hat happens when a performer’s God complex gets in the way of his or her art? In the case of James Maynard Keenan, a display of arrogant posturing throughout A Perfect Circle’s March 18 concert at the E Center, where an otherwise solid sound fell flat in the face of rock-star clichés. Such behavior appeared especially pathetic in light of a daring opening act.

The Mars Volta exploded on stage before a sparse audience, greeting a confused crowd with a cascade of instruments colliding in seemingly random fashion. For those unfamiliar with the El Paso, Texas-based band, its convoluted approach to musical arrangements can be initially off-putting. As expatriates of post-punk outfit At The Drive In (currently on indefinite hiatus), Omar Rodriguez and Cedric Bixler know a thing or two about subverting the dominant paradigm. With ATDI, Bixler crafted lyrics about one-armed scissors and binoculars watching cardboard towns. His latest project reflects a similar thought process, only this time an entire album revolves around a string of cryptic messages attached to one concept—written from the perspective of a friend’s comatose reality.

On Thursday, Bixler and Rodriguez, along with three touring musicians, performed just four selections off of De-Loused in the Comatorium, starting with the spastic “Roulette Dares (The Haunt Of).” The pair struck a memorable pose against a silk-screened-tarantula backdrop, with fros and lanky limbs tucked into vintage jeans. In the dim blue light, they appeared like bobble-headed dolls with 3 percent body fat. Slight frames betrayed an impressive energy, exemplified by Bixler’s livewire movements—falling down, crawling around, taking the mic stand in his mouth and spinning it around… actions that the sonic acrobatics paralleled. While he wrapped cords around his neck, the band wrapped chords into strange configurations of jazz-tinged prog-rock. Rodriguez played it straight, for the most part, concentrating on his guitar work. In the fog, it almost looked as if Eric Clapton or Jimi Hendrix was molesting his own frets and strings.

“It sure is nice to show up in Utah and not get your ass kicked,” Bixler said after the first song. “That’s happened to me many a time.” Although the night marked The Mars Volta’s first Salt Lake City appearance (as well as the beginning of a spring tour), Bixler and Rodriguez played several smaller clubs in town with ATDI, gigs that often ended in a brawl. Yet the peace they encountered as The Mars Volta accompanied an extremely passive crowd reaction. The majority of attendees had come for A Perfect Circle—brilliantly crazed post-post-modern rockers were apparently too awesome to comprehend.

APC, on the other hand, spelled everything out. After a lengthy intermission, the band took their positions—minus Keenan. Guitarist Billy Howerdel and bassist Jeordie White (who replaced Paz Lenchantin) stood in front while guitarist James Iha (Smashing Pumpkins) and drummer Josh Freese (Vandals, Guns ‘N’ Roses) climbed on top a higher stage. The crowd roared in recognition of the instrumental portion of “Vanishing” off of 2000’s Mer de Noms. Cheers grew louder as Keenan’s distinct voice filtered through the speakers, accompanied by a projection of his figure against a spiraled screen. At first, obscuring the frontman from view seemed clever, but after two or three numbers the technique grew irksome. Flocked by spindly trees reminiscent of Tim Burton’s spooky creations, Keenan stomped around a raised platform shrouded in darkness. His face remained hidden for the entirety of the show, yet he made certain that everyone could see his complete control over the production. It seems strange that Keenan should take center stage, considering that APC is technically Howerdel’s project. The former guitar tech met Keenan while on tour with Tool. Howerdel, feeling his vision for a new band, fit well with Keenan’s dark, theatrical style and invited the vocalist to join in on a collaboration.

The resulting sound echoes the basic Tool template, most notedly its chilling vocals, yet less technically complex. The lacking layers are replaced by soaring melodies and content reflective of a penchant for romantic tragedy. On paper—and on record—APC’s formula is a success. However, its live execution leaves much to be desired.

Watching the musicians, each a prodigy in his own right, inspired hope for leaps and bounds, shock and awe. Instead, raw talent came off as restrained—bound to the will of a male diva. Selections off of both Mer de Noms and 2003’s Thirteenth Step (as well as a cover of Failure’s “The Nurse Who Loved Me”) were played with perfection—not flair. No one exceeded expectations. No one seemed to care.

Certainly there is much to applaud in APC’s efforts. There is no denying its inherent prestige or ability. However, when a band (or at least its assumed leader) raises its significance to a certain level, failure to walk the talk lessens its credibility.

By the concert’s close, Keenan urged people to vote (a socially conscious move that was met with relative silence), swear (a request met with an emphatic response) and look at his nipple. Lighters in the air, the crowd saluted arrogance and cliché. A small minority looked forward to the day when The Mars Volta would officially own the spotlight.
jamie@red-mag.com