Anathallo,
with Shapiro
and Page France
Starr Hill Music Hall
Thursday, November 30
Performing like a well-oiled machine, Anathallo disappointed.
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music When a band introduces its second song of the evening as “a song for the heavy-hearted”—as Anathallo did Wednesday night at Starr Hill—you have a pretty quick idea of what you’re in for. While most of the crowd was rapt by Anathallo’s meticulously crafted arrangements and carefully constructed pop melodies, one astute audience member—one of very few, I suspect, who was over 21—noted the difference between “making” music and “playing” music. In her words, Anathallo’s “groaning effort at ‘making’ music” was not half as satisfying—well-wrought and painstakingly produced as the tunes might have been—as either of the two, less polished, but far more compelling, opening acts (Shapiro of Harrisonburg and Page France of Baltimore). Indeed, the seven members of Anathallo often lined up onstage like a musical assembly line, and however skilled or coordinated their manufacture might have been, the product was not worth the assemblage.
At the other end of the spectrum was Shapiro, a tremendously talented four-piece piano-rock outfit from Harrisonburg whose sharp songwriting and refreshingly energetic stage show was reminiscent of the theatrical rock of the late ’70s qua Queen and David Bowie and even rock musicals such as Little Shop of Horrors. Shapiro, not unlike Anathallo, added to their well-crafted pop songs intelligent orchestral arrangements, drum loops, and Wilco-like sound effects, but their tasteful use of these tools combined with an unself-conscious zeal allowed them to relate with their audience in a way that Anathallo’s fans seemed only to pretend to enjoy.
Nearing the end of their set, Shapiro singer and pianist Jeremy Teter tossed his tambourine into the audience. This crowd-thrilling moment appeared unrehearsed and utterly of the moment. Whether it was or not, Teter had fun doing it anyway. In fact, the Shapiro boys seemed to have fun with every aspect of their show.
If there is something to be learned from four energetic young musicians “playing” music, rather than “making” it, then let’s hope, at the very least, that a few of the Anathallo folks took a moment out of their evening to watch Shapiro’s inspired set.—W. Andrew Ewell
Peaches
Satellite Ballroom
Monday, November 27
music Peaches, the self-described “Queen of Electrocrap,” sings exclusively about sex, and Monday night, November 27, at the Satellite Ballroom she invoked every possible euphemism and innuendo and then some, in her effort to celebrate the act of coitus. A larger than usual crowd, teeming and expectant, was on hand to cheer her on. As Petula Clark’s “Downtown” issued from the sound system, the Berliner by way of Canada walked out onto the stage and led off with her song of the same name, though this one is about oral satisfaction. (Was Petula possibly singing about that?) By the second tune, “Two Guys (For Every Girl),” she was leading the crowd in a naughty sing-along of “Slappin’ those dicks all over the place/Rubbin’ that shit all up in your face.” Her music is often termed “electroclash” to mean a combination of hip-hop, hard rock and electronic dance music, and it was a mix that kept the undulating mass of fans writhing throughout the evening.
Where the traditional show is not unlike a museum experience, Peaches’ resembles a pep rally, and whether strapping a guitar on to perform harder songs like “Boys Wanna Be Her” or pounding on a drum pad with drummer Samantha Maloney on “Back It Up, Boys,” her energy was unflagging. She constantly urged the audience to join in, and even when the show settled into a predictable rhythm, the onlookers barely lagged. They were participants, expending almost as much as the performer. Scantily clad in gold lamé, with heavy rouge on her cheeks, Peaches sartorial inspiration seemed to be part KISS, and part Dr. Frank N. Furter from The Rocky Horror Picture Show.
She shed garments throughout the night, and by the encore, her anthem “Fuck the Pain Away,” Peaches was as stripped down as her clothing. In an act of high theater, she had already collapsed onto the ground and departed the stage on a hand gurney (before returning to spew fake blood). The crowd—exhilarated but exhausted—could have also used some assistance.—Jayson Whitehead
