(A)LIVE
celebrating live music memories
James Blake’s music
is like the Bulkley
Valley. Both are defined by vast tracts of open space and
precipitous, rugged peaks. Contrast accentuates each
geographical feature in the valley and each sonic element
in Blake’s soundscapes.
Sparse moments of delicate emotion patiently
move forward in Blake’s music, winding through the
sinuous contours of melancholy and introspection with
a demoralizing honesty. Silence punctuates sound,
reminding the listener of John Cage’s contention that
sound is the second most important element of music,
after silence. But time elapses and movement continues.
Like mountains catching clouds at the top of their rocky
peaks, the slow build-up of unguarded sentiments in
Blake’s music suggests a coming storm. Indeed, you hear
an undercurrent of grumbling discontent layered deep
in his music, threatening to manifest as an electrical
storm. Sometimes this happens, as pensive singersongwriter transforms into a beat-heavy, dub-dropping
club DJ—other times the storm never comes. The result
is captivating and all consuming. It’s difficult to listen to
James Blake in the background; his sonic grasp on the
listener’s attention is firm and unremitting. When you
enter the world of James Blake, you can leave your self
behind, and feel what he feels.
As I stepped into Vancouver’s iconic Commodore
Ballroom on April 25 of last year, I had big expectations.
I had fallen in love with all of Blake’s music, from his
dance-based EPs, to his brooding, contemplative fulllength albums. But how would his live performance
compare? Would Blake play carbon copies of his recorded
music, or elaborate, explore, and extend his sound? How
would his bold and delicate songs translate to the stage?
The audience was abuzz, the excitement was thick and
tangible. James Blake was making cutting edge music,
combining elements of the past with projections of the
future, and we were all there to witness it.
The stage was set up for a three-piece band,
with an electronic drum-kit elevated on a pedestal in the
middle.The virtuosity of the drummer’s live performance
demanded conspicuous presentation. On one side of the
kit was Blake with his synth and piano, on the other,
the formidable multi-instrumentalist and solo-musician
‘Airhead’ with piles of gadgets, guitars, and tools to
accompany and texture the sound.
What I witnessed when these three musicians hit
the stage was a performance of unprecedented perfection
in live sound. Blake’s fragile, yet confident voice sang
mellifluous, pitch perfect choir melodies that reverberated
flawlessly around the venue’s walls. My spine tingled
as Blake sung the opening line to I Never Learnt to Share,
desperately declaring his abject despondency and despair:
“My brother and my sister don’t speak to me, but I don’t
blame them.” The audience was sucked in; no one dared
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[sic] spring 2014.indd 9
14-05-26 12:23 AM