Crystal Stilts at Relentless Garage
August 16, London: Crystal Sweat Box (aka One Topical Allusion and One Made-Up Word).
Words By Scott Tavener Photo By Lucia Graca
Lately supplanted by new gaze acts (see The Pains of Being Pure at Heart, Vivian Girls, etc.), post-post-punk (aka post punk revival) has lessened its grip on indie-dome. Lately supplanted by “Crystal” (see Crystal Antlers, Crystal Castles, etc.), “Wolf” (see Wolf Parade, AIDS Wolf, We are Wolves, etc.) has lessened its grip on indie-band nomenclature. Brooklyn five-piece, Crystal Stilts, brings together many of the above, albeit leaving the lupine aspect out, lessening its grip on nothing, and creating a strangely unique finished project.
Relocated from the Relentless Garage’s main level to its upstairs sweat box, Crystal Stilts’ Sunday night set started off inauspiciously with technical problems and douche-chill inducing stage patter. And then the backward-looking, ADD combo played a well-honed, perspiratory short-distance race.
As the intro paragraph suggested, Crystal Stilts’ constituent parts aren’t particularly original though there is a lot going on. Like a 48-bird roast, the sheer number and array of influences make the finished product ironically novel. The Fall, Ride, The Stooges, The Strokes, and a selection of ‘60s radio pop form the basic sonic template. From there the layout simplifies, mixing the above with Brad Hargett’s smoky, laissez-faire vocals (think Jim Morrison on a healthy dose of Ambien), occasional keys, and punchy guitars. (I told you there is a lot going on.)
Throughout the brief show, precise guitar lines and a He-Man-strong rhythm section exuded lichen-like symbiosis, rising above the constraints of a licked-candy-cane sticky room. Like a dusty suit (see Charlie Chaplin), the gig was refined yet shambolic, giving it an amiable polish. Swirling guitars, rodeo indie, and Ennio Morricone all coexisted peacefully.
Burning through familiar cuts and an obligatory new selection, Crystal Stilts managed to cram over a dozen tracks and an encore into under an hour of stage time (take that, Usain Bolt) without rushing (thank the aforementioned laissez-faire vocals). And, most impressively, it stayed sheveled (aka not disheveled) the entire time.