Concerts

January 12, 2002
Eardrum, Atlanta

Arthur Doyle

Eardrum, Atlanta (January 12, 2002)

» JOHN KNIGHT | STAFF WRITER

Arthur Doyle
Eardrum, Atlanta
January 12, 2002
I've found the thing that most attracts me to a song, a band or a genre is the degree to which it shows evidence -- fingerprints of the creator, one might say -- to the fact that it was made by a person with unique tendencies, feelings, problems and tastes. Bands that fall apart on stage, misplaced notes on a record, etc., always seem far more interesting than polished and streamlined sets or recordings in which the second verse of the song sounds identical to the first. The beauty of music is often in the degree to which you can see the blood, the guts, the humanity, the soul.

Arthur Doyle's set at Eyedrum in Atlanta on a recent Saturday evening is evidence of this. Doyle, who was "popularized" through his appearance on Thurston Moore's Ecstatic Peace label, is a piece of work to say the least. The last time I saw him, at the old Eyedrum on Trinity, he drew a crowd of about 10 or 12. I expected a similar turnout on this night, some of those faithful perhaps choosing the Monster Truck rally at the Georgia Dome instead, but was pleasantly surprised to find a crowd of around 25-35, a well deserved turnout for Mr. Doyle.

Visually, the Alabama-bred Doyle looks like a perverse version of that old rag doll your grandmother kept in that dusty chest in the attic--ratty hair, tattered and conflicting clothes, and a debilitated case for his saxophone.

Musically, he is every bit as refreshing and invigorating as his appearance is decaying. With the aid of a saxophone, a flute and a vocal style that could possible be cited as an influence on the self-created language of Iceland's Sigur Ros, Doyle offers a portrait of himself with all the breaks, the pauses, the creaks and the "mistakes" that are part of his being.

Through the hollows of his reeds he moans and cries and winces in a raw and untouched mish-mash of sound, in sometimes regular and other times seemingly irregular patterns, often answering the instrumental sounds with his linguistically indecipherable and unique vocal languages. While one may not understand the words -- a primal sludge akin to a baby's babble -- you often understand the feeling on the same plane that you connect with the lines of his sax or flute. Various outside sounds creep into the mix occasionally -- police sirens, sneezes, the sound of a drunk woman in the back on her cell phone -- and it all seems to connect with the color scheme Mr. Doyle has set, a scheme in which the pops and the sighs are every bit as vital as the notes you suspect are more "by design."

When he speaks to the crowd between songs, I'm somehow comforted by the fact that his use of English seems almost as foreign as his vocals in song. It reminds me of that scene in "European Vacation" in which the father vigorously feeds the words of a Brit speaking English into an automated translator, as if he was speaking French. I'm not sure what language Doyle was using on this evening. But somehow I got what he was saying.

JOHN KNIGHT |