Animal Collective

It was May of last year when Animal Collective arrived at the Koko towards the end of the never-ending tour for "Strawberry Jam", a magnificent summa of their vision of sound circa 2007. In the time since then, essentially two things have happened to the Baltimore, Maryland combo: the departure, initially temporary, of guitarist Deakin, and the very recent release of "Merriweather Post Pavilion", the band's eighth studio album, which once again confirms Deakin's absence (definitive at this point?) and marks a further step forward in the synthesis of their musical language. Sure, "Sung Tongs" (2004) was also made without the aforementioned guitarist's contribution, but let's not forget that Avey and Panda play guitar too, as happened on that record; something that, on the other hand, rarely happens on the latest album, simply because there's no need for it. "Merriweather Post Pavilion" is already magnificent as it is. For the record, it's their second album on Domino Records. It makes sense, then: London as the opening city of the tour, with the former late-Victorian theatre once again chosen as the venue.

The evening opens with Charles Hayward, drummer for This Heat back in the 70s and now involved in various experimental projects, including this sort of “one-drummer-band”, where he does everything himself: he lays down the electronic backing over which he builds indolent drum'n'bass rhythms with his kit, while reciting obsessive, sinister lyrics in a hypnotic voice, like “Machine, God, Drum, Machine”. Beautiful and decadent, much like most of the indie crowd that, by now, has packed the venue. They did say it was a sold-out night, after all.

After almost an hour of show, and 20 seconds of heartfelt applause, good old Hayward takes his leave of the audience, right as three lads in sneakers and downcast gazes arrive onstage to set up samplers and various percussion: it's with a roar that the crowd recognizes and greets Animal Collective.

The ritual preparations happen in the half-light, and then: darkness. Finally! Onstage there are six small panels that light up, throwing flashes of fluorescent light all around. Tremendous basslines rise up from underground to hit you in the chest, as Animal Collective take their places: Geologist has switched on the legendary little headlamp that gave him his name, Avey Tare has taken off his headgear and politely greets the crowd, and Noah Lennox, aka Panda Bear, is already sporting the one expression he ever seems capable of onstage. Ready.

Just like on the album, it's "In The Flowers" that opens the set. The mysticism of the recorded version remains, but it lacks that joyous, glorious explosion; no matter, the electronic bed that closes the track links directly into the second one, "Taste", which in turn does the same into the third, "Daily Routine". The vocal openings, stretched out endlessly by the two of them, can't help but make you think that, deep down, this could well be the legendary "Smile" that Brian Wilson had in mind forty years ago (“a teenage symphony to God”); and while you're mulling over semi-heresies of this sort, you see a nice English girl in her twenties collapse spectacularly onto the floor, and you wonder: knocked out by the emotion? Acid echoes of Beatles and a hint of hypnosis when they play "Also Frightened".

The following jam seems to be the product of genuine improvisation, and it's only when the unmistakable refrain kicks in that it turns into "Winter's Love". Not only that: we're at the first real turning point of this collective experience. It's "Merriweather" reaching the bridge of "Sung Tongs" that carries us elsewhere. Avey Tare sets down the percussion and picks up the electric guitar. It gives me a strange unease, as if I were afraid of what's about to happen.

And instead. And instead I feel lucky to be there when they launch into "Slippi", from "Here Comes The Indian", a track that bore the imprint of their experience with Black Dice and which they rarely play live; a kind of incendiary, devastating tribal-punk dance that the crowd absolutely loves.

Any track from "Merriweather Post Pavilion" could be the best on the record, depending on how you look at it. "Guys Eyes", for instance: the tribal arrhythmia and the majestic surge of the vocals break loose into the space and chase each other alongside the visual element of the lights, in a display striking enough to bring the aforementioned English girl back to her senses. Now the guys can't hide anymore, they have to play one of the three aces from the new record that they've been slipping into their live sets for a while now. The choice falls on "Summertime Clothes", perhaps the most dance-oriented bomb in the Collective's discography, which Geologist happily derails onto techno tracks with basslines that don't just go boom, but actually go: BOOOM! A temporary record for people dancing.

There's not a single moment's respite, and the following, thoroughly convincing "Lion In A Coma" confirms three things: that the guys really do love African music, that they're here to present their new album, and that they've front-loaded the more vocal-driven tracks at the start, perhaps to preserve a precision that now gives way to the kind of reasoned chaos their music is capable of. Indeed. The second ace of "Merriweather" is called "Brothersport", which beneath its playful, carefree surface hides a wish for Noah's brother, that he might come to terms with the grief of losing their father. The delivery is fantastic, flawless despite the absence of Avey's cathartic howls halfway through the track; he seems to want to focus on the percussion, though he's probably also holding something back for later. But it's the undisputed peak, setting a new record for dancers and marking Animal Collective's exit from the stage. End of act two.

I ask for a partial verdict from a guy I'll discover is from the Midlands and has school the next day; he says the venue's sound is a bit thin?! But you can hear every detail! Whatever. So I try to imagine what's left to happen. Quite a few things. The third ace, something from "Strawberry Jam" (obviously), and then, better "Sung Tongs" or "Feels"?

On their return, Avey has a new guitar; he's the jam-loving soul of the band, and the older tracks, rather than simply being reinterpreted, get deconstructed by his guitar arpeggios and Geologist's downtempo touches. That's how the gorgeous "Banshee Beat" ends up flattened, left with the aftertaste of a candy gone bad. "Chores" fares a bit better, though it has to make do without Noah's vocals, who, ever the generous supporting player, seems on the verge of bursting on the final climb; luckily Avey finally shows what he's made of, even ending up taking up more than his usual square foot of stage.

Applause, because Mr. Panda can't possibly bail on us now.

Keyboard loops rain down from a distant sky to morph into the final, damned bomb of the new album. Come on Noah, this is the song you wrote for your women back in Lisbon, it's your turn. And the guy really does seem to be filled with the essence of his wife and daughter, because his interpretation of "My Girls" is just like on the album: triumphant yet intimate, alien yet familiar, that is: worthy of applause. The same applause that greets Brian Weitz and (D)Avey Portner too as they wave to the crowd like winners, only to come back onstage and pack up their own gear like true (indie)rockers.

I can't resist Panda Bear chatting with people and signing autographs: I'd like to ask him about Deakin, about his own business, and maybe say something even remotely intelligent to him. “Shame on you! You never come to Italy!”, is the best I manage to come up with... “Um, we've actually played in Italy three or four times, but I think we'll be coming in March!”

I couldn't have known, it had only been announced a few days earlier. Nice going, anyway. But don't worry about that: just be there to be part of the collective. And enjoy the coolest band on the planet. Even if tonight they didn't play "Fireworks".

Ride the wave of great music

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