Moby’s two hour show at the Theater of Living Arts in Philly combined songs from his newest reflection, Wait for Me and his groundbreaking album Play with a smattering of others into a finely-tuned uplifting performance. Though the show was not sold out, Moby, with his backing band and opener Kelli Scarr, channeled tons of energy and shared his heart to the enjoyment of those in attendance.
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Fans of all ages packed into Chicago’s Vic Theater last Friday to watch guitar legend Buckethead perform. Known for hyping crowds with thrashing guitar rifts under a hidden identity, Buckethead entertained Chicago fans with 96-minutes of exceptional axe craft.
A solo performance by Wolff, a gentleman from New York City, opened the show. His music consisted of industrial electronic rock mixed with a traditional tuba. Wolff’s set was based around playing and singing through the tuba’s mouthpiece, in addition to beating the instruments bell, topped off by loops and pedal work. His sound was heavy, minor, distorted, and eccentric: in other words, the perfect opener to Buckethead’s circus aesthetic. Wolff’s themes ranged from “elephants taking over Hollywood” to personal beliefs, but what truly got the crowd going was his industrial rendition of Prince’s “When Doves Cry.” He ended his set with a more up-tempo number called “What I see,” which the artist introduced by saying,“When you play the tuba you think about giving up all the time.”
After Wolff’s set fans anxiously awaited for the headliner to take stage for 45-minutes. Chants of “Buckethead” broke out on numerous times. Once Buckethead’s familiar introduction of carnival music blasted on the P.A. the crowd exploded and the house lights dropped. Energy soared as the giant masked musician soon took the stage, sporting his usual white Les Paul guitar, expressionless white mask, and trademark white fried-chicken bucket on his head.
The audience’s spirits skyrocketed as Buckethead struck his first chords. Pacing the stage he communicated to the crowd through command of his instrument. The show was played entirely solo, with Buckethead relying on the accompaniment of pre-recorded voices, loops, and beats. The audience flailed and thrashed their bodies to the music as Buckethead flawlessly fused together a plethora of genres, managing to keep perfect time with the backing tracks both rhythmically and technically. His performance was so seamless that is was difficult to keep track of what genres and influences were crossed.
Halfway through his set Buckethead dazzled the audience with a mini-nunchuck routine, followed by robot dancing, all of which seemed short-lived compared to past shows. His dance break was capped off with his typical toy exchange: a sack of toys appeared onstage and hopeful hands reached out to receive a gift from the master of ceremonies himself. A few lucky fans were even granted the chance to touch the toggle buttons on Buckethead’s guitar. The show ended approximately an half hour later with Soothsayer, no encore, and an immediate rise in house lights, leaving fans hungry for more.
The end is nigh. Tomorrow, it’s one last film (Werner Herzog’s My Son, My Son, What Have Ye Done) and then it’s no TV for a month. 27 films in 8 days is pushing it, even for a genuine film fanatic such as myself. Plus: I can’t straighten my legs.
Highlights this week are clear: A Serious Man was my favourite, for sure, but I am predisposed to a certain reverence for anything those Coen Brothers do. Still, I do believe it’s their most rewarding film since The Big Lebowski. And, yes, I am including No Country for Old Men when I say that. Alongside it, Partir, The Disappearance of Alice Creed and I Am Love (see below) were both top flight films (for totally different reasons). Guy Maddin’s short Night Mayor was indelible and mysterious.The Road was good, but does not need to exist. Up in the Air was almost great. And, Jennifer’s Body was just plain awful. See you next year?
“Hard times come again no more,” sang Jay Farrar Thursday night. The sympathetic lament echoed through Irving Plaza as the rest of Son Volt took a break, this time Farrar conveying his dejected sonorities solo. Though taken from an 1854 Stephen Foster tune, Farrar’s incarnation, “Hard Times,” paralleled the original’s depressed tone. That dejected but introspective sentiment was something Farrar, with his band Son Volt, returned to frequently—usually over a foundation of good ‘ole American alt-rock.
Things I overheard while eavesdropping during the festival so far include:
(Some film student-looking guy): He has more than… double my knowledge of international cinema!
(Some jaded and quite famous film reviewer): One year, I swear, I’m going to get a button that reads: “It’s just a fucking movie!”
(Some industry guy, talking loudly on his cell phone while in line ahead of me): I saw Roger Moore’s [sic] film last night. Well, you know I agree with his politics, I mean totally. But he can be so childish. This one was good though, not too didratic [double sic].
(Some local film reviewer with perhaps ironic facial hair, regarding the popular midnight madness public showings of horror films): I cannot watch a movie with that audience. (His friend): What, you mean like real people? (Mustache man): Yeah.
(Industry guy, looking a bit peaked, as we exited The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus): Oh, what a horrible mess. (Weird looking lady behind him): Yeah! Didn’t you just fucking love it?
(Reviewer from some obscure website unavailable outside of the mighty U.S. of A., to a helpful unpaid festival volunteer): So, am I to understand that no one in Canada has ever heard of the Huffington Post?
(Some serious film fanatic, as he sat down in front of me at a 9 a.m. screening): Only for Herzog would I do this. I was up till like three in the morning.