“Who all has their period tonight?”
With one simple question – which was immediately answered with frenzied cheering and raised arms – the American indie rock band Slow Pulp demolished the last remaining vestiges of machismo from rock ‘n’ roll on Saturday evening.
And okay, that did happen in the (sold out) upstairs room of Paradiso, but that first Dutch show as headliner was an excellent dress rehearsal for the just-announced performance at the Best Kept Secret festival next June.
Singer and guitarist Emily Massey is yet another comet in the renewed musical universe in which women now beat the beat. While two red braids fluttered around her head, she exulted in ‘Cramps’ about her menstrual periods: “I play out the same scene, bleeding on my new sheets.”
She was assisted by perhaps the nicest boys in indie rock: four cuddly and timid lads who preferred to stare at their strings (or drums) rather than at the cheering fans. And they understand perfectly well: without Massey we are nowhere.
Slow Pulp has perfected Weezer’s patent for catchy soft rock (see: ‘Say It Ain’t So’) to the ultimate and mixed it here and there with gritty shoegaze. Couplets take on the slow cadence of a comfortable rocking chair and lull everyone to sleep, especially when Massey mumbles low and quasi-disinterestedly or pants dreamily. But as soon as she suddenly screams high, merciless, flawless and tormented in the chorus, those seemingly innocent little things transform into an exploding climax of pounding breaks and everyone is awake again.
Extra bonus: Slow Pulp knows the power of limitation. Songs rarely last longer than three minutes, while you would actually like to hear/bleep along to that mesmerizing earworm from ‘Slugs’ much more often. Here’s the win-win: you’ll be blown away, but at the same time you’ll remain hungry.
Memorable moment: when Massey with her super intense solo performance of ‘Fishes’, a blood-curdling ballad about human shortcomings and the hopelessness of existence (“sink and swim, and sink and swim, and sink it all again”), the irritating has finally managed to silence the loud and talkative types from the audience (because yes, unfortunately there were those again), someone accidentally drops a stack of empty beer cups. When, after the lines “I’ve gotta catch myself this time”, her serene guitar strumming and angelic vocals are drowned out by the sound of bouncing plastic, she can’t help but burst out laughing.
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