Photo by Annemarieke van Drimmeln
GOLDFRAPP tangle in position. Is Alison Goldfrapp a cooler Kylie Minogue? A ruling Pop-Queen sequin dressed but sold under value? A shiny facade hiding a lone lost Artist behind? Or is her band a heavyweight serious statement? Comparable to PORTISHEAD or BJÖRK. Building cinematic scape of sound. Noire soundtracks spun around seductive voice, hushed, glamorous, dark.
Black dressed, 80s shoulder padded and slightly highlighted by spotlight Alison Goldfrapp appears on stage. Applause is frenetic. The show was sold out months ago. Numerous sadly faced fans were guiding you inside a beautiful theatre hall, pleading, asking for tickets, willing to pay horrendous prices.
The audience was kindly made aware of the bar being closed during the first half of the following set: It’s a translation for GOLDFRAPP playing six songs from their latest, Felt Moutain-eraesque record Tales of Us, first. Focus is on atmosphere. Backed by a five piece band, the songs are well executed and sound exactly like on record. But they float by in transcendental insignificance. While Drew softly rises into ethereal heights and Stranger is received with thundering applause, the nerdily pedantic spectator feels distracted: How do they, the band, there on stage, do it? Is a Violin capable of sounding like a Cello? Is a détaché bowing technique capable of replacing a whole orchestral string section? Should a band at least hire some musicians playing classical instruments because it looks nice and feels real – or not, because half of the used samples, instruments, effects (etc.) come out of the box anyways?
Well, – I don’t know, but when the bar finally re-opened, we’re already bathed in colourful light-show, synth, disco groove and tracks chosen from the bands whole oeuvre. You Never Know from Supernature (2005) is working fabulous, seems vital and far off the original album version. Towards the shows final four songs it’s coming close to dance-floor madness. Lovely Head from their first record Felt Mountain (2000) is James Bond riding through deserts. A haunting track, vitally breathing, dynamic. Train and Strict Machine from Black Cherry (2003) are pumping synth machines, pushing electronics, raw distortion and a voice: dancing round a pole, dripping gloss and sex. On the balcony the audience is trying to clap (?!) in measure, moronically smiling, while the pit is freaking out. Cheering and ecstatic. As Alison Goldfrapp was barely moving at the shows calm entré, she now pulls off her (apparent) trademark move: slightly shrugging her accented shoulders until the light goes out.
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