Crystal Stilts at The Lexington, London

Monday 16 February, 2009

Here’s a couple of takes on the same gig with some overlap, a little disagreement and a stringent and weak (respectively) version of a similarly-focused criticism.

Take one, by Martin Dickie:
An almost tragic melancholy descends as Crystal Stilts play London’s Lexington. Sadly, it isn’t the doom-laden atmospherics of their music that renders the audience with static boredom. A solid album and plenty of blog gossip give this crowd expectations somewhere near the realm of an early Joy Division gig. And the immediate impression given by the band isn’t far off that mark.

Lead singer Brad Hargett, looking for all the world like a Norse God, steps onto stage long after his band-mates have set up and eyes the crowd with steely suspicion. You can’t take your eyes off him. As the band rip into the opener, all crystalline feedback and noise, his low drone of a voice echoes out and one or two hairs stand straight to attention. From here, it seemed like nothing could go wrong.

Three songs in, and a very different story began to unfold. It starts to dawn on everyone that these talented youngsters, and there is no doubt they have talent, are mere pretenders. Imagine if Richard Gere had been given the role of Hannibal Lecter, instead of Anthony Hopkins. Crystal Stilts have recognised greatness in other bands, and are attempting to wear it like a mask. The band squirm as their songs generate only muted applause.

At one point female drummer Frankie Rose nervously exclaims through feigned laughter “you’re so quiet out there tonight,” before shifting a worried glance towards bassist Andy Adler. The smattering of Pains of Being Pure at Heart T-shirts suggests that the next-big-thing mantle, as far as shoegazing indie pop is concerned, has already changed hands.

Crystal Stilts are trying desperately to sound like their heroes, Jesus and Mary Chain, Ian Curtis, the Velvet Underground – and there is nothing wrong with that – but this school night crowd could have done with seeing the band fill the inviting grey void of their music with some sparks of personality.

Take two, by Natalie Shaw:
Alight Of Night doesn’t reveal itself fully until at least the fourth listen, which pre-empts the lack of excitement, fervour or captivation in the air at this particular Crystal Stilts live show. It’s only when you’ve plugged in your headphones and listened to each of the album tracks on their own that the blurry lack of distinction between them begins to clear. But all of that’s forgotten when you’re in a room full of the actively disinterested… dichotomous indeed.

‘The Dazzled’ is glorious when listened to (or watched) in isolation from the rest of Crystal Stilts’ material; it seethes in parasitical feedback, but moreover, features Hargett’s gloriously dissonant whirring vocals.  And it’s  warped, doom-fraught and situated within the imaginary parameters set by the letter JAMC may have once written to Dear Deirdre. Though by heck, does that come across live. It just sounds so constraining.

Compared to the first support act, Manhattan Love Suicides, the headliners admittedly look like (crystal) Paganini-on-stilts, but it all comes back to the lack of variation. Not for a second could we have expected anything other than the OTT/effortlessness paradox that’s they’ve so honed in on on the long-player. Which can only make for a limited shelf-life, especially in the face of such outrageous hype.

Crystal Stilts are the sort of band you pray to hear when your iPod’s on shuffle, and that’s unfortunately their defining trammel. Though that said, the middle section of ‘Departure’ is damn fine… it’s just all a little too settled and impossible to engage with. Ho hum.