Of Montreal and Janelle Monae
October 23, 2010
Liberty Hall
Janelle Monae must suck at Pictionary.
Clad in a velvet black cape that swept the floor, the budding icon warbled and wailed while she briefly slashed at a three-foot tall canvas on stage with a paintbrush. The soul visionary was creating a half-baked representation of some human form (boobs? A vagina?), emblazoning the painting with "Love You" before abandoning the whole cherade in favor of throwing her hands up and belting. The painting wasn't the important part, anyway. That wasn't what the packed, rabid sold-out crowd at Liberty Hall was cheering for. It was that voice.
My god. That voice.
I'd humbly like to submit Janelle Monae's candidacy for my generation's diva, visionary, etc. Her opening set for Of Montreal at Liberty Hall proved that she's ready to take on the job.
The 24 year-old singer, dapper in her black-and-white tuxedo and pompadour, trotted out a set of fiery, undiluted soul and funk that was nothing short of spectacular. "Sincerely, Jane" stole a page from Gershwin in evoking the seductive terror of a towering metropolis, and "Cold War" was one of the best songs I've ever seen performed live. Much like Monae's chilling video -- which you can watch here -- the song was both a rocking, toe-tapping rager, and an incredibly touching, vulnerable portrait. Monae, in some freakish feat of superhuman ability, conjures both on stage, at the same time. (Usually while doing a one-footed mashed-potato, or bending backwards with the force of her voice.)
Monae's set wasn't only made up of numbers that had her wing-tipped black and white shoes jittering around the stage, though. Bathed in the blue light of the stage, a live rendition of "Smile" stripped the singer's soul-funk narrative down to her vocals and her lead guitarist's sleepy guitar. Monae's face was wide-eyed and sincere, and her hands fluidly gestured towards the audience, as though she was presenting them with some intangible gift. She was: it was impossible to watch her without experiencing twinges of tingling from her sheer force as a performer. (The relationship between her and the crowd seemed to be symbiotic: at one point, as Monae bopped about the stage, ecstatic, a tuxedo'd guy from her entourage had to chase her for several seconds before she held still long enough for him to slip her cape on her shoulders.)
The crowd was breathless. As black and white balloons floated in the dim lights, two thumping crescendos of clapping called Monae out for another number after "Tightrope." Monae took the opportunity to catapult herself into the packed crowd with a crew of guys in silver body suits surrounding her. As Monae took the volume down in a simple call-and-response of la-la's, the crowd bent down on its knees with Monae, bobbing to the beat. Back on stage, Monae writhed electrically on the ground, screaming, shouting, and wailing. She didn't seem to want the song to end. Hell, no one in the venue wanted the song to end.
Monae threw the mic stand on the floor before strutting off-stage. She destroyed it, and she knew it.
Throngs of people flowed out of Liberty Hall after Monae left the stage. (At one point, Monae made a quick shout-out to her mother, and what sounded like the name of her highschool, F.L. Schlagle. An entire section of the crowd stood up and cheered; and all of them left after her set.) Can you blame them?
Besides the bespectacled, geeky white guys, some of the crowd looked like they could have been extras in Rocky Horror Picture show. (I spied one girl sporting a pink wig, Nicki Minaj-style; and another girl had a black cube perched atop her head, like a Gaga wannabe.) A line at the top of Liberty Hall's balcony seemed to lead backstage - and it was long. I saw two old ladies dressed to the nines that could only be Monae's grandmothers, ushered in and out of a door manned by a gigantic, ass-kicking cowboy. Sadly, most of these people seemed to skedaddle after Monae left.
After a long break, Kevin Barnes and his troupe of eccentric players took the stage. After strobes, crashing drums and ambient noise, Of Montreal dove headfirst into a sea of colorful, funky electro full of falsetto and crunchy dance hooks. First impression: Barnes was wearing pink tights, a bad '90s blazer, and what seemed to be a skirt - until he hopped around backwards, and showed off his lyrcra-pink ass. (It was an apron.) It was as if Barnes had raided a six-year-old's costume trunk from 1994.
The show involved a pig love-triangle (more on that later), lots of strange, conceptual costumes, and Barnes, riding a gigantic caterpillar. It was throbbing, floor-rattling fun, but it also felt a bit like a joke that I didn't quite get, or that I just wasn't stoned enough to appreciate. Long breaks between songs -- much like a Broadway play, really -- were necessary for some of Barnes' more elaborate set pieces, like a gigantic television set that projected Barnes' image while he played a piano-number backstage. (It was a highlight. Pauses in the song found Barnes looking straight into the camera, and flashing a toothy, goofy grin, like a little kid.)
Lots of numbers found hands in the air, and chants that accompanied Barnes' every syllable. Then again, songs like "Wraith Pinned to the Mist and Other Games" was an indie mainstay before it was co-opted by Outback Steak House. Hundreds of show-goers' fists bobbed in the air, for other numbers, like "Rejecter": Want to pay some other girl / to just walk up to her and hit her.
Of Montreal didn't skimp on the theatrics themselves, either. The guitarist crowd-surfed as he played his guitar, and watching Barnes have clothed, on-stage sex with a girl in a pig costume remains ingrained in my brain, whether I'd like it to, or not. (Barnes, to the lady-pig's jilted pig lover: "My soul is so fat. I have the fattest soul. Did you know that God is a dentist?") In fact, there was a lot of strange, funky sex going on: Barnes frequently pretended to jack off the microphone stand, stroked the face of the pink-wigged girl in the crowd while singing I want you to be my pleasure puss / I want to know what it's like to be inside you, and mimed sex with at least two or three of his costumed companions -- one time, in a fake jail cell. Can a man in an apron and pink tights be sexy? Apparently, the answer is yes.
"All right, Lawrence Kansas -- if that's your real name," Barnes slurred, fawningly, before he laid into one of his final numbers. Men in red and black African-like masks came out. Feather confetti exploded. It's Of Montreal -- what can you expect?
Critics' Bias: I'm not exactly the psychedelic type.
Overheard In the Crowd: The kid next to me: "He's like the modern David Bowie. Are you going to put that in your review?"
Me: "If you want me to."
The kid next to me: "Awesome."
Random Notebook Dump: Why is this guy in pink tights and an apron sexy? This is a question I never hoped to address.
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Every time I hear or read about Monae's live performances (or see clips of them on YouTube), I always think the same thing: I WANT TO BE THERE!!!
This show in particular sounds amazing--the woman is a powerhouse, and I love it. :)
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