Frightened Rabbit, Bodies of Water, O'Death – Concrete & Glass Festival 02/10/08

13 October 2008, 09:00 | Written by Rich Thane

(Live)

Thanks to the enterprising souls behind London’s newest and most evocatively named inner-city festival, Concrete & Glass, a drizzly Thursday night spent bar-hopping in Shoreditch suddenly looked less like a punishment for a past life’s misdeeds and more like a chance to hear some genuinely exciting live music. TLOBF staked out a prime spot at Hoxton Bar & Kitchen, cameras and pencils in hand.

Frightened Rabbit grow more out of their moniker with every show they play. At the start of the year they were a timid yet compelling live prospect, their performances echoing the neurotic, unstable, somewhat self-destructive nature of their songs. Since the release of The Midnight Organ Fight, however, their live shows have grown in confidence along with the size of their crowds. Where singer and principal songwriter Scott Hutchison would once have faced the side of the stage rather than the front, tonight, in front of a bustling, bursting audience, he stands proud and self-assured. Although the sound isn’t perfect in this strange box of a venue, it’s more than adequate to carry the emotional weight of their dark songs. “The Modern Leper”, “Head Rolls Off” and “Keep Yourself Warm” all tremble with the same intense insecurity as on record, and while Hutchison doesn’t appear to be suffering along with them as he once did, their honesty and emotional integrity couldn’t be stronger. A chilling rendition of “My Backwards Walk” spits and shivers with desperation and unwanted regret. Given that the majority of tonight’s songs come from the depths of despair – inspired by a break-up Hutchison endured – the only path Frightened Rabbit could have taken was up. Tonight is proof they’ve done just that, both emotionally and musically. They’re as good as they ever were, but now, live, they seem ready to accept that fact, rather than hiding behind their songs. Proof, perhaps, of the healing power of music.

Next up are LA’s Bodies of Water. They’re soon to support Calexico across Europe and tonight is their first, eagerly anticipated UK show. Let it be said at this point that the all-in-one bodysuit isn’t seen nearly enough. Yet said item seems to be frontwoman Meredith Metcalf’s wardrobe item of choice and, true to form, she is sporting one tonight. As she approaches the organ and the band kick in, it is as if we are transported to a dingy Berlin basement in the early ’70s, with the churning riffs, keyboard swells and distorted guitar of “Under the Pines” filling the room. Meredith’s semi-cracking voice, which has something of the music hall or cabaret about it, adds a welcome theatricality. From the middle of a packed, boisterous crowd, some of the sonic intricacies fall by the wayside. When the band try to start a song with vocal harmonies, the voices of hundreds of Hoxtonites do little to help the situation. “Do you have ‘do-overs’ in London, England?” they ask. Yes we do, and a good job too, as they break into “Water Here”, which is built around a fairground organ and group vocals akin to a less jubilant Polyphonic Spree before segueing into some prog-folk riffage and then taut ESG funk. On record, they manage to fuse a seemingly endless range of styles and textures without becoming overblown, although much of the nuance is lost on this crowd and it is the more urgent material that comes to the fore. The excellent “Even in a Cave”, with its churning drums and guitar, comes on like the Velvet Underground sitting in with Dave Brubeck. (Yes, really.) With a Spector flourish here, a brooding, fuzzy guitar there and the occasional spaghetti-western twang, by the end of the set they’ve bewitched even this excitable, distracted crowd.

O’Death seem to fill the stage with about 20 members, though there are actually only six of them, rambunctious and bearded and clearly ready for all sorts of naughtiness. They’re old favourites live, noisy as the venue can handle and bouncing around in what looks like a total shambles. But the tightness of the percussion and precision of the twangy strings – ukulele, banjo, fiddle even – tells of a deep familiarity with one another and a catalogue honed to deceptive perfection. “Down to Rest” is a stomping standard of their live shows, Greg Jamie’s nasally whine sliding into a hoarse roar over the four-to-the-floor thumped-out beat as the strings build into a frenzy. They could be Satan’s own in-house band, fiddling with evil glee as the flames rise higher. It’s a triumphant end to a darkly exhilarating night.

Words: Emily Moore, Ro Cemm and Mischa Pearlman
Photographs: Lucy Johnston