, and which also only heightened my suspicion that Bergsman’s got a long way to go toward some semblance of live performative acumen, was her open antagonism toward the audience, specifically two dudes standing in front of us. They were about three or four feet in front of Bergsman, and basically talked to each other through the entire set. They weren’t bothering me, and no one around us made any mention of them being a nuisance. That is, well, except for Bergsman herself, who after the second song looked at them and said “you two certainly like to talk, don’t you?” Which cued someone in the rear of the crowd to yell “It’s a bar!” and the rest of the crowd (or perhaps just me) to just watch Bergsman’s facial expression for the rest of the show, at the expense of paying attention to the performance. The two guys just kept talking, only with pronounced gestures after being outed, provoking near-constant and very visible hatred from Bergsman in the form of rolled eyes and the kind of smirk only a cute Swede who looks like Conor Oberst or maybe Antony can pull off.

The gentle hostility performance-style actually started with the opening act, a solo chick who went by the name New Buffalo and who looked like a girl dancing by herself in her bedroom most of the time. On a few occasions, she actually told the audience to be quiet, which of course had the opposite effect. It made me like her less, the same effect Bergsman’s behavior engendered toward the Concretes. Perhaps I was just a little flustered that the only sign of passion in their entire set came at the end of their last song (pictured below), but coupled with Bergsman’s chiding of the geeks in front of me, the band might as well have hung a shower curtain between themselves and the crowd for all of their distancing, purposeful (Bergsman) or not (the rest of the band, minus Hendrix Jr there).
Which brings me to a question, or, um, three, actually: First, should a band or artist playing pop music at a bar have any expectations of politeness or quiet deference from the audience, most of whom are probably drunk or on their way to being so? Second, does the audience owe anything to the performer other than their presence at the event and between-song affirmation? Third, if a performer becomes annoyed at a less-than-polite crowd, should he/she/they address the situation and risk blowing things out of proportion, or just plow through the set and sulk on the bus? I’m leaning toward no on all three counts, especially the way Bergsman handled things last night. I mean, this isn’t spoken word or shoebox theatre, it’s a pop concert, though it was obvious that Bergsman may have thought differently, at least last night. It could be a sign of a singer with a lot of promise struggling to find her public feet, or someone fed up with the drizzly shit Chicago weather and the fact that Martyr’s smelled like a urinal cake. Either way, what do you think?

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