Top
  Nonsense
    These We have Loved
    Blogadoon
    Links


Hate-mail to:
    merritt@iansie.com

º Sunday 21st January 2001

Yesterday, the United States inaugurated a new president. Everybody else was at the Lyric Hammersmith for the second of the Magnetic Fields two-day concerts.

Just like their "miniature Shetland pony...spoilt rich kid" creator, Stephin Merritt's 69 Love Songs are short, largely cynical and hugely referential. And, of course, ever-so post-modern - pastiches that have their tongues shoved so far in their cheek that they sometimes ends up licking their own ass.

The Magnetic Fields are currently faced with steering a difficult course between snug smug cult status on the one hand and mass media mega-success on the other. Despite some excellent press, they don't have their fuck-you money banked quite yet - in the meantime, their fan base watches their every move with a wary eye, expecting perfection and behaving like a jaded, jilted lover when they fail to find it.

Much of this is a rod that Merritt has created for his own back: his depressive, cynical, world-weary persona does not countenance enthusiasm. No MF fan is ever going to confess to being, like, todally udderly wiped out by one of his songs. At best, one greets another magic Merritt moment with a sly grin. At worst, with a deadpan stare.

When someone asked me if I was a MF fan, I heard myself reply "Oh please, I'm a gay middle-aged man with an internet connection." Nonsense, of course, because although it probably takes a middle-aged gay man to appreciate what 69 lovers do to the soul, Merritt's songs are not especially gay: true, there's that line about "he's going to be my wife" but (unlike, say, Marc Almond) sexual references are few and far between.

I'm similarly unsure as to why I cited the internet connection unless it was for its suggestion of cultiness: beyond the usual lyric sheets, and obligatory weirdness (word-count anybody?), the net coverage of Magnetic Fields is patchy at best, and much of it is out-of-date - most scandalously the 'official' site which lists his most recent tour as 'August 2000'. I'm told the Stephinsongs mailing list is good but the web site also shows some sign of lack of enthusiasm: last update 15th October.

The one word that doesn't seem to come up in any of this coverage, astonishingly enough, is 'camp' - astonishing because there's no better word to describe the chutzpah, the gall, the heart-stopping swerves beween what works and what doesn't that characterises so much of the MF material ("I know you're a recluse. You know that's no excuse. Reno, that's just a ruse.")

Given all of the above, it seems clear that a performance of all 69 Love Songs live, on stage, under a spotlight, in front of a fee-paying suited-and-booted seated audience, becomes...problematical.

One inarguable bonus to hearing all 69 Love Songs live is that the emphasis shifts away from the lyrics (which we all know by heart anyway) to emphasise the music itself. I was entranced by the playing and singing of Merritt's collaborators: spunky Shirley Sims, bonhomous L.D.Beghtol and, the closest Magnetic Fields get to eye-candy, the sloe-eyed slow-voiced Dudley Klute. (We fantasised ourselves unfurling a banner reading "Dudley, Show Us Your Hungry Hole". Maybe that's why he looked so nervous - though he don't look like no stranger to sexual predation to me. Yum.)

Appropriately enough for a children's novelist, Daniel Handler looked like a kinky vicar's dream, even when wrapped in an accordion. And Sam Davol's cello (cellophon? cellette?) had a wonderful tidal quality. For me though, the highlight of the show was John Woo's guitar work (and banjo work, and tambourine work) which was, quite simply, outstanding.

Claudia Gonson of course, was beyond criticism: I bet that girl plays a mean game of hockey. It's no surprise that she, as the group's manager, gets landed with almost all of the audience interaction - not a heavy task, given that it consists of fifty words, tops.

Merritt, you felt, had already made his contribution in coining the material in the first place; we've long known that performance is not his strong point. But, for me, irritation at his poker-faced presentation, his awkward intertwinings with his stool, his wilful inability to get off on the fact that several hundred people are - yes - enjoying themselves just built and built until, well, I wanted to hit him. Or at least give him a good shake.

On disc, where all that brilliance is veiled by the inevitably incidental nature of the presentation, Merritt's unrelenting wit is much easier to take - each time you listen, you trip over some new conceit that makes you giggle. In a live show, however, the focus is so much tighter, and the risks are so much higher: all that cleverness gets very hard to take when unleavened by not even a tad of blithe enthusiasm.

Given that the most intelligent response to a smart-arse (to ignore him) is not an option at a live performance, how else can one react? Blind respect is one option I suppose, measured at the Lyric by the nano-pauses at the end of each song - as if to say "wow, I'm so wiped out by that I'm not sure my muscles still work" - but love must be another.

Recorded material is, by definition, a one-way ticket - from the person who creates the material to the person who listens to it. And if you don't like it...you can fuck off. A live performance, on the other hand, is an act of theatre. There needs to be dialogue, a mutual give and take, a call-and-response sequence that drives both performers and audience on to new heights and depths, climaxing at the encore.

Now, I chuckled a lot throughout both evenings. I tapped my feet and swayed my shoulders. I was, indeed, almost moved to tears at several points (most memorably at "...Love was a trucker's hand. Never stuck around long enough for a one-night stand..."). But I never got to cum.

After several hours of being royally entertained, one wants an opportunity to give the lurv back, to indulge in a cuddle-fest, to be congratulated for being clever enough to recognise what a clever evening it's been. One wants, in a phrase, emotional closure. And that's a very difficult gig for a guy who's made a career from hymning the joys of non-communication.

Merritt, famously, cut off some previous standing ovation by returning to the stage and saying: "Stop clapping". That's like having your lover tell you not to bother. At the Lyric on Friday, after "Promises of Eternity" the rapturous crowd were treated to a short rendition of "The Book of Love' beautifully sung by Peter Gabriel (patently a clever multi-layered reference forward, given that the first song of the next evening was to be "World Love".)

On Saturday the shows ended with the band drifting back on stage with some muttered remark from Claudia about "this is a bit of an in-joke at your expense". Hmmmmmmm.

There then followed a spirited rendition of the song that started it all off, "Absolutely Cuckoo". So far, so clever. But when they fluffed it and had to start again, the suspicion dawned that the most likely reason for choosing that song was that they needed a retake for the DVD coverage. So much for spontaneity.

I don't think anyone wants the Magnetic Fields to become a stadium band (though a bit of visual spectacle beyond one large lemon and a mirror ball wouldn't go amiss.) And I certainly don't want Merritt to stop recording his oh-so-clever songs. But if he's going to become the genius that we've all invested in, he (or Claudia) needs to sit down and think through the implications of performing live. Recorded music is one medium, a stage show is another. And, as Walter Benjamin said: "Even the most perfect reproduction of a work of art is lacking in one element: its presence in time and space, its unique existence at the place where it happens to be."

Maybe Stephin Merritt should write a musical.