Sunday, February 20 Richard's
on Richards , Vancouver
The longevity
of Lydia Lunch's career may be seen as proof that every cultural movement,
no matter how obscure, begats at least one or two legendary figures.
Anyone remember the late 70s/early 80s NYC-centred explosion of Brian
Eno-sponsored free jazz-rock noise known as No Wave? Not many, most
likely, but it's aftershocks did throw up the avant-Latin stylings of
Arto Lindsay and the magnificent poison-pen rants of La Lunch.
Most of those who made it to Richard's for the Vancouver installment
of Lydia's Dirty Little Secrets Tour seemed to have NO notion of her
checkered history. Most of them had apparently come to lend moral support
to spirited local comedy troupe 30 Helens. (As if in acknowledgement
of this, Lydia performed first, like she was the support act). These
were clearly not, by and large, people who had followed Lydia's ascent
from guitarist with Teenage Jesus and the Jerks, through collaborations
with Sonic Youth and Michael Gira, to her current status as feminihilist
demagogue extraordinaire.
The fact that Lydia is still working and receiving critical acclaim
is almost certainly actually a product of her own inexorable will-to-survive
(not just artistically but psychologically and even physically). Her
progress seems to come from a shark-like need to keep moving, writing,
testifying. An unflattering appraisal, perhaps but so what? Lydia Lunch
hardly portrays herself as the baa-lamb petting type. Like many truly
creative people, she derives strength from being in touch with her evil
side. Indeed, if the excerpts from her autobiography Paradoxia that
made up the first half of her all spoken-word set are to be believed,
she's more in touch with her evil (and simply more evil) than most.
Her stories are non-judgemental (amoral even), bitterly hilarious tales
of scamming and tricking around the back alleys and squats of punk-era
Manhattan.
The few spectators who greeted Lydia's recounted victories over adversity
by bellowing "you go sister"-type platitudes were missing the point
somewhat. The true importance of her autobiographical tales is not that
they provide a role model for young women but that they comprise an
object lesson in hip aesthetics. It's the style, not the content of
this work that is truly invigorating. Her prose pacing is dizzying,
her charisma (in person and print) captivating, her William-Burroughs-meets-Bill-Hicks
delivery utterly captivating.
The second half of the set, which involved Lydia reading from her internet
sex advice column Tough Love was less impressive. The impact of this
section was more reliant on Dr Lunch being right rather than just being
impressive. Still, she managed to take her readers' ludicrous missives
(mostly made up, apparently) and have her wicked way with them. She
used them for what they had and moved on. And that just about sums up
the (black) magic of Lydia Lunch.
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