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Massive Attack Bristol, England's Massive Attack is not only seminal; it's what everyone making music in the loose genre known as trip-hop should aspire to. M.A.'s moody records lend themselves perfectly to breaking-up, 'fessing up, or gearing up to a slow groove. Not really dance music per se (although one can certainly dance to it if in the right frame of mind), Massive Attack is about ambient sadness. Happy-sounding songs don't tend to appear on the band's sterling records. Robert del Naja, Grant Marshall, and Andrew Vowles are known for collaborating with esteemed artists like Tricky and Tracy Thorn, which only add to Massive Attack's coolness quotient. On the band's latest (and best yet) effort, Mezzanine, The Cocteau Twins' vocalist Liz Fraser guests, singing the ethereal, in utero lyrics on the single, "Teardrop," as only she can -- ethereally. But how does a highly produced outfit like Massive Attack take its collaborative show on the road? Would Liz Fraser make an appearance? Or would the band offer a Beatlemania-style substitute? And how would this band of excellent studio musical backdropsmiths translate live in general? The packed-to-the-rafters show was populated with the coolest kids from every block: Roni Size look-alikes; people from Bristol; people who wish they were from Bristol. This too-hip-to-have-day-jobs crowd didn't seem too concerned about the aforementioned questions. The answer, however, is twofold. First of all, musically, Massive Attack is faithful to its recordings. Nothing is lost live. The songs, all loaded with similar, slow, trippy beats, filled the old ballroom with a kind of otherworldly atmosphere. The opening tune, "Angel," is a marvelous song to skulk down dark alleys to; it was followed by "Risingson," with Robert del Naja rapping quietly and provocatively. And so it went. Massive Attack's compositions, especially on Mezzanine, are mesmerizing. The CD sleeve should carry a warning: "Don't operate heavy machinery while under the influence." Which brings me to the second part of the answer. Massive Attack is so rhythmically consistent -- there are no highs and no lows, just the same languid energy level for the generous hour and forty minute set -- that unless you're tripping out to the trip-hop, it's not that difficult to become lulled. The live performance just doesn't take you anywhere except to that point of groove-o-nomic stability, which means that you could enjoy the music without even watching the darkly-lit stage. Liz Fraser, of course did not appear, but a lovely singer named Debbie Miller, who did her best with "Teardrop," did. However, in the words of one devoted spectator, "she just didn't quite cut it." Granted, it's her job as the female tour vocalist to perform the single, but it's natural to want to hear a song played the way you first heard it, and first fell in love with it. During other songs, Miller was good at creating that Massive Attack feel. Del Naja performed Tricky's "Karmacoma" well enough to suit me. As you might expect, they're a mellow bunch of fellows up there on stage. So mellow in fact, that the affable Grant Marshall, towards the end of the set, materialized in the back of the club by the bar and took a little break, chatted with audience members, while the rest of his band chugged along on stage. Moments later, he was back up there singing. Now, that's something you don't see every day. Massive Attack was accessible to the audience, thanks in part to Marshall's cameo and the band's incessant beats, but by virtue of those beats, there were no massive attacks for the audience. Live, the brilliant Bristolites stay on the mezzanine.
-- Alexandra Flood
Oasis/Fun Lovin' Criminals I'm still not sure why Fun Lovin' Criminals were picked to open for Oasis, but I'm glad they were. In fact, I wasn't even sure I wanted to bother with the logistics of a hype-happy Oasis show until I heard FLC were on the bill as well. Longtime local faves, FLC are as gleeful and funny as Oasis are dour and dry. Oasis couldn't be more British and the Criminals are as New York as a hot street pretzel. This match made no sense, but worked beautifully despite a sound system that clearly wasn't on their side. The opening chords of "Bombin' the L" were met with hometown screams of adoration, and Huey, Fast, and Steve kept the crowd going until they had to get the hell off the stage to let the headliners take over. Those looking for histrionics and hissy fits at Tuesday's sold-out show were sorely disappointed. The battling brothers Gallagher were extremely well behaved -- a little too well behaved, in fact. The only violence onstage was the abuse that Liam's tambourine suffered as the cantankerous singer repeatedly threw it to the floor and kicked it across the stage. (Tracy Partridge, the patron saint of tambourine players, would have been appalled.) Opening with the title track of their new album, Be Here Now, Liam exhibited a singing stance matched only by Motörhead's Lemmy Kilmeister in its peculiarity. Mr. Kensit holds his body in kind of a half-squat, while leaning back and craning his chin upwards towards the mike. Maybe this aids in producing his trademark whine -- or perhaps he had some sort of rash. He