Xiu Xiu

Caralee may have left Xiu Xiu, but a solo Jamie Stewart is a special, life-affirming, and profoundly weird thing. Tonight's set of "new and favourite Xiu Xiu songs" manages to have all the heartbreak and candour you'd expect of a Morrissey gig... but also the intimacy.

Every few years – even with your finger on the pulse of America it takes a while – a frontman comes along who seems to be channelling such weird, primal, perhaps even chthonian forces that you find yourself suspending all normal critical faculties and deciding Gottverdammt! I’m following this particular Pied Piper, whatever river or blank stone wall they may lead me into! They’ve got the tunes, but also an undeniable streak of madness in their freak-outs and kitchensink percussion work-outs… and maybe it won’t be worth your while poring over the lyric-sheets, or constructing justifications for their trombone-mouthpiece and swan-whistle solos, but we all have a reservoir of devotion, and the hope that beyond the cacophony lies an enduring revelation, rather than the ersatz profundities of big rock anthems that diminish with repeated listens.

In good metrosexual fashion, your girlfriend would probably ignore the metaphysical weight you ascribe to the pronouncements of said performer and call this a “man-crush” (or something), and maybe she’d be right. (Yes, this is an unashamedly male-perspective, but we’re talking about the kind of adulation it’s easy to pretend is the preserve of the ladies.) In recent years, Liars, Xiu Xiu, and Blood Brothers have all fallen into this category, for me, as you might guess from the preceding paragraph. The lunacy of their performances seems articulated to a compulsion to shatter the existing structures of meaning, rather than operating within a safely circumscribed code of ranting / moshing / crowd-surfing / knobs-at-eleven; this is why, if they’re not actually gay (many of these artists) they’re – sure as Hell – queer.

Neither Cryptacize nor Cold Cave & Prurient (playing together, tonight) are as abrasive or as sweet, but they nicely represent the twin poles that Jamie Stewart shuttles between (it’s the shuttling that makes him so unsettling). First up, Cryptacize make precise, delicate, intimate music that seems to avoid obvious codes of performance, like histrionics, anthems, emotional bloodletting. There’s no thrusting, phallic trajectory towards a hook or chorus, and more of a skipping about the stage (literally and figuratively). Cued by the “this could be my final day…” lyric in their single ‘Blue Tears’, it’s hard not to think of Young Marble Giants – another female-fronted trio with sparse drums / guitar / organ. The songs feel like the diary entries of an oddly traditional girl, concerned to temper her emotions, but also to set them down with ladylike sincerity and honesty – onstage, it’s noteworthy how much Nedelle doesn’t try to break through the Fourth Wall. The album (Mythomania) is similarly non-confrontational, and suggests they’re aiming somewhere unique, and may soon hit it. The contrast with Cold Cave & Prurient couldn’t be harsher – within seconds we’re lashed to a metal frame, with electricity running through us, and a voice alternating between barked lecturing, and bestial yelps; it’s all very Guantanamo, or Abu Ghraib...

…it’s not Jamie Stewart’s private Hells, though. Extreme Noise Terror has its conventions, and the only function I can see for this (socially, culturally, whatever) is to keep out the Kooks / Keane / Killers-fans, while you have a relaxing beer with your mates. What makes Jamie Stewart genuinely important is that he shatters all the remaining taboos – his sensual, controlled baritone fills the deep-red arches of Cargo in a way that’s commanding, and often comforting, but the point is to contrast this with his gibbering, quaking, quailing vocals, that often rise to an emasculated, eunuch’s shriek. Even Jamie’s hero, Ian Curtis, had to displace his fear of epilepsy onto a female figure, in ‘She’s Lost Control’ – Jamie, however, enacts violation, night after night, and makes it his own.

The themes are abuse, sexual violence, and sado-masochism (male, female, homosexual or otherwise) taken to its logical conclusion – that your powerful lover should demonstrate their capacity for total protection by pushing you to the edge of physical destruction (giving you the merciful release you may be too weak to take). Early in the set, ‘Fabulous Muscles’ is almost unrecognisable beneath parping / twittering synth-sounds so pervy they shouldn’t be allowed to work with children. “Cremate me after you come on my face / Honey-boy, keep my ashes in a vase beneath your workout bench…” Elsewhere, ‘Je t’aime le valley, Oh!’ abuses its own melody, on a trebly guitar favoured by metallers, as much as it abuses the French tongue… but for those who know the song (one of the many Jamie knocks out on record that effortlessly equals the best of Unknown Pleasures) the contrast with the idealized version playing in your head might well be the point.

Among the new songs is a wistful tale of “shining ambition” good parents had for their son. The song never says where it all went wrong, and the impressionistic solo explores its melodies and chiming harmonics without giving any clues – just suggesting an innocence and a playfulness that may never be recaptured. Another song plays out a black joke with its variation of formulaic phrases – “he was the first boy in your son… he was the first man in your son” and so on. We’ve been promised new songs and favourites, and Jamie doesn’t disappoint: the most faithful is an old-old song, ‘Sad Pony Guerilla Girl’ (a personal favourite from Life and Live), which sees a rape-victim get militant: “I like my neighbourhood / I like my… gun! / I am your girl… and I will protect you!”

Omitting any songs that obviously refer to his own father’s death, or the recent war atrocities under Cheney and Bush, Jamie commemorates the dead with exactly the kind of perverse cover version of ‘Ceremony’ that seems most appropriate – the last song Ian Curtis wrote with Joy Division (and their first as New Order) is molested vigorously with squelchy synths and wailing vocals, obliquely showing up all the necrophiliacs who think they want to be Joy Division. No, it’s not in the spirit of the British band, but it is in the spirit of someone who loves his favourite bands to an unnatural degree – treating them like his saviours; his (whisper it) lovers. See William Bowers’ article about Caralee McElroy’s departure from Xiu Xiu on Pitchforkmedia, and how the band speaks to the experience of abuse-survivors; see the girl in the audience with the Morrissey T-shirt, looking for a new hero; see the boy approaching Jamie as he packs up his equipment, and getting a few words, and a very heartfelt hug. For anyone stumbling upon them by chance, this would be a mess, or a mindf%&£, but this is why Xiu Xiu are important.