Narc. Magazine Online
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Elodie A. Roy enjoys an evening of perfect bitter pop
Image by Laura Ghezzi
The small room above the Central Bar is packed. The public has come to see indie cult hero Lawrence. Tonight he sports a light green windbreaker over double denim, and his characteristic aviator sunglasses and cap. He’s accompanied by a drummer, a bass player, a guitar player and a keyboardist.
The songs of Mozart Estate carry echoes and deformed reflections of Lawrence’s former projects – especially Denim and Go-Kart Mozart. He’s always had a gift for perfect pop hooks. But his glitter songs have become bitter, and they’re full of sarcasm. He sings about barcodes, the drag of office jobs, depression and the loss of self-esteem. He truly despises the system yet longs to be part of it. In another life, back when he fronted Felt and wrote magical underground hits, Lawrence yearned to be a pop star. A Lou Reed or a Bob Dylan. The desire for fame hasn’t faded yet. At some point he reads from a little cross-shaped placard where he wrote some of his lyrics, and apologises, half-seriously: “I wrote too many words. I’m too good.” Despite the singer’s banter, the smiles and nods of obliging bandmates, it isn’t a light-hearted performance. Are we watching Lawrence or his ghost? I’m no longer sure who we’re clapping for.
