Krautrock: January 2005 Archives
Hesitant hype consumers take heed: it took me six months to "get" Electrelane. This after seeing them play the most riveting show I saw all year. This after being inappropriately obsessed with their promo photos for a couple of months. This after they released one of the most subtle, powerfully understated records of last year.
"And they're from Britain," he whispers--the crowd gasping in astonishment. Brighton, to be specific. Debuting with a series of short-run seven inches before setting up their own (Sony-supported) Let's Rock! imprint--the band eventually released their mostly instrumental debut, Rock It To the Moon (with which I admit I am embarrassingly unacquainted), later issued in the U.S. by the now-defunct Mr. Lady Records. The band soon moved to British sub-major Too Pure! (Stereolab, McKlusky, Scout Niblett, etc.) on which they released last year's The Power Out to near-universal acclaim--and a near six-month extended yawn in my iTunes playlist. And yet for whatever reason--be it guilt of critical association (the record's consistently compared to Euro-riffic folks like Neu and Stereolab), or more probably (and shamefully) the obscenely Anglo-baiting photo above--I maintained my loose interest in the band.
One chilly September evening of last year, after months of exhaustingly disappointing shows from bands that I've long admired (nameless here, of course), I ventured with decidedly low expectations to Berbati's to see an evening of glossy magazine fare--the Ex, some wanky free-jazz drummer that was rolling with them (who I am told is hot shit by some of my more highbrow friends), and Electrelane. As Electrelane set up, I retreated to the back of the room where I expected to stay for the duration of their set. By the third song, I was up front. By the end of their set, I was convinced that I just seen the Greatest Band Of All Time--and it was all because of Mia Clarke.
Sure, Verity Susman's slurred and howled multi-lingual gymnastics were undeniable, and Emma Gaze's (the most cartoonishly faux-British name ever muttered, I might add) fanastically metronomic kit was, well, just sickening--but guitarist Clarke, androidian in expression and precision, was, to put it bluntly, fucking MAJESTIC. Searing through songs made unrecognizable by sheer dexterity and volume, Clarke crushed cock-dropping blues riffs with blank and swanlike grace--brilliantly emasculating every solo, every chord, by pinching off every ounce of swaggering rocknroll testosterone. She was, in that evening, the most compelling guitar player I have ever seen. And Electrelane was the Greatest Band. I couldn't even stay for the Ex. After that, anything would be a let down.
And with that, I just knew that I finally got it-- that I would rush home, put on the record, and every stunning facet would finally unfold. But then it didn't. The Power Out was still boring as shit. I mean, what the fuck, right? These were the same songs, yet played as if they were recorded in a nursing home during rest hours--whispered so as not to wake the neighbors. By their own admission, Electrelane is a live band, but this kind of disparity was just inexplicable.
A few months have passed since September, and in that time I have grown to love The Power Out with a fervor that grows with every listen. It's incredibly subtle, unsettling, square-pegged, and often pretty clunky--but is beautifully so on each of those counts. Not that it could ever live up to the Electrelane that I saw last September, but how could you possibly compete with the Greatest Band Of All Time?
