By Adam Trimble; photo by Luz Gallardo
For years Hope Sandoval's heavyhearted velvet voice has been a method for my
friends and I to find beauty in our darker moments. The members of my first band
came together as moody, morose teenagers because of our affinity for Sandoval's
former band Mazzy Star. Having never seen her live, I was immensely excited for
her Friday performance at The Loft in Midtown and unprepared for the strength
and concentration it would take to enjoy myself.
Before the show there
were clues (which I ardently ignored) that Sandoval was taking herself far too
seriously. After fighting our way through the surprisingly cold October night,
my friend and I were talking to the doorman who acted as if he had been
assaulted by the singer. "She is not a good person," he told us. It's a
hyperbolized opinion at best, but regardless of pre-show stress it's not the
coolest thing to yell at the dude who's going to sit outside in 45-degree
weather checking IDs for your show. I also read about when she
stormed off the Bowery Ballroom stage for 20 minutes because of sound
problems. Chalking it up to "artistic personality syndrome," I entered the Loft
with an optimistic attitude.
A crowd of 30-somethings hovered around
the stage lights like moths headed to mass, and I took a drink and went to join
the choir. Dirt Blue Gene opened with a set of psychedelia pulling from early
Pink Floyd. They held a sizable crowd, and their slide guitar was top notch
(read: restrained). Through their performance It became increasingly clear that
the crowd was split between the druggies and the devout — those who had come
because Hope Sandoval had touched their minds and those who came because she had
touched their bodies. I'll admit to fence-sitting on this duality because while
I can see myself intellectualizing the musical genius of Bavarian Fruit
Bread at a party, I'm positive I'd be baked while doing so.
When
Sandoval took the stage it seemed like the devout had won the night. Hushed
silence and swaying were the order of the evening, and the gentleman next to me
whose trip was clearly turning sour excused himself quietly. Let's give mention
to the fact that Sandoval looks like she's aged very little. She's still the
block-jawed beauty that surprises you with her voice — that voice — and it's
still there, still stunning and completely intact minus a few degrees of breathy
girl sex. So when she started off with "Blanchard" from her new record
Through the Devil Softly I couldn't help but percussively inhale.
However, as soon as the shock of hearing her voice wore off I started to notice
a divide between the magic I've heard on record and the event in front of my
eyes. In her albums you can hear the defeat of demons chronic and personal, the
surgical slowdown of event and a palpable, vicious nostalgia that was markedly
absent from the stage. The mood had been set for magic, but it was only
delivered on a few numbers like "Susanne" and "Trouble." Disappointed, I would
close my eyes, focus and listen for the breadth of emotion I knew must be
swelling somewhere in front of me, but all I could hear were notes played
correctly in time and scale. This feeling was affirmed by the belabored and
sporadic applause that preceded the planned encore.
Sandoval's music will
always have a hold on me. I will continue to buy any new material she produces
because, like her new record, it is invariably spellbinding. But I hope next
time I get the chance to see her in concert the seance will conjure more than
what I saw Friday night.
