Santigold, Amanda Blank at the House of Blues
VIDEO: Santigold, "LES Artistes," live in Boston
No doubt I once bought a Honda Passport because Biggie mentioned one on “Player’s Anthem.” Still, it burns me how quick young people are to co-opt their favorite artist’s style all the way from kicks to shades. For Santigold, college students must have looted every thrift shop in Massachusetts for ironic hats and neon throwbacks; I presume cataract sufferers live in constant fear of getting sunglass-jacked by lame nostalgia mobs.
But just because post-pubescent goofy trendmongers have yet to understand the virtue of originality doesn’t mean their heroes have the same disability. Amanda Blank might don a predictable Sex Pistols T-shirt in her press photo, but her lustful gusto is indeed unique (at least for a white chick). Santi is even more in the vanguard; with platinum jumper cables for vocal chords, nearly everything she utters is nectarine fresh.
Blank wishes that she had her tourmate’s pipe prowess; I’m not sure what the rules are in hipster-hop, but the Philly MC shat on the rap bible by rhyming over her recorded vocals. Not like the crowd cared; the peanut gallery did stand there apathetically, but only because Blank (even with the help of Spank Rock on two cuts) has yet to evolve into a spectacle. Her performance was like Amy Winehouse on the brink of overdosing — slutty, sweaty, and even twisted, but hardly capable of burning down the house.
I’m not sure what kind of set list Santigold brought, but I’m guessing that she scrapped it after the crowd remained limp three tracks in. With a flip of her Farrah Fawcett feathers and a cue to her beefeater-faced gold-shoed dancers, she threw a toaster in the wading pool and electrocuted “Brooklyn We Go Hard.” From there, Spank Rock inseminated the party, and Santi kept the frialator bubbling with “Unstoppable,” “I’m a Lady” (with Blank), and detours through punk and new wave pastures.
Santigold’s audience seems to have gotten younger since her Paradise show this past September; the shinier my bald spot gets the more I notice these things. I’m assuming that some self-righteously eclectic trendsters have determined that Santi’s House of Blues-level stardom overshadows her super powers. It’s cool though — these Hypercolor-, Jams-, and Skidz-clad youngsters might not have developed individual tastes yet, but they’re also not aware that self-respecting music fans are supposed to consider artists with any considerable success to have sold out.
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