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| Reluctant Stars: I suppose a smile's out of the question? |
The bloke behind me at the Mazzy
Star concert last night had a profoundly cerebral reaction to the band’s first song.
“Whoooooooo!” he shouted, about five seconds in. He knew the song, you see, and
was excited to hear them play it live. It turned out that he knew all the songs
that Mazzy Star played, because five seconds into every song, he shouted the very
same thing, his hands cupped around his mouth to enhance the volume of his
message. Which was, “Whooooooo!”
He was genuinely pleased, I’ve no
doubt about it, and wasn’t just wanting to let us all know that he knew every
single Mazzy Star song. There was also an element of surprise contained in his
“Whoooooooo!” Like he really hadn’t expected them to play that song at that
particular moment. As if, coming to a Mazzy Star concert, he’d thought they
might play their version of Beethoven’s fifth Cello Sonata. Or a few Gene Autry
numbers. Perhaps something from former Orange Juice drummer Zeke Manyika’s long
forgotten solo album, or their take on Herbie Hancock’s Watermelon Man. But no,
get this, Mazzy Star ended up playing nothing but Mazzy Star songs.
“Whooooooo!”
It goes without saying that I
felt ill-will towards The Fan Behind Me. And as the night went on, this
ill-will extended towards Mazzy Star, despite the beauty of their drowsy, reverb-swabbed
ballads about… I’ve no idea what they’re about. One song is about how far away
California is. For all I can understand, the rest could be about singer Hope
Sandoval’s recommended temperature for washing light colours. This, however, is
the least of the band’s communication issues.
Aside from half a dozen candles,
the band played in the dark, so we couldn’t actually see them. Granted, this
meant that there were very few wankers thrusting their phones into the air to record
precious footage for the delight of friends and family over Thanksgiving. On
the downside, we couldn’t see them. You know when you say, ‘I went to see Mazzy
star last night’? Well, I went to not see Mazzy Star last night. Mazzy Star are
too sensitive to be seen on stage. This means the tickets were extra cheap
because they passed the savings from not having to employ a lighting technician
directly on to the fans. Or perhaps they would have, if they didn’t treat their fans with such disdain for being fans.
As well as shrinking from the
horror of light, they also can not bear verbal contact with the audience.
They’re just too otherworldly, high up in their own elevated realm of distant
stars and celestial musical musings (otherwise known as ‘their own arses’). Not
that I’m expecting folk club banter, but would a muttered ‘Thank you’ be too
much to ask? Or is that an overly mundane expression for these delicate
artistes? Would pronouncing such a commonly used phrase irredeemably besmirch the
purity of their counter-cultural compositions? That’s probably why they have no
lighting technician – they overheard him saying thank you to the cashier at
Starbuck’s and fired him. Hey, we don’t say thank you in Mazzy Star.
I realised about three songs in
that the way to enjoy this concert (which I’m sure MS would tell you – if they spoke - that this is absolutely not what their music is there for) would
be in the state known as stoned-out-of-your-box (unfortunately, I wasn’t). “Interviews
are difficult,” Sandoval told The Guardian recently. “Performing live is
difficult. But nobody's forcing us to do it.” Really, Hope (who’s 47, not the
17-year-old she comes across as), it’s no big deal if you want to stay at home
in a room full of candles. I’ll do the same, and be $30 better off, listening
to your gorgeous voice without the intervention of Mr. Whoo.
