Malajube

The November 14th show at the Bug Jar in Rochester, NY was probably the loudest I have attended there, no light feat. This is part of Malajube’s presence in performance: to sound as tempered as a Bowie pop song while meaner and more devastating than Billy Corgan’s darkest guitar dreams.

It is worthwhile to pause and note that Malajube are not merely Canadian, but from Quebec, and as such seem far more sophisticated to a Yank, as though the French language – it’s spitting beautiful snide – itself blesses the artist(s) with talent and validity.

Playing predominately material from their 2006 LP, Trompe-L’Oeil, the band somehow managed to arrange a set list that allowed each number to be topped. Every two or three minutes I would be struck with the sensation that this was it, the set’s pinnacle, only to have it outshone. The dramatic pounding of chords in “Le Crabe” is not forgotten before the breathless riff of “Fille a Plumes” and ecstatic caws from vocalists Julien Mineau and Thomas Augustin, which remind me, these caws, of Cibo Matto. “Casse-Cou” possessed an enormous sludgy riff which eventually tears the evening to pieces, assaulting the venue with love. Or, as a friend spat out (apropos some societally conscious dialogue) some late night, “We were shot in the face with a bullet of humanity.” Anyway, they could have played that riff until morning.

Malajube greets me with the same situation as Sigur Ros, where I am so engrossed with the world presented me by the band that I do not want to know what the lyrics mean, what the titles translate as. It might shatter my illusions, like learning what the hot Hispanic girls are saying about me in Spanish.

Each piece by the band feels massive, slaved over, carved. This is not to suggest that they are stilted or immobile. “La Monogamie” quiets down to a strummed shuffle before building to an epic chorus I’d sing along to if I knew the language. “La Russe” is practically a rap song over an eerie keyboard.

It was hot enough – meaning crowded and moving – to prompt the familiar scent of audience B.O. Some people up front shook their hairy heads in exaltation. A couple in the back began to ballroom dance. Malajube, a sound both dreamy and raucously frightening, push every riff and song to bounds obvious once they get there; nothing is allowed to die easy. Go, go, change, evolve. Jump. Yell. As an old timer might say, “They brought it to the dance.” Or, perhaps more aptly, as part-organizer of the show and friend, Burr, said as we parted ways at night’s end, “Just

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