the xx, London Camden Barfly

the xx

September 9, 2009

I’ve been wrongfooted.

To be fascinated with the idea of seeing south London 20-year-olds the xx, or to be fascinated with their music? That is the question. Their self-titled debut record is sublimely striking, but not as striking as the buzz that’s currently surrounding them. Their truly lo-fi atmospherics are pretty much the dictionary definition of cult. But am I drawn to their unlikeliness or their music? Is my attachment likely as transient as the knowing transience of their sound?

The dual vocals of Romy Madley-Croft and Oliver Sim are introvertedly über-aware, and their live show is even shyer than expected. The songs and their constituent parts tilt into each other with even more tremble and less gilt. So why is it that their arrestingly minimal music has thrown me so much?

‘VCR’ is the smartest of the smart tonight. It wobbles, it’s imperfect, it’s got this beautiful simplicity. Hell, it’s as gloom-laden as The Cure and the drum machines are spot-on stark. Producer/drum-machine man Jamie Smith sets the pace on both XX and the live show with a modicum of power which turns out as cogent as that of a power-drummer. But it makes me feel sick to the stomach, it’s so exposed. This exposure forms an arresting dichotomy with just how little the xx acknowledge how well their songs are received – and that’s a difficult polarisation to adapt to for a whole set.

Distinctively and even staunchly minimal, the four-piece have no desire to fill space or climax too soon; the space between notes so prominent on the record is further amplified in the live show. The xx are debilitating, intimate and play their songs with an uncomfortable precision. And it’s this, well, I guess ‘device’, that makes songs like ‘Fantasy’ and ‘Heart Skips A Beat’ less abstract, gnarlier. The set verges on suffocating its arena, but whether that’s something to be astonished or taken aback by is something I’ve not worked out just yet.

Because of the sparseness, the songs are sometimes too much on their own. On listening to XX for the first five plays, it’s an absolute marvel. By the 10th, however, the album’s sense of restraint becomes increasingly frustrating. With more varied guitar work, the xx would be astonishing. As it is, the murky narrative feels suitably insular yet itching to escape.

And again, I’m thrown: this is something to revere as much as something for the band to take on board as constructive criticism. The inward-looking set and album-opener ‘Intro’ is a segue into something more which does indeed follow through. ‘Islands’, however, ends on denser beats that feel forcedly halted. Such are the contrasts…

The lyrics are oddly bathetic, as non-couple Madley-Croft and Sim muse tersely on the furtive night. And that’s because the four-piece seem happy to be awkward. Their cover of Womack and Womack‘s ‘Teardrops’ induces a strange mix of nostalgia and baffledom; on the one hand, it reminds me of a time I can’t remember (I was probably about three-years-old), on the other it is transferred into what could be an anonymous 12th album track.

So striking is the xx’s sound and ambition, it’s a cause for concern that the album has started to lose its freshness. The minimalism they create despite having such an inconspicuous set-up is opulently atmospheric, but the quiet transience seems to flow too naturally live rather than ebb.

That their music is so danceable is another idea to fall in love with. But is it enough to fall in love with in and of itself? Yes and no. Live, it makes more sense – it doesn’t feel any fuller or any less desolate, just less faceless. And more baffling, yet all the more engaging after that 10th listen.

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