![]() ![]() After a transatlantic flight spent behind “the only row of people in the world who think it’s acceptable to completely recline on a plane,” the band pulled up, dumped their bags, and played the Courtyard on more than 24 consecutive hours without sleep. All of Mandy, Indiana are fucking exhausted - like, “debating among themselves whether ordering a midday coffee is just gonna make things worse” exhausted. And as you can tell I’m a terrible fucking dancer… I’m even worse when I’ve been up for an uninterrupted fucking day.” Frankly, I don’t see the use in my standing there doing a little rockstar thing. Our music is all about creating environments and spaces, so my performance depends a lot on my ability to feel the music. “I just enjoy, you know, actually listening to the group, dancing with the audience” she retorts. “You do that a lot though, don’t you? Not just last night. No matter how alien the sonic landscapes they’ve since traversed, there remains a sinister effervesce to their music that’s immediately traceable to this puckish back-and-forth. Mandy, Indiana was born out of his email exchanges of material with Caulfield. The ‘nothing’ that we other three do,” Fair prods, an impish grin on his face. I was literally falling asleep backstage about 15 minutes before we went on, and didn’t want that to happen for real on stage when nothing was going on.” I recall an interview where Caulfield had discussed her desire to make audiences uncomfortable, and jot down a note to ask her the next day if that’s what this was. This strikes me in the moment as a very avant-garde thing to do. She scratches her nose, yawns a little, and occasionally does a little dance. Valentine Caulfield has left the stage.Īs the band hammers a single beefy note into thin, dripping gruel, Caulfield has surreptitiously dipped - taking a pause from her spoken-word French intonations and occasional outbursts of theatrical laughter to dissolve herself completely in the crowd. And frontwoman Valentine Caulfield… oh, wait, sorry. ![]() Synth wizard Simon Catling isn’t a field-recording left on loop but a dude with a sickass beard who used to write for The Quietus. Those vacuum cleaner squalls are really coming from bandleader Scott Fair’s pedal board. Alex MacDougall is actually pounding out that looping, mechanized drum beat. But wouldn’t you know it, there’s four of them up on that stage. On debut album i’ve seen a way - out this Friday - their jagged soundscapes seem closer to the naturally emanating noises of induction furnaces than the product of a guitar band. However, on the level of “oh, this is how they make their stuff,” it’s tremendously gratifying to watch Mandy, Indiana perform. ![]() ![]() This would be a great place to see, like, 2012 Local Natives. Here the band’s music hits more like the faint, dawning awareness that the drum machine is covering up a beeping smoke alarm. But that’s not the Courtyard - where each live show becomes a kitschy, Epcot Park approximation of some spontaneous alleyway rave, with faux grass walls and mezzanines styled as balconies. In a properly claustrophobic environment, the band’s incessant throb would conjure the feeling of suffocating in a nightclub fire (this is meant positively). Obviously I’m with the boppers, though I have to admit this venue isn’t right for Mandy, Indiana’s strengths. But the Manchester band’s pummeling industrial spin cycle is whipping the fuck around the “ British Music Embassy” (that’s what the fake-outdoor-but-actually-indoor event space the Courtyard becomes each SXSW British bands are also allowed to go off and play other venues as well, for some reason), and at least 15% of the crowd is rocking out with them. Meeseeks tattoo who angrily flips off the venue’s wall-mounted Union Jack into his Instagram reel. There are definitely a bunch of dudes pacing around doing business shit on their phones, and also a bald guy with a Mr. It’d be unfair to say that this characterization stands equally for the 40-or-so-people who attend Mandy, Indiana’s debut American performance Tuesday morning. You’ll find industry nomads shut out of vanity label showcases, despondent thrill-seekers who failed to finesse themselves into off-the-grid afterparties, bar hopping drunk people who are still drinking because they don’t have to drive anywhere, “journalists.” You get to take the stage for an elite cadre of platinum AmEx holders, all of whom have spent the past eight hours in line tweeting things like “#SXSW intel: That surprise headliner? I’m hearing it’s Ashanti.”īut when indie artists are booked last on a small-scale showcase, they very frequently find themselves playing to the lamest crowds of all time. Maybe it’s alright if you’re, like, Ashanti. ![]()
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