Nina Nastasia, Vienna Fluc Wanne, 3 March 2008

A somewhat frustrating concert last night by Nina Nastasia in the pleasantly distressed surroundings of the Fluc Wanne. I spoke to some people who hadn’t been there before and who told me they had been wandering around the entire Praterstern area for over an hour looking for the place. I like the fact that it doesn’t draw attention to itself, to the extent of not even having a sign with its name. And even if you manage to find the Fluc itself, it’s very easy to miss the basement part.

Nastasia is a gifted singer, songwriter and guitarist, but as a performer she’s hard to love. Her songs are brittle and intimate; although she sits alone on stage with an acoustic guitar, she is not by any stretch a folk singer. Her voice is chillingly precise, her guitar playing fluid and sparkling; while her lyrics speak evocatively of night-time, ghosts and blood on the road.

The problem, to these ears, is that many of her songs are simply too short. They sound like fleeting sketches; just when they sound like they are about to take flight, they fizzle out. Nastasia frequently misses the opportunity to instil drama into a song through insistence and repetition. She clearly realises that “This Is What It Is” is her best song, since she saves it to the end of the set; yet this was one of the few songs where the music and words were given the space and openness they merited.

Secondly, her performance last night was annoyingly diffident. She didn’t speak to the audience at all at first, and when she did, it was to discuss a piece of graffiti she’d seen on a toilet wall. She took a request – fine, but then she just shrugged at the audience as if to say “any more?” And when she extemporised “this is a sucky version of this song” during “A Dog’s Life”, it was as though she’d given up on the idea of capturing the audience’s attention through authoritative performance.

I’ve always believed that artists have certain obligations to their live audiences to put on a memorable performance; that basically amounts to not much more than putting in a reasonable amount of effort. The greatest live performers I’ve seen – Hammill, Gira, Springsteen – understand this instinctively. For all her undoubted talents, I don’t think Nina Nastasia does.

Earth & Richard Bishop, Vienna Szene Wien, 24 February 2008

A very strong concert at the Szene Wien last night by American drone-metallers Earth. The music unfolded at a slow, rigidly controlled pace and barely deviated from it throughout, shaped by the funereal pulse of the drums and the colossal hum of Dylan Carlson’s guitar. Carlson spoke little except to introduce the songs, but he was an impressive onstage figure, looking like he’d walked in from a Tarantino film with his long moustache and slicked back hair. As a guitarist he was a picture of concentration, holding the neck high and gazing fixedly at the strings while playing with a surprising delicacy and finesse.

The group were clearly making an attempt to lighten their sound with the inclusion of keyboard and trombone patterns. Others may disagree, but I could easily have done without these embellishments; they were an unnecessary and unwelcome distraction from the group’s perversely inspiring core sound. I also found myself wishing for slightly more thump from the drums. These reservations notwithstanding, Earth proved themselves to be an uncannily potent force.

Early birds had the good fortune to witness former Sun City Girl Richard Bishop on solo electric guitar. He’s an awesomely talented player, and it was great to see that his mighty technique never descended into empty-headed twiddling. Instead, the music swarmed hectically around the hall, with clouds of notes emerging and resolving into beautifully complex configurations.

Neil Young, Austria Center Vienna, 22 February 2008

A storming three-hour show last night by Neil Young in the unlikely surroundings of the Austria Center. (In fact the sound was better than expected, although the sightlines were predictably poor.)

The first set saw Young deliver a set of lovely solo acoustic songs, switching between guitar and piano (with one song on banjo). I enjoyed watching him wander among his guitars before each song, seemingly trying to decide which of his old friends to hold a conversation with. It’s wonderful the way these songs take the everyday and quotidian and invest them with such mystical, charged significance. And after all these years, his voice is still a thing of beauty. “After the Gold Rush” was just spellbinding. A great shame he didn’t speak at all between songs, though – the fact that he never addressed the audience made the set feel considerably less intimate (insofar as any gig in a conference centre could ever be called intimate) and gave it the air of a formal recital.

For the second part of the evening, though, no talking was required; Young’s electric guitar spoke more eloquently than any words could have done. When “Hey Hey My My” kicked in the hall just erupted, and there was even an announcement from Young at the song’s end (which presumably he had had relayed to him from the side of the stage), to the effect that the venue management were concerned about the resilience of the floor to too much jumping up and down. (The hall is on the first floor of the centre.) The electric storm didn’t subside until almost two hours later. “Powderfinger” was massive, “Cinnamon Girl” wild, but the undoubted highlight was a song I hadn’t heard before, “No Hidden Path”. This monster proceeded for what must have been at least 20 minutes, with Young spitting molten fire from his guitar every second. Just… immense.

