I try as little as possible to go see pioneering bands. You buy overpriced tickets under the pretext that it’s your last chance: will I really have other opportunities to see this again? Then, as soon as they take the stage, the thought hits me: fuck, I came here to torture myself…
After seeing Martin Rev of Suicide at the Ritz, I told myself: never again. I left during the third pre-programmed track on his keyboard, with a heavy heart, apologizing profusely to my poor friend whom I’d dragged there. It was as if he were playing there to pay off a gambling debt, à la Frankie Valli.
I admit I felt a certain apprehension before seeing Cabaret Voltaire—a band that introduced me to electronic post-punk—even after listening to a compelling KEXP performance from that same year. Their set swept away my worst memories.
To make a long story short, Cabaret Voltaire is a legendary act from the late ’70s. Hailing from Sheffield—that industrial cradle in northern England that also gave rise to The Human League and Heaven 17—the band sought above all to escape the predetermined fate of working in a steel mill by making industrial music (a cool career change). These are musicians who started out without instruments and embody the very essence of DIY—ferociously anti-rock ’n’ roll.
I went to the SAT last Saturday with my friend Félix, who knew absolutely nothing about the band. He’d just listened to a few of their experimental tracks—pieced together before they had access to synths, using tape loops and sounds recorded in the dreary streets of their city.
Tonight, we were a far cry from their austere early recordings, where Stephen Mallinder whispered his demands, taking jabs at the capitalist system with radio samples and movie quotes. His voice, warped by distortion, chanted, “More meat for the mincer, more fuel for the wheels / More water / More meat / More fuel / More Boss / Kneel to the Boss.” ” It’s a bit of a cliché to say, but it’s still true. Like so many things that politically aware young people were shouting back in the ’70s and ’80s.
I love Cabaret Voltaire’s Dadaist collage in the studio, but I have to admit I’m not savvy enough when it comes to industrial music to appreciate it when it doesn’t have a groove. I was completely won over by their more structured synth-pop melodies. The sound quality is crystal clear. I’m thinking of that rich, gritty sound that went straight to scratching an “Itch” in my brain, or the track “Kino,” which I’d never taken the time to really listen to before.
The ’80s energy swept me away—it was hard not to get caught up in it. At several points, the bass was so loud that Félix and I looked at each other, stunned. This is music meant to be played loud—and it was. It’s a luxury not to be able to hear yourself think during a concert.
This wasn’t a show just for the nostalgic; you could really feel Cabaret Voltaire’s evolution as a band, their restless energy, and their absolute love for their tunes.
The addition of Tara Busch on synthesizers brings a real burst of vitality. The musician fits in so naturally that you’d think she’d been there forever, with synth lines that consistently hit just at the right moment. She exudes a youthful energy despite being 52 years old. She grips the knobs of her synthesizer with such intensity that I can almost feel the resistance.
A few beers later at Quai des Brumes, I find myself justifying why I enjoyed an old band’s show so much. Everyone points out all my “buts,” as if I were trying to defend myself against them.
