Metric brings shitty bands, sexy self to Seattle
On Monday night, Seattlest arrived at the Showbox like we often do, a half hour early so we could sit in the Green Room, have a beer or two, and watch the under-agers patiently waiting in line outside. Our well planned arrival turned out to be somewhat premature however, as we held court with very few other grown-up types in the cozy little bar hugging the south side of the Showbox. Meanwhile, a growing line of minors in faux-punk fatigues wrapped itself around the building like a python to a rat.
At 8pm, the doors opened and we relocated our bodies to the 21+ section of the Showbox, finding a couple stools from which we could again look over the fledgling crowd. Like chaperones at a high school dance we watched for an hour as they milled about, talking, laughing, yelling at each other because her boyfriend was talking to that girl and she’s a total skank, etc. They flaunted their emo hair styles, awkwardly coordinated outfits, and cell phones, flipping them open and shut with martial-art-like proficiency. It was amusing for a spell, but all the buzzing hormonal energy below us was exhausting. Soon, to our relief, the grown-folk section filled up and the show finally got started.
The first band, End of Fashion, is hardly worth mentioning, but we’ll mention them anyway because they blew. Okay, they didn’t totally blow. We just weren’t in the mood this night to listen to another verse-chorus-verse, lovesick guy-band with nothing new to offer.
Next up, was Islands. A psychedelic, weirdo, seven-piece ensemble, all dressed in white, whom we quickly dubbed “The Stereotypes!” There was the black guy on bass, the short, hairy man on lead guitar, the tall, eclectic fellow on saxophone, the two nerdy Asian guys on violin and keyboard, and the skinny, sensitive white boy on vocals. Islands started their set with a song that sounded like a rip off of The Arcade Fire, but then moved into more unique territory with strange, yet entertaining space-pop, and a song dedicated to the deceased Luna, the orca recently killed by a tugboat propeller (an event which, some idiot dubbed, “the Katrina of orca advocacy.” Uh huh.)
Once the Katrina of experimental indie psych-pop returned to the mothership, we finally perked up, as the show we’d come for was now mere moments away.
Metric entered the stage in a hail of lights and deafening applause, with pre-recorded opening vocals to the track “Live it out” tearing through the speakers. Jimmy Shaw (guitar), Josh Winstead (bass) and Joules Scott-Key (drums), took their positions, while the stunning Emily Haines wrapped a slender hand around the microphone. With the cue of a subtle sideways glance, Metric took off and gave us the type of show we wished all concerts could be: High octane, full-intensity, new wave rock. A concert not only about music, but about performance. A show of sweat-churning endurance, sexual bravado, and aural climaxes galore.
For a foursome, Metric have a big sound, mostly due to Jimmy Shaw’s mind-spinning guitar chops. This guy knows the strings, and knows them well enough to simultaneously deliver driving rhythms and atmospheric leads. We didn’t know what to expect from vocalist/synth commander Emily Haines. While siphoning her strong, sultry voice into our heads via digital avenues, we’ve daydreamed a number of times about what kind of live presence she might have. To be sure, she did not disappoint. Not only were her musicianship and her vocals remarkable, but her body language, whether suggestive or silly, was spot on, leaving our blood pumping in more ways than one.
What we’re trying to say here is that she was hot.
Hot!!!
Okay. There. We said it.
[Photo courtesy of Faithless Kat]
