By: Ryan Mannix
On April 4th, I ventured to Milwaukee’s storied Turner Hall Ballroom to witness the live spectacle that is Annie Clark. Better known by her stage name, St. Vincent, Clark has just released her fourth studio album, St. Vincent, to critical acclaim.
Armed with high expectations and a more than adequate knowledge of her catalog, I made myself comfortable about three rows from the stage.
The band entered the stage and immediately laid down the groove in the darkness, before a light eventually reveals the Matriarch of the evening, Miss Annie Clark.
Dressed in a white dress with red splattered about, black tights and her now iconic white, bride of Frankenstein-esque hairdo, the room exploded in cheers.
Annie stands fixed with a thousand mile stare, suggesting she knows something we don’t, and a devastating grin that makes her look like a psychotic Barbie doll.
She’s not only beautiful, but over the course of the evening, proves to be friendly and insightful.
Photo Credit: Renata Raksha
The show began with her most recent album’s opening track “Rattlesnake.” The track relies on a simple, distorted synth beat with a phaser effect and tells of a scary encounter that Clark had in the desert.
“Running, running, running, rattle behind me/ running, running, no one will ever find me.”
The line is repeated as Clark builds tension with vocal embellishments and strains that make it sound like she’s sprinting for her life.
Clark brought out her jet-black Music Man guitar to end the song with an intricate, fuzzy guitar line, harmonized by multi-instrumentalist Toko Yasuda.
The song cuts out abruptly and the audience responds with more applause.
With the freakiness of her appearance and guitar playing, it’s hard to remember that at the heart of it these are great pop songs.
The natural, lazy melody of the verse sounds familiar upon first listen, and ends with a repetitive rhythmic, but still sing-able string of “oh’s.”
The band quickly launched into one of the fourth albums singles, “Digital Witness,” which discusses our cultures obsessive and debilitating dependence on technology.
While I completely agree with Clark’s analysis, I couldn’t help but feel the irony while writing notes on my iPhone. Her robotic posture and movements augmented the catchy dance tune perfectly.
Clark’s brilliant orchestration wasn’t just notable in the songs, but extended to synchronized movements and gestures with Toko Yasuda.
The performance in this aspect had some subtle nods to her past work with David Byrne of The Talking Heads.
I found it entirely appropriate for St. Vincent’s first song upon the giant throne on stage to be “Cheerleader,” in which she denounces a life of “having good times with some bad guys” or “playing dumb when she knew better.”
She sheds the skin of a fragile beauty and proclaimed herself new supreme ruler of fuzzed out guitar madness.
Her fantastic, but lightly featured band brought the groove down low for the funky “Prince Johnny.”
Fluid orchestral swells and distorted, electronic drums create the sonic landscape for Clark to take an improvised solo (something I was exciting to hear after listening to the studio recording).
Her disjointed, but still entirely melodic solo gradually swells to a faux climax before falling back down.
She rides the wave back up, ever so slightly, before another manic peak, but this time it ends abruptly, prompting the Milwaukee audience to erupt.
I wouldn’t consider the four plus minute solo a “jam,” because it felt as precise and needed as one of her many enthralling compositions.
It never felt loose or forced, and with a backing band as capable as Clark’s, it made for a couple of minutes of great dancing music.
Clark showcased her extensive pedal board on a personal favorite “Northern Lights.”
She conjures some tones from her guitar that I didn’t think possible, blending a menacing distortion with that of a paranoid synth.
The song culminates in a guitar freakout that characterizes a lot of her work.
The encore started with Clark, solo atop her throne in a new wardrobe; a deformed business suit of sorts (a possible homage to Byrne’s Stop Making Sense).
She quietly began a solo take on the song “Strange Mercy.” I wondered how she could so easily transition from fiercely commanding to completely vulnerable.
I mean, it was very very quiet, especially in contrast to the punk rock mosher, “Krokodil” which closed the set.
This just attests to her mastery as an artist. She can put on a stage show that rivals the extravagance of a big budget arena pop concert but maintains the avant-garde theatrical feel.
She can turn a 1920s ballroom into a synthed-out dance party and then completely disrupt it with a frenetic, dissonant guitar meltdown. And then, in the end, she somehow manages to demand the undivided attention of a thousand people, as good, or better, than a folk singer in smoky, near empty café.
The large room wasn’t making any sound, and I then realized that the one thing that ties the diverse crowd together is their absolute devotion to Clark; hanging on every word and swooning at every half smile.
The encore proceeded to include their first ever cover of Nirvana’s “Lithium” (to the audience’s delight), and a re-arranged, ten-plus minute rendition of “Your Lips Are Red” which surely blew the minds of anybody who still had theirs intact.
St. Vincent live in concert was a sensory overload in the best of ways. A great mixture of old favorites and new tunes, lights, and performance art made it a “show” in every sense of the word.
It was a completely enthralling experience and a must see show for anyone fascinated by what a live concert can be.
