Where Bird On The Wire is concerned, variety is clearly the spice of life. The still young events company, launched in 2009 and based out of London, has recently started looking further afield to the continent. As so on a pleasant October evening in Paris' 20th arrondissement, this reviewer strolled up to the Flèche d'Or, a venue in the French capital renowned for the quality of its acts, the relative cheapness of its tickets, and the superhuman aggression of its lunatic bouncers.
First up were Horse Feathers, a band firmly inscribed on this reviewer's must-see list since 2008's "House With No Home" (a need that became all the more urgent following this year's stunning "Thistled Spring"). The only disappointment to be found was their low billing: a forty-five minutes opening slot at 8.30pm on a Friday night meant that the turn-out remained sadly underwhelming. As ex-pats and in-the-know Parisians wandered through the doors, those congregated at the front of the stage were treated to a sublime performance of subtlety, poise and precision. As noted in the "Thistled Spring" review, one of the band's many strengths is their understanding of moderation: the ability to adjust the dynamics, to maintain a balance, to draw out the beauty within their songs. Without a permanent drummer, the band members are found assembled at the front of the stage, in close proximity to the audience who, numbers being as they are, huddle in tight around them like frozen hikers around a campfire in winter. Despite the close proximity, the nature of the songs leaves every instrument, every melody, and every note the room to breathe. Sprinkling their set-list with tracks from all three full-length albums (including the band's under-appreciated 2006 debut, "Words Are Dead"), the band opens with "Working Poor", the bleak poverty-stricken tale of hard luck and low pay. The mournful lope of Cooper's banjo, slow but inevitable as it trudges and loops, sounds stark in the room, but the addition of Ringle's deftly plucked guitar, Odell's rich cello and Crockett's swooping violin summons some warmth despite its lyrical despondency.
With its gently plucked acoustics and fidgety mandolin, the small-town melancholy of "Dustbowl" which follows hints at an injection of energy into proceedings. And so it proves as the band kicks up a gear into an acoustic version of "Belly of June", a spryly quirky stand-out from "Thistled Spring". More delicate in its live form than on record, the supporting strings are pulled to the fore by the plunging violin harmonies. "Cascades", the third album's eerie lead single brews up an uneasy atmosphere, driven by some inventive cymbal bowing, but Horse Feathers also prove that they can interpret just as well as write with a beguiling cover of Gillian Welch's "Orphan Girl" (which also appeared as a b-side to the "Cascades" seven incher), during which Ringle shuffles to the front of the stage, leaving the microphone behind, and continues to sing, imposing an awed hush on the audience. This intimacy with the full sonic spectrum means that when the percussion does kick in, on "Starving Robins", it's crisp and intense, with sharp explosions of sound that reverberate between the ears like crackling autumn leaves underfoot. The set may be short, but it's the sort that stays with you like a summer chill.
Next on is the Danish helium-rock of Oh No Ono. An intriguing prospect they may be (think Mercury Rev-style pomp with a similar love for MGMT pop eccentricity), this reviewer nevertheless found this experimental Danish pop outfit an at times difficult listen on record. Live, however, with the otherworldly symphonic aspects stripped away slightly, the group performs a mightily enjoyable set of psychedelic-tinged rock. Coming straight off the back of Horse Feathers' fine folk, the swirling mess is all the more intoxicating, and at times the band sound like they're doing their best to channel the ghost of The Doors' Jim Morrison, who lies buried all of 700 metres from the venue. A particular highlight is "The Wave Ballet" which, without its gradual choral introduction, is streamlined into energisingly catchy space-rock, with Malthe Fischer's high-pitched vocals soaring high - really high - above the frothing mix. Elsewhere, "Icicles", with Aske Zidore's vocals vaguely reminiscent of Owen Pallett, hops along anxiously, mashing White-Album-in-its-weirder-moments with disquietingly barking lyrics (a dream involving a mother-child relationship, told from the perspective of a melting snowman) and an increasing sense of urgency. The set, melding together various strains of odd-ball-flavoured music, sees the band swing wildly from twinkling jitters ("Helplessly Young") via clomping modish fusion ("Miss Miss Moss") to ludicrous gibbering silliness ("Fat Simon Says"). It's all light-heartedly energetic, a sugar-fuelled rush of harum scarum pop and vivid, contorted rock that never threatens to take itself too seriously. It's just a shame that the same can't be said of the next band.
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Wild Palms are, if we are to believe some of the louder members of the UK press and blogosphere, the latest saviours of the British rock scene and have recently (ok, last February) signed to One Little Indian. "The stuff we are writing now is a complete departure from anything scratchy or angular - it's warm and it's expansive," is what singer Lou Hill had to say about their post-signature material, which includes the accomplished singles "Deep Dive" and "Drawn In Light". Listening to the set, which features the aforementioned two singles plus soon-to-be released new album material and "To The Lighthouse", the second a-side to "Draw In Light", this reviewer couldn't help but feel that the apparently "abandoned" angular sound was still undeniably present in the music on show, particularly on the twitchy "Deep Dive". Marrying Hill's oddly affected vocal delivery with off-beat drums and wheeling guitars, the track ably demonstrates the principle characteristics of the Wild Palm sound without doing anything more. The performance, overbearingly earnest but lacking the energy to carry the audience with it, feels competent but rather flat. There's no chill of excitement, no real thrill, and certainly no rush. Hill in particular, described as "roguishly charismatic" in One Little Indian's press releases, comes across as a rather acquired taste, and his emotive gesturing feels like it belongs to a more enthralling set. Moreover, the early songs are interspersed with technical complaints that intensify in whine and do little to endear our "loveable rogue" to those present. Despite all this, the band still manages to attract by far the largest crowd of the evening, as "clued-in" spectators pour in for their hour-long set, presumably eager to catch a glimpse of the next big thing and perhaps even hoping for a "where were you?" break-out moment. Unfortunately, no such moment is forthcoming. This reviewer came out the back of the performance feeling a little like those who visit the Mona Lisa: it looks good on paper, a lot has been written about it, but up close and personal, with someone's elbow in your ear and camera flashes going off in your face, the ultimate feeling is one of disappointment.
On record, they tick the right boxes, with thoughtful lyrics and intriguing choices (not least of all covering Björk's "Human Behaviour" for the "Deep Dive" b-side). Engaging a crowd, on the other hand, is clearly a string they have yet to add to their bow. But with a debut album still to come and many, many more dates to be played, there is still time.
Horse Feathers on MySpace
Oh No Ono on MySpace
Wild Palms on MySpace
Bird On The Wire online
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