Tennis performs at the Crocodile in a blaze of blue light. // Photo by Dave Sheridan
On Friday, October 12th, musical equipment crowded the Crocodile’s stage, tempting the audience to imagine a densely-layered cake of sound on its way from the oven. What arrived was quite the opposite in size — instead of a multi-layered cake, the duets more channeled a cupcake — but they were wholly satisfying in delicious sound and affection.
Matt Costa and musical partner Jared Petrich humbly took their seats on stage without any premeditated entry. Welcomed by cheers from the stagefront standards waiting at their feet, the duo wasted no time in establishing a presence in the venue. Costa played an acoustic guitar with a synth bass pedal; Petrich an electric, perhaps with a string or two slightly out of tune in a tasty Mac Demarco-esque fashion; and on vocals, these two felt particularly synchronized in their harmonies. During “I Remember It Well,” they commanded their tonal quality to produce an airy, porous layer of sound that felt high above the venue like wispy cirrus clouds titling a brisk, sherbet-colored autumn sunset. This nostalgic, snuggle-weather theme tinted Costa’s California-rooted performance, exemplified by the swirls of couples decorating the room with their longing embraces.
Costa’s performance enthralled the audience from bookend to bookend, through the assembly of only the aforementioned five instruments. The use of dynamics and rhythm maintained the electric anticipation of listeners. Costa himself catalyzed a certain intensity in the crowd with a folksy, ghostly voice that cleanly slid through both gritted teeth and the seemingly pissed-off look on his face. A short anecdote about his experience in Scotland gave him enough cover to retune two strings and turn them into the low drone sound from his guitar-turned-bagpipe. (Quite literally, he learned about playing the bagpipes in Scotland and transposed a piece to be played on the guitar.)
Even when he stopped one song after the tune’s intro to spin a yarn he had planned to say earlier, the clunkiness of the hiccup fell off quicker than a muffler on a ‘97 Corolla, and the crowd lulled back into a succulent haze. Costa and Petrich did not drop the ball on their performance; they gently set it back on the stage, each pecked it with a kiss, and charmingly patted its dome before ordinarily retiring from the stage for the headliner.
As Tennis was gearing up to take the stage, I noticed two amps innocently donned a cute potted plant apiece and felt both my soul warm up and my heart ache. What was different about Tennis’ set was that it was solely the husband-wife core of Alaina Moore and Patrick Riley without many of the layers of instrumental roles typical to their poignant indie-pop sound. That’s also what made their set especially intimate, as they continue their Solo in Stereo tour.
The crowd erupted as the pair delivered themselves to the stage modestly in a fiery blaze. A surrealism hovered within the fog on stage, distorting Moore into a life-size pianist Barbie, studded in shimmering sequins, breathing earnesty from the pastel light show around them. She did declare at one point: “I just owe everyone an apology for how sexy I am tonight.” Fucking unstoppable. Their sincerity to their music and themselves encouraged fans to join the genuity drift. People gradually waved hands and arms to the music and delightfully cooed with the sounds that plucked their heartstrings.
Moore wove doting thoughts and blurbs between songs, and, during one, she noted that what they were playing were the stripped, embryonic versions of their biggest hits — a demo set. These two impeccably reinvented their sound: lost drums became opportunities to find a new rhythmic outlet; fewer musicians became opportunities to try different instruments.
Moore opened a Q&A session mid-set by replaying the serendipitous event that inspired her now typical, mid-set Q&A sessions: during a past performance, a fan passed out, beckoning an emergency response. With the idling limbo surrounding the medics, she opened the floor to questions in an attempt to maintain a positive vibe. Moore loved the experience, and thus, the current audience now found itself in its own session.
On cue, hands went up to ask about how Moore and Riley met, how to build a healthy relationship, and how future plans looked. Joking with the last point and with subtle moxie, Moore plainly stated, “My womb is a dusty tomb.” Later, she sourly reminisced about a writer who wrote an aggressive review against one of Tennis’ shows; this gave birth to a song (“Timothy”) whose subject she dotingly referred to as a “little fucker.”
After the Q&A, they proceeded with their stripped-down set, paving the way for a crystalline demonstration of their values of love and authenticity. The couple’s unclad versions of their songs illuminated starkly vulnerable versions of themselves. It could have been the presence of fewer parts, the choice of the parts they did play, the aura floating in the air, or something entirely different; but they shared a rare authenticity with the Crocodile on Friday night that shook people to their foundations.
By Dave Sheridan