Carla Bozulich

Carla Bozulich's new work will be released on Constellation between February and March 2008 under the moniker Evangelista, and it seems it will be called "Hello Voyager". Meanwhile, to "kill" the wait, we thought it a good idea to head to the Galleria Toledo in Naples, which, through the organization of Wakeupandream, hosted a performance as part of the third edition of the "obSESSIONS" series.

Bozulich's past, since the breakout success of "Evangelista", is by now well known. We covered it here on OndaRock too. Drugs, prostitution, beatings, and various ordeals - stories that could almost belong to a Van Sant film or a J.T. Leroy novel. And as often happens in these cases, music becomes the last handhold for redeeming a life lived constantly on a knife's edge. There's no denying it: Bozulich carries this legacy of hardship and suffering with her - on stage, when she stages fits of pure murderous neurasthenia, or even outbursts of powerless despair; and it's clear - after chatting with her briefly at the merch table - from her not-always-even tone of voice, her nervous, almost feline movements, and even her physical appearance, which is certainly "weathered" (let's put it that way). All of this betrays a personal journey of a certain kind, one that has nonetheless shaped her art in a decisive way.

An art that has changed radically over the years. From the cyber-industrial beginnings with Ethyl Meatplow, to the country-punk of the phenomenal Geraldine Fibbers, through the interlude of Scarnella (much of the Bozulich we hear in "Evangelista" is already there) with ex-husband Nels Cline, all the way to her solo albums, not to mention her work as a videomaker.

Galleria Toledo offers an ideal setting for breaking down the barrier between performer and audience, and Bozulich doesn't let the opportunity slip by, delivering a gripping performance somewhere between a musical performance and avant-garde theatre. Backed by her trusted bassist and three (excellent) Italian musicians, the former Geraldine Fibbers frontwoman delivers a concert in which improvisation plays a major role, even as it follows the blueprint of "Evangelista".

The musicians walk in to applause and take their places. She sits at the foot of the microphone as if in Zen meditation, while the others set up their instruments. Then come the first sounds, occasional, disjointed. You can't quite tell whether this is a final soundcheck or the start of the concert.

Bozulich manages to create the necessary intimacy by talking to the audience (not often, though), thanking them for their applause, intriguing them with enigmatic silences. She wanders back and forth across the stage, playing with the microphone cable. There's real empathy. Then, after a few songs, a chill sets in, as she tells the story of the black eye marring her face, "given" to her for no reason by some deranged man in Paris. There's no sexual ambiguity in her movements - none is needed. The fascination surrounding her seems to stem from a contrast: embodying, at once, a sort of defenseless kitten and an aggressive tiger, capable of roaring when necessary.

Sure, her past experience is quite a calling card, and Bozulich (perhaps) plays on it a little, sinking a bit too deep into the character, but so be it. And why not, if the results are this convincing. After all, what is life if not a theatre where we change masks depending on the situation? From Madonna to whore is a short step, Bozulich seems to tell us, skillfully making that journey explicit.

Then the music, as in "Evangelista", almost always turned inward, imploding. There seems to be a stark disconnect between Bozulich and her musicians, who follow her shifts by building climaxes and atmospheres, only to suddenly abandon her to her fate of screams and flailing. She often moves away from the microphone, making her roar terrifyingly real, tearing through the listening space with no mediation whatsoever. It's as if her throat, or her head, or something, is about to burst. You expect blood to gush out at any moment and cover the floor. To hell with the devotees of "good vibrations" - here there is "only" a spasmodic, nervous tension.

The concert flows by, and it's a pleasure. An hour and more goes by as if it were five minutes (helped by how comfortable the venue is). The musicians leave to prolonged applause from a clearly satisfied audience. Then she comes back out and performs a cover of Marianne Faithfull (?), just voice and guitar, actually hitting a few bum notes. But that's part of the character, isn't it?

Is all that glitters gold? I was curious to find out going into this concert, and the answer can only be yes.

photo by Pietro Previti

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