I tend to say that a concert is the best one I’ve ever been to every time I go to one. But last night, things might have changed. A chance to see Jeff Mangum rewrote the meaning of the word “artist” for me.
Anyone familiar with the ’90s music scene knows of Mangum’s band Neutral Milk Hotel. In an age of grunge and acoustic pop, he was the alternative. He wanted to be the alternative. He made great, unfiltered music for a time. And then he was gone.
It was amazing to see an artist with such great potential walk away when he had only just started. But besides for a few collaborations and solo releases, there wasn’t another peep from him, and no new NMH music. He avoided the public lens for years.
It was almost metaphoric last night when he sauntered onto the stage from the shadows and into the lights and a gush of crowd racket. He looked rather like a startled bear. He also looked like he had been asleep for a long time, as time and the world passed him by.
His hair was long and unkempt, and accompanied by an even longer (mostly gray) beard. A cap cast a shadow over his eyes, and he seemed to have borrowed his shabby wardrobe from a homeless man or a Civil War re-enactor. You hear about those historical figures like Abe Lincoln who have such a commanding presence—almost an aura. I would argue that Mangum is one. It’s something you know when you encounter it.
He sat down in a lone wooden chair next to a row of mismatched guitars. He eyed them all for a moment and then selected one that might have been a cheap toy.
Then his mouth opened and he sang, and his voice cut through all external appearances and presumptions. After almost 20 years since recording his debut album, his voice only sounded better. He did not need tricks, gimmicks or extravagance to make beautiful music.
The crowd ate him up with a fervor that really seemed to humble him.
He said, “You know, I never could have imagined so many people showing up just to hear me sing.”
He explained how his first recordings had been meant for a friend’s ears only. He had sent him a collection of songs on a cassette tape in the mail. When he visited the friend awhile later, everyone had copies of it.
A lot of people speculate about why he stopped releasing music. Maybe he felt he couldn’t outdo what he had written before. Maybe he had said all he wanted through that medium. Some thought he had a breakdown. Whatever it was, he had his reasons and felt no need to explain them.
Such an appearance and attitude and purity of voice—such a character—makes you want to know a person to the smallest detail. What did he do with himself for all of that time? Was he living in a dilapidated cabin somewhere or traveling the world?
But that kind of obsession steals from an artist’s art. We crave the minute details, and in the process lose the ideal that the artist represents. Music, at its heart, is a pursuit of an ideal sound.
Unlike many, Mangum has walked his path in that spirit. His has glorified his music instead of himself.
Most of all, he has kept alive some much needed uncertainty. There is beauty in the mystery of not knowing everything. It prevents existence from becoming mundane, and leaves room for the creation of modern mythology. Or at the least, a folk legend.
