M.I.A.’s performance at the Way Out West festival in Gothenburg, Sweden, solidified how lost she’s become, both artistically and literally, apparently.
Inter-song commentary aptly reflected personalities and performances at the Way Out West festival in Gothenburg, Sweden, this August.
Setting the bench for charm and congeniality was Stephen Malkmus of Pavement, who exemplified humility when he recognized that most attendees (“except you all in the front”) weren’t familiar with the band:
“In case you haven’t heard of us, we were a popular — or not so popular — band in the 1990s in the States. I hear we’re philosophically aligned with bob hund, which is cool. “
Comments like this paired well with the energy of the songs and made the show a joy to watch, even for newcomers.
On the low end was Panda Bear, who bookended his set with an unenthusiastic hello and thanks, with his eyes firmly closed in between, possibly to deny our existence or even wish us away — a perfect match to his droning set.
Worse was M.I.A., whose words were sparse but damaging.
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Despite all the scandal, I had been reluctant to hop on the truffle-oil-fueled M.I.A. hate train.
She has always been a hero of sorts for me. Not because of her politics (of which I have little knowledge, and in which I have even less interest), but because of the greater message that she sent through the songs on Arular and Kala: “MOVE.”
I loved “Galang” because it demanded that every part of my body wake up and release energy. It was impossible not to dance to it, and I spent many hours doing just that in my dorm room in college. To turn against M.I.A. now would be to deny that once powerful influence she had over me, and in some way to rob myself of a past pleasure.
But the more I heard “XXXO,” the second single from her latest effort, /\/\/\Y/\ [Maya], the clearer it became that there is one fundamental truth to the defaming NYT article: we are no longer dealing with the same M.I.A..
“XXXO,” demands nothing of its listener. I couldn’t get out of breath dancing to it if I tried. If anything, its apathetic lilt and heavy use of auto-tune encourages laziness. “I’m barely awake and I’m recording a hit song; think of how little effort you have to expend to get by at your job,” it seems to say. That’s not what I come to M.I.A. for.
Ultimately it was this abandonment of that once-urgent call for movement that let me down and had me skeptical of her Way Out West show before it began.
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Nevertheless, I was incredibly excited to see M.I.A. live for the first time. She had ceased to convey the same power in her songs, but I hoped that the force she once had would still radiate somehow. We sat near the stage barrier for an hour to get a good spot.
But no force radiated. The MIA that appeared on stage in pot-leaf sunglasses was, in fact, purposefully devoid of emotion. She often gyrated in the air or near the closest surface, but in a way disturbingly void of actual sexual energy.
Then came the damaging comment: A shoutout to Stockholm — a city 250 miles away on the opposite coast, and in some ways Gothenburg’s rival. It’s a mistake not unlike mentioning New York during a gig in LA.
The previously enthusiastic crowd booed audibly. She seemed to recognize the error and later shouted something like “Got-a-brr,” but it was far too little too late. Morale had already dropped.
Later on, a bit of hypocrisy: “Fuck the internet!” A fine sentiment, but hard to buy when it comes from someone who employs the net-art aesthetic so heavily, i.e. in the video pictured above, which displays rotating 3-D cubes layered on top of the BP oil leak video. The very stylization of the title /\/\/\Y/\, as well as its YouTube player bar cover art, would mean nothing without the internet. She likely meant, “Use the internet for good!,” but that isn’t quite as provocative.
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Throughout the set, I kept bracing myself for that terrible bore, “XXXO,” which had been on heavy rotation on Swedish national radio station P3 and seemed a must for the tour. But it never came.
Instead, the encore was “Born Free,” during which MIA waved a faux stick of dynamite mere feet above audience members, as bits of ignited material rained down on their heads.
As I watched, I couldn’t help but think that she cared as little about the hazards of that prop as she does about the hazard of turning into one herself. At the end, there’s no explosion. Only a faint sizzle, and then nothing at all.
Cellphone pictures taken by me or Erik Svedäng.