My expectations for this show were based on what I could read on the Taverne Tour website: a tribute to Alan Vega and Suicide, a band I’ve been listening to more seriously in recent months. However, I had deliberately refrained from researching the two artists, Lydia Lunch and Marc Hurtado, in order to preserve the surprise, and on that point, I was far from disappointed.
I entered the hall and was immediately struck by a shock, like being plunged into cold water and having my breath taken away. To call my initial perception of the music being played abrasive would be an understatement. Let’s just say the first sounds that pierced my eardrums were the antithesis of gentleness, tenderness, warmth, and comfort. It was so dissonant with my preconceived notions that I momentarily wondered if I was even in the right venue. I then caught sight of Lydia Lunch in front of her microphones, though I couldn’t hear her voice. I was instead struck by the thunderous soundscapes, which in no time at all bleached my ears and shattered my expectations. Without wasting a moment, I headed towards the front of the stage, skirting dozens of faces delighted to be there.
From my new vantage point, I can distinguish the sound sources responsible for this splendid cacophony. Marc Hurtado is positioned behind a table where he triggers rhythmic sequences and immediately obliterates them with a multitude of signal degradation effects. He is equipped with a microphone into which he unleashes sporadic screams that blend perfectly with the blistering musical backdrop. His screams are sent through a chain of slow delays that lend them a certain claustrophobic quality, as if the signal added in real time could not itself escape this thunderous music. Marc Hurtado is firmly planted, his leather jacket and tinted glasses contributing to his imposing presence in the role of industrial DJ.
In front of him, Lydia Lunch leaned against her two microphones. I noticed that one of them was sending a dry signal, without any noticeable effects, while the other was sending a radically different signal, a kind of pool of reverb and modulation, reminiscent of the kind of effects used on Alan Vega’s voice in Suicide. In my mind, they were dubbed the narrative microphone (without effects) and the prophetic microphone (with effects). The narrative microphone seemed to be the one that captured the most words, a more consistent prose, while the prophetic microphone was used for effects of emphasis and repetition; the effects applied to the latter managed to extract the vocal signal from the opaque mass of sound, making certain words more easily discernible. When she is not at the microphones, Lydia Lunch sits at a round table, at the edge of the stage, on which there is a bottle of Hennessy (which was three-quarters empty before the show even started), her glass which is never quite empty, blank sheets of paper scattered about which she frantically flips through, a satchel and a valiant fan which she uses frequently, to the great delight of some spectators.
Each piece follows a similar formula: Hurtado begins by unleashing an industrial cacophony to set the rhythm, Lydia Lunch rises from the table and heads towards the microphones to deliver prophetic gestures and words, improvised poetry, and socio-political commentary. Her partner punctuates this narrative with screams that thicken an already saturated soundscape, until Lunch returns to her seat at the table and we are left with the resounding DJ for his final bursts of musical violence.
All in all, I was charmed by these musical and conceptual offerings. The two artists, who undoubtedly have a deep respect for the musical career of Alan Vega (and Martin Rev, the other creative genius of Suicide), choose to use the platform of “tribute” as a springboard to convey new messages and revitalize the art in a fundamentally punk spirit. In other words, I understand that when reviving a band and its music, it’s sometimes necessary to adapt it to avoid it becoming stale and stagnant, to rework it to keep the offering fresh and exhilarating, even nearly fifty years later.
