Having rapidly ascended to stardom since releasing music on the internet as a teenager, bedroom pop icon Clairo has rightfully gained a large and loyal fanbase. Below, The Mic's own Releases Editor Ewan Samms offers their sentimental retelling of an evening to remember in Brixton.
Let me not downplay the significance of this gig to myself. Over the last year, I’ve formed an
almost maternal bond with Clairo’s Sling, or maybe a relationship more akin to a wise older
step-sibling. It’s warmth and winding woes and hopes aligned so naturally with that of my
recently adolescent self, which makes sense considering Clairo’s twenty two years of age at the time
of the records making. This gig was pencilled in for January 2022, about six months after the
album’s release and halfway through my second year of university. This was mid-lockdown
and so the show was moved to October 4th, four days before I turned twenty one. What better time to
check in with one of my most formative artists?
Brixton has a significance, being one of the venues I got to frequent as a teenager, given the
suburban situation of my parent’s house. An hour across two trains and you’re there. This
was a venue I went to around every four months from 2016-2019, at a ripely developmental
age, and thanks to its medium/large size, it welcomed many of my favourite artists. £30 was
a significant chunk of cash out of an allowance, but just enough to be affordable by myself,
so these concerts tended to be the first outings that I organised and attended without parental
supervision, which is simple looking back but, at the time, it was a first!...
"The band injected a musical complexity previously unfound in the studio recordings, and I found myself knowing every word, as if welcoming a distant but familiar friend."
I boarded the train from Nottingham, thanks to a clear university timetable, and spent the
next four hours traversing the countryside, commuter trains and bellows of London; nothing I
resent, I usually find it refreshing to travel familiar routes. Having left thirty minutes to prepare
food and eat said food I rushed to Brixton as the queue holder, a role I grant the utmost
importance. It requires a certain set of skills: advanced walking technique resulting in a high
pace and swift manoeuvres around fellow concert goers, as to make early advances in the
queue. Dormant social skills, who knows who you could meet in a queue of likeminded
people. In this case, I shouted "Eddie" at the drummer I had been messaging on Instagram,
since I knew he’d been playing with Clairo on the tour. One nice handshake away from an
influence. Stamina, standing takes energy, what can I say? Wit, not of the comedic kind but
that of knowing where to stand as to remain in the queue whilst simultaneously waiting in the
wings for your best friend to arrive late off the train. Luckily, I excelled in all these
departments, given that, yes, these are all incredibly basic skills.
We entered the venue, found a spot in the front right, not too far, but not in a proximity that
required hours of foresight. The remarkable support act, Jonah Yano, was clouded in crowd
conversation, but expertly selected. I’ve always loved watching the technicians arrow around
stage, darting from cord to cable and kit to drum, with a narrow window of time to perform
about three thousand miniscule tasks. I never tire of watching the dance. Clairo’s band entered a softly
lit carpeted stage, with paper lamps littered around amps and guitar stands. She waltzed on
in a direct trajectory to the piano, dropping her wine glass on the case of the Rhodes and
plucking the opening chords of Sling. I melted. I could be embarrassed, but I’m going to
refuse on this occasion. It was just a perfect setup, the stage pretty much looked like how
Sling sounded, or at least elicited the same emotions, as if someone had described the
album with sensory adjectives and found objects to stimulate the same senses.
The exact set list is slightly irrelevant in my mind. I find the analytical task of monitoring this
as one performs reductive. The important note is that the flow, both of energy, tone and era,
was perfect; an unsurprising fact given the end-of-tour ethos of the band. This was a group
of players who knew these songs inside out, as if the songs knew them too. The drumming
was fluid and decorative, with playful kick drum fills that feature nowhere on the source
material. A man equipped with a saxophone round his neck and a clarinet in his right hand
wheezed wispy lines across every song, knowing when to stream and burst as to give Clairo
a chance to jig around the stage, making sure to visit each side as to welcome the crowd.
