C. Bozulich - Evangelista

I remember perfectly the 150 kilometers driven in the dark. I remember the effort it took to find my way through the open countryside around Treviso: the venue for the show is an old silk mill lost in the middle of nowhere, a splendid example of industrial archaeology. And it really is fitting to host the music of Carla Bozulich, a dark, grimy ruin built on the foundations of a now-forgotten folk tradition. I remember arriving in front of the stage, and my satisfaction at eyeing the gear set up there, halfway between a chamber ensemble and post-rock equipment.

Then, from the moment Carla and Evangelista took the stage, my memories get blurry. Because this music kidnaps you, chews you up and spits you back out, leaving you with no point of reference: a psychedelic chaos that turns you upside down, so much so that it could be told starting from the end and finishing at the beginning.

The show lasts just a little over an hour, encore included. But the last song is one of those that needs time to sink in: the delirious title track of "Hello, Voyager" has Bozulich reciting a desperate confession (or perhaps a warning?), backed by cacophonies of organ and cello that clearly betray the influence of the Velvet Underground.

Throughout the evening Carla speaks little, almost always in a low voice. She thanks the (sparse) audience, says (as always) that she's happy to play in Italy, apologizes for the back problems that keep her from letting loose on stage. Despite this, it's her voice and her band that let loose.

Take "Pissing", for instance, one of the most inscrutable pieces by Low, which blends perfectly into the classic repertoire of the former Geraldine Fibbers member. It begins subdued, with a sad, pounding B minor that seems never to end: "I can't see…" Carla hisses, creating an empathy between herself and the listener that leaves the latter lost in the dark, searching for a way out. The shift to D major seems to offer everyone a happy ending, but it's only momentary. The volume rises, the whispered voice turns into a scream: "…lovers sleep alone. Alone…ALONE!", and the audience is once again left alone, at the mercy of an orgy of feedback that puts their hearing to the test. One can't help thinking that Evangelista learned the lesson of "Sister Ray" well, as Tara Barnes's distorted bass competes with organ, cello and percussion to see who can fill the old silk mill with the most sound.

The heart of the setlist is, inevitably, "Evangelista I". This song runs about ten minutes on record, but in its live version it's impossible to say how long it goes on for: it could feel like an instant or an eternity. Carla comes down from the stage, walks slowly right under the audience's noses, and, like a modern-day shaman, recites her lyrics as if in a trance, skillfully alternating whispers and screams: the pathos reaches its peak when all of Evangelista, together, unleash an instrumental tsunami that mercilessly sweeps over the stunned crowd.

This is difficult music, made of blood and tears, as has been said. One needs to find a key to decipher such a sonic jungle, and perhaps Bozulich herself offers that key when, at the end of "Evangelista I", she waits for silence to return before uttering a single word: "Love".

Carla Bozulich's work could thus be seen as a rock translation of the most mysterious of feelings: the one that soothes, unsettles and hypnotizes; the one that allows for peaceful dreams and the one that keeps you from sleeping; the one that can be summoned with a sigh and despised with a scream.

A chaos that turns everything upside down, we said, so much so that it could be told starting from the end and ending with the beginning. So this story, like every fairy tale, could begin like this: "Once upon a time there was love"…

(photo by Nico Covre)

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