If you take Conor circa Cassadega and Beck circa Midnite Vultures, stick em in a bottle and shake em up, what you'll get is Kevin Barnes of Of Montreal. Both physically and musically. At Webster Hall on Friday, Barnes mined the past five years of its life for a thrilling 90 minute set which seemed to tie together the indie Elephant 9 member with the post-pan music hall dancefloor white boy monster of your dreams. Like if Anton Newcomb was obsessed with Prince instead of Mick.
The 8 piece band plus avant-garde dancers of various stripes, tackled a healthy handful of tracks off the newbie, Paralytic Stalks plus songs mostly off the two albums prior. The stage was, in Barnes lovely words, an elegant solution to question of money and design. It was a beautiful thing, with close circuit screens on the walls and at the edge of the stage, gorgeous light shows, and by some wizardry sleight of hand, more depth than the Black Keys got out of MSG.
Barnes has a wide range and when he goes disco, he goes high, and when he psychedelically jams, he goes low, and when he leaves center stage, Of Montreal become a modern jam band, and when he takes it over they are something like a member of the Twee set. The set opened with the obstreperous noise of Geldt Ascent but soon drops masterpop dance moves like "Spiteful Attention" and "Famine Affair".
Barnes isn't a great leader, perhaps he is an introvert, but unlike, say, Chris Owens of Girls, Barnes doesn't just leave it there, he distracts us instead. In the past , Barnes has entered the stage on a horse. Tonight, he launched two dancers on a crowd surfing race from one end of the Hall to the other. Here look:
Lyrically, Barnes is all lost love and vicious archetypes a la Jung. Sometimes, they can become effective little truisms, ("come on chemicals" he sings at one point -well, quite), too often he is a little too strange to invite empathy: unless, maybe, you've chosen the right chemicals.
The song the the quote above is from, "Heimdalsgate Like A Promethian Curse" is a highlight near the end, and "Authentic Pyrrhic Remission" a druggy extended coda for the evening, which starts on pot, ends on acid, but is stuck on Molly right thru the middle.
Barnes isn't one of the greats, though he should be. He writes strong genre bounding songs, has a terrific voice, knows his way through a melody and can construct a long number. But he can't write a hook and his songs don't stay with you. It is only one problem, but it doesn't afflict Conor or Beck or Prince for that matter. I patiently await an elegant solution while he leaps into the mainstream.
Grade: A-