The Arcade Fire
Emo’s, Jan. 21
“I grew up just south of here,” Arcade Fire singer Win Butler said midset last Friday night to a sold-out crowd. He paused, and smiled: “Is Houston still a shit hole?” The crowd answered in the affirmative. Then someone screamed out, “You’re French!” and the band launched into “Neighborhood #1 (Tunnels)” from their debut Funeral. The crowd knew every word. Shows with this much hype can be a potential bummer. Anticipation is high. Everyone has their “C’mon, impress me” game face on. The Arcade Fire didn’t disappoint. Dressed in black suits and dresses, they looked like they were attending a Salem witch burning. Then they started playing, and the rapture was upon us. Opener “Wake Up” was full-contact catharsis. Guitarist/multi-instrumentalist Richard Parry began beating on the ceiling with drumsticks, and pieces of it fell to the floor. The roof could’ve caved in, but they wouldn’t have noticed. Everyone in the band sang, even if they didn’t have a mic in front of them. They were singing to each other, or some higher being, as much as they were to the audience. The lanky Butler stood stoic for most of the set, his cohorts dancing, screaming, and beating the shit out of their instruments, which they switched almost every song. There were covers of the Magnetic Fields’ “Born on a Train” and Talking Heads’ “This Must Be the Place.” Singer/accordionist/keyboardist Régine Chassagne delivered intoxicating versions of “Haiti” and “In the Backseat.” After the last song, they trailed offstage one by one, singing under their breath. The Arcade Fire seemed like old souls that night, not as much a band as an entity invading each of our bodies, offering us the Holy Ghost on our tongues. Funeral could easily become one of those albums that people are still obsessed with 10 years from now, like My Bloody Valentine’s Loveless or Neutral Milk Hotel’s In the Aeroplane Over the Sea. It’s timeless.
This article appears in January 28 • 2005.