On the last night of their lengthy North American tour Klaxons, a genre - and time - bending quartet from London have arrived at New York City’s Webster Hall; a venue that has earned a reputation for humbling tasty noisemakers via lackluster acoustics.
Their sound, dubbed “nu-rave,” is an amalgam of two distinct eras of British music: the ‘new wave’ and ‘post punk’ pop music of the 1980s - spearheaded by bands like New Order - and the synth-driven, MDMA-infused rave tunes of the early 1990s that were booming throughout the late Tony Wilson’s infamous Manchester nightclub The Hacienda (for a history lesson, add Michael Winterbottom’s brilliant faux-documentary 24 Hour Party People to your Netflix queue). Lyrically however, Klaxons are segregated to the ethereal plane, ruminating on Whippoorwill’s soaring east towards Westphalia, Cyclops’ overcome with ennui, and a wild night out at ‘Club 18-30’ with Princess Diana and Mother Teresa.
Thanks to the lads’ unique angle, Klaxons’ debut album Myths of the Near Future recently walked away with this year’s Mercury Music Prize, honoring the best UK album of the past year.
Following a one-hour DJ set, the crowd was getting restless - with a few über-dedicated fans tightening their kung-fu grip on pairs of luminous neon glowsticks.
In the midst of thunderous applause, the ‘four horsemen’ burst into a rousing rendition of Kicks Like A Mule cover “The Bouncer” - a nightmarish number about getting turned away at a nightclub, presumably a rave, replete with a thumping bassline, squealing synths, and the harmonious cry of “YOUR NAME’S NOT DOWN, YOU’RE NOT COMING IN!” Bomb sirens signal the ravey “Atlantis to Interzone,” and the pleas of “Come on and dance with me!” during the chorus to B-side “Hall of Records” inspires just that from the typically distant, NYU-infested Webster Hall crowd.
Klaxons are comprised of two guitarists, a keyboardist and a drummer, with all four of them sharing vocal duties. The combination of keyboardist James Righton’s shrieking synths and twinkling, minor-key ivories (mirroring the iridescence of his sequined, Michael Jackson-style bracelet); frontman Jamie Reynolds’ pounding bass; Simon Taylor-Davis’ furious guitar shredding; and Steffan Halperin’s galloping drums, produce melodic compositions of controlled chaos.
Speaking of controlled chaos, Simon Taylor-Davis’ disheveled, jet-black mop - that looks like Donald Trump’s comb over ravaged by a cyclone - is truly a sight to behold. If Davis and Amy Winehouse had a child… Ah, the possibilities are endless. Alas, I digress.
The rockers employ ghostly "oohs" in two and sometimes three-part parallel octaves - like on empyrean ode “Golden Skans” - that evokes the theme to Edward Scissorhands. “Magick” lifts the crowd completely off their feet, and the Thomas Pynchon-inspired “Gravity’s Rainbow,” the band’s finest song, is a thoroughly entrancing homage to “future love” that recalls the Christopher Reeve cult classic Somewhere In Time - and reps a dynamite chorus.
After manic encore “Four Horsemen of 2012,” as I peered down at my cell phone I was a little dismayed to see that the band’s set lasted under an hour. Although one can’t really fault the guys - they played all the songs they have. Plus, the quaking Webster Hall floor could definitely use the rest.
--Marlow Stern
