Deerhunter

“You will only remember the good parts”, Bradford Cox assures the crowd in a moment of clarity during one of the most uncomfortable encores I have witnessed to date. But you were wrong, Cox. We remember it all…

Deerhunter. Such a delicious group that their live performances have warranted such analogies as 'religious awakening'. No, really, I have literally heard this come out of peoples mouths. These boys make music so sweet, you will rethink your road trip soundtrack from then on. They include The Black Lips and No Age amongst their best buddies. They get glowing reviews and kudos from Grizzly Bear and support NIN. And they put on two shows at the always tasty Corner Hotel.

I had the pleasure of attending both these gigs and they could not have been more different. The first was attended by every trendy that Melbourne could spare on a Thursday night. It was the gig you had to be seen at. Forget the fact that you do not the words, let alone own an album. Just carefully select your favourite Cheap Mondays, strategically arrange your bed hair, practice your coolest I’m just here for the music stance and talk about how epic that last song was, you know the one… crypto maps or something.

Never minding that Cryptograms was but a shell of its recorded self, and should have in no way been attempted in such unfiltered vocal stylings, we all know it. But this pose of posers did not allude the band, with Bradford slipping in a disappointed “You guys suck”, to an applause, for goodness sake! It was like an episode of Nathan Barley. But I danced nonetheless, it was Deerhunter after all.

So a second show. What a difference a week makes. The crowd knew the words. They listened to every note and made lustful looks at each other in between songs. There was love in the room. Sure it didn’t last… but for a time, it was love.

Starting off our Friday night were The Twerps. So young and plucky I felt the maternal urge to keep a watchful eye over any up-starts in the crowd. Their musical maturity made a mockery of their tender ages with beautifully melodic, slightly phsycoldelic pop rock. They had an unrefined 60’s feel very similar to the tunes of The Fearless Vampire Killers, who are wooing a growing number of hipsters about town these days. Followed up by the always well-received Fabulous Diamonds.

With sound so big, it drowned every nook of every corner (yeah, a shameless play on words). Their set was stunning as it was saddening. A wistful suicide soundtrack for 2009 with a droning organ and heavy repetitive drums. I headed straight for the merch desk to purchase Seven Songs and hoped never to be at a dinner party hosted by Jarrod Zlatic and Nisa Venerosa.

Oh, Deerhunter. Won't you let me know you. It was an orgasmic listening experience with bass so deep it resonated through the floor and made every lady in the room pregnant and have desires of becoming a chain smoking band-aid. It was delicious. But my eye was completely transfixed on one Josh Fauver, the wide eyed bass player with a permanent smile wedged into his storable face. Well- placed in centre stage, he giggle through the entire set.

He is the friends little brother I want to drunkenly make out with in the back room of his parents house. The clear degeneration in his cervical spine, giving him an unhealthy curvature only made me dig him more. His childish banter with the eager fans at the front conjured images of taking him home to meet my Mum. She would have really liked him.

So where did it start to go wrong? Assumptions are all I have and so I turn to drugs. With a rapid decline into roll plays about eating your vegetables to flat out refusal to play their own music and swilling Canadian Club straight from the bottle, one can only assume that there were outside contributing factors. We all humoured the confronting It's Your Mother Calling voice guitar monologue for as long as we could, but not even the die hard lovers could avoid that pained cringe that creeps across your face when you see the most munted guy at the party make a complete tool of himself. The music got sloppy and dishevelled within minutes.

There was a collective sigh of relief when they exited the stage and a genuine concern when Cox re-entered alone only to drape a towel over his head like a messiah and attempt each instrument. This continued for a very lengthy ten minutes when good conscience prevailed in the shape of the remaining band luring him into some crowd pleasing numbers. But again, curtain call was ignored. Cox once more adorned a messiah head piece and lingered on a single chord for an un nerving amount of time, however now assisted by the drums of Moses Archuleta.

It was reaching the point of a mass exits when in swept Fauver in cheeky grinned splendour to systematically remove instruments from hands reach of anyone still causing concern on stage. This was a saving grace as the set was starting to take on the form of ‘train wreck gig’ that the kids will be talking about for years to come, (the jury is still out on whether this is a good or bad thing to have on ones resume. It seemed to work for Chan Marshal).

And then it was over. Told to go home by Cox and an all too willing crowd. A mixed bag to be sure. Difficult to watch in places yet something I will gladly join the trendies in bragging rights on having been there.

Oh, and to the peroxide middle aged shmuck near the back. No matter how much you hate the show and how ’shithouse’ you think the music and nonsensical banter is. You still paid to get in and you were by far the biggest douchebag in the room!

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