SFA? More Than OK

When I heard about a month ago that Super Furry Animals was going to perform at the 9:30 Club, my biggest fear was that I wouldn't be able to find anyone to go with me. Given that even my own knowledge of the band was purely incidental, it wasn't an unfounded doubt, and I wasn't surprised when person after person responded to my invitations with a half-hearted, "Never heard of them." Ultimately, though, Chris gamely stepped up to the plate and decided to give this 12-year-old Welsh psychedelic/experimental/electronic rock band a chance. For everyone reading this who spent their Tuesday night trudging through campus in the rain or bundled up with some light bedtime reading (say, on data structures, psychopharmacology, or Foucault), I think it’s safe to say that my biggest fear undoubtedly became everyone else's greatest loss.

But not one to be haughty, I must confess that going into the concert, my familiarity with SFA’s particular brand of techno-tinged rock was minimal. Granted, my love for rock music has been longstanding and my ear for electronica, while still amateur, is developing healthily (thanks to some whole-hearted immersion and excellent tutelage over the last few months). But really, how many people out there can say they’ve heard of bands like Thirdimension and Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci, much less are familiar with their repertoire? No, not me either – I’m more comfortable comparing SFA to more mainstream groups like the former Beta Band (mellower and more restrained) and the Flaming Lips (not quite as cheeky and irreverent). The truth is, we’ve all been force-fed the same musical tripe for most of our lives, so bear with me as I try to make some sense of the untested waters I’ve steered us into.

Returning to the concert, it should first be said that whatever credit is given to SFA for a rockin’ (or trippin’?) performance, the same must be given to the opening band, a Canadian outfit called Caribou (formerly Manitoba) whose artistic efforts were as spirit-rousing as their talents were unique and unexpected (think two drum sets, no bass, and occasionally, a…flute??). Their performance, equal parts visual art and music, was an hour-long electronic jam session that told, in various “movements”, a roughly-sketched story of several characters whose fates come full circle by the last song. Instead of lyrics, Caribou instead cleverly opted for the frenetic and childlike animations of Dublin-based artists Delicious 9, projected onto a huge screen behind the musicians. It was truly something one-of-a-kind and larger-than-life, injected with a subtle blend of comedy, caprice, and, at times – gravity. My personal favorite showed the Sisyphean efforts of an old man dragging a suitcase up a flight of stairs. Played to the haunting and spidery melody of “Pelican Narrows,” every tumble he took back down the stairs was made all the more heartbreaking by the accompaniment of a delicate descending cascade of notes, indifferent and unmoved by his plight.

Although any hour-long jam session threatens self-indulgence and excess, Caribou did two things that may have made the audience forget that they had paid to see a different band (and made me and Chris feel that this was the best opening band we’d seen to date). First, they remembered that slippery basic tenet of all good art: substance over style – and rarely did they lapse from that. Too many times have I seen opening bands with lots of noise and lots of attitude – but little else.

And secondly (maybe even more importantly), they really fuckin’ performed to please. It’s not easy when you’ve got a narrow fan base and the venue is barely half-full, but Caribou jumped into their gig whole-heartedly and left us satisfied but craving more.

By the time the lights re-dimmed around 10 o’clock in anticipation of Super Furry Animals, 9:30 was comfortably packed. I don’t know whether or not I was surprised that SFA’s key demographic was heavily male, primarily ranging in age from the mid-20s to early 40s. Standing next to a few guys with graying hair made feel – even in the dark – mildly self-conscious of the deep-blue stamps branded on the backs of my hands, letting the bartenders know that I was no good to buy a beer. But if there’s ever a good time to practice patience, it is that antsy half-hour before a band for whom you have high expectations.

It didn’t take long after our first glimpses of the SFA band members for the audience to erupt into enthusiastic applause and cheers. No matter that the stage was still empty – a video projection of the four musicians, clad in identical glow-in-the-dark hooded cloaks and driving a golf cart from around the back of 9^th Street into the backstage, was enough to make the audience feel that the time for a sharp and inimitable performance was at hand. SFA sure knows how to milk it with style. By the time they finally made it on stage, live and in person and to a trumpeted fanfare fit for royalty, I wouldn’t have been surprised if balloons and confetti began falling from above, preparing us mere mortals for the best two hours of our meager lives.

And for the most part, they made good on that. It was not hard to see where the audience’s loyalty and love for SFA comes from – the show was a well-balanced blend of their sophisticated and mature sound combined with the quirky and eccentric oddities that could only accompany a group of guys with names like Gruff, Huw, Guto, and Cian. (All right, I know they’re Welsh, but that only makes them more endearing.) They started off with newer and more hypnotic songs off their latest album, Love Kraft. The playfully agitated Zoom and the more laid-back Atomik Lust reminded us that they could be simultaneously brassy and subtle. (A testament to the former was lead singer Gruff Rhys’ occasional donning of an oversized motorcycle helmet that reminded me of last year’s Viktor & Rolf fashion shows. And I know at some point both Chris and I both turned to each other with the same thought – specifically, Wow, this is like salvia.)



As the night progressed, SFA moved into some of their older and more catchy songs, and it was at this point that I felt like the band could have flexed their stage presence muscle a bit more (helmets and cloaks aside). Mainstays like Juxtapozed With You and Something 4 the Weekend could have elicited much more participation out of the already jumpy and excited audience, but they came and went without much incident.

But far be it for me to say that the night didn’t end with a bang. The high point of the last half hour of the nearly two-hour-long show was undoubtedly the unforgettable performance of Man Don’t Give a Fuck. “All governments,” the background screen told us in bold white letters, “are liars and murderers.” SFA’s leftist roots, suddenly projected so brazenly and repetitively, seemed slightly out of place amidst Rhys’ usual crooning. But as the screen bombarded us with the relentless black-and-white images of Bush and Blair’s various facial expressions while Rhys reminded us (through song, of course), “You know they don’t give a fuck about anybody else,” the political message quickly evolved into another one of SFA’s catchy, off-kilter props. Whether they intended it or not, the real message being sent was WE ARE HERE TO ROCK YOUR FUCKING SOCKS OFF. The song’s techno-ish rock beats gradually spiraled and unraveled into a euphoric cacophony, and even now, a full two days later, I still can’t get that whole infectious atmosphere out of my mind.

So Hopkinites out there, take note: there is only one way to properly end a Tuesday night, and that is with your senses slightly battered while pondering if the last few hours weren’t just an injection of hallucinogens straight into your auditory cortex. Congratulations, Furries. We got your message. Loud and clear.