Kurt Vile – The Scala, London
Smoke-ring or halo for the long-haired one and his Violators in London?
Words Steph Kretowicz
Photography Sebastien Dehesdin
Interesting, how glam metal of the eighties was destroyed by the slacker grunge culture that also took pride in its hair and what it represented. Presumably, the difference is in the maintenance or, as in Kurt Vile’s case, lack there of. The Philadelphian musician, his woollen jumper and split ends might be a throw back to early grunge in appearance but musically he’s something else entirely.
Hitting the comparative big time over the past year with his second album on Matador, Smoke Ring For My Halo, hasn’t stopped Kurt Vile And The Violators from taking the front entrance with the rest of the public at a sold-out Scala. They’re hard to miss. A gust of wind offers a glimpse of the face and the impressive sideburns behind the mane as they walk past.
After Brooklyn’s Woods play their version of the lo-fi rock of the day, Vile and his cohorts discretely take to the stage to set up their own equipment. The crowd gets a little bit buzzy before getting over it and letting the band do their thing, which eventually includes walking back off the stage to let the anticipation build.
Finally Vile emerges, selecting an acoustic from the guitar rack and following a casual, ‘What’s up?’ with a solo number alone and under spotlight. If you’ve heard 2009’s God Is Saying This To You, an album undiluted by the ethereal tumult of the stylistic preference for reverb and sonic degradation, this focus on the nuanced craft and simplicity of his song writing is a most appropriate opener.
There is an idiosyncrasy to Vile’s drawling nasalised vocal, moulded around palatalised vowels and an intonation that drifts off with the transcendental musings of a half-stoned bedroom intellectual. The comparisons to Bob Dylan’s distinctive inflections are unavoidable — along with a hazy thematic focus in songs like ‘Jesus Fever’ and ‘Society Is My Friend’. In being joined by the musical entourage, the 12-string has its moment for the mystical new aged psychedelia of ‘Overnite Religion’ before — to paraphrase a Vilean apology — it ‘craps itself’. Only drummer Mike Zeng’s long locks compare to the frontman’s. He tames his pig-skinned beast with firm, yet loving hands; hands that are furnished with everything from wrapped mallets and maracas to your usual beater or nothing but oxygen between flesh and high hat. He occasionally dons earmuffs, while flawlessly assimilating a drum machine addition into the percussive unit. Bassist Adam Granduciel’s wavy bob implies submission to the tyranny of the haircut every once in a while, while rhythm guitarist Jesse Turbo gives himself away as The Violator that joined Woods on stage earlier — as the only one with the ‘short back and sides’. As difficult as it is to find contemporary guitar bands that aren’t boring, Kurt Vile can lay claim to being affecting without pretension. He proves that, like the hair, it’s not what you’ve got; it’s what you do with it.
