Taylor, in his late 80s now, is physically quite frail and walked hunched, needing help to reach the elevated platform where the piano sat. So let’s focus on the first, which was very moving. The first night was two sets, one almost solo (with the barely-there addition of Tony Oxley on electronics) and Japanese dancer Min Tanaka the second with a seemingly ad-hoc group of skronk lovers on strings and horns, along with a freeform poet. The fifth floor of the new Whitney Museum is an enormous room with sweeping river views that, for a few weeks back in April, was filled with Cecil Taylor's archives, and for a few nights, with his concerts. Matthew Schnipper: Cecil Taylor // April 14 // The Whitney, Manhattan
I took a cab home and passed out, my ears still ringing the whole way home. I felt like I was standing in the middle of a large body of water. I couldn't even pick out one song from the next, so I decided to treat the rush of sounds as almost an act of nature. You’re supposed to experience this as a total physical thing. On some fundamental level, Hecker makes music that presents a curious question: How many different ways can a sustained noise affect the human body? You can’t feel that when the only receptor is your ears. I realized that something had been missing in all the times I listened to Love Streams behind a pair of paltry headphones. When Hecker started, I couldn't even see him-was he on stage at all? I had to assume he was, with that hypnotic noise that engulfed the entire room, just like the dull blue light and fog he employed. I closed my eyes, started to slowly fall asleep standing up. (Other than, you know, the three more times I intend on seeing Christine and the Queens.) I'll be surprised if I see anything else like it this year. “That was the weirdest gig I ever played and perhaps also the best,” she declared. By the end of the night, Letissier’s natural comedy had made me laugh so much, my face properly hurt. I wept at beautiful “ Jonathan,” with its massive projected screen of Perfume Genius’ face and the elegant strip lighting installation. And as far as pop alter-egos go, Christine is a purely generous one: a transferable energy that makes everything feel possible. It was almost hard to believe that Letissier could ever be a small personality: Six years ago, she came to London, depressed and alone, and met the drag queens who encouraged her to find an alter-ego. She tied her blazer around her waist, finished the song, chastised the front row for photographing her crotch, and then sprinted backstage, offering a hilarious play-by-play of her trouser-swap over her head mic. But at London’s Roundhouse this May, in front of an audience that included Elton John, Letissier danced so hard during the medley that she split her pants. No complaints: watching them mix voguing, Michael Peters, and Pina Bausch-inspired moves is a pure delight, especially as a member of the choreographically challenged (hi). The LP’s extended lifespan has also meant she's had to pad out her live show a bit, adding an extended house breakdown to showcase her and her dancers ‘laser-sharp moves. Héloïse Letissier’s debut album was originally released two years ago in her native France, but following Anglophone reissues of the record, the Nantes-born artist has stealthily become one of pop's biggest rising stars. Laura Snapes: Christine and the Queens // May 3 // Roundhouse, London At the end of the show, she stood at the foot of the stage, singing the hook to “Unconditional Love” over and over again: “We could change the whole story of love / Same old play I’m getting tired of / No matter acting these predictable roles / Just us giving unconditional love.” It felt like a tightly controlled unraveling, and I can still see it burning a hole onto the back of my eyelids when I close them. The show came complete with virtuosic backup singers, dancers, a fusion-rock band, but she was the blazing sun at the center of it. But she was hitting flawless vocal runs while standing on a step stool, playing a fretless bass that she had attached to a jerry-rigged hook on her waist perfectly in tune. When I saw her at the Apollo this spring, she was prowling the stage wearing a handmade paper crown and play-acting out her existential dilemmas on a set that resembled an updated Pee-Wee’s Playhouse. Her 2016 album, Emily’s D+Evolution, charted this course, and her touring show behind it was at once theatrically cuckoo and impressively poised. What do you do when you’ve burned through every accomplishment and earned every plaudit around you before you hit your prime? You freak out, start to unleash the darker energies you’ve been bottling and rerouting.
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