Well into the evening last Saturday night, Lee’s Palace was far from capacity. The large line-up that routinely circles the wall of the venue was nonexistent, and people wandered in sparingly, casually flashing their ticket stubs and thrusting their wrists out to receive a token “Lee’s” stamp at the door. The lack of loyal fans that usually greet a 10 p.m. set time was somewhat disconcerting. Inside though, there was a relaxed atmosphere about the few people around—a tacit understanding that what was to come would be remarkable.
Like other indie enthusiasts, I have loyally followed Bradford Cox’s more renowned band, Deerhunter, and seen their shows a handful of times. The atmosphere at Lee’s Palace, though, told me that his solo incarnation would be very different. Fellow Atlantans The Selmanaires opened the show with an abundance of instruments, wheezy vocals, and a psychedelic tone. Yet despite all their experimental glory, there was something fundamentally off about this four-person outfit, resulting in shoegaze-wannabe status at best. When they announced their last song, the audience erupted into an ambiguous cheer of support and relief.
Sure enough, come 11 p.m., the venue had become an overcrowded zoo, accompanied by the zealousness I once doubted. There was no calculated tardiness or boring introduction: Cox walked onstage without a minute to spare, grabbed his acoustic guitar, mouthed an eerie “hello” into the mic, and launched into his set. Though he’s been known to wear anything from maids’ dresses to fishnets on stage, he sported corduroys and a knit sweater. His tall and skinny frame loomed over the crowd and his voice and presence were simply ethereal.
His songs, though leisurely and basic, were far from boring. Electronic loops and overlapping guitar riffs were otherworldly and hypnotic. Already, his live performance was far greater than my spaced-out imagination could fathom. Five songs in came the much-anticipated (thank you, Pitchfork) Noah Lennox duet “Walkabout.” The familiar, sweet-sounding hook of the intro was the catalyst to make the otherwise head-bobbing crowd start boogying.
There were a few show casualties, including an onstage police announcement asking for two gentlemen to report to the doors immediately. “Screw you guys,” Cox sarcastically exclaimed. “Thanks for ruining the effing show.”
The peak of the set was when Cox calmly announced he’d like to play a new song, to which the crowd responded with eager applause. He strapped his acoustic guitar back on, and began a gentle instrumental with quiet bass and percussion complementing him in the background. It was then that he finally broached the famed looping technique that Atlas Sound is so well known for. Allowing several chords to loop over each other electronically, he left his guitar to stroll to the back of the stage and make use of an abandoned drum set. Suddenly, the four band members perked up again—the bass, percussion and tambourine all coming into play—and the room was lit up by the hauntingly beautiful orchestra.
Cox’s performance was awe-inspiring and gorgeous, and I left at midnight having made sense of what I was so unsure of only hours prior. I was hooked. After eight years in the spotlight, with two years of solo glory as Atlas Sound, Cox has achieved the sort of cult audience that won’t slow down anytime soon.
