XAVIER RUDD @ Metropolis

By Comma Chameleon - Semicolon Cancer; - 02/08/2008

After the dull lull of the crowd’s roar, Xavier Rudd’s opener was dominated by a backup recording of a strong baritone-and-nasally throat singer.

WAR. CONSUMERISM. DRUGS. FAMINE. RACISM. TERRORISM. PORNOGRAPHY. POWER. VANITY.

These ominous flashing words on a black screen behind Rudd set the tone for the heavy beat, drum-oriented opening minutes of the superb lightshow. And it was a lightshow, because as dynamic as Mr. Rudd could be in his claustrophobic setup -- surrounded by bongos, congas, a small drum kit, a 12-string guitar, what looked like a dulcimer, and a revolving set of three didgeridoos -- there was no room for him to jump around for our amusement, so it looked more like a fireworks display than a theatrical production. These lights kept him spotlighted in a constant glow of a clusterfuck colourfest.

Rudd’s accompanying drummer on half the tunes was more than tight and kept the beat locked down and maintained; this man played the good pots and pans. A definite bonus of the artist’s setup was that with only one other person to jam with, he could keep his end locked down, usually with a combination of the 12-string, a didgeridoo or two, and clear vocals (which accentuated his rollicking reggae beat). This man’s got a good voice box, though I was haunted with bizarre flashbacks of a mutated “Message in a Bottle” remix. Despite the fact, this indicator alone does not do it justice and cramps the man’s style.

My analogy of the light show held up until his drummer’s spotlight went out and Rudd sat alone in the darkness lit up like a flare, barrelling on solo, smacking them pots and pans and whooping like a savage. He even condescended to set the crowd off with charismatic jibes like calling out some hasty French and throwing the name Montreal into his lyrics. His call-and-response technique to involve the crowd was infectious. I can remember the exact moment the lure got stuck in my craw: it was Rudd’s blues harp that got me.

In my virgin viewing experience of Xavier Rudd, I could see how he managed to keep Metropolis packed on two consecutive nights with last night and tonight’s shows. His good-natured yelp and fusionist style made me feel like I was underwater in the tropics. The best thing about Rudd is how he managed to create a sly, easygoing aural oasis, where dehydrated hippies, dredging through the sand -- or city -- could congregate in such a blissful atmosphere. A great show. Stoners and reggae junkies everywhere, rejoice -- you have your calling.

I could smell the weed, man. I could see it too, man -- the geysers of smoke billowed up through the eyes and nostrils of the mezzanine-seaters from the people on the floor. And they could FEEL it too, man. They started dancing and clapping…and having a good time as well? How often does that happen?

Man. Oh man.

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