Memory’s so funny. For all the outlandish, high production value, cabals-of-choreographed-dancer-enhanced shows I’ve attended over the years, the ones seared like a cattle brand into my brain are more often than not the ones that should be the most forgettable. Justin Timberlake at the ACC? Totally Eternal Sunshined from my spotless mind, save for the uncomfortable synaptic residue of full gospel choirs and a virtual orchestra, both in hologram form.
But to this day, one of the most electrifying sets I’ve been lucky enough to see came courtesy of San Francsico’s Deerhoof one sweaty night in August of 2003. Crammed into Rancho Relaxo’s miniscule stage (to the point where you kept worrying one or more of the windmilling members was gonna tumble a couple steps into the crowd), the quartet delivered a decidedly bare-bones performance that was raw, tight and totally dynamic. Deerhoof’s act was all noise, no gimmicks; they left an impression not through fancy tricks, but through the mesmerizing balance they achieved between skronky, dissonant chaos and clean control.
With that minimalist magic in mind, I was slightly apprehensive about how Deerhoof would approach the exponentially larger set-up at the Phoenix. Would they unleash a holographic army of po-faced step-dancers? Would their unassuming experimentalism feel dwarfish transplanted to the big stage and bigger concert hall?
After a solid, aggressive set from mystery guests Ten Kens, whose relative lack of experience was in no way betrayed by their tight ensemble playing, singer Dan Workman’s soaring vocals and their general sturm und drang, the impressive transformation of Sebastien Grainger (and his Montagnes) went a ways in assuaging my fears. The last time I saw the guy perform, he was dressed like a lumberjack and playing a set of rough-hewn Lou Barlowish basement rock as part of the launch for Out Of This Spark’s Friends In Bellwoods comp at the Tranzac. This time around, Grainger was a stylized (and suspender’d) vision in white, stumbling over floor monitors as he bashed out spastic guitar hooks anchored in snotty ‘90s Britrock and big-haired power pop. While Grainger’s becoming a formidable frontman, the greatest strength of his new project is the low end, specifically the precise rhythmic assault of Leon Taheny, who is quietly holding forth as one of the city’s finest rock drummers.
Los Angeles’ No Age managed to make their loud, percussive live set feel lo-fi. From the buzz around the drums-and-guitar duo, I was expecting something abrasive and aggro. Instead, the impressively genial pair, secure enough in their masculinity to wax rhapsodic about the fine miso gravy at vegan/veggie establishment Fresh, delivered tightly-wound post-punk with surprising jolts of melody. Occasionally, that tuneful quality came courtesy of Randy Randall’s spontaneously pretty, chiming guitar chords; whenever Randall lapsed into teeth-grating fuzz, singer/drummer Dean Spunt took his cue to shift from a laconic Black Francis speak-yelp into something more akin to singing (albeit still a punk-rock kind of singing).
Before Deerhoof came on around midnight, band members and minions scurried across the stage, setting up a curious collection of what appeared to be a giant turbine, flanked by vertically-mounted trashcan lids on cymbal stands. The purpose of these alien forms was anyone’s guess — I never would’ve predicted they’d be focal points in a spectacular light show.
Synched to high-pitched singer Satomi Matsuzaki’s elastic band basslines and Greg Saunier’s beats (the kick drum set off glittering rainbow-coloured torrents that looked like fireworks), the programmed display (which was capably engineered by token Torontonian and “spiritual advisor” Peter Venuto — the band quipped that he justified their inclusion in Canadian Music Week) was a fantastic counterpart to the band’s mercurial sound. Since that small-scale Rancho gig, Deerhoof’s profile has grown considerably, and they’ve matched their increasing popularity by becoming infinitely more confident and innovative. Instead of chaotic squalls, their bursts of unhinged feedback feel almost mathematical. Twin guitarists Ed Rodriguez and John Dieterich mimic Matsuzaki’s naïve-sounding vocals with similar melodies transposed up or down an octave, creating a kind of sandwich effect of parallel layers; when the precise compositions dissolve into dissonance, it sounds like an algebraically-engineered collapse.
That’s not to say Deerhoof are overly academic. Quite the opposite — there’s something very approachable about their onstage energy, from Matsuzaki’s neat hand gestures to the back-and-forth interplay between bandmates. And while I wouldn’t discount the potentially hypnotic (or seizure-inducing) effects of that light show, the band’s openness managed to keep the huge crowd at the Phoenix even more captivated than the handful of fans at their intimate appearance back in ‘03.