Three songs from Sling opened the show, album cuts. This always gets me going, as not
only are these often favourites, but they can have the most liberties taken with them, as
occurred here. Wade wandered in with a plonking feel, piano thudding from across the
stage, a mature smile beaming across the singer’s face. Zinnias, a sweet rocker that sounds
like how I imagine the suburban California sun to feel as it dances across a flower bed or
pavement or something foundational of that sort, streamed across the band in a hefty build,
with each instrument in assured dynamic control. When that twangy guitar-led chorus was
seventeen-year-old self was similarly intimate with, as I remember now with a juvenile fondness. The
band injected a musical complexity previously unfound in the studio recordings, and I found
myself knowing every word, as if welcoming a distant but familiar friend. The middle portion
of the show promised to explore the bulk of Sling, jumping across the tracklist and arranging
each track with care.
"It was just a perfect setup, the stage pretty much looked like how Sling sounded, or at least elicited the same emotions, as if someone had described the album with sensory adjectives and found objects to stimulate the same senses."
Blouse was a highlight, one of two gut-wrenching and deeply sad acoustic cuts on the
record. Clairo asked for two things here: audience participation and phone removal. I
obliged. At some concerts, there are certain songs I look forward to, and in the case of my
favourite artists, this often reduces to individual phrases and lines. ‘If touch can make them
hear, then touch me know’. It filled the space with a floating thud. A woodwind combo
shimmered above Clario’s voice, now in control after a year of touring, and it seemed each
crowd member was wrapped with this fellow sadness, a cold sentiment with a warm
embrace. Harbor followed, because of course it did. A similarly sorrowful song about
isolation and longing and giving and rejection; all displayed in a sourly relatable light. I recall
collapsing into my friend’s arms letting out an, ‘oh f*ck,’ in anticipation of tears. Clairo
encouraged the crowd: ‘I know it’s the last show and we’re all very happy and emotional, but
I still gotta play the sad songs.’ The crowd roared; she knows her audience.
The latter portion of the concert was resoundingly joyful in it’s contrast. Clairo enjoyed viral
success as a teenager, appearing at first with watery synths and digital drums, assumed to
be taken from stock software, before evolving first into indie darling and secondly into
timeless songwriter. I remember seeing videos of her resenting the performance of these
songs online, playing rock, paper, scissors with the crowd members to determine whether
Flaming Hot Cheetos was played. This sentiment was absent from the gleeful parade of her
early catalogue here. For a stretch of about six songs, Clairo paraded around the stage,
guitarless and dancing, mic cord held in professional subtlety as to not trip over it in an
enthused jig. To see her perform Pretty Girl, a song nearing on six years of age, with an
apparent gratitude was so refreshing and cemented the show as a celebratory occasion.
The show was closed in a suitably emotional fashion. Clairo took a moment to thank her
band and team, everyone who helped her get through what was an ‘extremely difficult tour to
get through’. She followed this with. ‘wow, this is really the last song of the Sling tour,’ and
orchestrated the crowds eruption, by playing Sofia. This song, whilst being a favourite of one
of my closest friends, is successful in it’s joy. Featured in a discography littered with longing
and loss, the euphoria of five thousand people in a room screaming, ‘I think we can do it if we try’,
was explosive. Confetti streamed over the crowd as the now-dancing band lapped around
the stage, smiles beaming. All dancing, the crowd was, again, euphoric.
I was left alone as the band left, having bowed and hugged and posed for pictures, since my
friend left to Nottingham that night. Since I pride myself on any opportunity to be overly
sentimental and temptingly pretentious, I stood still as the crowd waded around me towards
the exit, just staring at the empty stage, instruments and decorations still in place. A girl with
a drumstick, grabbed out of the air following the throw of the drummer I met as I was expertly
queueing, was examining her new treasure, as I was the space. I headed for the merch
stand and walked to the tube with a t-shirt strapped round my bag. I listened to Sling on the
way home, and it sounded completely different.
Ewan Samms
Edited by: Jodie Averis
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