He saunters ahead of his band onto the SAT stage wearing an aviator bomber. Without a word, he plunges into a ragged version of “5” before a tight crowd of shaggy mullets, creative eyeliner, and studded belts, then teases the intro to “1,” the audience heatedly shouting back “DA DA DA.”
I came to Elias Rønnenfelt at the suggestion of a Virginia Woolf-reading Hinge boy with a skincare routine. Ironically, Rønnenfelt looks a bit like my ex, if he had chest tattoos and stopped skipping meals.
The shaggy, sad-eyed singer has spent much of his 18-year career tailed by controversy. His band, Danish punk act Iceage, came under fire over a decade ago for using racist, extremist imagery, — a political characterization they have denied — while rumours have resurfaced online of aggressive behaviour towards fans at his shows. Yet at SAT, there is no trace of antagonism in the room, and he barely addresses the crowd at all.
Instead, the seasoned musician performs with a detached arrogance. His vocals are brash, slightly off-key, with an affected flamboyance. The unpolished flatness lends a swagger to tracks like “Carry On Bag” and “Blunt Force Trauma.” Between songs he staggers to the micstand and clings to it for support. It could come across as grandiose, but he dispels some of the pretension by ignoring a flirtatious heckler and jumping around like a kid mimicking bands on TV.
Rønnenfelt doesn’t play so much as he dances with the guitar — an acoustic, surprisingly — swinging it around like a lightweight partner, spinning across the stage. It brings to mind 90s youth in their garages getting their first amps and starting bands after school. When his drummer crescendoes too early, Rønnenfelt quickly corrects him with a head shake before turning back toward the crowd with a wry smile. One gets the sense he is unconcerned with cultivating audience feedback; he just loves to play.
At a time when many contemporary artists seem to struggle to translate their intimate production effectively to live shows, Rønnenfelt feels most liberated dismantling his music for the stage. Songs from his collaboration with Dean Blunt, Lucre, are especially unrecognizable, the lo-fi bedroom beats swapped out for highly charged rock, the melodies delivered with new layers of emotion.
With only a bassist and drummer onstage, the trio create a full, raucous sound without relying on backing tracks. “Mona Lisa” is played frantically over a relentless guitar-driven beat, and the energy thickens as fog crowds the stage; “No Friend of Mine” benefits from the addition of an infectious climbing riff; and “Smile Please” becomes a surprisingly danceable track with echoes of rock revival.
After the set, he returns for a solo encore and plunges the audience into a cool pool of water. Stripping away the swagger with Iceage tune “Against The Moon,” he plucks out a tender, rambling guitar line. Rønnenfelt dips into a softer, quivering register. The room is still and silent, save for the older Iceage fans earnestly singing along. Then, without a word, he salutes the audience and walks off.
Review – Irene Wang
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