"But where is the live album?"
Why, it’s right here. All the hits. With Ed’s neon pink guitar ablaze and Satomi’s anime superhero alter ego in full swing, like a pint-size dancing drill sergeant. Greg maniacally smiles, mimes, and cajoles walls of racket from the ruins of his drums, while John hacks, mumbles incoherently and appears generally possessed by some unknowable and truly unsavory force.
Ahhh, a Deerhoof show. We’ve all been there, awkwardly sipping Shirley Temples, waiting for our friends to arrive, half-hoping they don’t so we can lord it over them the next day, checking out Greg’s between band mixtape and wondering in exactly what consciousness this collection of oddball tunes could possibly coexist happily.
The gang’s in Japan and finishing up the first leg of the La Isla Bonita tour. With their collective onstage ESP reaching its peak, and the setlist as snug as a favorite pair of worn-in shoes, Deerhoof takes to the bandstand in a tiny Tokyo club while the tape and cameras roll. The set doesn’t so much “begin” as it “appears,” full-flight, mid-sentence, as if they’re all trying to get a word in edgewise on some subject no one else has any information on.
And why not?
After touring as much as they have, they share a mind and a cramped van, arresting any urge to kill each other when they're off the stage by destroying everything on it night after night. A master cleanse fueled by rice balls and mysterious Japanese broths, MSG alight in their eyes. They ask questions knowing there are no answers. Zero. Fucks. Given.
“Sure to be a classic!”