St. Vincent w/ Eartheater & Maiah Manser
The Greek Theater
Los Angeles
Aug. 16, 2024
Halfway through her concert at Griffith Park’s Greek Theatre, I decide St. Vincent is not human. She more closely resembles an alien; her eerily beautiful, doll-like face often seems otherworldly. Occasionally, she writhes and wails around the stage, eyes rolling into the back of her head. A few songs into her set, St. Vincent announces to the audience that she feels like she does not belong. Coming from another musician, this might read as a cloying plea for sympathy — a bid to masquerade as an underdog. When St. Vincent says it, it sounds like bragging.
I have been a St. Vincent fan since I was a teenager. In my mind, her music exudes sexiness and an impossible coolness that modern musicians rarely achieve. I regard her 2017 album, Masseduction, as one of the last decade’s most compelling and impressive. Her uncompromising originality feels analogous to that of David Bowie and Talking Heads. She offers a refreshing alternative to the club-going “brat summer” era: a gothic nightmare, a deranged puppet without a master.
It’s a balmy Friday night, and summer is winding down. Thankfully, St. Vincent will not let summer end quietly. It ends in a violent bang in the form of a Lynch-inspired fantasy. Five thousand of her L.A. fans — all sleek haircuts and stylish dress — eagerly enter the iconic music venue to see her shred. St. Vincent emerges on a stage in an all-black sports coat with her signature pitch-black hair. Behind her are mirrored archways and shadowy projections of the singer’s face broadcast by a camera operator who scurries after her like a pesky paparazzo. She is a spooky vision to behold, reminding me of Wednesday Addams as she belts out melodies with a haunted look in her eyes. (At one point, she jokes that her goth guitarist is also “unfamiliar to sunlight.”)
Insanity and chaos are the heartbeat of her newest album, this spring’s All Born Screaming, and her performance mirrors this. The tracks pulse with erratic synths. She sings with a dazed look, stumbling and spinning around the stage. At one point, she lies down face-first on the stage, motionless as the band plays on. The crowd cheers and laughs; this is what they expect. Her convincing performance of madness and paranoia sometimes emulates vaudeville. She waddles like Frankenstein and speaks in a mysterious staccato. Her high jinks and absurd movements often evoke Charlie Chaplin. At one point, she reaches out to an audience member and asks, “Are you okay, my love?” It’s an amusing question from a performer executing a choreographed nervous breakdown onstage for 90 minutes. The night closes with St. Vincent singing a stunning ballad; her angelic voice seems to float and dissolve into the canyon surrounding her.
After the concert, my friend and I stroll down the hill from the venue, still giddy from our encounter with music’s darkest angel. The other concertgoers are equally enlivened as if just witnessing paranormal activity. We gush with admiration for St. Vincent, whose performances are gritty and unruly in ways that feel genuinely innovative. Just then, I trip and stumble onto the sidewalk. As I collect myself, I see that my knees are scraped. I feel the sting of fresh blood. Concerned and curious St. Vincent fans are eyeing me and my new wound in the dark. It occurs to me that my tumble looked like choreography plucked straight from the concert — the arresting spectacle of a woman hurting herself.
