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Austinist Show Review: Mogwai at La Zona Rosa

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Glaswegian instrumental rockers Mogwai cemented their reputation as Lords Of The Crescendo with a monolithic hour-plus set last Friday at La Zona Rosa. The quintet drew a near-capacity crowd as notable for its diversity—stoners, math nerds, hipsters and other twentysomethings packed in like the dysfunctional age group they are—as for the fact that anyone showed up at all, given the weekend’s dreary storm-surges. Touring in support of their fifth LP, Mr. Beast, Mogwai certainly lived up to their namesake: cute and cuddly upon first glance, soon enough the creature onstage unfurled into a ravenous monster intent on disintegrating your face.

Opener Jack Rose (a dead ringer for Peter Jackson) played an unassuming set of Middle Earth-ian 12-string folk music, providing a lovely counterpoint to the pending sonic assault. We figured the band picked him up at a pub back in Glasgow, but apparently he’s from Richmond, VA. And really likes Shiner.

In a rather endearing display of Celtic pride, Mogwai took the stage in matching green starter jackets, and from then on had the audience in the palm of their hand. The set drew mostly from the last two records; highlights included the slow-building, relatively subdued “I Know You Are But What Am I?” “Hunted By A Freak,” and the towering “Ratts Of The Capital,” which, although marred by guitar issues midway, spiraled into a gale-force sonic maelstrom. Easily the most anticipated song of the night was “Glasgow Mega-Snake” (did we mention they have the best song titles ever?), a vicious rocker that closed the set with such an abrupt, deafening fall to silence it was as if the moment itself had been sliced with a razor. The audience-wide sharp intake of breath was perfectly audible.

Not that the night was without incident: we really could have done without those migraine-inducing strobe lights, which had half the crowd wincing at the ground every five minutes. And seriously, Austin, what’s the deal with the linebacker-size frat boys going to art-rock shows and muscling their way to the front of the crowd so they can stand directly in front of teenage girls? A big fat BS called on that one.

Nitpicking aside, we had a grand old time. Mogwai manage to make arty, cerebral music without coming off at all as pretentious, and the seemingly-dissonant pairing of pastoral melodies with wig-parting decibel output is so totally classic we’re amazed nobody thought of it sooner. Open palms raised to the air in ecstatic reverie were a common audience reaction by the end of the set, which wrapped promptly at 11:30—plenty of time to grab a bite to eat and commence bar-hopping. Thanks, Mogwai!

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