David Shrigley's Worried Noodles
Knitting Factory; New York, NY;
I was expecting an unconventional show. The release concert for David Shrigley's Worried Noodles (Tomlab) had to have some surprises. It couldn’t not have surprises. The CD’s 39 collaborative songs -- which combine lyrics from visual artist David Shrigley’s 2003 book Worried Noodles (The Empty Sleeve) with music from acts like David Byrne, Dirty Projectors, and Liars -- form a remarkably cohesive collection. It seems each band, parents out of town, decided to gorge on the same Shrigley sundaes of childlike observations, eerie portents, and skeleton doodles for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and this CD is the aftermath.
But I had some questions. For starters: who the hell is this Shrigley guy? And what kind of show starts at "6 PM SHARP"? Sure, to keep the employed away – a good start (or maybe not for the release of a $30 charity comp).
After a brief wait outside the club watching NYC’s first real snow of the year come through the rooftops (I felt obligated to show up on time, out of work after all), I entered to see a man with a guitar on stage just beginning his set. Christopher Francis, blond and unassuming, showcased a strong tenor, but played just three songs since it was a busy night. Shrigley’s lyrics to Francis’ contribution "One" jumped in all the right poetic puddles, and Francis’ deliberate, haunting melody delivered them with a Modern Lovers simplicity and wit.
As the second act of the evening, R. Stevie Moore, a bathrobe-wearing bearded hulk of a singer, planted himself behind a cluttered wall of keyboard and sheet music. His act was mainly riffs on Shrigley lyrics backed by a dinosaur-era psychedelic band. On a particularly inspired note, Moore co-opted Tony Basil’s "Mickey," chanting "Hey, Shrigley, you’re so fine" and christening the mantra of the evening. Moore, somewhere between a busking schizophrenic and a baseball stadium organist, ravaged his keys, his guitar, his voice, the audience. I don't think anyone knew quite what to make.
Next up, Phil Elverum from The Microphones/Mount Eerie (sporting a pair of comfy looking thermal socks) and Nick Krgovich from P:ano/No Kids/To Bad Catholics played both individually and together. Their performance of "Whatcha Doin’," a pop tune with minimalist keyboard over distorted drums, perfectly captured the whimsy of its Shrig-lyrics. Even on the medium-sized main stage, the pair looked like a couple of friends hanging out in a basement as Krgovich charmingly fumbled to change keyboard patches and Elverum played the drum kit with his hands. Though the duo stuttered a little, I was thoroughly entranced, and looking over the silent, rapt audience, I wasn’t the only one.
Islands took the stage as a paired-down two-some (one that immediately seemed to clash with the previous act’s amiable audience rapport by giving a hard time to the woman introducing them). After a short set of new songs plus their comp contribution, Islands debuted "Shrigley-eoke," inviting members of the audience on stage to improvise their own Shrigley tune with Islands backing. Lyrics projected on a screen at the front of the stage made a utilitarian, if not a bit clumsy, karaoke reader. Now, up to this point, the crowd had been near-silent -- but perhaps due to Islands’ natural fanbase, Nick ‘Diamonds’ Thorburn acting like a smug dick, or the inherent freedom and leveling karaoke encourages, things started to change. At the call for volunteers, an extremely vocal minority began to vie for a spot on stage and speak up, completely intelligible in the room’s silence. I guess Nick Diamonds didn’t like their look, but either way, none of the hecklers got picked.
The first singer, a brave female, improvised a pop melody to Shrigley’s "Elaine," followed by a crowd member and R. Stevie Moore (this guy was everywhere) reciting a call-and-response. Idiots yelled things throughout ("boobies," for example, by a charmer who had apparently never seen a woman before), but audience participation gone awry finally reached its peak when a drunk kid with a backpack stumbled on stage and attempted to strike up a conversation inches from the face of a stone-cold Diamonds. The Knitting Factory security... wait, what security? He wandered around on stage for the show’s remaining song. To me, it just seemed like sweet, sweet comeuppance. The moment was saved when a chorus of concertgoers actually interested in singing came up for the finale.
Although the appearance of Shrigley himself was oft-mentioned from the stage, I never did see the man. But I did see David Byrne eating some noodles (appropriately enough). The show cleared into the downstairs for an R. Stevie jam session followed by Tussle and YACHT, but after a couple minutes in the crammed basement, I decided to take off. The previous intimacy of the full main room -- and by the end it was full -- didn’t quite translate to a pleasurable downstairs experience, so after scrounging enough dollars bills for a CD and poster, I booked. As I walked through the snow, trying to pry open the oyster-of-a-CD-case for the hard-bound booklet inside, there was only one thought running through my head: Oh, Shrigley, you're so fine.