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SXSW review: James Blake
Oh, James Blake, there were such high hopes for you. Your super-produced dub-soul, whatever that is, was going to fly across the ocean from England and save music. At least that was the impression that several music blogs gave in the weeks leading up to the festival. But that’s not your fault. It’s not like you were running around like Kanye West, declaring yourself the heir to the throne of the king of pop. In fact, during your set, you were almost (almost) the antithesis of Kanye. Both of you are producers first, and your performances showcase the various effects over musicianship, but where Kanye puts himself before everything, you sat in the corner and didn’t say much except when you introduced your band and apologized for not realizing that you weren’t actually out of time.
Manners aside, it’s tough to know what to make of Blake. At times, such as when he played his cover of Feist’s “Limit to Your Love,” he sounded dangerously close to making the kind of DIY fare that might be heard coming from the laptop of a really stoned college kid, beginning the song in a fairly benign manner before bending it in all different directions and pummeling it with bass. On “The Wilhelm Scream,” also from his debut full-length album, he laid the echo on so thick that it did actually sound like he was falling, right down a well, with a bunch of pebbles clinking around in there with him. It wasn’t all so gimmicky, though. When he moved away from the risk free coffee shop soundtrack toward something more aggressive and psychedelic, it was interesting. There just wasn’t enough of that.
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