Gig review: HIM @ Luna Park Big Top, Sydney (25/3/2008)
July 5th 2008 08:06
It’s quite appropriate that on the night HIM came to town the heavens swelled and let down a steady surge of rain. It was an ominous sign for a gig that was overshadowed by an enduring sense of mediocrity.
Ville Valo must have caught a cold. Either that or his testicles have finally descended. What else could explain the guttural vocal which he assailed the hapless crowd with during his struggle with his upper register? Okay, the jury may be out on that one but still, there is no denying that HIM’s performance was rather lacklustre and overshadowed by a mind-numbing sense of sameness.
The boys stroll onto the stage amidst a cloud of excess smoke. Valo embraces the microphone in his signature pose with the obligatory cigarette in hand. Same beanie. Same clothes. Same over-active smoke machine and same chain-smoking schtick which was previously unveiled to us on this very stage during their maiden tour in 2006.
The dust mites are swept off the requisite older hits, much to the delight of the unnervingly younger crowd, but they are all performed in a perfunctory manner, as if simply playing by rote. Three down, nine to go, and then they can enjoy the spoils of their rider. There is no passion in this performance, there is no ardour, there is not even a smidgeon of vim. They began with a rather prosaic attempt at Right Here in My Arms and the delightful Wings of a Butterfly, which was anything but delightful. Mikko Lindstom’s guitar riff animates the crowd and resonates throughout the room but it does naught to resuscitate the limp vocals. Valo attempts the high notes on a rather maudlin rendition of Buried Alive by Love but they are too pitchy and instead he resorts to a gravelly wail. And so the night wears on, with a rather disastrous cover of Wicked Game that sounds disjointed; it’s slightly out of time and far too dour.
Halfway through Poison Girl, a rather enthusiastic young lady flashes flesh and Valo points her out to bassist Mikko Paananen. At song’s end he entreats the young lass to bare her “enhanced mammaries” again as Pannanen’s myopic eyesight meant that he missed the fervent display. She fails to oblige and they roll out the golden oldies as if mentally counting down to the show’s end. Your Sweet 666, Join Me and Killing Loneliness are all delivered with an insensate detachment; the band’s apparent apathy coming through into the songs.
“We’re waiting for the rapture,” Valo quips and I hope that just like the good Christian folk they swiftly disappear. Though something tells me he’s referring to the band of the same name, and their protracted set is far from its end. The Funeral of Hearts lacks the requisite tenderness and only serves to highlight Valo’s pitchy vocals.
“Now you with the titties,” Valo admonishes the aforementioned lass, “don’t distract me.” I get the feeling that this is what he’d rather be doing than singing these songs and it shows. The performance is vacuous and dispassionate. Valo appears listless and the rest of the band is static, attempting to expend as little energy as possible. It’s a hollow attempt and they would’ve done themselves more favours if the performance consisted entirely of Valo’s slurred banter.
Technical imperfections are always forgivable; sometimes they even lend a welcome candour to a gig. Tonight, everything that is wrong with the performance has nothing to with microphone trouble, jet-lag or the poor acoustics of the venue. It rests solely on the shoulder of those five listless forms on stage.
In the end, none of this even matters. The horde of prepubescent female fans will venerate this night simply for what it is – their favourite band in the flesh – in spite of such a hollow and soulless performance.
Yes, I was once a fan too but now I’m more exacting. Tonight’s display was uncharacteristically awkward and I walk out into the rain incredibly disheartened and still wanting my pound of flesh. Maybe next time I’ll get what I want. Maybe next time they won’t be so disappointing. Somehow though, I don’t think next time will ever come.
Ville Valo must have caught a cold. Either that or his testicles have finally descended. What else could explain the guttural vocal which he assailed the hapless crowd with during his struggle with his upper register? Okay, the jury may be out on that one but still, there is no denying that HIM’s performance was rather lacklustre and overshadowed by a mind-numbing sense of sameness.
The boys stroll onto the stage amidst a cloud of excess smoke. Valo embraces the microphone in his signature pose with the obligatory cigarette in hand. Same beanie. Same clothes. Same over-active smoke machine and same chain-smoking schtick which was previously unveiled to us on this very stage during their maiden tour in 2006.
The dust mites are swept off the requisite older hits, much to the delight of the unnervingly younger crowd, but they are all performed in a perfunctory manner, as if simply playing by rote. Three down, nine to go, and then they can enjoy the spoils of their rider. There is no passion in this performance, there is no ardour, there is not even a smidgeon of vim. They began with a rather prosaic attempt at Right Here in My Arms and the delightful Wings of a Butterfly, which was anything but delightful. Mikko Lindstom’s guitar riff animates the crowd and resonates throughout the room but it does naught to resuscitate the limp vocals. Valo attempts the high notes on a rather maudlin rendition of Buried Alive by Love but they are too pitchy and instead he resorts to a gravelly wail. And so the night wears on, with a rather disastrous cover of Wicked Game that sounds disjointed; it’s slightly out of time and far too dour.
Halfway through Poison Girl, a rather enthusiastic young lady flashes flesh and Valo points her out to bassist Mikko Paananen. At song’s end he entreats the young lass to bare her “enhanced mammaries” again as Pannanen’s myopic eyesight meant that he missed the fervent display. She fails to oblige and they roll out the golden oldies as if mentally counting down to the show’s end. Your Sweet 666, Join Me and Killing Loneliness are all delivered with an insensate detachment; the band’s apparent apathy coming through into the songs.
“We’re waiting for the rapture,” Valo quips and I hope that just like the good Christian folk they swiftly disappear. Though something tells me he’s referring to the band of the same name, and their protracted set is far from its end. The Funeral of Hearts lacks the requisite tenderness and only serves to highlight Valo’s pitchy vocals.
“Now you with the titties,” Valo admonishes the aforementioned lass, “don’t distract me.” I get the feeling that this is what he’d rather be doing than singing these songs and it shows. The performance is vacuous and dispassionate. Valo appears listless and the rest of the band is static, attempting to expend as little energy as possible. It’s a hollow attempt and they would’ve done themselves more favours if the performance consisted entirely of Valo’s slurred banter.
Technical imperfections are always forgivable; sometimes they even lend a welcome candour to a gig. Tonight, everything that is wrong with the performance has nothing to with microphone trouble, jet-lag or the poor acoustics of the venue. It rests solely on the shoulder of those five listless forms on stage.
In the end, none of this even matters. The horde of prepubescent female fans will venerate this night simply for what it is – their favourite band in the flesh – in spite of such a hollow and soulless performance.
Yes, I was once a fan too but now I’m more exacting. Tonight’s display was uncharacteristically awkward and I walk out into the rain incredibly disheartened and still wanting my pound of flesh. Maybe next time I’ll get what I want. Maybe next time they won’t be so disappointing. Somehow though, I don’t think next time will ever come.
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