Laughter and tears with the Daily Mail’s public enemy number one.
I’m late. I don’t want to miss the now nipple-infamous Amanda Palmer. I reminisce about the Daily Mail’s breast-centric review of her Glastonbury performance, where a boob popped out (not uncommon in an Amanda Palmer concert) and seemingly blinded the poor journalist. That’s a lot of power for a B-cup, or a very impressionable reporter.
I can now hear the cacophony of sounds up the stairs of Camden’s Roundhouse. I pass the well-intended but always meaningless-time-waster ticket girl and gaze at the stage. Empty. Either someone threw a shitload of random instruments down a flight of stairs or I’m missing something. I follow the sounds and reach a half improvised arena in the middle of the crowd. What appears to be a cryptic, primordial dance is the band Perhaps Contraption, playing their glorious mishmash of genres. Just their high pitches and marching band instruments, like street performers collecting pennies out on the streets (possibly taking a page out of Palmer’s TED talk).
The music stops, the crowd looks up, and there she is, by the stands: Amanda Fucking Palmer. No bells and whistles, just a flashy kimono, and a voice struggling to be heard. Urging us to have fun through a ukulele rendering of Radiohead’s Creep, as if playing the party host and telling us there’s beer in the fridge and pizza on the way, before returning to the kitchen to check if the quiche is overcooked. Immersed in the randomness of the audience and the revolving-door of special guests, I understand what’s implied. This isn’t a show – it’s a housewarming party. The kind where you invite your old mates, where everyone brings food and drinks, possibly a couple of acoustic guitars, and there’s always that overenthusiastic fellow with a Wii. And we, the audience, are the ‘plus one,’ lucky enough to have been invited.
Jherek Bischoff comes through the door first, one among many house guests, as the cool and composed rock artist, playing the slightly introverted, but always all-knowing, slick chap at the party. One part of the Grand Theft Orchestra, American musician and producer Jherek Bischoff, delivers an awesome guitar solo and pop tune before setting the stage for Chad Raines and his band The Simple Pleasure. Another member of the Grand Theft Orchestra, Chad gives us the sexually fueled, attitude driven rocker, in a hugely danceable synthpop performance.
Then we have the awkward kid, played by artist Tom Milsom, grabbing the mike and piano, and blowing us away with his sweetness and catchy/depressing melodies. All eyes eventually stop on the hot blonde that comes in, one part of the band Bitter Ruin, the type you need liquid courage to talk to, as she destroys beauty expectations with a ferocious acoustic guitar rock performance. All the while, Amanda Palmer is the dutiful host, going around in the background of the performances, making sure our drinks are filled and everyone is having a good time.
The party becomes a Broadway musical, with emotion and story conveyed through music
By the time Palmer abandons the host persona and joins the party on stage, the audience is already drunk on euphoria. There’s the Voltron-esque transformation of the side acts into Amanda Palmer and The Grand Theft Orchestra, and the band goes through a rock infused, crescendo driven performance that stretches all the way back to Palmer’s days in The Dresden Dolls. But there’s still some pop fun to be had, when Australian singer-songwriter Kate Miller Heidke steps on stage with her Facebook rant quirky tune, followed by the wonderful freaks of Limbo from the London Wonderground, with their circus feats of strength and anatomy, and thrilling world music performance. Once again, I am reminded this is a party.
But like in any party, people tend to get emotional and reminisce once the (not-so-literal) alcohol is coursing through their veins. All alone with her ukulele, Amanda delivers a powerful, emotional, stream-of-consciousness new song, where she pours her heart out to the audience. The initial awkwardness of such a genuine moment is replaced by a heartfelt desire to hug and whisper kind words, which in concert terms translates to shattering applause and “we love you” chants. The party becomes a Broadway musical, with emotion and story conveyed through music, epiphany as song-and-dance, and trauma as a catchy tune. The kind of musical where Tim Curry would be comfortable in stockings.
Of course no party is complete without someone strolling around naked. Amanda delivers through the now famous (somewhat ironically) Up Yours, Daily Mail sing-along. With the crowd raging behind her, Palmer takes off her kimono in the middle of the half-improvised performance, becoming the anti-Christ of all conservative media: the naked female body. Sure, one could easily argue that all this attention on her body does the same exact kind of damage that she’s fighting against (i.e. the objectification of women), but, in her almost naive and art chick way, this was Palmer standing up to the tabloid bully and getting a few, well-deserved, cheap shots in. And judging from the social media reaction, the internet is on her side.
Suddenly, all Palmer’s somewhat cliché slogans and “music for the people” mottos don’t seem so empty
My feet are sore by now. The guests are leaving, some staggering through the door, as the party comes to an end and the encore is long gone. I’m left with a wonderful sense of belonging. Suddenly, all Amanda Palmer’s somewhat cliché slogans and “music for the people” mottos don’t seem so empty. This is where they come to life and we become immersed in a sort of symbiotic relation with the artist. Giving and taking, giving and taking. Finally I understand: We truly are the media. Except you, Daily Mail. You’re drunk. Go home.
Featured image: stusev via Flickr
Pictures: Vera Gomes
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