Live Review – Parts&Labor

Parts & Labor @ The Shakespeare, 18 February ’09

There’s a formula to writing popmusic, I’m certain of it. Naturally I compare it to a treasure hunt, X lies somewhere in the Detroit-Manchester-Bamako triangle on the map. However not everyone’s formulae is geographically constrained. Pop-structuralists will argue a plethora of cases: two chords, three chords, no chords, big riff, no riff, chorus, sing-a-long chorus, instrumental, middle eight, sampling, repetition. With all these crucial decisions facing artists, a popular get out clause is to not commit to any of these clichés and make variations upon a theme of white noise. Predictably, even this post-structuralist POV is – in some circles – considered passée.

Parts & Labor seemingly exist in one such circle – forming in Brooklyn in 2002 and signed to Jagjaguwar. The songs repeatedly dance through a varied yet limited selection of genres whilst constantly alluding to the white noise dystopia. Yet, for all this concern with process it’s no surprise that the product is anything but consistent.

Opening the set after prolonged line-checking P&L break into a devastating onslaught of multi-faceted (I’m openly trying to avoid the word ‘prog’) crescendos. The mechanical drive that scaffolds the initial 3 or 4 songs creates the perfect platform to holler at the mic. Between the songs the drums are pounded with afro rhythms which sync well with the angst postpunk guitars which seem to bookend these openers. Each of this set is climaxed with triplets of built-for-stadium powerchords followed by a swift descent into more lucid grunge riffs.

It all comes to a halt, the drums patter out, the guitarists potter around and bassist B.J. Warshaw reels off a half-baked anecdote, to paraphrase, ‘Did the Def Leppard drummer really lose his arm on the Snake Pass?’ A comment that is less a catalyst and more indicative of what is to follow. After a handful of disingenuous attempts at rock-n-roll with overwraught vocal melodies there’s an over whelming sense of nostalgia. There’s a strong whiff of scotch and the bloke in front has just necked the best part of a pint. The gig has descended into the cliché that the process so painstakingly tries to avoid, immitation rather than innovation.

I’m wanting to nod enthusiastically but it’s this instant when all the momentum that has been meticulously crafted is shattered. I want to find catharsis for this boiling anger but all I can manage is poping outside for a cigarette.

The gig is cut shorter than the band intended, resulting in the last track being one dominated by a dross anthemic-indie chorus. It’s pitiful that a band with such cohesive vision (demonstrated at the beginning of the set) should not only lose their focus midway through but end with such a mute gesture.