Mouseatouille At Phoenix Central Park
There was a line outside as I walked up with my friend Lucy, and she commented on it.
We got there early and were ushered to the ground floor seating to the right corner (which doesn't mean much depending on where you are sitting). Lucy is an architecture student, we have both been to Phoenix Central Park before. We were enamoured. She whispered in my ear about the curvatures of the wood absorbing the vibrations of the sound. The simple mimesis engendered a serene yet antsy quiet in the space.
Rhea and Pat of 704Whighstreet were DJing as people shuffled in, filling the cascading staircase. The sounds were folky and uncomplicated. Soft pianos, acoustics that bounced from mouth to mouth becoming a part of the still murmuring conversations. Everyone was fashionable. The set was almost like a liturgy, lyrical and mellow. The experimental stripped back electronic sounds were married with golden yellow lights and the soft shadows of facial features that were still observable. We were all entranced together, waiting.
Mouseatoullie flooded single-file onto the already filled pit-stage. The nine of them all looked like friends, which they are. They were all dressed quite casually, an Aphex Twin shirt, a panda shirt, clogs, hiking shoes, maxi skirts, and one guy who wore a neck tie. It was all quite Naarm. I wrote down that the piano sounded like stars and the drums like trees. There was a dim halo above them and their folky sound was warm and nostalgic, encompassing every gut-wrenching feeling of a niche, almost twee, 2000s coming of age movie.
The entire performance was charming, the lyrics simple, feeling and poetic. They opened with ‘Harry and the Jets,’ red dancing on the ceiling, everyone was quiet. I watched Harry Green’s face as he mouthed every word. As the melodies ran like rippling water meshing to fit the next song ‘Mike and Melissa,’ I thought about the people on the other side of the room, whose faces they would have access to. It really—to me at least—felt like it would be a real loss not to watch Harry sing closely into the microphone. Moving from mouth to metal to ear to heart.
The pace picked up, the strings morphed into rock sounds, harder drums and harsher brasses as they enveloped into some new tracks. These new ones were playful, heavier, the sound opened and swept making a rooooowww. The trumpet and trombone sung louder than anything else. ‘I hate my hatred.’ He sang and I listened. ‘I just want you to like me.’
Each song came and went, ‘Tom’s Lament’ lingered. Entirely instrumental, it felt snowy and visceral like breathing fog on a cold morning. I couldn’t look at anyone in the audience throughout the performance until now, when I watched my friend. Her face was welling and full, cheeks puffed to a smile and eyes gleaming with a welcomed almost sorrow.
Then, ‘My DJ Set,’ the title track from their album, sequestered to blue lights. What was being amped up came back down and was grounded in this song. Sonic and lovely, just heartfelt. ‘Why should I say how I feel when it's wasted–’ The set progressed and left us with a wrought journey, emulating a movie soundtrack or diaristic entries. The band itself has gained and lost many parts, continually metamorphosing, but the sound and the heart beats the same. Each of the many components of Mouseatouille create a beautifully honest sound, plain and pure.
I listened to ‘My DJ set’ the entirety of my journey home and played it for all my coworkers in the office the next morning. The lyrics have a fixed permanence in my mind, bursting incoherently in front of each of my thoughts and sentences even weeks later. I was beaming. I still am.
