[dropcap]I[/dropcap]’ve noticed a semi-consensus among the mainstream music press that if a particular band sounds fitting for the closing credits of an action movie, this is a bad thing. But shouldn’t the quality of a tune that could’ve been written for epic, madcap cinema be judged more by whatever movie we can attach it to with our imaginations? Also, why doesn’t this rule apply to any contributors to The Hunger Games soundtrack?
If Katniss Everdeen was re-imaginged as a goth and a Gundam pilot waging a one-woman war to free Panem from ghoulish monsters as big as the sky, Toronto’s The Birthday Massacre would be uniquely suited to pen the score. And who wouldn’t want to watch that movie?
Currently in their 15th year of existence and on a tour that shook and rattled the Brighton Music Hall last week, TBM could be more legitimately criticized for finding a niche of glittery, brooding, tastefully-grandiose electro-rock and declining to stray. On the other hand, a decade and a half evidently makes for plenty of time to perfect a high-energy live spectacle. Plus, seven albums — including Superstition, and solid B+ and their latest on Metropolis Records — and two EPs mean a 45-minute headlining venture leaves no room for filler.
Last Monday’s affair was the first concert I can recall in a good while where I recognized every song. And that speaks to TBM’s expertise at curating themselves about as much as my familiarity with their catalogue. The abundance of clap-a-longs also stood out, as it felt rare, but oddly appropriate on this occasion, to see a roomful of Hot Topic-types slapping their hands together in unison.
[Quick side-note: Behind the BMH earlier in the evening, singer Chibi bummed my plus-one an unsolicited cigarette. This indicates that Chibi is super nice, because hardly anybody gives away cigarettes to strangers without being asked, if not guilt-tripped, into doing so. It’s nice to hear about people being nice, especially somewhat-famous people.]
All I knew about New Years Day going into this thing was the alleged harassment and abuse singer Ashley Costello endured during a stint opening for Blood on the Dance Floor. Frankly, I’m inclined to believe all the terrible things said about BOTDF’s Dahvie Vanity, because no one with any shred of respect for the well-being of his fellow man would record a BOTDF song and think, “Other people should hear this.” For their part, if you’ve ever wanted Paramore to renounce Jesus and start wearing lots of black eyeliner, New Years Day is your Huckleberry.
The two openers on the night’s bill were there to play noticeably shorter-than-average sets, so maybe it’s for the best we only caught the tail end of Australia’s The Red Paintings. A mere 20 minutes or thereabouts of Trash McSweeney’s marvelously surreal electrorchesta would’ve felt like a tease. Instead of feeling cheated, I can blame myself for fucking up the set times. We can confirm at least one person was literally painted onstage, and McSweeney’s R2-D2 backpack alone makes him too cool to hang out with Amanda Palmer anymore.
Follow Barry Thompson on Twitter @barelytomson.