1/9/04
Hammerstein Ballroom
New York City
Growing up is hard to do-so sometimes you need a drink. At the Yeah Yeah Yeahs' first hometown gig since the rough-sexy Fever to Tell crashed all those year-end top-ten lists, banshee Karen O sucked down plenty of Coronas-though, as usual, she spit most of 'em at the audience. ("That's my friend Frederick," she said, pointing into the front row. "He's getting really soaked!") She also periodically slipped behind the drum riser to swig from a champagne bottle. (Hadn't she been warned against mixing?)
There was plenty to celebrate at this show, which was a sort of graduation ceremony for art-damaged Brooklynites who've revived the free-for-all of early-'80s post-punk. Dressed in a caftan, with dried flowers in his hair, Devendra Banhart played acoustic guitar cross-legged and warbled about being a little yellow spider. Next up were the Liars, currently a three-piece fronted by Karen O's preternaturally tall boyfriend, Angus Andrew, who barked and mumbled over abstract junk funk that perversely braked just as it got going. At one point, he confided, "Karen's dad said, 'Angus, why do ya play this stupid stuff? Why don't ya play more like what the kids want?'" (Note: Parental advice can be valuable.) Black Dice offered a tastier mix of noise and groove that took electroclash back to the krautrock that seeded it, building a mostly wordless, 30-minute asteroid storm of tom-toms, reverb, synth squeals, and pretty guitar arpeggios. Unfortunately, they got scattered boos and beer-cup projectiles for their trouble.
For their big night, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs broke out the giant disco ball and some leftover Christmas lights. Guitarist Nick Zinner peeled off goth-surf riffs, Brian Chase played drum nerd, and Karen O-looking like a Halloween superhero in an embellished leotard and glittery high-tops-flung herself around the stage and occasionally stuffed the mic into her mouth. Then, like the out-of-control girl at a kegger who wakes up in the laundry room, she would pause mid-seizure, drenched in sweat and beer, put her hands on her hips, and grin like we'd just given her the best orgasm of her life. "NYC! Holy fucking shit!" she beamed before crashing into "Art Star." "This one goes out to you, motherfuckers! Oh, my fucking Gahd!"
It was the giddiest punk show in memory. And just when you thought the beer and bubbly had done her in, Karen O closed with a sober reading of Fever's "Modern Romance"-reassuring us softly, as she sauntered offstage, that there is indeed no such thing. She may be right, of course. But it still felt like love.
