The Vanity Set + Groop

The Vanity Set + Groop


The Vanity Set

Photo credit: Aaron Diskin

You may not have heard of James Sclavunos. Until a couple of weeks ago, I was barely aware of the man’s existence, despite the fact that he’s played with some of the finest musical eccentrics of the past 25 years, from the Cramps all the way through to Sonic Youth. Currently the drummer for Nick Cave’s Bad Seeds, Sclavunos also finds time to lead his very own brigade of cabaret refugees called the Vanity Set — a wonderful band built on fairytale grotesquery and tubas who are afforded the same level of anonymity as Sclavunos himself. Once you’ve seen the man in the flesh, though, Sclavunos is very hard to forget. A magnificently tall fellow, he comes across as a hangdog mixture of Buster Keaton and Boris Karloff, with a face that not only looks lived-in but also appears to have hosted a few grisly murders and have the corpses buried in the basement. Smartly finished off with a black suit, it’s pretty clear why Cave asked him to join the Bad Seeds. It’s also pretty clear why most eyes were on him before the Vanity Set even took to the stage at their recent show at London’s Upstairs at the Garage; during support act Groop’s set, Sclavunos emerged from backstage to pin a sign above his merchandise stand, and his appearance inadvertently drew everyone’s gaze away from the pleasingly arty openers. Some people just have that kind of lurking presence. Psychotic stalkers mostly. And Sclavunos too. Still, Groop couldn’t be ignored for too long and their hipper-than-thou cross of Throbbing Gristle and Sigue Sigue Sputnik buzzed along with a certain skewed style — much like the band members themselves, stick-thin art school students who looked like they’d spent the day raiding a colour-blind child’s dressing up box, leopard skin prints, silver feathers and all. The kind of band destined to be lumped in with Peaches and A.R.E. Weapons, Groop jiggled and jumped like electrified fools and did a neat line in covers (including a perfectly nasty version of the Sonics’ “Strychnine”) but were ultimately hamstrung by the atmosphere-less vacuum of Upstairs at the Garage. The long, narrow venue has always reminded me of a scout hut (albeit a scout hut that serves warm beer in plastic cups) and the crowd, though enthusiastic, was sparse, confirming my theory that if an audience member can walk in a straight line between the bar and the bathroom without bumping into anyone, the support band are fucked. And so it came to pass that Groop’s final number, an Aleister Crowley-inspired ditty that culminated with the guitarist impersonating Jesus on the cross whilst screaming “Do what you will!”, provoked precisely no one because they weren’t enough people to be provoked. The atmosphere had barely changed by the time the Vanity Set started their show, and the Garage’s shitty confines initially threatened to neuter the band’s creepy majesty. Yet once the six members had squeezed themselves onto the tiny stage, Sclavunos set about charming and menacing the room, his pantomime performance stretched out of twisted grimaces and clenched teeth, like Spalding Gray playing the Child Catcher from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. It was an act so magically theatrical that you could almost smell the grease paint and hear the roar of the (imaginary) crowd; howling and crooning and exhorting the audience to buy his CDs like a man who just has to howl and croon and sell his CDs, Sclavunos worked his way through the band’s latest album, Little Stabs of Happiness, with an endless amount of élan. The album’s opening track “The Big Bang” set the tone, a potent mix of carnivalesque showmanship and Rocky Horror camp that walked the extremely thin tightrope between stupid and sublime and managed not to fall off. Torch songs, nightmares, Bauhaus and Brecht were all thrown together, along with an expected dose of Nick Cave and a fiendish cover of the Bee Gees’ “I Started a Joke”. Waltzes were waltzed, tubas were blown and a fedora-wearing violinist fiddled like Rome was burning, the whole effect akin to watching a clown burst into tears and then get eaten by a pack of wolves. Who then mate. And then find another crying clown to eat. Bathed in a sleazy crimson light, the Vanity Set transcended the venue to put on a show of beautiful absurdity and Hammer Horror thrills. The next time I see the Vanity Set (and believe me, I would love to see them again), I want them to be supporting Sally Bowles in a decadent Berlin club whilst white-suited waiters serve me gin. Or I want them to appear in a David Lynch film whilst Isabella Rossellini croons at the moon. At the very least I need to see them play a shabby burlesque club frequented by minor league criminals and disgraced politicians. They certainly don’t need to — they’re just extraordinary enough to deserve it.