Tuesday, 7 November 2017

Mount Eerie

Last night, I finally saw Phil Elverum play live. I have been listening to his music since I was 18. I firstly discovered The Microphones' massive-yet-cosy The Glow Pt. 2, which led me to his more extensive catalogue as Mount Eerie. I'd always dreamed of seeing him in Europe, but had never imagined it would be in circumstances like this.

In July 2016, Phil's wife, Geneviève Castrée, died of pancreatic cancer aged 35 -- leaving behind Phil and their infant daughter. I happen to own one of her books, so when I realised they were married, I felt doubly sad: for the loss of her, and for the unfathomably unfair loss that a musician dear to me would now have to shoulder.

Phil released the album A Crow Looked At Me earlier this year. It wasn't that I was refusing to listen to it; it was more that I didn't dare go there. I already couldn't listen to most of Carrie & Lowell, Sufjan Stevens' last LP that deals with grief of his mother, without flinching -- and there are songs on there that I have to skip altogether. Death is a topic that I keep at arm's length, made worse by the fact that intellectually, there is no point in doing that.

But when I found out Mount Eerie was playing in Berlin, at silent green, no less, there was no question about it. Of course I was going to go.

Courtesy of Linnea Nugent


Phil opened with 'Real Death', and I was crying straightaway -- specifically at the part about Geneviève having secretly ordered a gift for their daughter when she would eventually start school. 'Ravens' was also incredibly hard to listen to. The music was so understated, so matter-of-fact. Yet it crushed me.

A common theme in the other songs on A Crow Looked At Me is the particular ways in which mundanities, such as taking out the trash, remind him of his wife. In one of them, he confesses that the "conceptual emptiness" he indulged in his younger years is nothing in comparison to this. There is no theorising about what happens after death. This is all very raw, brusque, bare. While he sings 'I love you', he also sings, 'You don't exist'.

After the show, my friend Carrie observed that there was no catharsis to be found here.

'There are moments when you think there's going to be,' I said, mostly referring to a new song that features an anecdote about the absurdity of being in a festival VIP area with Skrillex and Father John Misty shortly after Geneviève's passing. 'But then it's like... nope!'

In the middle of his set, Phil thanked us for coming and asked whether everyone was doing okay, which was met with nervous laughter.

'We're all sad,' I thought, 'but none of it is close to what this man on the stage is going through right now. Yet none of us are immune to this happening to us, either.'

The show ended and Phil ducked through a door offstage. We clapped and clapped and clapped. Everyone must have known it would be grotesque to expect some kind of encore; it would be like forcing a bear to dance. The lights went on and the audience was caught red-handed: red-eyed, dehydrated, with solemn expressions.

My first reflex after walking out of that hall was to reject those songs I'd just heard. I approached the merch table where Phil was sitting, which had various Mount Eerie and The Microphones records for sale. A Crow Looked At Me was there, naturally, but I involuntarily overlooked it. Something inside me wanted to pretend I couldn't see it. This show had been my first exposure to the album. I will have to brace myself before I hear it again. It is challenging, but there is poetry in it (even though death is 'not for making art').

Instead, I purchased the Japanese edition of Lost Wisdom, Phil's collaboration with Julie Doiron and Fred Squire, and one of my favourite albums of all time. I got him to sign it, too, with my shitty blue freebie ballpoint pen.

I hope he sensed that when I looked into his eyes and said 'Thank you', I wasn't just thanking him for signing the CD.