It wasn’t until someone pointed it out to me that I noticed that there was a bloke in a cowboy hat onstage, painting on canvas during the whole of the first set. It was some kind of picture of two birds in a field. At the start of each song during the second set, a painting depicting that song was placed on an easel at stage left. The bird painting, evidently finished by then, made its appearance during the song “Winterlong”, which Young dedicated to his late band member Danny Whitten. This primitivist multimedia presentation seemed to reinforce my overriding impression of Young’s music – wholehearted, slightly ramshackle and formidably evocative.

Birgit Denk, Vienna, 2 February 2008

Saw my first concert of 2008 on Saturday night – an “ausgsteckt” (unplugged) performance by Austrian singer Birgit Denk and her band. This was an unusual one for me, partly because it was much poppier fare than I’m used to, but more importantly because Birgit Denk sings only in German, and therefore I had no idea what she was singing about. I knew this before going, of course, but what I hadn’t expected was that she’s also something of a stand-up comedian, punctuating the songs with lengthy and, judging by the audience’s hearty reactions, highly comic monologues.

The impassable language barrier didn’t, however, impede my enjoyment of the gig at all. In fact, it added a distinct zest to the evening. As far as I can tell, Denk sings in a heavily accented Viennese dialect, which might make understanding her songs challenging even to a non-Viennese or standard German speaker. There was a sense of being in a cultural setting made seductive by its strangeness – a feeling of comfort and familiarity (the music wasn’t anything that would frighten the horses) mixed with the intriguingly different. Plus, this city has been my home for the past two years and I welcome anything that enhances my understanding and appreciation of its cultural heartbeat.

Anyway, the concert was great. An engaging and natural performer, Denk delivered tremulous ballads, grandstanding show tunes and rollicking footstompers with equal verve and passion. Her accomplished band framed her warm and unaffected voice with infectious sounds – deft guitar work, splashes of bouzouki and mandolin, jazzy keyboard and accordion interludes. I came away at the end of the two-hour set feeling thoroughly entertained, buoyed up with good cheer and – despite my almost complete lack of linguistic understanding – just a little bit more Viennese.

Okkervil River, Vienna Szene Wien, 19 November 2007

Took the S-Bahn over to the Szene last night for a concert by Okkervil River. This group were a new name to me, I only looked them up when doing research for the column and immediately liked what I heard. Live, they didn’t disappoint. A six-man line-up (I’m a sucker for big bands; I love the hugeness of the sound they produce – cf. Jaga Jazzist, what happened to them?), with cornet, lap steel and accordion filling out the orchestration. Will Sheff was an arresting and formidable frontman, passionate and aggressive but with a strong undercurrent of melancholy which came well to the fore in the acoustic songs. I hate lazy comparisons but there were echoes of Tindersticks in the stylishness of the instrumentation, and of the Bad Seeds in the energy and conviction with which the songs were delivered.

All in all, a sparkling show, received rapturously by the usual attentive and appreciative Szene audience. Except, that is, for the two girls close to me who talked to each other throughout the entire concert. I’m still wondering what they could find to talk about at such length, and why they thought the middle of a concert hall was an appropriate place to do it.

Porcupine Tree, Vienna Arena, 15 November 2007

Trudged through the first snow of winter to the Arena last night for a concert by the British group Porcupine Tree. Their fusion of progressive and hard rock didn’t really grab me throughout, but there were many fine moments. Principally I was struck by the honesty and openness of frontman Steven Wilson. He came across as a humble but dedicated man, focusing wholeheartedly on his performance but with a complete lack of histrionic gestures. He’s no slouch on the guitar either.

The visuals screened behind the band were, for once, a useful accompaniment. There’s something rather intractable about Porcupine Tree, I think. They’re a complex, focused, almost futuristic proposition.

Philip Glass: Book of Longing, Music in Twelve Parts, London Barbican Centre, 20-21 October 2007

Back from a short trip to London, the main reason for which was to attend two concerts at the Barbican in honour of the 70th birthday of Philip Glass. The first was Book of Longing, a collaboration with another of my musical heroes, Leonard Cohen. The pre-concert talk was remarkable in the fact that it was the first time I had seen Cohen in person for 14 years, since his last London concert at the Royal Albert Hall. It was interesting, but I don’t think Leonard came out of it particularly well, his responses (to some predictably batty questions) being somewhat gnomic and underwhelming. Glass dominated the conversation (before the Q&A, that is), and acquitted himself much better.

The Book of Longing concert itself was excellent. Again, it was Glass who came out with his credibility intact rather than Cohen. With one or two exceptions, these late poems are bitty and inconsequential. Glass’s music, however, gave them a stature I’m not sure they really deserved.

