The idea of restraint is not traditionally attached to rock 'n' roll. Since Elvis' swiveling hips, the screeches of Beatles fans, the bizarre, semi-epileptic leg spasm of Little Richard kicking his piano bench away, rock has allowed us a catharsis, a fantasy world in which a backbeat or a certain chord or even a haircut can pull a sexual electric charge out of our inner selves and into the room. There it intertwines and co-mingles with that of others, and suddenly something very personal becomes communal and the club or bar or high school gym takes on a certain musky hue and weird things happen: Whiskeys get knocked over, people who don't normally dance become John Travolta, girls who like girls kiss boys who like boys who like girls…
But sexual modes have changed, their complications exposed, and as our society has opened up sexually (to some extent) and shifted and morphed, so has music. Sex has become both more complicated and more openly discussed. The hormones and desire and titillation that were once locked away, freed only by a sexy sneer or a pair of tight jeans, are a given now. A swivel of the hips is too simple, too subtle, and moreover it's tough to effect catharsis when it's all already out there anyway. Which is not to say that an over-the-top approach is the answer to what music's place should be in a new sexual world. Britney Spears' leather bikinis, her boa constrictors, her same-sex kisses-they're all a bore, really. The mere sight of skin just can't drum up a desire sophisticated enough to match the increasingly complex forms of carnality, pleasure-even love-that exist nowadays. Music must respond, and audiences must relate differently, to a new paradigm.
Maybe, then, subtlety is what we as an audience want from a performer after all. Or maybe
subtly
is the way we as an audience want to
react
after all. Or maybe some combination of the two.
Which brings us to last Wednesday's Jolie Holland show at Bar B. Holland, who has become a new darling of the super-whispery folk set, is used to playing much larger venues. The intimacy of Bar B that night, swollen with tables all the way up to the stage, seemed to have an effect on her, though, as she casually made her way through her set, name-dropping books and shyly chatting in a minimal way. Holland's appeal lies not so much in her songwriting ability-some of her songs in and of themselves are downright boring-but in her delivery, in the wavering husky intensity of her voice. The thing is, she's understated and intense, but not in the pretentious/consciously sexy way that, say, Hope Sandoval is; rather, Holland's understated and intense because she's shy, and because she's more interested in novels than heroin chic. And, most importantly, because she's holding out on us. Her show reminded me of a scene in the film
Aimée et Jaguar
in which two lovers are in bed for the first time. One is a Nazi officer's wife, the other is a Jewish lesbian. Needless to say, there's lots at stake, and consequently one of the lovers is shaking so badly it's downright disturbing. It's a gorgeous, touching, sad scene-until this point in the film, the two women are forced to exercise such an impossible self-control, as bombs drop and their friends are rounded up, their act takes on a certain ineffable profundity.
I wondered while watching Holland if the shake in her voice was from some similar source. I believe the audience might have been having similar thoughts. I have never heard any establishment in Santa Fe sound so quiet: We could hear each other breathing. It was a touch warm and sweaters were removed, but with the least amount of motion possible. Folks tiptoed to the bar, if they dared move at all, afraid to upset the erotically charged atmosphere.
That's when it became apparent: We live in a world where we have to get cerebral about a catharsis that was once merely physical. To not swivel one's hips, to not scream or wear leather pants, to merely stand and sing-simultaneously releasing and holding back-now that's hot.
