Knockdown Center sits just out of reach of the subway in an industrial corner where Brooklyn meets Queens. The neighborhood usually has as many 18-wheelers as people, but on the weekend passionate Brooklynites flood there for music and dancing. This past Thursday I was one of them, making the pilgrimage with my friend to see the band caroline.
Upon arrival, we sped past the Salomons and rave sunglasses at the entrance and managed to catch the last couple songs of the first opener, Giant Claw. What I heard sounded like anime fight music, but before I had enough time to make a real opinion the set was over. Following the crowd, we grabbed beers and made our way out to the patio, chatting about our expectations for the rest of the night.
Before long we heard sound coming from inside, and nestled ourselves back in the crowd for the second opener, Claire Rousay. She was sitting in what appeared to be a copy of her home setup: a Rhodes Mark II was in front of her, along with a nest of cables and wires feeding into the laptop to her right. Twinkling chimes and reedy synths were slowly fading in and out while Claire played circling melodies over the soundscape. There were no percussive elements, and everything was washed in heavy reverb and delay. It sounded a bit like transitional music in a nature documentary. And then the aquatic night frog makes his way into a cold world again…
After a while bobbing in this sea of sound, Claire began to sing. Her voice was heavily autotuned, with the timbre of a despondent Bladee, as she repeated plaintive melodic phrases over repetitive guitar. The music seemed to be designed for personal catharsis more than audience enjoyment. That there was an audience at all felt like an intrusion on her space.
Abruptly, with a perfunctory hit of the kick drum, the set ended. My friend and I agreed that while it was emotive, it was somewhat one-note. There was little real development. Potentially that was the point.
After some more time out on the patio breathing in second-hand smoke, it was time for caroline’s set. The band walked out onto a dark stage to cheers from the crowd, and soon low growls echoed from a baritone saxophone. A hush of anticipation filled the room. Guitars began to twangle, violins slipped and slid, and occasionally a deep subbass shook our bodies. We were off.
Immediately it was clear to me that caroline were masters of dynamics. Throughout the set, something was always moving, melodies coming in and going away, volumes raising and lowering. These changes were nearly imperceptible but always there. The music was jagged at times, floating at others, and there was no consistent rhythm. Everything was gestured. The musicians had to keep their eyes locked together for timing.
An early highlight of the set was the band’s rendition of Dark Blue, the opener from their debut album. The song built fluidly from a simple chordal riff to a room shaking roar, all while a singer repeated the lyric I want it all / so tell them. It brought to mind a wave returning again and again to crash against a rocky and lichenous shore: never the same, and always the same. It nailed the post-rock blueprint canonized by bands like Sigur Rós.
A blueprint can become problematic though. As the concert continued, most of the songs played followed this pattern, one that began to be predictable. Admittedly, I am no post-rock super fan. In my opinion, drawing things out can, at times, be a trick to cosplay profundity. Brevity is the soul of wit, as a famous man once said. I began to yearn for something different.
At their best, the ever changing soundscapes of the evening transported me into a strange and beautiful world. At lower points, the music had the feeling of a pretentious description at an art museum, one that is designed to make you feel alienated if you don’t understand. Throughout the setlist I couldn’t seem to decide on which side they were landing.
Often I felt that I was looking at a commune from the outside. The room was permeated with the feeling of being in the know, and of being superior to those who are not in the know. This is a nice, if false, feeling. In my less charitable moments, I couldn’t help but think that that was how the band wanted to be perceived, as making art on a higher plane. That everything was in service of that perception.
Then came the penultimate song, Coldplay cover. A band member introed it by saying that it was different from all the others, and it was. The 8-piece divided themselves into two groups, which sang opposing melodies as a final member moved across the stage with a microphone. The sounds of fragile male voices emerged and faded as she moved, eventually blending into full countermelody. The quartets lay themselves lovingly overtop one another, and for a moment, there was the possibility of magic, held in simplicity. I felt that I breathed out for the first time that night. Too fast, the song was over.
During their final song the band was smiling wide, savouring the moment. It was the last show of the tour, and they didn’t seem to want it to end. caroline clearly loves making music with one another. Seeing them onstage, they were obviously where they should’ve been.
Though when the lights came up and I meandered out of the venue, my feelings were still confused. There were moments that shone through, but the room lacked the electricity that tingles through the aftermath of a great show. I wondered how this would have played at a different venue, potentially my own venue. The music seemed best suited to be listened to alone, when it would’ve been possible to let go of the visual stimuli and fully sink into the musical world caroline was trying to create. Perhaps it was a lack of presence that left me underwhelmed.
Then again, the point of a concert is to be in the room. At the best concerts it is impossible not to be in communion with the band and those around you. I can hear the chorus that follows this thought: you just don’t get it. Well, the music either makes magic in the room, or it doesn’t. This time, my feet stayed on the ground.
Leave a Reply