The main event was on Sunday afternoon – a rare performance of Glass’s superb Music in Twelve Parts in all its sumptuous entirety. This piece is a towering achievement in 20th century music. Endlessly vital and kaleidoscopic, it was performed magnificently by Glass and his ensemble.

Alva Noto & Ryuichi Sakamoto: Insen, London Barbican Hall

This heavyweight collaboration between German sound artist Carsten Nicolai (a.k.a. Alva Noto) and Japanese pianist and composer Sakamoto was the live realisation of their second album as a duo, Insen. In previous collaborations with the likes of Ryoji Ikeda and Pan Sonic’s Mika Vainio, and in his work as co-founder of the Raster-Noton label, Nicolai has built a formidable reputation for a rigorously formal aesthetic in both the musical and visual realms. Sakamoto, meanwhile, has essayed a number of compositional methods from widescreen soundtrack work to glowing minimalism. It was the latter of these approaches that was foregrounded at the Barbican Centre in London, with Sakamoto’s twinkling note clusters surrounded by Nicolai’s reverberant interventions.

Sakamoto sat at the grand piano, engrossed in the instrument, occasionally reaching into its innards to pluck at the strings. Nicolai stood to the right, the seriousness of his endeavour gauged by the presence on his table of not one but two Powerbooks. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, Nicolai bathed Sakamoto’s radiant tonalities in a shimmer of electronic haze. At the same time, a screen behind the performers displayed Nicolai’s video installation, its kinetic patterns matching the undulant shifts of the music.

Despite the nature of the collaboration, with the forbiddingly traditional grand piano lined up against the equally forbidding modernity of the Powerbook, the evening never took on the quality of a soundclash. Rather, the timbre of Nicolai’s interventions was coolly cerebral and reflexive. Wreathed in echo and delay, the raw material of Sakamoto’s liquid notes was bolstered by glitches, cuts and skeletal rhythms. All the while, the backdrop displayed ineffable visualisations of Nicolai and Sakamoto’s co-operative strategy. Circles, lines, bars and rectangles faded in and out, their lifespan determined by the attack and decay of the notes that had generated them.Initially etched in high contrast black and white, the installation later took on deep, saturated reds and blues.

The music’s predominant mode of gentle chromaticism gave way, in the final piece, to a thrilling ten-minute outburst of sustained aggression, with Sakamoto hammering away at the low end of the keyboard while Nicolai issued dense sub-bass rumbles and needling rhythmic stabs. The large and enthusiastic audience demanded, and got, two encores. For the second, Sakamoto played his famous theme to Merry Christmas Mr Lawrence, its exquisite melody emerging with sublime rightness from the glistening network of digital manipulations.

The White Stripes, Vienna Gasometer, 4 June 2007

Went to see The White Stripes last night at the Gasometer. This must have been the biggest concert I’ve been to since coming to Vienna. It held no great interest for me, but it’s hard to say why. Music as resolutely orthodox as this seems almost impervious to criticism. Whatever I say (it’s too loud, too ugly, too garagey, too lumpen), back comes the reply: “but that’s the whole point, you idiot.”

The thing is, of course, I like all those qualities in some respects. I like Swans, and they’re loud. I like Whitehouse, and they’re ugly. I like Spiritualized, and they’re garagey. I even like Led Zeppelin, and they’re lumpen (the White Stripes sounded, to my novice ears, exactly like a stripped down Zeppelin). But put those qualities together in the White Stripes and the result is sheer tedium.

There was, admittedly, much to admire in the frontman’s guitar work. But ultimately I was irritated by his relentlessly screechy, one-trick voice and by the drummer’s smugly indiscriminate flailing behind her kit. Enough.

Low, Vienna Radiokulturhaus, 29 May 2007

Went to a great gig last night by Low at the Radiokulturhaus. It started a little shakily, I thought, with a succession of dullish songs from the new album being delivered pretty much on autopilot. But when they reached into their back catalogue with gorgeous songs such as ‘Sunflower’, the place totally caught fire. The glacial vocal harmonies were as joyous and spine-tingling as ever, and what was really striking was the quality and variety of Sparhawk’s guitar work. He used effects pedals to great, um, effect, shifting the moods of the songs beautifully.

Before that, we unfortunately had to sit through a highly tedious hour of video, with an accompanying live (electronic) soundtrack by Scanner. The film, a jumble of disconnected slow motion images, completely failed to engage me, and the music was no help. I loved Rimbaud’s earlier work with the mobile phone interceptions, but he seems to have lost his way.

Finally, a word on the venue. I love the Radiokulturhaus. It’s so comfortable, smart and civilised – a real throwback. In a way it’s good that there are so few shows there. It’s the kind of place that benefits from being an occasional treat.