Midlake + Beach House

Here we arrive breathless at the musical event of the year, dodging mosquitoes with a dazed look in our eyes. Rumor has it that oceanic crowds are already camped out along the edges of the Idroscalo, sprawled on the grass like troops in retreat. What terrible naivety! Not even the draw of two absolute stars of the international indie scene at a bargain price - despite the inexplicable toll imposed by the Province of Milan for parking in an area meant purely for recreation, barely served by public transport - managed to pull off the feat of rousing the turnout that one stubbornly insists on regarding as more than a reasonable possibility.

Slim (if that) consolation comes from being able to settle in without much effort close to the barriers, senses muffled by the tangible thickness of the air. It's an ideal psychophysical state for taking in Beach House's set, as they present themselves wrapped in swirls of smoke and small stage effects, like the pulsing pink and blue glow through the pale fleece of a lounge-y dream state. Victoria LeGrand — and this is clear right away from the veil that makes her look like a stern officiant (a "liturgical" impression confirmed by the choice of opening track, "Turtle Island") — is no longer the same likeable, slightly clumsy, slightly plump girl we saw a year and a half ago, also here in Milan. Helped by a confident, powerful voice, she captivates the audience despite an air that's in its own way star-like, of (shy?) detachment. Here too you can sense the band's evolution, which comes through quite naturally in how they carry a live show: the colourful, romantic verve of the new songs (particularly worth noting a compelling "Zebra") acts as the perfect counterweight to the absorbed solemnity of the tracks from "Devotion".

The only flaw in an otherwise flawless performance of an already impressive back catalogue, three albums in, is the low volume, particularly of the guitar. Anyone expecting to be swept away by the swells of "Teen Dream", or to float on the submarine psalms of "Devotion", is left somewhat disappointed. What's missing, perhaps, is a bit more abandon to turn the Beach House live show into an experience that transcends a composed reproduction — rather than aiming for a perfect replica of what's on record, it might be worth reproducing those emotions "authentically", from the gut rather than the head.

Tonight's pairing might look like a generational clash between the two bands, were it not for the fact that they're almost exact contemporaries. And yet, where Beach House sail towards their own distinctive territory, Midlake seem instead to be chasing a mythical past — first thematically and poetically, now increasingly in musical terms too, tout court. Ushered in by English folk of a few decades ago, the atmosphere itself seems to thicken, scents of some inner undergrowth spreading through the air, until the band finally takes the stage, a good seven minutes after the addition of a lead guitarist, who we'll get to.

The opening, a pairing of "Children Of The Grounds" and "Winter Dies", amplifies the impression left by "The Courage Of Others": a murky overlapping of instruments, each intent on its own monolithic statement and bent on filling the spaces usually vital to musical expression, forces an impassive image of icy grandiloquence.

Great craftsmanship, which the Denton band can't seem to ration, doling it out relentlessly as if searching for a way out of the increasingly dense arrangements of their latest album. The harder they try, the harder it becomes to loosen up. So it takes the "sure thing" emotion of a "Young Bride" — sadly dressed up in muscular grandiosity (often two rhythm guitars, two lead guitars intertwining, endless drum rolls, one flute if not two, in short an empty show of triumphalism) — to finally win over the audience's hearts. The collective sigh of relief is palpable: it's the gut reaction to the notes of an album that seems — not without a certain surprise, and not only on this writer's part but on the band's own — to have become a classic lodged in many people's consciousness by now.

A whisper of engagement spreads through the crowd on the notes of "Van Occupanther", the only song kept essentially intact. The attempt to force the earlier material into this new guise is understandable, but ineffective. Adding to the sense of watching a spent exercise in showmanship is the aforementioned addition of a guitarist, busy showing off a rock machismo well past its expiry date, instead of letting the stories of "The Trials Of Van Occupanther" settle, without some guitar-neck field trip trying to ruin everything.

That's how the show ends — and with it, so does the always gorgeous "Branches" — when it would have been enough to simply let this inspired line hang in Milan's heavy air:

(photos by Francesca Baiocchi)

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