The xx 11.20.09 | The Casbah | San Diego, CA by Noah Barron photos by Alex Padilla & Chris Glaze
In case you missed it, The xx have turned into something of a phenomenon. It’s almost as if these painfully young (20!) British kids are living out the indie rock dream on fast forward: drop a hit record in October, sell out shows across North America, lose your keyboardist to stress and the rigors of the road. Even more endearingly – they’re not even headlining the current tour – Friendly Fires are. These kids blew up after the tourdates were booked. To hear The xx on their (stunning) debut record, one might expect a supremely overconfident performance live. XX (the LP) is so polished, so mature-sounding, that you’d think it might have gone to their heads. You’d be wrong. These three joked about drinking onstage underage, thanked the crowd profusely – and oh yeah, put on a full-hearted, sometimes messy, always earnest show that felt refreshingly out of place at the Casbah. You see bands that sneer at you all year. This team cares. As the band worked through their short quiver of tracks in near-identical order to the record, I found myself shocked – not at Romy Madley Croft’s voice (it’s amazing) – but at Oliver Sim’s. I went in expecting Romy to play frontwoman and walked out with an utter respect for Sim as her equal counterpart. His voice, flat and affectless, is the wall upon which Croft paints her sincere mural. It’s a perfect formula for a band that’s so tied up with boy-girl tension. (Most of their songs involve taking verses by him followed by verses by her, and shared choruses often use “we”.) This is a band about the feathered border between the sexes – where she ends and he begins – and these two exude chemistry. They ought to be called the The xx + xy.
It’s poignant that Croft can really sing and Sim does his best. It’s perfect that he’s really handsome and she does her best. This is not music about showmanship. “Can I make it better with the lights turned off?” These are tunes about fearlessless and bedroom eyes and passion that’s bigger than performance. When they sang “VCR” (Croft belting it, Sim almost whispering) the lyric “I think we’re superstars” became a sort of cipher: you knew they weren’t talking about rock stardom but private reveries. Meeting the band after the show, I half wanted to ask if Croft and Sim had ever been a couple. I didn’t – these kids were simply too gracious and unassuming for an asshole-journo question like that – but I would have meant it as a compliment. They sing together with the easy intimacy of lovers in conversation. As a trio (sans keyboardist Baria Qureshi), The xx function as music stripped down – without any skin at all. During the stunning Chris Isaak slowburner “Infinity,” it was clear that percussionist Jamie Smith holds the lion’s share of dexterity talent – Croft’s guitar occasionally stumbled – but Smith, working a midi drumpad with all the soul of concert pianist, built a driving, dancing, limber motorik skeleton out of the Alesis beats. I guarantee this kid is a Beatmania wizard. Sim’s sandpaper croon “Give it uuuuuuuup” and muscular bass went on next and Croft’s sanguine, lush, slightly lisping K.D. Lang yearning pumped blood into the beast. It was truly awesome to behold. It’s clear that these kids did their homework – there’s passion and precision and poise in this music that extends beyond their collective 60 years of life. In a year largely devoid of band-created music to be excited about, this is a group of artists to keep firmly in your radar. Check out the full set of The xx concert photos.