sounded great, but it sure was strange to witness. Looking down at the packed crowd from the mezzanine I was relieved that I'd gotten ahold of geezer tickets that bought us a seat far above the madding crowd. It looked as though there wasn't an inch separating one fan from another as the crowd swayed in time to the music. Liam occasionally squatted at the edge of the stage inbetween singing, which made the crowd even more nuts. Once in a while he'd hop down and wander towards the crowd (which was held at bay by barricades and jumbo-sized security guards). Not known for their dynamic stage presence (except when fists are a-flying), Oasis were surprisingly engaging. They ran through all their hits. "Here's the song that bought the cars and houses" is how Noel introduced "Wonderwall." Noel took over singing on "Magic Pie" and "Don't Look Back in Anger," and took the opportunity to inform us that yes, he's aware that he's a genius. These boys are clearly graduates of the Stuart Smally school of self esteem. Oasis get a lot of shit for being egotistical rip-off artists. Maybe they are, but at least they do it well. My only criticism of Tuesday's show was that some of the songs just went on too damned long. Oasis are a pop band and should behave accordingly. Their songs are wonderful when they last between three and four minutes -- anything longer and attention starts to wander. The only exception to this rule was the drawn-out version of "Champagne Supernova," which somehow worked swimmingly despite its length. When the show finally ended with a b-side called "Acquiesce," I was sated and happy and ready to go home. -- Judy McGuire
Portishead It was an intelligent crowd. American, mostly, but well-versed in all things hip and U.K. They understood what Portishead is all about. They appreciated the film clips, the rave lighting, the techno pulses. They recognized each new song; they rediscovered all the old. Despite the two years that passed between the release of universally accoladed Dummy and the stunningly bizarre follow-up record, Portishead, the crowd grooved on the fusion, the bridge of consistent sound. When a super-geeky, hyperintellectual in spectacles and a grey cardigan called out, "I hope you're recording this," everyone knew he was right. They were witnessing a perfect blend, clean notes, articulate instrumentals. They were watching music happen. From a distance. They never got close. Never once. What is most striking about vocalist and crooning queen Beth Gibbons is that she's not striking. Tiny on the stage, swathed in a wool turtleneck, dark jeans and boots, her straight hair tumbling into her eyes, she was a non-presence. She moaned, she shrieked, she wailed. But her Siren's song never threatened. Her eyes never locked on. You were painfully aware of the gaping divide between stage and audience, between musician and dancer, between them and us. Portishead plays beautifully, and they play for themselves. A fierce blend of trip-hop passions and laid-back grooves, they talk to each other through notes. They could care less about talking to an impersonal crowd. Which is strangely unsettling for a band who has been called deeply personal, accessible, widely adored. Look at Dummy. If you've ever listened to "Mysterons," chances are, you were forced to let Portishead in. "Wandering Star" can do more than its fair share of dancing on your psyche. And if you've ever sat back and played "Strangers" more than once in a shadowy room, your soul was surely touched. Now, add volume. Add pulsating light images, swirling orbs, grainy film of cars and neighborhoods and children. Mix in an anonymous crowd that sways as one. Let Portishead warm up through new songs like "Half Day Closing" and "Elysium." Wait for the cheers to erupt at the opening bars of the older "Pedestal." Wait longer to feel the rush that happened the first time anyone played Portishead for you. And keep waiting. Because while the band is absolutely perfect, in their perfection they have lost reality. And you walk out the door wondering why you ever thought they had been speaking to you alone and your broken heart. -- Rebecca Paoletti
Prodigy/ Meat Beat Manifesto When Prodigy's album, The Fat of the Land, entered the U.S. charts at #1 in July 1997, two schools of opinion emerged. One said that electronica had finally been accepted in the U.S. The other attributed the album's success to a mammoth campaign of unwarranted hype, and confidently predicted that Prodigy and electronica would soon fade from the pop music landscape. A year later The Fat of the Land has sold over 2 million copies in the U.S. alone, and Prodigy still draws huge, intensely loyal crowds. As the sold-out audience at DC's 9:30 club streamed into the venue on a hot June night, hype or no hype, anticipation was mingling heavily with the humidity. At 8:45 on the dot, the stage erupted. Meat Beat Manifesto were on ... and once on, they didn't slow down. An endless flow of busting beats slammed the audience as a stream of images --1950s sci-fi movies; a screaming man; fire; freaked-out animation -- played behind the band. Years ago, frontman Jack Dangers told critic Neil Strauss that he considered MBM something akin to a surrealist film, and the collage of image and sound emanating