Live Impressions by Cara Giaimo The Paradise Rock Club (w/ Carnivores & White Rainbow) Boston - March 8th Everything about Bradford Cox is long. He’s tall enough that he doesn’t really need a stage. He throws out such a far-reaching aura that he probably doesn’t even need a concert hall – if he were to unpack his guitar and his yawp of a voice in the middle of a field, villagers would be drawn from miles around and birds would settle on his pointed shoulders. He folds his arms around his guitar like a spider wrapping a fly, and his fingers stumble over the frets like a gangly teenager. Live, he even stretches his songs out, spinning the 3-minute forays of his albums into reverb-soaked sagas, with buildups and teardowns and valleys and peaks. And alone under the Paradise’s swampy stage lights, he throws a shadow like a redwood. [ Editor's Note: Painting perhaps a more perfect picture, take a look at this Interview Magazine photo shoot .] The internet’s reach is long, too, and reports of Cox’s onstage antics – black ski masks, preteen doppelgangers, an hour-long cover of “ My Sharona ” – got the Pitchfork-reading public out of their dorm rooms. The ‘Dise was stuffed to the gills; the air was thick with expectation and exhaled PBR vapors. Five hundred trigger fingers loomed over five hundred iPhone “record” buttons. Cox wasn’t biting. He ambled onstage between openers and slouched against the wall, eating from a sleeve of Saltines. He wore a Hawaiian-style shirt patterned with happy skiers, a little bone on a chain around his neck, and sometimes sunglasses. He brought the second opener a bottle of wine. During a break in the middle of his set, he teased the crowd. “It’s the last night ...
Ryan's Smashing Life
23 March 2012