I wasn’t surprised when Sleigh Bells sold out The Ottobar. The Ottobar is the hippest rock club in Baltimore, and Sleigh Bells is generating a ton of critical buzz. In this case, the critical buzz is warranted because they made a great record. However, when a band generates such attention, you get a lot of people that go so they can say “I saw Sleigh Bells at a tiny club in Baltimore. They were rough around the edges, but you knew they were going to be something special.” Music geeks are suckers for such anecdotes, present company included.
I went to the show with pre-conceived notions of what it would be, and Sleigh Bells exceeded my expectations in every possible way.
Sleigh Bells’ show had something that is absent in 99 percent of the shows I see: mystique. All the critical praise in the world cannot give you that. They were able to grab the audience from the first note of the intro. The intro has become a lost art. Some people write them off as pretentious and unnecessary, but I think it’s the opposite. When an intro is done correctly, it builds the tension to a fever pitch. The crowd holds its breath because they are waiting to see the object of their desire. When the artist finally appears, there is an audible release.
Sleigh Bells’ intro was perfectly executed. The lights went down and there was a roar. A monologue played over the PA as the roar got louder. When the monologue ended, guitarist Derek Miller appeared onstage, playing several riffs. The crowd got louder, but the release wasn’t quite there. He continued playing the riff, with the volume increasing each time. Then the riff broke, and the unmistakable machine gun beat of “Tell ‘Em” came through. Here was the release. The crowd went nuts as Alexis Krauss ran onstage.
Since Alexis Krauss is the frontwoman, conventional wisdom says that she would have a spotlight. She’s a pretty girl, after all. Wrong. The stage was bathed in red, purple or strobe light. You never saw Krauss’ or Miller’s face. If her face ever came close to being exposed, she tossed her hair or turned her back to the audience. You saw an outline of a girl running across the stage. You saw two outlines meeting each other and then backing away. You saw an outline climb a stack of amps.
Based on that description, you would think that Krauss and Miller are detached from their audience. On the contrary, there was little physical division between the band and the audience. Krauss jumped offstage and sang in the middle of the pit and interacted with fans in the front row. However, when she sensed she was giving too much away, she took a step back. She successfully walked the line between total accessibility and mysterious restraint.
Derek Miller is the opposite of Alexis Krauss. While she got the crowd riled up, Miller hung in the shadows, hitting his Gibson SG with precise bursts. He stretched out every note, letting them linger as long as possible before banging it again. The interplay between Krauss and Miller was fascinating to watch. It reminded me of the onstage relationship of Kurt Cobain and Krist Novoselic. One was insular and focused, while the other played the part of the rock hero. However, the thing that really struck me was how often Krauss approached Miller; as if she was drawing power from his guitar, and she was the physical extension of what he was playing.
Sleigh Bells were onstage for only 45 minutes and they made every second count. Instead of beating the crowd into the ground, they left them wanting more. When they left the stage, I asked myself what I just saw. That is always a good sign.