from the stage at the 9:30 Club proved that Dangers' vision is still thriving. The energy level rose with each song, as Dangers and company played early favorites "God O.D." and "Helter Skelter." By the time they began to play material like "Acid Again" and "Everything's Under Control" from their new album, Actual Sounds and Voices, the crowd on the floor was raging. It seemed unlikely that they could get any more worked up ... until Liam Howlett's Prodigy crew took the stage like they owned it. Every body in the house began to move in rhythm with the thumping bass and drums. Samples wailed. Strobes pulsed. The crowd on the packed floor writhed and bounced as one, while the balcony was alive with the raving faithful. Throughout it all, driving the hysteria, Prodigy remained hardcore and relentless, blasting through songs from Music for the Jilted Generation and The Fat of the Land. Both "Firestarter" and "Breath" came close to sending the crowd into a collective seizure. The set wrapped up with the controversial "Smack My Bitch Up." But there was no controversy here tonight, just rabid appreciation. The audience urged the band back on stage. Prodigy obliged, with a raw guitar-laced encore that bit clear through the stifling club air. And then they were gone. The lights came up, and the majority of fans left the club. But a considerable number remained, apparently ready to keep moving for as long as there was music. An impromptu dance party started as 9:30 DJ Jimmy Jam began spinning for a rave-ready cluster of amped electronicistas. For a short while, it felt like the hysteria would never subside, the flow of electricity would never shut off. Clearly, these fans didn't want the prodigious moment to come to an end. If that's hype, then hype never felt so real.
-- J.E. Coan
Radiohead When you go to see a performance by the greatest working rock band on the earth today, you pretty much expect it to be a concert-going experience of religious proportions. That's a little dramatic, you say? Well, for as long as humankind can remember, many forms of music have been inspired, often leading to levels of ecclesiastical ecstasy. So why can't radio-played rock music wound with genius have this same effect? After all, Radiohead's frontman Thom Yorke vocally hits high notes worthy of a choirboy that at once can be heartbreaking and bone- chilling. Guitarist and keyboardist Jonny Greenwood hides behind a veil of shiny black hair, crouching over his equipment as if in a supplicant trance. His brother, bassist Colin Greenwood, stays in the darkened background of the stage playing his instrument deftly and powerfully, like a humble servant. Drummer Phil Selway sits at his kit, a man who knows his job better than anyone, like the dedicated soldier. Guitarist Ed O'Brien stands at attention stage left, lending his backing vocals during hauntingly pretty songs like "Karma Police" and "No Surprises," and plays his guitar with the quiet pizzazz of an elated preacher. This combination is a potent rock cocktail of exaltation. You sit enthralled and wonder (despite some busybody Music Hall usher shining his flashlight in your general direction for no apparent reason) how five mere mortals can create such heavenly rock. Yet they do. Radiohead opened their one-hour-and-20-minute set (this does not include the 20-minute encore) with a bang-out performance of "Airbag," the first track off of their highly acclaimed third album, OK Computer, followed by "Karma Police." The songs were well-executed, if not downright electrifying (mostly the latter). Yorke spoke to the crowd here and there; most interestingly, he dedicated their anti-technology anthem, "Paranoid Android," to billionaire Bill Gates, who Yorke said "could solve a lot of the world's problems." Radiohead performing perfect songs like "No Surprises," "Exit Music (For a Film)," or the last song of the set, "Street Spirit [Fade Out]" caused a visceral reaction: a quickening in the chest, a tightening in the throat. It's just music, you think, but its power overtakes you inexplicably. Then there is something about Thom Yorke, his charisma, his voice, his lyrics -- the acres of extra pants he wears bunched around his ankles-- that makes you think, if I could put him in my pocket and ferry him home, I would -- in a heartbeat. Yorke is also known for his convulsion-like stage antics, as if he's been tossed into a sizzling frying pan and never felt better. However, he was more physically low-key during this show, as the tour was drawing to a close. But this did not detract: high-key Thom or low-key Thom, either way, you are guaranteed a captivating performance. After the band left the stage, the audience howled for almost five minutes before Radiohead returned for their encore, which included (thank god!) the most beautiful rock song ever, "Fake Plastic Trees," and ended with the excellent wind-down song, "The Tourist." Radiohead gives rewarding show. You don't leave hungry. You don't leave empty-headed. You don't leave empty-hearted. It's a musical communion of smarts and melody. It's the rock they must listen to from Arcadia to the Elysian Fields, and all areas of perfectly imperfect paradise in between. -- Alexandra Flood
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