Peter Broderick @ Academy 3
9th September 2009
http://www.myspace.com/peterbroderick
In retrospect, lying on the sticky floor of Academy 3 whilst singing accompanied only by sleigh bells is pretty unusual for a solo performer. After the show Peter Broderick delivered he could have driven a nail through somebody’s foot and still received a rapturous reception.
This genial American, an occasional member of Danish ensemble Efterklang, makes minor symphonies by looping delicate fragments of piano, violin, voice and guitar, simultaneously haunting and wistful. Stripped of percussion, and with minimal lighting, it is his effortless skill in deftly switching from instrument to instrument that provides all the showmanship necessary.
Comparisons to fellow wunderkind Final Fantasy seem not without merit, though Broderick is less whimsical and ornate; songs such as ‘Games Again’ break into Brian Eno territory: glacial, vast, with an undercurrent of foreboding. The songs, even when they break into violent conclusions, never feel threatening, always playful. Never indulgent and always inclusive, one song even loops spontaneous audience applause to use as its percussive base.
Peter Broderick has flown under the radar for some time now, but his easy charisma, boyish looks and – crucially – his arsenal of excellent material should put paid to this minor injustice. Shows like this certainly won’t harm his cause much either. A rare delight.
These two album reviews did run, however. From the sublime...
Converge, Axe To Fall
Generic conventions aren't transgressed by Converge; they're assaulted. They're smothered, strangled and maimed with broken glass. The fourth in a series of practically flawless '00s releases by the Massachusetts quartet - the seminal Jane Doe, the claustrophobic You Fail Me and the triumphant No Heroes - are now joined by the batshit insanity of Axe To Fall.
Converge cram into the 103 seconds of 'Effigy' as much ingenuity, emotion and surprise as U2 have in their career to date. The title track utilises instruments less for musical ends and more for a trench battle with the other dark forces of mediocrity, winning in an effortless crush. The victory song must be opener 'Dark Horse', an endorphin rush like no other, inducing spontaneous acts of leaping about to anyone within a 200-yard radius. There's no filler to be found; just head-melting precision. Slackness of the jaw is to be expected.
Sure, they're earnest. Some will be put off by the out-and-out heaviness and forays into discordance; that's the nature of complete artistic conviction. It's a record that lacks half-measures and compromises, placing a premium on surprise, integrity and passion. They're telling us they can't be beaten. Records like this make you believe them.
...to the ridiculous.
Fuck Buttons, Tarot Sport
The basic problem with 'noise music'? That it is practically impossible to differentiate between unappreciated genius and anti-social posturing performed by over privileged chancers. Make no mistake, Fuck Buttons are the latter.
The Skins generation's own noise band has the looks, the arms-aloft bonhomie and hipster credentials, but substance is in limited supply. Opening track 'Surf Solar' aims for shape-shifting hypnosis, but falls woefully short: a ten-minute track whose trajectory becomes apparent in as many seconds.
Tarot Sport has two kinds of track: songs that begin annoyingly and crescendo predictably, and songs that don't even build. The latter kind are especially indulgent; 'Phantom Limb' surely must be an art-school in-joke (like their song titles, their name) given its howlingly pretentious nature. Not even a millisecond passes which could be mistaken for a good song on a good record.
Great noise music is a physical experience, not an intellectual one. Genre predecessors Whitehouse and Wolf Eyes whip the body into a physical frenzy with blasts of white noise so cacophonous that the brain is coerced into retreat or acquiescence. Fuck Buttons' gravest error on Tarot Sport is their own calculating restraint, which comes across as predictable and patronising. The emperor's new clothes disrobe.
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