Live
< Liars at White Heat
words by Kate Hutchinson
pics by
You get the feeling that among the indie scenesters and fist raising fans, a large portion of the crowd here at White Heat are present out of sheer curiosity. Liars are the kind of band that encourage a snoop. We too are snoopers. Here is a headliner that sold out the louche Soho joint in a sprinkling of hours, creating a mass of spectators so dense it’s ‘elbows at the ready!’ to get in. They’ve an untapped air of mysticism, a vibrant Burka that shrouds the foursome in ambiguity, reining in legions of devotees, despite their nonsensical crayon scribbles of melodies. So it’s a surprise and a disappointment that what should have been an ear canal blowing, mind befuddling set is somewhat of an anti-climax. Their maniacal melodies and crazed falsetto, coupled with shockingly awful sound, don’t make for a particularly thrilling exercise in art rock. More like a thick, clumpy blur.
Liars are apologetic for the technical faff and thunder through the static and feedback nonetheless, not ones for illusions of grandeur. They care not for fuzz nor time signatures, hooks nor a hometown. Each meandering aural tapestry or short sharp blare is informed by a different locality, the nomadic band taking in their formative years in Australia, then Williamsburg, Brooklyn (where they forged the art-punk-dance scene and then abandoned it), über art haunt Berlin and now the sunny horizons of Los Angeles. This is clearly a band that has– excuse the turn of phrase– ants in their pants.
Turquoise hipsters slung dangerously low, frontman Angus whoops and soars as he flashes us his pubic bone while his lips encompass the microphone, barking, growling and groaning. Having never encountered him before, the image of his pillar-box red face, swathed in sweat and scrunching up to scream like a two-year-old brat, will stick for weeks. He is half peacock and half a doped-up Jim Carey. A triple-pronged vocal howl enters, scrote-rupturing basslines tickles where they shouldn’t thanks to Jeremy Glover (the new/session/tour/whatever bassist) on the mind-numbingly epic tribal-esque track ‘Let’s Not Wrestle Mt. Heart Attack’. It calls in pained falsetto back to the (warped) didgeridoo reverberations of Oz, the delay on Angus’ angelic blare giving the track an ethereal quality. And it's the industrial ‘robot-in-a-blender’ layers here where Liars are at their strongest, the disconnected squelches and thudding drums allowing the crowd something almost concrete to tap along to.
New material stretches its wings and then crumples, its noticeably more catchy formula conjuring a word that once seemed impossible to associate with Liars - Pop; new single ‘Plaster Casts of Everything’, stunningly named in true Liars abstract style; a glowing post-punk example.
Drummer Julian Gross’ Elvis-styled outfit glitters with every methodical tub thump as a percussive instrumental takes place like a Blue Peter tin can demonstration on downers. The lung noises entering could be coming from Thom Yorke, later switching vocals from the deadpan guitarist. Yawn. Suddenly Angus reveals, "We’ve been here for all the bombs and now we’re going to try and replicate something we blew," before galloping headfirst into a vortex of thrashing drums and yelping - yet another headfuck. Liars breathtakingly bludgeon and bore half to death at once, half ruined by the grizzly sound, half lost in their own manipulation of sounds, carefully doing enough to seem effortlessly trendy, but too obscure to be accessible. It’s art rock at its most cerebral and it’s unforgettable how many bands they have influenced through their avant-garde approach to song writing, yet tonight unfortunately Liars fail to puncture our pretentious hearts.
Originally appeared in volume 1, issue 25 of Loud & Quiet magazine
