Crack

The lights go down; she glides effortlessly onstage, picks up the guitar, affixes her capo and intently pops in her earphones. The ethereal, synth-laden opening to Surgeon soars out from the speakers as Annie Clark waits for her cue. It’s all set up to be a night of wonderful, offbeat, aural delights. The anticipation within the crowd is palpable, but as Clark fumbles frustratingly with the earphones amidst her thick, tightly curled mane of jet black hair, it’s clear she’s not in a good place, but there’s no going back and nowhere to hide. She looks desperately around to the technician, gesticulating furiously for some support, before plunging into her vocals like a child bereft of armbands.

Despite her obvious discomfort, Clark boldly goes on, her frustration simmering just below the boil, until her second chorus is played out and the tantrum erupts – earphones flung dramatically across the stage with a few choice words for the man behind the sound desk. The crowd are on tenterhooks, and with the closure of the opener comes a rapturous applause of appreciation and encouragement, laced in the hope that Annie won’t go all diva on us and prematurely pull down the curtain on the night’s offerings.

Yet Clark is clearly not of that disposition, and the histrionics, above all, illustrate her love of sound, her dedication to her art, and her overall perfectionism. In fact, the episode seems to be an apt prelude to Cheerleader; a menacing, brooding surge of stark vocal that swells at its chorus, with the stuttered and fizzing refrain of "I-I-I don’t wanna be a cheerleader no more," ringing with female empowerment and a strident sense of defiance.

Aside from another unscripted eruption of irritation mid-set, Clark’s overall genius shines through in an inspiring set of well-crafted and intelligent songs. It’s clear she’s come a long way since her days as one of Polyphonic Spree’s vast number. The pulsating, drum-driven Actor Out of Work – perhaps St Vincent’s biggest hit pre the release of this year’s Strange Mercy LP – gets feet tapping and heads nodding, while the similarly energetic Northern Lights is a gripping marriage of phenomenal, high-pitched vocal crescendos and distortion-drenched guitar lines. Powerful stuff.

The musical purists amongst the crowd might question the bare bones line-up – Clark being joined only by drummer and two synth players – yet the lack of a live bassist is completely overshadowed by Clark’s stunning vocal performance and the sheer intricacy of her craftsmanship as a self-confessed guitar nerd. Recent single Cruel – a blistering yet beautiful train of time-changes with one of the catchiest guitar lines of the year to boot – receives the biggest reception of the night, yet aesthetically, the crowning moment is found in the sumptuous Strange Mercy.

The surrounding stage lights vanish as a solitary beam at the back of the stage points up from the floor, revealing Clark as something almost angelic, let alone saintly. Aside from her bright red lipstick, Clark, demurely dressed all in black, could equally have just appeared from a film noir movie; her thick dark curls dangle and kiss at her porcelain-white cheeks, while her flawless vocal seems to hang timelessly in the air.

Following a strong set interspersed with a memorable tale of chasing phantom white deer through a Washington graveyard in the dead of night during her U.S. tour, St Vincent returns for an encore, replete with elegant, back-first fall into the arms of her appreciative – and no doubt relieved – audience. A shining performance revealing St Vincent’s stunning ability as a live performer – not that it was ever in question.



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Words: Fred Yeast

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