Fever Ray

Henry Fonda - October 7, 2009

Live Review by Adam McKibbin

Anticipation ran very high for Fever Ray’s first trip to L.A.  The solo vision of Karin Dreijer Andersson – one half of the celebrated Swedish electronic duo The Knife – Fever Ray has been steadily dominating 2009, first and most importantly with a brilliant album (currently the year’s best, in this writer’s opinion) and then with a steady diet of visionary videos that suggested a spectacular and theatrical live show. Brokers and Craigslist scalpers were asking (and reportedly receiving) insane amounts for tickets.  Some revelers arrived looking like it was just another night at Spaceland or the Echo; others arrived dressed to the fantastical nines.

The would-be centers of attention in the audience were upstaged as soon as the curtain raised and a dense plume of smoke rolled out overhead from the stage.  The ominous drone of “If I Had A Heart” began to rumble and the crowd – very reverent throughout, aside from a few pockets of assholes – unleashed their pent-up enthusiasm.  Up on stage, it was a spectacle from the beginning:  strange hats, face paint, people emerging from and disappearing back into the shadows and fog, everyone lit by the collection of old-fashioned floor lamps scattered around the stage in strange positions, blinking on and off like the lobby of a haunted hotel.

When Andersson “appeared,” she was typically hidden and transformed, both visually and vocally.  Cloaked entirely beneath what looked like a skinned elk, Andersson barely moved during the front stretch of the show, setting up a powerful moment of revelation later when she came out from hiding – albeit still partially obscured beneath her ghostly face paint, not to mention the array of lasers and smoke signals being emitted around her. 

Fever Ray doesn’t have a lot of material just yet, of course, so they made the most out of their self-titled debut.  While the record is exquisite in its restraint and nuance, the live songs receive a flashier makeover, with amped-up percussion and guitars, even rising into aggression in certain crescendos.   The sonic distortions were a fitting counterpart to the phantasmagoric presentation.  There was dancing and, lo and behold, there were even glow sticks.  The set ended in rousing form, sans encore, and when we pulled ourselves from the fog – me, the scenesters, Trent Reznor, all of us – it was clear we’d experienced that rare treat of having high expectations met.  The album remains my preferred way of slipping into Andersson’s fascinating world; the concert, by contrast, isn’t necessarily a place you’d want to live (too crowded), but it makes for a spectacular vacation.