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by
Joe O'Brien
And Ebert said of Kill Bill Vol.
1, “it’s all storytelling and no story.”
He meant that as high praise, adding, “it’s kind
of brilliant.” I feel the same way about Brooklyn-based
La Laque- not that they, or any band currently on this planet,
could compare their musical talents to Tarantino’s film
wizardry. But what they do have in common with the Reigning
King of All Pulp is the ability to combine numerous diverse
fabrics into a tapestry so captivatingly stylish it can render
substance (or lack thereof) irrelevant. |
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| Bassist Brad Banks and drummer Pete Shanel
creep with Serge Gainsbourg’s slow-burning lust one moment
and dart around on mod motorbikes the next. Leah Hayes’
keyboards and Erin Boyette’s violin add centuries of sad
eeriness, the ghosts of troubled romantics who drowned themselves
in the Seine, all while Michael Leviton’s guitar worships
at the rumbling altar of Link Wray. |
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Then
there’s lead singer Devery. Great Heaven Almighty, then
there’s Devery. She plays a role - coy chanteuse sex
kitten- she strikes many a pose, yes- but she plays it all
to perfection- she winks, she dances, she bites a finger of
her white glove and stretches it flirtatiously, she sings
and banters mostly in French (“Merci,” she usually
whispers between songs, though tech difficulties at Rothko
required her to temporarily chat with the sound guy and break
character, though never her spell on the hot-blooded males
with cameras in the front, and yes I was one of them, but
strictly for journalistic purposes, of course.)
But she can sing too, at least as good
as, maybe better than, Nico or any of Serge’s muses
I’ve ever heard on record. And when she and the band
bust into an English cover of “Put the Blame on Mame,”
you still believe she’s the French seductress, only
she grew up listening to the original and that’s why
she sings it in perfect English, and they’re probably
the only English words she can pronounce perfectly. And if
the idea of a “Put the Blame on Mame” cover by
the band I just described makes you groan, you should have
stopped reading this long ago and started listening to your
Rush library. The pure, unadulterated joy of sensuality, and
no other substance, is what’s on stage in this cabaret,
remember? |
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| For instance,
who is “The Girl in Room 13” and what’s she
doing there? Who does she meet? I couldn’t tell you. It’s
instrumental, except for some whispering by Devery. And what
happened during “Le Weekend”? As I said, the lyrics
are mostly en Francais, a language I know so poorly I have just
exhausted 20% of my working vocabulary of said tongue. And as
I also said, sometimes the lyrics are in English, but they’re
still supposed to sound French. And they’re always drenched
in smoky wet reverb, so even if they were in English and/or
I understood French, I’m not sure I’d understand
them anyway. I understand “Put the Blame on Mame”
and that’s about it. But “The Girl in Room 13”
could be up to anything as far as I’m concerned. |
| She could be a doomed Parisian
prostitute dying of a drug OD. She could be a tormented lover
with a gun in her hand and revenge on her mind. She could just
be a tired poetess gazing at the wallpaper. “Le Weekend”
could be two lovers’ absinthe-fueled marathon of amour,
or a Band of Outsiders-inspired mini-crime spree, or
both, or neither. If you speak French, don’t tell me what
the story is, if there is one. If you don’t speak French,
the sky’s the limit. The only certainty is that the soundtrack
to whatever story pops in your head will be erotic, erotic,
and draped in shadow. |
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It’s an ideal night
club sound that lounged comfortably in Rothko, no doubt, though
my romantic fool ass couldn’t help but long to one day
again see La Laque the way I first saw them, on a Brooklyn roof
after the Billyburg Short Film Festival last May, overlooking
the Manhattan skyline. Seeing them at Rothko after that wasn’t
necessarily disappointing, it was just like watching Kill
Bill Vol. 1 on TV after seeing it in IMAX. |
| But just the same, I’ll rarely turn
down an opportunity to watch KBV1 on DVD, and I’d
probably enjoy it just as much if it were in French without
subtitles, for the languages of passion and danger, of music
and film, are usually at their most powerful when they transcend
regular ol’ spoken language. And even if La Laque never
again perform on a rooftop on a warm summer night, or if they
never attempt to reach Vol. 2 levels of depth, it'll
be hard for me to turn down an opportunity to see, hear and
feel six of the sexiest style-mongers this city has to offer.
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| Opening for La Laque was The Affair, also
stylish in their own right, also featuring a beautiful lady
vocalist with well-choreographed moves, only their key was major
instead of minor, their melodies more playful than seductive.
If I were Dick from High Fidelity, I’d say, “They’re
kind of New Pornographers-ish, and lead singer Kali Holloway
has a post-‘X Offender ,’ pre-‘Rapture’
Debbie Harry kind of thing, but she’s, you know, uh, black.”
They successfully established an upbeat, colorful mood to contrast
La Laque’s subsequent noir; now if only the execs at Vice
could successfully release The Affair’s long-delayed record,
the band might rightfully establish itself in the public eye
as a damn fine pop outfit. |
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