Of Montreal at Shepherds Bush Empire
Of Montreal – O2 Shepherds Bush Empire – 14th July
Words by Steve Hall / Photos by crazybobbles
It was amazing, right, Kevin Barnes swooped on stage on a flying unicorn and then one the band actually transformed in to a drum kit and the set was at least four hours long. That’s how you might imagine a review of indie-pop oddballs Of Montreal would read if reality was that little bit more fun. But it’s not and the depressing part is that a band like this, so untrammelled by definition and crazed with imagination, can only do so much.
Chin up though, what they did do was give a powerful account of the bouncing giggling shots of energy that pepper their catalogue. Opening with ‘Nonpareil of Favor’, the tone is set: pumping, gushing, insistently sexual and instinctively catchy. ‘An Eluardian Instance’ raises the pulse (if you’re not familiar with the band, these titles are the short and simple ones), ‘Heimdalsgate Like a Promethean Curse’ (told you) raises the cheers and the action comes thick and fast.
Lead man Barnes’ alter-ego George Fruit makes a subtle appearance as a stream of dancers and costumed maniacs continuously plunge across the stage, always drawing the eye and keeping the feet moving like the floor was purple lava. The Empire is in good song and although as a venue it’s not quite the indie mecca that might give Of Montreal an edge, no-one is complaining. Because they’re shaking it. The mystical animal masks, the suggestive lyrics and the a-sexual dancers perform that vital task of inviting the audience to skip into Barnes’ gleefully mad off-world, but pointing at something deeper and more deliberate in its symbolism.
And this is the rub. For a band so drawn to finding the tipping point between introspection and glammed up hysteria, the trick of creating a fanfare on stage without losing the complexity of their music is one that works, though not flawlessly. Their latest album deliberately eschewed the concept of ‘big songs’ and was made up of a myriad of different ideas and emotional forays that worked as a wheeling kaleidoscope of turbulent beauty. They’re not the first to try, but packaging this kind of art for a hungry audience is no mean feat. This difficulty was encapsulated by the encore – a let down for me, the band favouring a drawn out, more drony number of an ilk that so frequently gives their albums a darker undercurrent, but here failed to provide the coup de grace that would turn a good night in to a great one.
Camp, erratic and wildly accomplished, but a fraction short of magical, tonight was like meeting Elton John in Tescos. Which doesn’t mean it wasn’t superbly fruity.
