Monday, June 12, 2006

CocoRosie live at the Troubadour 6月10日

Last night I was treated to a live performance by CocoRosie at the Troubadour in West Hollywood, a wonderful performance. The band, two sisters Sierra and Bianca, were onstage with two backup singer/beatboxers and a bassist. Behind the players was a projection of videos taken by the band of Sierra wearing a mildly creepy plastic geisha face mask riding trains and walking around. I had three thoughts during the show.
1.
While watching the band a few comparisons came to me, notably His Name Is Alive, another band known for its mashing up of two genres and giving them that undeniably american feel. The second was merely on the Sierra singer’s voice reminding me of Lisa Gerrard of Dead Can Dance.
2.
The interaction between the beat box boys and the two girls seemed distant at first, as if they were just hired to do this one show in LA. They sat in the back of the stage next to each other almost stiff as boards, spill-over from the projector painting their heads when not , er, beatboxing but, other aspects of their performance betrayed that initial feel of mine. The beat boxers were able to fit in and follow the songs so well, their in-between song interaction with the girls, and later in the performance they all got up and danced with the girls so I was generally left confused. If the former was true it would have been an odd job them to say the least. At the end it seemed that everyone had a good time.
3.
Strangely, perhaps because what seemed to be the use of lots of effects and filters on the voices and other noises made on stage nothing seemed to synch up right. Of course this music doesn’t to that either, however watching the girls lips as they sung almost made me think they were pulling an Ashley Simpson thing up there--and that wouldn’t surprise me if my evil theory is true. It’s the same theory that creationists like to use, human life is too complicated so it had to be made by some outside power. Applied to CoCoRosie, both of these girls have such complex identities taking from such a broad range of sources one could think they are the pet project of some evil hollywood music producer. The whole thing is a sham. All of it was lip-synched. CoCoRosie are merely having there first indie shows for street cred before the marketing hits. Oh, if only it were that easy. The mind likes simple answers and that would be a simple answer to CoCoRosie but in reality they are a confusing, post-modern mish-mash of complex personalities, musical tastes, inventiveness, and pure beauty that would be well beyond the ability of any producer-type to invent. The girls were as real as the living drum machines that backed them.

Overall, a must see live show if you get the chance.
Thanks Flora for the ride!

1 comment:

Hannah said...

I like CocoRosie too! That's so great that you got to see them. I agree with the postmoderne of it all, its fabulous, but again I am always waiting for those dance beats to kick in I think only one of those cool hunter corporate PRODUCER-types could make it a TRL hit! Wouldn't you like to see CocoRoise with Carson Daly on TRL!

Seriously, La Maison... and Noah's Ark are great albums. I really love the old scratchy recorded on a Sourthern porch quality of some of the songs (M. Ward is master of that particular quality). I love the old pianos with keys that sound like your plucking loose bicycle spokes.
As for their voices, I don't no which is which. But their are moments (that I don't like) where one of them will get excited and start to aound like (cringe) Ani Difranco. I mostly like when they sing as if they are a little drunk and sleepy and possibly hot, anyways I like imagining them on a wooden porch with an overturned bike, a backup band with someone playing a saw, squeezing a cat intermittantly, a horse ropped up next to the porch whinny-ing intermittantly, and fat little 2 year old with a popsicle face clanking on a little playskool xylophone.

Actually, maybe that's my "Horsey and the Miner" fantasy.

I am jealous of your LA show experiences.