To the tight-hipped, it’s too easy to reduce John Maus, of Ariel Pink fame, to a manic button pusher conjuring synthetic warbles on a glorified Simon. With his incessant screaming, awash in a sweaty sea of reverb and delay—hearing a discernible lyric is a difficult task. But these folks weren’t relevant this weekend, as the only people in attendance at Saturday’s Schubas post-Pitchfork show were of the other breed: The loose-hipped.
A sold-out collective of dancing demons followed the dude in a maddening sonic cave explorations of what he calls the “truth of pop.” The madness ceased their chase only when the time came for the 30-minute set to end, and their own screams could be heard. Heaving from the corner of the room where church pews line the wall, Maus didn’t plug his new album, We Must Become the Pitiless Censors of Ourselves nor attempt an encore. Instead the Political Theory major accidentally stepped on my shoe, sincerely apologized, and left the room. Exploration over.
Tags: John Maus