After a few minutes, it gets hot. Really hot. With all of us wedged in the space, one can see the skid row charm of the Little Radio Warehouse is equal part ghetto and fabulous: the wooden rafters and exposed brick are great but there's no ventilation. The difficulties of the venue aren't all too unusual: it seems that the majority of concert-goers over the history of time have suffered a variety of physical ills. We stand for long periods of time, get pushed around and stepped on, some unlucky people get beer spilled on them, and in the end we emerge soaked with the sweat belonging to both ourselves and our neighbors. What makes it or breaks it is the performance. The communal sweat can be unifying in rock-out glory or just really, really gross. It's a gamble: no pain, no gain.
With sweat quickly gathering on brows and armpits alike, we mill between the brick and cement awaiting the band. Without a word the quartet finally steps on stage and like a breeze to the rising heat, Spoon, my friends, are cool. They start with "Don't Make Me A Target" and the venue roars. Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga is Spoon's newest and sixth full-length album and after being out (let's say people didn't snatch it up illegally before July 10th) for a mere handful of days, we know and love the songs already.
Spoon are a controlled group. Regulated by an unyielding meter, the restless and reigned-tight rhythm section snaps Spoon's success onto an evenly lined grid. Eric Harvey's fingers jump and tap the keys as Rob Pope flexes his instrument to Jim Eno tambourine-stacked snare sound, and Britt Daniel is jittering out lyric after lyric. Everything matches evenly in Spoon's fixed song structure, the band makes no errors even in a live performance in a furnace, and one song leads into the other without much being said by the band. However, for a live performance that is both formal and reticent, I am sweating myself into a fury trying to keep up. Like an impatient bull butting its head against the skeletal railing, the meter and the band's personal quiet can barely hold in the agitated energy of their songs. Despite the uncluttered soundscape and pacing, everyone is literally worked into a fever–Spoon included.
It is the drive of never climaxing, of running in place forever, of always building up but never tipping. It is the fever intensified by repetition, of growing louder, staying refrained, and demanding more. The drum and bass never crack. The beat keeps on.
On recording Spoon are measured and polished and live they're secretive—and they balance the binary of open and closed effortlessly. Daniel is shredding on his guitar, splintering apart in divulging solos, cutting everything on the guitar's serrated edge. He puts on a gold mask in "Beast and the Dragon" and then rips it off, maybe because it's hot or maybe because there's only so much you can hide in front of the fanatics. The keyboard rings dissonant with the electronic dulcet tones in "You Got Yr. Cherry Bomb" and Eno brings out the tambourine on the hi-hat for that extra crisp rattle. Pope's groove is ringing in my ears. The band members stand far apart from each other but they are clearly tuned and very present on stage. The night ended with "I Turn My Camera On," one of Spoon's most popular songs.
Spoon has described Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga as their most mature album to date. After listening to Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga on record and experiencing it live, I think I finally understand the ruler by Spoon determine their growth. It's in the nuances: Spoon is jerky not shaky, abrupt not sudden. More than ever, this time around Spoon is all about control.
